PHOTO COURTESY OF THEBITTENWORD ON FLICKR.

Now we've seen a lot of posts about apple stack cake. It's been a mainstay on Appalachian tables since God was a boy, but we've not seen a specific history of the dish until now. Today's guest writer, Dave Tabler, shares the origins of this popular dessert along with a recipe that will leave your mouth watering and your feet running to the kitchen. Dave leads the excellent blog Appalachian History, which features stories, quotes and anecdotes from Appalachia, with an emphasis on the Depression era.

*

The dried apple stack cake is one of the most popular southern Appalachian cakes— no surprise considering apples are found aplenty in the mountains.

 

Culturally it’s akin to the classic European torte. It looks like a stack of thick pancakes, with apple preserves, dried apples or apple butter spread between each layer.

At holidays and weddings, early mountain settlers traditionally served stack cake in lieu of more fancy, and costly, cakes. Neighbors, according to folk wisdom, would each bring a layer of the cake to the bride’s family, which they spread with apple filling as they arrived. It was said that the number of cake layers the bride got determined how popular she was.

Kentucky lays claim to originating the dessert via Kentucky pioneer washday cake. “Some food historians say that James Harrod, the colonist and farmer who founded Harrodsburg in 1774, brought the stack cake to Kentucky from his home in Pennsylvania,” observes Mark F. Sohn in Appalachian Home Cooking: History, Culture, and Recipes. “While Harrod may have brought the first stack cake to Kentucky, the cake could not have been common until more than 100 years later when flour became readily available.”

Tennessee proudly points to Tennessee stack cake as the first, but in fact variations of the cake abound throughout the region. The cake is many layered, low in fat, and not sweet. It’s made with layers of stiff cookie like dough flavored with ginger and sorghum and spread with a spiced apple filling. When served, the cake is tall, heavy, and moist.

Stack Cake Recipe

Courtesy of Sheri Castle and Our State

Makes 12 to 16 servings Dried Apple

Filling

• 1 pound (4 to 5 packed cups) dried unsulphured apples

• 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

• 1 teaspoon ground ginger

• 1/2 teaspoon ground mace or nutmeg

• 4 to 5 cups water, divided

Cake Layers

• 5 cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• 1 teaspoon salt

• 2/3 cup vegetable shortening

• 1 cup granulated sugar

• 1 cup sorghum molasses

• 2 eggs, lightly beaten

• 1 cup well-shaken buttermilk

CLICK TO SEE THE FULL RECIPE

 

You might also like

 

The other day I wrote about signs of home outside Appalachia, and that got me to thinking. Our quirky mountain culture has been exported to nearly every corner of the globe. You can hear bluegrass in Japan and learn how to cook ramps on The Food Network. We've influenced food, music, literature, and language far beyond our mountain borders, and frankly, I don't think we get nearly the credit we deserve.
Well, here's my small attempt to correct that. It's a new blog series called Appalachian Influence. When I bump into signs of home outside the mountain fold, I'll share them. I hope you'll do the same. If you spot a way we've influenced the big, wide world, drop a line. I'd love to hear about it and consider it for the blog.
This past week, I was hanging in Savannah. While cruising through the town's famous squares on my own, my belly began to rumble. I'd passed plenty of restaurants--sushi, subs, greasy spoons--but I'm notoriously ill-content when it comes to meals. I can walk a city for hours, be on the verge of a hunger coma, and still turn down a top-rated filet mignon if I'm not in the mood.
Crossing Madison Square, I spotted a regal sign. The word Gryphon was printed in gold on black, and as I approached, I could see dark panels and sparkling glass inside. This wasn't johnny-come-lately decor, so I pressed my nose against the window to get a better look. Old wood shelves lined the walls, chock full of antique books. Stained glass domed above the diners and across the bar. With my hand over my eyes to block the sun, I made out a familiar pattern in the colored glass--a mortar and pestle. This was an old pharmacy turned restaurant!
I am a preservation geek, so there was no resisting. Without looking at the menu, I knew I'd found my place. The host seated me at the dark wooden bar, which was, no doubt, a lively soda fountain in its prior life.
Wiping drool from my chin, I managed to force my eyes down, away from the room's beautiful details to the menu. Though it was well appointed, Gryphon had some reasonably priced options, which was a relief since I'd lost sight of my travel budget when faced with an opulent dining room. I scanned the sandwiches (any menu's economy section) and two words popped out--apple butter.
I did a double take. A sandwich with apple butter?
The combo didn't compute, but there it was. Turkey was listed to apple butter's left, and wheat bread was on its right. Reading the accompaniments--brie, arugula, Granny Smith apples--I tried to imagine the taste. Cool. A mix of smooth and crunchy. A little sweet. A little meaty.
Did I mention that it was hot as a coal-fired boiler in Savannah?
A cold sandwich would be just right, but truth be told, I'd have ordered this one even if it were parka weather. A quirky menu item with Appalachian overtones--really, this was a predetermined lunch.
I tapped the counter and rubbed my growling belly while I waited. It wasn't long in real time, but hunger time works differently. I felt like I could have written a novel, built a house, or ended cancer at that bar.
When the sandwich showed, it had cucumber salad on the side, and, true to my Southern roots, I'd ordered a big iced tea. I wish I could say that I took time to admire this ideal summertime meal, but not really. The hunger took hold. My plate was barely stationary before I shoved half the sandwich into my mouth.
It was exactly as I'd pictured. Turkey was the first filling to hit my tongue, providing the perfect cold base. Then the salty brie and the tangy lettuce piqued my taste buds. Finally, a wave of sweet and tart followed. The apples and apple butter were related but not identical, like two fun cousins who livened up a family reunion. Honestly, they made the sandwich. Without this fruity twist, I would have just been eating a turkey club sans bacon, but this was something special--a taste of home when I least expected it.
After this first bite, I forced myself to pause. I left the sandwich on the plate long enough to take a picture. That's it at the top of the post. I knew that I wanted to share this treat with you, but I barely held out through one shutter snap. As soon as I had the shot, the sandwich was back at my mouth, and I was chowing.
The bartender didn't have a chance to refill my tea before I'd cleared my plate. She laughed and asked, "In a rush?"
My fickle belly was sated, so I smiled and asked for the bill. A few photos of the restaurant, and I was back on Savannah's steamy streets. Spanish moss and palm fronds insisted that I was in the coastal South, but I couldn't deny the sweet lingering taste of apple butter. It reminded me that, no matter where I travel, the mountains are with me, down deep in my gut.

A while back, I posited that tater salad can heal an ailing heart. It is indeed a potent comfort food, up there with mac and cheese or meatloaf, and this is the perfect time to make it. The kitchen isn't so hot that you resent boiling water, but on a sunny afternoon, it's warm enough to delight in a cool spoonful of taters on your tongue.
For me, the dish comes with a bonus prize. It reminds me of Virginia Imogene Perdue, my momma's momma and a 1950's housewife who readily adopted the decade's central theme--convenience.
When you dined at Granny Perdue's house, the ham was canned, the biscuits were canned, the beans were canned, and the yams were canned. Heck, the rolls would have been canned if Winn Dixie sold them that way. Instead they were brown and serve (heavy on the "brown" because Granny never mastered the art of temperature control.)
No fuss cooking had an upside for us grandkids. As soon as Granny's cans were open and her instant pudding was mixed, she was down on all fours with us, racing Matchbox cars or outside, chasing a yard full of squealing youngins with a squirt gun. This was a woman who loved to play. In fact, she'd stand up adults--just leave them sitting at her dining table--if she heard us singing in the next room.
[caption id="attachment_5778" align="alignright" width="237"] Granny Perdue and me, 1977[/caption]
We relished Granny's attention, but we also knew our one boundary. She was not to be bothered if she had a potato in her hand.
See, tater salad was the only dish she made from scratch, and it required concentration. Getting the mix of mayo, relish, and egg right was tricky, so we sat by and watched, quiet as kitchen mice, while she chopped onions; we covered our ears when she revved up the hand mixer; and when it came time to taste, we lent our tongues like we were catching snowflakes.
Granny held a teaspoon full of tater salad in front of us and asked what we thought. If we tilted our heads, uncertain, or scrunched out noses, she immediately named the problem.
"Oh I see," she'd say, "Looks like there's not enough love in it."
We smiled and nodded, glad that we didn't have to tell her it needed pepper. She smiled and turned back to the counter, determined to get it right.
She did. Every time her tater salad turned out perfect--creamy and white with just a little bite; no mustard, because that would have been a cardinal sin in her house; and plenty of sliced egg on top.
My family has always said that it was her signature dish. Now it's one of mine.
Like Granny, I prioritize other things over cooking. I have the blog and short story writing, my job, family, friends, and my dog. Most of my meals come from boxes, but this weekend, I slowed down enough to cook.
Standing in my kitchen, peeling potatoes and chopping eggs, I realized something about my grandmother. Her generation felt that children are best seen but not heard. Other grannies shooed youngins from the kitchen with a swat on the behind, but not ours. She cleared the plates, spread out a board game when we showed up with one, and joined in the fun.
By my sink, a little weepy from the onions, I realized that yes, Virginia Imogene Perdue's tater salad was good, but being a grandmother was really her signature dish.

*

Granny Perdue's Tater Salad
4-5 large potatoes
3 hard boiled eggs, sliced

1/2 of a large onion, diced
Mayo to taste
Relish to taste
Salt and pepper to taste

 

If you follow The Revivalist on Facebook or Twitter, you might have seen a photo of a hamburger this week…wait, let me rephrase…you might have seen a photo of the rockinest hamburger ever this week.

 

No pink slime, no heat lamps, no freezer burn on this patty. This was one of the freshest pieces of meat I’ve ever seen. I ordered it at Local Roots, a farm to table restaurant in Roanoke, Virginia, where the folks aren’t kidding about local.

 

The menu actually names farms where the dishes originate. The duck breast is from Crescent Farms, the bison from Hollow Hill Farm. In the fifteen minutes between ordering my burger and its delivery, I probably could have driven to the pasture where it was raised, shook hands with the farmer, and met its cow cousins.

 

And it’s not just the meat that’s local. This super-duper burger was topped with a nose thrilling, breath killing aioli made with fresh, locally harvested ramps. Whoever combed Virginia's forests for these beauties deserves a reward and a big hug. The ramps were the centerpiece of one amazing sauce. It made the meal, and every time I saw the delectable, light green smear of it in the photo online, my mouth would fill with saliva and my stomach would leap with excitement.

 

By Thursday, I’d had enough. I picked up the phone and called Local Roots. When Diane Elliot, the owner, first answered the line, I sped through my name and the name of the website, all in one big word…

 

Marklynnfergusonfromtherevivalistwordfromtheappalachiansouth

 

She barely had time to say, “Ah, okay,” before I started glowing about the hamburger and its special sauce. “The meat was incredible and the bun, perfect, and that ramp aioli was just out of this world. Really, great. And I’m wondering if you’d be willing the share the recipe, to publish it on my site.”

 

She didn’t have a chance to respond before I added, “Not the recipe for the whole burger. Just the recipe for the aioli. I mean, I could make a meal out of it by itself. Ha! It was, seriously, that good.”

 

Yes, I laughed at my own joke in the middle there. When I finally stopped talking, I heard no response, so I added, “I bet the folks who read The Revivalist would love it too.”

 

I don’t think Diane knew whether it was safe to speak or not. After a long pause, presumably waiting to see if I would start gushing again, she hesitantly said, “Uhm, yeah, could you hold for a minute?”

 

“Of course,” I said, enthusiastically, like I’d been waiting all day to listen to some hold music. There was a clunk as Diane sat the phone down but no tunes. All I could hear was a busy, restaurant—the thud of pans being hoisted from surface to surface, silverware clattering as tables were set, someone reciting the night’s specials.

 

I listened to this cacophony and realized that I’d made one stupid mistake. I’d called at the worst possible time. Diane and her crew were less than an hour away from their dinnertime opening, and there I was, asking about posting a recipe, which, when you think about, is a precious thing to a restauranteur. Recipes are Diane's bread and butter, and I wanted her to put one on a website that she probably hadn't read and probably couldn’t name because I’d said it so dang fast.

 

“I should just let her get back to work,” I thought, hovering my finger over the “End” button, but I thought better of it. Hanging up would only compound the rudeness, so I waited, doodling tight circles on the notepad in front of me and listening to the bustle at the other end of the line. The phone clunked again, and Diane was back. “I talked to the chef,” she said politely but fast, as if we had been talking all along, “and we’re okay with that. It’s fine.”

 

“Oh, really,” I asked unable to hide my surprise. I wasn’t sure if she was saying yes because she liked the idea or if she just needed to get this strangely eager man off of her phone. Either way, I took it!

 

I jotted down the ingredients and directions before she had a chance to change her mind and thanked her about twenty times. Diane was already a hero for making this delightful dish; now she’s a saint for sharing it.

 

So from Saint Diane and the kitchen at Local Roots, I am proud to present ramps aioli, a recipe that originated in the forests of Southwest Virginia and that was procured through a food addict’s enthusiasm.

 

 ***

 

LOCAL ROOTS RAMPS AIOLI

 

Ingredients:

 

2 egg yolks

4 cloves of garlic confit

chopped ramps to taste

1 cup extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 teaspoon of lemon zest

1 teaspoon of dijon mustard

 

Directions:

 

Have your ingredients at room temperature. In a blender, add the egg yolks, garlic cloves, and ramps. You might start off light on the ramps. They've got kick, and you can always add more as you taste the sauce.

 

Cover and blend at medium speed until smooth. With the blender running, remove the small cap on your lid and slowly drizzle in half of the olive oil.

 

Stop the blender and scrape down the sides of the jar. Cover.

 

Return to medium speed. Remove the small cap and add the lemon juice, the lemon zest, the mustard, and the remaining olive oil. As the sauce thickens, stop the blender to scrape down the sides again and taste.

 

Not rampy enough?

 

Gradually add more ramps until the aioli is light green and perfectly pungent. Blend until thick. Chill and serve.

Sniff. Smell that?
It's like garlic and super-charged onions. It makes your mouth water and your nose run all at once. You're on a springtime hike, and suddenly everything stinks. It's a crazy smell, both awful and awfully wonderful at the same time. You can't resist inhaling a big noseful. It's like markers or gasoline fumes; you know you shouldn't enjoy the odor but there you are, sniffing again. It's irresistible.
You look around, trying to figure out what is putting off this beguiling scent. That's when you spot stiff green sprouts sticking from the forest floor.
Ah-hah! You've got it. You've stumbled upon wild ramps.
Now you have to decide--do you run like you're being chased by dogs or load up your backpack like you've found gold?
[caption id="attachment_5451" align="alignright" width="241"] Photo Provided by Darya Pino.[/caption]
(Hint: Backpack. Go with the backpack!)
These odiferous sprigs have been a culinary delight since native Americans ruled the region. Today, they are sought after by chefs nationwide.
Find them in the wild, and they don't cost a penny but sure taste like a million bucks. A kind of leek, they're a distinctive replacement for onions or their cousin the store-bought leek. You can fry them with potatoes, scramble them with eggs, add them to a casserole, or pickle them and enjoy them year round.

HOW TO FORAGE RAMPS

WHERE TO BUY RAMPS
Ramp Farm Specialties: This West Virginia company is the only ramp farm in the world.
Earthy Delights: This Michigan company claims to be "where great chefs buy" foraged foodstuff.
MOUTH WATERING RAMP RECIPES
Ramp and Buttermilk Biscuits: Mmmmm fancy biscuits.
Spring Ramps and Rainbow Trout: Love any recipe that tells me to have a mess of something.
Pickled Ramps: With commentary from Russian/New England/North Appalachian/New York blogger, Olga Massov.
Grilled Ramp and Asparagus Quiche: From Ms. Martha Stewart nonetheless!
APPALACHIAN RAMP FESTIVALS
Ramp Tramp Festival, Polk County, Tennessee: Bluegrass, crafts, and an optional tramp up the side of a mountain in search of ramps.
West Virginia Gazette: Lists more than a dozen events across The Mountain State.
Whitetop Mountain Ramp Festival, Whitetop, Virginia: Perhaps my favorite; this one culminates in a ramp eating contest at more than 5,000 feet.

Remember the Mountain Traditions Project, the new series of documentary shorts that was announced a couple of weeks back?
Well, the first two clips are up. One features Amy Fabbri, a dulcimer player and keeper of old time tunes. The other profiles a group of homesteaders in Western Maryland.
Take a gander, and tell us what you think.
[youtube]f8nnPrGSUBs&context[/youtube]
[youtube]FfPyaQov6_U&context[/youtube]

You might also like Does Mountain Living Make You Smarter?

Boston is a hard town. For all its culture and history, the people can be coarse. They drive like maniacs and barely acknowledge you when you walk into stores or purchase tokens for the subway.
I moved there after college. It was my first time living north of the Mason Dixon, and I took their ill demeanor personally. I thought maybe it was my accent; maybe I didn't look right; maybe folks thought I was trying too hard when I greeted them with a goofy smile and an extended palm.
Some days it felt like the entire city hated me, like I'd somehow offended four and a half million people. That's when I would tuck tail and go find the one thing that brought me comfort--a heaping, creamy mound of lightly-peppered, heavily salted, really mayonnaisey potato salad.
It had to be from Redbones Barbecue. They made it just like my grandma with no mustard and plenty of onion. I'd lift that first bite to my mouth, and I swear it was like Jean Perdue, my momma's momma, was wrapping her arms around me. It was magical. Love on a fork. A hug from seven hundred miles away.
Food is like that. It can bend space and time. Nobody knows that better than today's guest-writer, Joyce Pinson. She talks about food the way most of us talk about a love affair. Joyce is downright gleeful when she describes candied grapefruit peels. She glows over pumpkin fudge. She finds joy in every dish, which is why she's a lady in demand. With a soon-to-be-syndicated food column, frequent radio appearances, and a mouth-watering blog, Friends Drift Inn, she must barely breathe. Still, she found time to tell us about a treat that transports her. For Joyce, sorghum sugar cookies are like a visit home.

*

Five generations ago, my family fled Appalachia. War was brewing. The cholera epidemic had claimed too many youngins. The folks were bitterly split between supporting Confederate interests and a love of the Republic.
It is said you can take the people out of Appalachia, but you cannot take Appalachia from the people. Growing up near Cincinnati, I never knew my mountain roots. The family did not talk about our connections to the hills. In my mind, we had always lived along the beautiful Ohio River farming on rich bottom lands growing vegetables, pruning orchards, and tending bees. But my young eyes did not miss the "oddities" that set our family apart from others in the river community.
There was a preoccupation with growing cushaws and goose beans. Planting had to be done by the signs, as did canning.  Foraging was the norm, harvesting mint, poke greens, dandelions, pawpaws, and nuts. We fished. We hunted. The kitchen floor was often cleared as Grandma and Grandpa danced, sometimes the Charleston and sometimes something they called "a cloggin." There was an amulet; a hawk's clawed foot that Grandpa had given Grandma as some sort of secret token.
For whatever reason, the family chose to hide their ties to Appalachia. But sit down at Grandma's table, and the history was there for the hungry. A mainstay ingredient, sorghum, was considered a pantry staple. Grandma served it on biscuits.  Sorghum was drizzled on corn cakes. It was the secret ingredient in Grandpa's Caramel Blackberry Jam Cake, a recipe so rich only the tiniest of slivers was all that was needed to satisfy the tummy and the lost soul.
Sorghum, thick rich rivers of sorghum, flowed from the mountain kin to Grandma's kitchen and Grandpa's produce stand in a telltale stream of Appalachian goodness. Perhaps it was fate that brought me to live amongst the mysterious mountains of Pike County's Appalachia. But after five generations of being away, somehow I know that the restless spirits of my ancestors are now are at peace. I think they are happy to be with me on the banks of Johns Creek.
When cold winter days vex my spirit, I turn to the kitchen and to the pantry where sorghum is still a constant. Sorghum cookies, crisp with a mysterious sweet richness and depth of flavor coupled with a hot cup of tea soothes my longing for the warm days of harvest. Sorghum cookies takes me back to the Ohio River Valley...and brings those that came before me home to the mountains. The circle is complete.

Maybe you caught it when it originally aired, but I just discovered Bizarre Foods Appalachia. With a title like that, I expected to endure an hour's worth of possum jokes, but as it turns out, the Travel Channel has produced a true salute to the wide ranging food traditions in Appalachia. All of the dishes are demonstrated by locals, from Swiss decendants cooking pfeffernusse to Native American's baking up bear...the modern way.
So grab your chestnut grubs and liver mush and pay attention. You might learn something new about local eats.
[youtube]L3nAZ-oldpk[/youtube]
[youtube]IUwbPTfIi9o&feature=related[/youtube]
[youtube]X-f_f6rWvoQ&feature=related[/youtube]

Just two blocks from the front door of my row house in Washington, DC, I can find wild morels, scampering foxes, woodpeckers, and silvery alewives, all set in 1,700 acres of forestland. I picked my condo partially because it is so close to Rock Creek Park. Within about five minutes, I can leave the city's blare--honking horns, construction, irate people yelling, blasting music--and stand atop a ridge where all I hear is the rustle of leaves and creaking old trees.
Up there, it's common for the nearest creature to have four long legs and a tuft of white on its tail. I run across deer in the park all the time. They nibble and stroll, ignoring me entirely. These deer are accustomed to people. They live in the middle of the nation's seventh largest metro area, and they seem content enough. I think so, at least, until I see a clip like this one.
[youtube]BYZxCcHfrwg&feature=related[/youtube]
This poor buck was struck by a car in Rock Creek Park. Unfortunately, it didn't finish him off. I imagine that he lasted for hours or days, limping through the woods before succumbing to his wounds.
Put deer and people in the same environment, and accidents will happen. There's no avoiding them, but we can minimize the number of long-suffering deaths like this one (not to mention the harm and expense that comes to drivers). Municipalities just need to take smart steps to keep their deer in check.
DC isn't doing much along those lines, but the fine state of West Virginia sure is. Multiple cities and towns in the Mountain State allow deer hunting during short windows. In fact, this weekend kicks off Morgantown's first urban deer hunt. On select parcels of land, including West Virginia University's organic farm, dairy farm and arboretum, bow hunters can help cull the town's deer population.
This is a humane way to manage deer, and in Morgantown, it also helps hungry families. The Charleston Gazettereports that hunters can donate the resulting venison to the needy. Backwoods Taxidermy will butcher the deer for free and wrap the meat for area soup kitchens and shelters.
As municipalities consider hunts, I imagine that this charitable twist is a great way to gain local support. It makes deer hunting palatable for even the most ardent Bambi lovers.

You may know about Steven Hopp. He is the furry-faced husband of author Barbara Kingsolver. The couple, along with their teenaged daughter, co-wrote the 2007 bestseller "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life," which documents the family's attempt to grow their own food for a year. Anything they couldn't grow, they bought locally in Southwest Virginia.
The book is a charmer, and, by all accounts, so is the couple. I particularly like this 2008 interview, in which Kingsolver gets big laughs talking about turkey sex and the zucchini industrial complex.
Apparently, though, it takes more than a winning personality and literary fame to build a locally grown movement in Meadowview, Virginia. A recent article in The New York Times focused on Hopp's struggle to attract diners to the Harvest Table, which promotes itself as "the most dedicated farm-to-table restaurant in Southwestern Virginia."
"The 50-seat Harvest Table has not yet turned a profit," said The Times, "Over the past several years, it has struggled to build a fan base among the area’s predominantly blue-collar residents for whom the average annual income is $15,750, and many of whom view local and organic food as out of reach."
At first, I was surprised to read this. Given the proliferation of farm stands and farmers' markets throughout Southwest Virginia, this restaurant seemed like a natural extension. People buy locally grown produce to eat at home; why wouldn't they want it when they eat out?
Then I took a closer look at the restaurant. It's a "downtown" restaurant, located in a renovated building in Meadowview's town center. It serves frittatas and artisan cheese plates in a community that is not only low income but rural. I started to wonder if its challenges are as much cultural as they are economic.
I should pause here and note that the title of The New York Times article is "Local Food Has Been No Easy Sell in Appalachia." Clearly, it hasn't been an easy sell in Meadowview, Virginia. To find out about the rest of the region, I called a couple of other restaurants that promote their commitment to locally grown food.
[caption id="attachment_4049" align="alignleft" width="234"] Diners at Local Roots[/caption]
First, I spoke with Brian Sallade, General Manager at Local Roots in Roanoke. This restaurant is also located in Southwest Virginia but in a metro area of about 300,000 people. I asked Sallade, point blank, "Can you make it as a restaurant serving locally grown food in Appalachia?"
"I definitely think so," he said, noting that it's a new idea but that interest is growing. "There are definitely more people on board. Some people say that they will only eat at our restaurant because they know where their food is coming from."
The Local Roots menu is actually a little more costly than the menu at Harvest Table. At Local Roots, entrees start at $17. At Harvest Table, you can get a burger platter for $7. The Roanoke-based restaurant, however, has the advantage of a larger, more diverse customer base. Sallade said that it's not unusual to have business people dine in groups of ten or more. That's not likely to happen at Harvest Table.
Hoping to get another small town perspective, I rang Leslie Hotaling, Co-owner of Panorama at the Peak in the West Virginia arts town of Berkeley Springs. With clinking glass and the bustle of a busy dinning room in the background, she said, "There's a resurgence of diners looking for locally grown food. I think the days of processed food are coming to an end."
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="240"] Salad at Panorama at the Peak[/caption]
Her bold outlook seems to be paying off. Panorama at the Peak is in its sixth year and was just awarded the Snail of Approval award from Slow Food D.C. This recognition made me wonder if the restaurant's proximity to D.C. underpins its success. Hotaling says that it's a factor, but that "local guests are 75 percent of our clientele."
This brings me back to the cultural question. In Appalachia, you have both locavores and what I'll call McDonaldvores. The former seek out locally grown food or are, at least, open to it when they find it. There seem to be enough of them in Appalachian cities and in funky towns like Berkeley Springs to sustain local food restaurants.
Meadowview, by contrast, sounds like the land of McDonaldvores, people who'd rather eat at a restaurant with a known brand and ample parking. Many of my relatives fall into this category. When I visit home in the Blue Ridge, dining out can be a source of tension. I usually advocate for a locally-owned downtown restaurant. They want to hit the IHOP. It's not because they don't see the value of keeping dollars local. They just want to eat somewhere familiar, where they don't have to jockey for parking, and where they see themselves fitting in.
I think that this distinction is missed by The New York Times. It pins the troubles at Harvest Table on first, the cost of the restaurant's food and second, some Appalachian aversion to eating local.
The article actually gets a little urban-uppity when it says "in the heart of Appalachia, where there isn’t a critical mass of suppliers or customers for whom the term 'locavore' rolls naturally off the tongue, the restaurant remains something of a curiosity" and that Harvest Table would be "an instant hit in a progressive, urban enclave like Brooklyn or Berkeley, Calif."
I posit that the restaurant would also be a hit in Roanoke, Berkeley Springs, Asheville, Berea, or any other Appalachian locale with locavore tendencies. You don't have to go to New York or California to find a market.
What's more, I would wager that even in Meadowview, plenty of people spend $7 on a burger or more. They just do so at Applebee's or Outback Steak House, not at an independently owned restaurant in a historic building with a vegetable garden out back. As much I love spots like these, they're not for everyone.
So the challenge for Hopp and maybe for the local foods movement in general is this--how do you get folks who'll buy tomatoes at a farm stand (which is just about everyone in Southwest Virginia) to stop at a restaurant that specializes in locally grown food?
Do you need to reposition the marketing, downplaying "locally grown" and playing-up more mainstream attributes like "convenience" or "family friendly"?
Should locally grown restaurants try relocating to malls?
Does someone need to launch a locally grown franchise with consistent branding, major ad buys and big signs?
What will it take to transition the locally grown movement from a niche concept that works in select markets to a mainstream option that thrives anywhere?
I don't begin to have the answers, but I bet you can think of some. Share your ideas for getting more people to eat local, or if you don't think it's going to happen, tell us why.

As you might recall, planting a city garden is one way I bring a little bit of Appalachia into my east coast life. Well, things are a growing like mad. The corn has silk; the beans are big and drooping down to the dirt; we've already eaten one tomato; and the carrots are crowding each other out. (Probably should have thinned them more.)
See the progress for yourself in these nifty night time shots.