Arapaho Ranch produces the kind of beef your inner cowboy wants to eat. With 595,000 acres sprawling across Wyoming's wild and rugged Owl Mountains, the ranch is home to native grasses, wolves, mountain lions and grizzlies. The cattle are herded by American Indian cowboys, each with his own fleet of seven horses—one for each day of the week.
It's the largest certified organic cattle operation in the United States, which isn't saying much given what's permitted under today's organic standards, which regulate an animal's diet more than its lifestyle. While organic cattle can be confined for up to eight months a year without losing their certification, the cattle at Arapaho Ranch spend their entire lives grazing outside. They follow the melting snow up the mountain in springtime and retreat to lower ground in fall. The cattle breed naturally, without the help of artificial insemination, as do the ranch horses. The word "organic," while applicable to the beef produced on Arapaho Ranch, doesn't do it justice.
When the Northern Arapaho tribe, which owns the ranch, made a deal with Whole Foods, it was a dream come true—an economically feasible way for the tribe to steward its land in an ecologically responsible way. It created a revenue stream that stands in stark contrast with gas drilling and casino gambling.
Whole Foods celebrated the agreement with great fanfare, featuring eagle feather headdresses and traditional Arapaho prairie chicken dances in the parking lot of a Denver store. "[It] was a great idea," says David Ruedlinger, Whole Foods' meat coordinator for the Rocky Mountain region. "They could supply us with beef 52 weeks a year. Their cattle grazed year-round and knew their way around the ranch, which microclimates would have grass in winter. Everything at the ranch seemed as it should be according to Mother Nature."
Everything, it turns out, except the bottom line. In March, barely a year into the deal, Arapaho Ranch pulled out.
"We couldn't have asked for a better situation," explains David Stoner, general manager of the ranch. "They're beautiful stores. They presented our product beautifully. But it's a difficult product to produce. We're keeping cattle until they're 30 months old, through two winters. It takes range-fed beef that much longer to grow, and we're still three to four hundred pounds less than the ones that come out of a feedlot."
The move to gain organic certification was a big investment for the ranch. Then the bank that helped finance the operation backed out. A sizable percentage of the meat's retail price was going to Panorama Meats, which handles the slaughter, packaging and distribution of Whole Foods' beef. The ranch was getting squeezed, Stoner says, and when the price of conventional beef shot up by 20 percent last spring, Arapaho asked Panorama for a commensurate increase in the wholesale price. Panorama declined.
Arapaho Ranch then tried to strike a deal directly with Whole Foods. But that proposition wasn't as simple as the tribe might have hoped, according to Whole Foods' Ruedlinger.
"They might view Panorama as a middleman, but they're more than that," he says. "Panorama provides services I can't do myself. They have a market for the bones, offal, livers, bench trim, etc. You don't see us selling tripe, tongue or oxtail at our store, but all that stuff is marketable and should be used if you're trying to get the best carcass utilization possible. And carcass utilization is important not just for economics, but to honor the animal."
For a large, publicly traded company like Whole Foods, it's more efficient to deal with one supplier—Panorama—that works with several different producers, than to work directly with individual ranches. "In winter, sometimes inclement weather means the roads in Wyoming are closed, and we can't get the product," Ruedlinger explains, as an example of why going around Panorama to deal directly with Arapaho Ranch was a can of worms he didn't want to open.
All parties claim no hard feelings.
"We have no ideological differences," says Stoner. "I believe in Panorama's integrity, that they try to provide what they promise, that they're a transparent company, and they treat their producers with a lot of respect. It's not their fault, it's not Whole Foods' fault, and it's not our fault. It's just unfortunate. It's pure economics."
Ruedlinger says he has "all the respect in the world" for Stoner and what they're doing on the ranch.
And Mack Graves, chief executive officer of Panorama, told WyoFile.com, "I feel horrible about it. They were such good folks. We could have worked it out, and we didn't."
So why can't these sympathetic parties make a deal?
Stoner is correct to blame economics. And the root of this economic problem is a marketplace where consumers want their meat fresh rather than frozen. This is due in part to the inconvenience of waiting for meat to thaw, and also due to the false assumption that freezing meat lowers its quality.
If consumers warmed up to frozen meat, ranchers could slaughter their cattle during the growing season when the quality of forage—and consequently of the meat—is much higher. They wouldn't have to overwinter as many animals, or contend with bad winter roads. And it would make range-fed operations more competitive with feedlot operations, which can finish their animals on high-quality feed in winter and guarantee fresh, marbled meat year round.
Arapaho Ranch is currently exploring other markets for its range-fed beef, but it's running out of time. "We could be making a lot more money selling calves to feedlots," Stoner says. "Do we believe in that model? No. Are we going to be forced into it? Possibly, yes. By fall we're going to have to make a decision."
The willingness of consumers to step up to the plate could make Stoner's decision a lot easier.
"If we could get shoppers to buy beef at the peak of the season and freeze it themselves, or buy frozen product off-peak that was harvested at peak season, all these problems would be solved," Ruedlinger says.
But that's a big if. "We tried putting together frozen value packs, which offered an assortment of burgers, sausages and steaks for a discounted price," he says. "The program met limited success."
This is a shame. Stoner and his cowboys would like nothing better than to keep working their tails off to keep America's freezers full of good meat. But as they say on the range, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.
Ask Ari: Canned coconut milk
Q: Dear Flash,
Is homemade coconut milk better than from a can? If so, how do you make it?
—Coo-coo for Coconuts
A: It's worth noting that many cooks, even in tropical countries like Thailand where the coconuts drop from the trees, balk at making their own coconut milk because using canned coconut milk is so much easier, and almost as good. You can be fairly positive that your favorite Thai restaurant uses canned milk, and there's no shame in following suit.
Still, making it fresh is better.
It starts with picking a good coconut, which can be a crapshoot. A good coconut will feel heavy for its size, won't have cracks or mold on the outside, and will have audible water sloshing inside. I improve my odds by bringing a bowl to the store. As soon as I leave with my coconut, I smash it on the parking lot, drain the water into the bowl, and taste it. If it tastes rotten, I exchange the coconut for another, right then and there, and try again. But this only works if you're going to make coconut milk that day. Another trick is to keep a can of coconut milk at home as a backup in case of a bad coconut.
Pull apart your smashed coconut and bake the broken shards at 300 degrees until the edges of the flesh start to turn golden, or about 30 minutes. Remove and cool. The flesh should pull away from the shell easily with a butter knife or spoon. Chop the flesh and put it in a food processor or blender. Blend for about three to five minutes, slowly adding two cups of water to keep it moving. Let it steep for 15 minutes, then pour the whole business through a filter. A tea strainer or paint strainer works well, as does cheesecloth or other cotton material stretched over a bowl. Strain and squeeze all the liquid through the fabric into a bowl. Voila.
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