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As I lay in bed this morning the view through the skylight above me was a happy surprise. It was the first time I had noticed the slightest hint of color in the nearby treetops. Hurrah!
It is that lovely “in between” time of year for me; the time when Summer gives way to the first few wisps of Fall. The days have been warm. Evenings have cooled to “sweater weather”. Summer flowers still grace my yard and trees are just starting to turn colors.
I’m aware that my tastes in weather are a bit contrary. I get that, for most, Spring brings a sense of hope, the promise of sunshine and new blooms, yada, yada, yada, but the reality of Spring always strikes me as grotesque. Spring in the Northeast is gray and muddy. The grass is still brown. The earth is coated with the scum left behind by melting snow. The bare trees that looked stark and beautiful against a snow-covered backdrop, look a bit pathetic in the new light of Spring.
By contrast, in the advent of Fall, the sky is blue, the grass is lush and green (it ought to be after nearly 6 inches of rain in the last month) and my garden is thriving in the respite from the oppressive Summer heat. My months of tending are beginning to pay off as tomatoes and beans ripen on their vines. Yellow school buses have begun their morning and afternoon rounds, and team colors can be seen on the young players that practice on the local fields.
I know other will view these shortening days as the harbinger of doom, but it’s hard to argue that the view from my kitchen window isn’t just a little bit heartening.
My little village’s farmer’s market runs every Saturday from May through November. It is the source of everything from tomato plants that go into my garden in Spring to the pumpkin that will grace my front steps come Fall. I have a year-round relationship with one of the vendors who makes the trek into the village every other week during the winter, keeping me supplied with farm fresh eggs and the bounty of their root cellar.
With Saturday morning obedience classes, I simply had not made the time to stroll through the market until this weekend. Yes, I had made a mad dash for eggs one Saturday, but did not take the time to enjoy the experience. I swooped past the table of baked goods and homemade jams and pickles. I completely ignored the handcrafts on display under one of the vendors’ tents. There was no chatting on that particular morning.
With an early start to the morning, and nothing more pressing than yard work, which, like the dinner dishes, will always be there when you get back, this Saturday I spent hours at the market.
I talked to a beekeeper about colony collapse and diet diversity. I taste tested honey and tried out what may be the best cuticle cream I have ever used.
I chatted with a pair of women selling jewelry and needle crafts, and left feeling inspired.
I talked to an actual goat farmer about chevre and the benefits of gender segregation. Apparently boys stink like…well… like goats, and the stink shows up in the milk if the whole herd shares the field.
The cheesemaker, himself, went on to talk about the cooperative effort of farms in his area. Raising his own goats, he relies on another farm down the road for cow’s milk. It is clear he not only knows, but respects the farm practices of his neighbor. Keeping the sustainability and cooperative nature going, he passes the whey from his cheesemaking process on to a pig farmers down the road, as well.
Even those folks without a business relationship with another farm, seem to share a common bond. Rather than holding competing interests, I found vendors sharing secrets; all in the effort to raise better crops, raise better herds and raise awareness of the value of real food. Each has a vested interest in building demand for locally grown products and in seeing small farms thrive.
I grabbed the business card of a poultry guy who bemoaned the rain-soaked fields and shared his expertise on coaxing free-range chickens out of the coop after the long winter. He wasn’t actually a vendor, but had come to help a friend. He was chatting, in actuality, with the cheese guy, while I was, shamelessly, eavesdropping. How else are you going to know how he really feels about his chicks???
Do I remember everything he said about this breed and that food source?
Nope.
It’s still amazing what you learn when you have a chance to stop and talk…
I spent a fair portion of the day outside doing yard work.
I spent the rest of it playing with the beast.
It appears that both are zero sum games.
My lawn has yet to fill in properly. Newly seeded areas this Spring seem to have had the seed wash away entirely or to have had the delicate first blades roundly trounced by one beast or the other, or, perhaps, by me. The bald spots that emerged after the winter snow receded were still bald when I got up this morning. The path from the back fence line to the pine tree in the side yard is worn to mud.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not a complete wash either. It is not quite so bad that I need pay to have the whole thing sodded. Instead, I spent much of the morning patching the bare spots piecemeal. Taking patches from borders where I do not want the grass, I have been transplanting tufts to spots that need it; the herbaceous equivalent of hair plugs for men.
I must say that the results are not all bad. As long as the grass plugs take root and don’t shrivel up, it could be a very good solution.
On the flip side of my hole filling, I dedicated the rest of my morning to pulling weeds in the shady section of the yard; the part of the yard that, while not beautiful, has at least been green. Alas, the weeds were more pervasive than I had first thought. Now, while the sunny spots near the deck have had most of the bare spots filled in, the back part of the lawn is now riddled with muddy holes.
Clearly both projects needed to be done. After looking at it, though, it looks like my massive morning effort served only to move the muddiness around.
I spent the afternoon with the beast.
I realized too late yesterday that my darling girl’s constant pestering wasn’t intended to drive me mad. She simply wanted to play. While my late day epiphany was vital to repairing my relationship with the beast, it did little to burn off the excess of energy of which she was possessed.
Today, I vowed to do better, so play, we did.
All afternoon.
The beast is still possessed of an abundance of energy.
I, on the other hand, am filthy and exhausted…
Though only 64 degrees today it is sunny and feels much warmer. With nearly 4 days without a downpour the back yard is no longer a mud pit, and as of yesterday was actually mowable…and mow I did; no mean feat when you consider the dog management that has to go into that.
The front yard must be mowed with both dogs outside in the back because Dash 2 won’t go inside without me, and is not so happy outside without at least the beast. The back yard must be mowed with the beast inside, as she is intensely curious about the mower and will attack it from every angle, and with Dash 2 outside for the same reason as before.
Beast management and the records rains of April have left little time for some of the other outside work I would like to have had completed by now. The vegetable garden has not been turned over and is nowhere near ready for planting. The zinnias that I have started inside, three times, have, yet again, sprouted to life, greened up and, without warning, wilted and fallen over. The patch of bramble in the side yard where two years ago I had a small thatch of mint has sprawled. The grass is overrun with minty spikes. With no time to fully contain them yesterday, I just mowed them down.
Delicious.
Quite possibly the best reward for pushing a lawn mower around a muddy, rutted, slightly weed-ridden postage stamp of a yard. It was also quite possibly the inspiration for the first of the season batch of ice tea; tea the way my mother used to make it.
It has become fashionable to brew summer teas gently. A jar perched precariously on the porch railing is slowly and mysically transformed into nectar by the summer sun. More and more folks are using herbal teas or exotic flavors; delicately sweetened with locally made honey. These are wonderful trends to which I politely say “pah!”
My mother’s secret was mint from the garden, combined with good old Lipton tea, lemon juice, granulated white sugar and water…boiled. It is the scent and the taste of summer to me, and right now there is a big old pot of it sitting on my stove.
Look…
That’s what a friend of mine posted on their social networking site.
Now, if that had ended up as one of my postings I would have claimed pre-caffeine fog or that the beast hit my hand before I finished typing. In this case though, I’m not entirely sure that this is not the entire thought; a simple, one-word goal for the day.
Just look.
In contemplating the wisdom of that advice, I am forced to acknowledge that there is much that I may be missing as I wander through this life.
I already know that to be true when it comes to housekeeping. I just don’t see it…until, of course, 20 minutes before company is coming and I am forced to look at my house through fresh eyes.
Not being able to keep up with the rate at which it was being dragged into the house, I had stopped seeing the mud. Since it was not recycling day, the stack of folded cardboard had come to cover most of my dining room table. And just exactly how long had the 12-roll package of toilet paper been sitting on the stairs? Had I passed it a couple of times? A dozen? A hundred?
Of course, once I actually “saw” the disorder, I was able to deal with it; stopping just shy of shampooing carpets 20 minutes before my guests arrived. Still, though, I am dismayed at all I had not seen before I looked.
Truth be told, though, I am more worried that I am missing the good stuff, too. Housekeeping being the one exception, I fear I am, in general, hardwired to be over-critical. I look in the mirror and I see the extra 15 pounds and the wrinkles without noticing that I am healthy, well-rested. I look at my work and I wish I were better at it, more efficient. I look at my writing, and I see the typos.
I spent a few minutes outside with the beast this morning. While I was out I noted the muddy path she has worn through where I have tried to re-seed the grass. I noted the clump of hosta that I forgot to transplant last Fall.
I saw the weeds.
Outside again with a cup of coffee and a new mandate, just now, I saw that the lilac bush I was certain I had killed has leaves budding on it. I noticed that the daisies that my fence builder and I dug a posthole through seem to be coming back too; as are my herb boxes.
I looked at the happy expression on the beast’s face as she raced through the yard and decided the grass-less strip was worth it.
There’s some good stuff out there.
You just have to, you know, look.
It’s practically December and in a kind twist of fate, there is no snow on the ground here in upstate New York. Kind, I say, because I am months behind in the yard work that needs to happen before Winter hits in earnest.
It has been a bittersweet experience; not for the all of the end-of-summer reasons that normal people will give you, though. Those of you who know me, or who have been reading for a while, know that I usually relish this time of year. I have revealed in previous posts that I am a lover of Winter; a bit of a Christmas nut, a canner, a soup-maker, snow worshipper, one who hunkers down in front of the fire, glad of the excuse not to go out into the world.
Last Friday, I would have kicked off the season by decorating the small artificial tree that I store every year to decorate my mother’s room. By now my countertops would be overflowing with candy-making supplies; candy canes, white chocolate, pecans and spices. Ever one to avoid the malls at this time of year, I would have already snuck into the art supply store on the fringe of the local shopping center for paper to make the annual replenishment of white paper stars.
By now my house would have started to look like Christmas; my car radio would have been permanently tuned to the all-Christmas music station.
This year is different. Unsurprisingly.
Yet, I am still surprised.
There is not the hint of a decoration. My mother’s tree remains in the garage; unlit, undecorated. I tried to switch my radio but lasted only a few tunes before switching back to my usual station.
Clearly, I am not ready.
But today was manual labor Monday, and perhaps I am catching up. Some of the replanting I should have done after the fence was finished got done today. The two little pine trees placed oddly and indecorously at the edge of my deck have been dug up and relocated. The yard has been raked and mowed and edged, and the garden has been trimmed back.
So now maybe I am ready for the season to change. Maybe I am ready for celebrations.
I don’t know.
Maybe it is more telling that my most satisfying day in a long time was spent raking up and cutting back dead things.
My recent campaign to “eat local” comes with a few challenges. Quelling cravings for things that do not grow anywhere in this region is one of those challenges. Staying ahead of the season and figuring out what to cook now (having just mastered strawberry jam and peas and a few more Spring crops) is another.
One can only guess that if I am feeling constrained now, then I am going to be in a world of hurt, or at the very least, quite hungry, in February if I don’t do something about it now; something like learn more about canning and preserving. And so my education continues in my kitchen schoolroom; a satellite learning annex for the school of hard knocks.
This particular school uses a variation on the hard knocks theme, though. Instead, it seems to employ steam burn, grated knuckles, slip on the peelings on the floor tactics with a bit more regularity, but I am learning; learning lots of useless things that I may never be able to employ again, like:
- when you google “peach jam” half of the search results are about basketball. Oddly, the tournament is played in South Carolina. I was certain Georgia would have to be the host of such games.
- that the simmering pre-jam goo sticks to skin and burns quite effectively. Emeril or Paul Prudhomme or one of those masters of Cajun cuisine used to refer to roux as Cajun Napalm because it sticks and burns. I’m guessing they never made jam…
- that pectin is a structural stabilizer as well as dietary fiber found in fruit. Citrus fruits have high quantities of the stuff; other fruits less; and mushy, over-ripe (unstructured) fruits have even less. Hence the development of old-fashioned marmalade, I’m guessing,as a way to steal thickeners from the oranges, before the advent of conveniently packaged bottles of pectin from the supermarket.
Today’s experiment is still a work in progress. My peach goo is simmering as I type; not quite to the anxious, “is it jam yet?” debate stage.
After sorting through the vast collection of recipes on the internet, I chose Aunt Doris’s recipe, testing the pectin in citrus theory. Before I realized that store-bought pectin is still a natural product I was looking for a pectin-free recipe, so what I will end up with may be more like marmalade that I had hoped. Since it is a slow-cooked jam, the color will not be so vibrant as some other recipes, but what I have tasted so far of the pre-jam goo has real potential.
Even if it is not spectacular, it will be a taste of summer come February…so I’ve got that going for me…
I like to travel. I am interested in, among other things, the native dishes of places I visit. Curious about how cooking techniques develop, what spices are used and what dishes are celebrated; eating out in new places is one of the things I really enjoy.
In Sweden, I ate all kinds of pickled and preserved fish; a natural outgrowth of a short fishing season in a water-rich land. In Thailand, hot spices and strong citrus acids are part of the culture and also, I suspect, a natural outgrowth of preserving food in a hot climate.
Occasionally, I try my hand at cross-cultural cooking at home. I am happy to try French, got my slicing and dicing skills back up to par with Chinese and Thai earlier this year and am experimenting a bit with Middle Eastern spices, lately.
Now all of that is to say I like recipes from all over the world, but I would like to distinguish that from liking food from all over the world.
I’m not all that picky about a lot of things. I am the last person to eliminate something from my diet because of dietary restrictions, allergies or ethics. I haven’t gone vegan, or completely organic, or whole grain or gluten-free. In general, I like to eat what I like to eat, but, for now, I am trying to go local.
My change of heart is for one simple reason. Food that is grown elsewhere is picked weeks before it ripens so that it does not spoil before reaching shelves a continent away. It never absorbs nutrients from the soil and it never develops its flavor from sunshine.
Sometimes I think it takes a little reminder to start a big shift. For me, it was the difference in two batches of strawberry jam. The batch made from locally grown, in-season, picked-this-morning berries, was jammy, and strawberry-y and divine (yup – I said it! My first batch of strawberry jam rocked). The second batch, made from store-bought, grown somewhere in the U.S. strawberries, was just OK.
I don’t think it was me. I think it was the berries.
So far now, I’d like for me to travel, not my food.
As far as the 4th is going, my celebrations are pretty low-key. A number of friends and family are out of town for the holiday, so it has been a pretty solitary weekend - and quite a nice one, at that. While I am not unmindful of the events that came about on the 4th of July some 234 years ago; my own musings have focused less on the nation’s independence, but rather on my own freedom from worry and stress.
The weather has been clear – a tad hot today - but not bad. The neighborhood has been relatively free of the marauding pack of teenagers that occasionally stalk the mean streets of my little village. My mother is content and the garden continues to grow. As I said in yesterday’s post, the beast and I had a very good class together this weekend. We have just returned from an astonishingly pleasant walk.
I am finding the smells and tastes of summer to be new and wonderful…all over again. I have recently re-discovered the restorative properties of seltzer and pomegranate juice combined with ever so little lemon vodka. I had my first batch of peas picked fresh from the garden last night. Served with tomato orzo and just a bit of fresh chopped mint, it was a little slice of heaven in my bowl.
A good friend has come through a critical moment in very good form.
Ooh…and I have won the lottery!
…or more accurately (???) since I won $5 on a$5 scratch off ticket, I suppose I should say I broke even on the lottery – which is way better than I normally do, so I’ll score that in the win column.
All good things.
I hope this weekend has brought all of you some cause for celebration as well.
There are certain smells that take you back to other eras; other stages of life.
My house this evening is filled with the scent of summer. Can you guess what it is that takes me back?
It is the scent of strawberries.
Each year at some point during the harvest, my mother would throw us kids in the station wagon and head off for some serious, summer entertainment. Theme park? Carnival? Summer concert series? Splash Town?
Nope.
We headed off to the U-Pick strawberry patch; a source of nearly endless fun. I remember eating nearly as much as I picked and picking much more than my mother had planned on…every year. You would think she would have taken some steps to corral my picking; as, once picked, there is no taking them back, so my mother had no recourse but to pay for the bushels that I emerged with from the fields. She never did, though.
As bad habits go, I suppose, it isn’t the worst thing a child could do. It’s not even the worst this child did, so for this minor lapse, my mother apparently felt no need to chastise and I make no apology.
Why bother apologizing when the result was a massive batch of strawberry jam; enough to last through the bleak winter to come; enough to share with friends and neighbors; enough to splatter the counter and scent the house.
Of course, like so many things from childhood, the memory of summer jam-making glosses over the prep and the clean-up and the fretting over undercooking, overcooking and scorching.
It may very well have been that my mother was smart enough to start these projects when there wasn’t another darn thing on the schedule all day. It may also be that, with three kids to help hull, slice and stir, that many hands made light work in the house I grew up in. And my mother may actually have had a candy thermometer and a book that told her the temperatures and consistency, she was shooting for.
As it happens, I had to warn a friend I was running late for our sushi date. I was heartily mocked upon my (late) arrival, as she noted that no one has ever,EVER, called her to say ”start without me, I’m making jam”.
Since this was my first attempt ever at making jam, I have no idea if it will turn out to be runny as syrup or hard as rock candy. I have no idea how it can be that a recipe that said to cook until thickened, “about 25 minutes”, could take more than an hour. I have no idea if my, somewhat improvised, sterilization method will prove to preserve the jam throughout the winter or not.
What I do know is that my house (and my hair, for that matter), smells like the best part of summer…
…which is good…
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