tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30343980009594308852024-03-05T03:14:55.977-05:00Allium GreenAndreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-19742772814546889172010-02-13T13:10:00.001-05:002010-02-13T13:11:04.773-05:00I've moved!Thanks for visiting Allium Green. I've renamed my blog and moved platforms. Please come and visit me at <a href="http://kitchenchronicle.wordpress.com/">Kitchen Chronicle</a> where you'll find all my old posts along with a new design and lots of new content.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-26890144313602663762010-01-31T21:48:00.001-05:002010-01-31T21:51:36.924-05:00Sunday afternoon lunch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7T7olCjsV3PbU25Jg3IFKskYITLy2UvJ1uNjMCsG9_4OrlM3fZ5HHYeH0Or5rYo1GRTn35S9CQAvV50itp3QSmvmJVLiOsJz4xZOkyHpiRMa24JSWw4IgSTZXyUt_-r_XJ5yps6LWGIg/s1600-h/IMG_5405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7T7olCjsV3PbU25Jg3IFKskYITLy2UvJ1uNjMCsG9_4OrlM3fZ5HHYeH0Or5rYo1GRTn35S9CQAvV50itp3QSmvmJVLiOsJz4xZOkyHpiRMa24JSWw4IgSTZXyUt_-r_XJ5yps6LWGIg/s320/IMG_5405.JPG" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have been eating well lately. <a href="http://aliumgreen.blogspot.com/2010/01/january-thaw.html">That trip</a> to Montreal; some cranberry beans simmered in broth with parsnips, carrots, onions; a wicked-spicy Thai-inspired rice noodle dish; and then... then the buckwheat crepes. Last weekend in Montreal, I had another buckwheat crepe with Nutella in the Jean-Talon Market that made me swoon. So when the February Bon Appetit arrived with a feature dedicated to buckwheat, well, the crepes definitely had my name on them. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit4I9kSC_F31JL4wgkITI5Ff_LJqvc9FoyC-xF-JXu_1a5_V1xJtRsOGfC4ouLX1y8Dd8qoaa-sPGP6MM7aAMqwOyjj9MmkIDOkIB3tlNA-Kvw1xbymi9yGsiYQhSXelHULv0mfD4_ElE/s1600-h/IMG_5433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit4I9kSC_F31JL4wgkITI5Ff_LJqvc9FoyC-xF-JXu_1a5_V1xJtRsOGfC4ouLX1y8Dd8qoaa-sPGP6MM7aAMqwOyjj9MmkIDOkIB3tlNA-Kvw1xbymi9yGsiYQhSXelHULv0mfD4_ElE/s320/IMG_5433.JPG" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I made the batter yesterday, actually while Hubby was making oatmeal for breakfast. And we tried just one with melted butter and brown sugar along with our oatmeal. And it was heaven. Brown sugar and buckwheat? Seriously good stuff. So I stuck the batter in the fridge until lunchtime and then sliced a ripe pear and some blue cheese for the second round. Excellent. </div><br />
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But today's batch was the best. I sauteed some shallots and mushrooms and folded the crepes around the mushrooms along with sour cream- and with that meal, this recipe made it into my canon. It is just enough outside the ordinary standbys to feel a little exotic, but flexible enough that I made three versions without a special trip to the grocery store. I am smitten. And you don't need a special crepe pan- I used a non-stick saute pan, and it worked just fine (though if you're the kind of guy or gal who likes an excuse to buy new kitchen gadgets, by all means, don't let me stand in your way here). <br />
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The mushroom crepe, with some red wine, and a little bowl of the aforementioned beans in broth, somehow felt more like a summer lunch than one where the windows are lacy with frost. And smack in the middle of two weeks where the temperature is hovering around zero, that is just about what I need right now. Enjoy.<br />
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<b>Buckwheat Crepes with Shiitake Mushrooms and Sour Cream</b><br />
<i>As I mentioned earlier, I played around with several different fillings for these crepes and none of them disappointed. Feel free to adapt to suit what you have in the fridge, or your own taste. </i><b> </b><br />
<br />
<i>For the Buckwheat crepes:</i><i> </i><br />
<i>(adapted from February 2010, Bon Appetit magazine)</i><br />
<br />
1 1/4 c. buckwheat flour<br />
3 large eggs<br />
1/4 c. canola oil<br />
3/4 c. whole milk<br />
1 1/4 c. water<br />
pinch of salt<br />
<br />
Heat oven to 160 degrees. Put large plate in oven to warm. Whisk all ingredients together in a mixing bowl, taking care not to leave lumps. Heat 10 inch non-stick skillet over med-high heat. Brush the bottom of the pan with oil (or not- I kept forgetting and it wasn't really much different than when I did) and drop a ladle-full of batter onto the pan, swirling it around to coat the bottom of the pan. Cook the crepe for 30-45 seconds or more, until golden on the bottom. Then gently slide silicone spatula around the edges to loosen crepe and carefully flip onto the second side. I used my fingers for this more often than not once I'd pried up the edge with the spatula. Cook the second side for 30 seconds. The slide the crepe onto the plate warming in the oven. Return to oven and continue with remaining batter.<br />
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<i>For the mushroom filling:</i><br />
<br />
3 large shallots, finely diced<br />
2 large handfulls shiitake mushrooms, caps sliced<br />
shiitake mushroom caps, diced<br />
canola oil<br />
2 glugs dry white wine<br />
1/2 tsp. dried sage<br />
1 tb. butter<br />
salt and pepper to taste<br />
<br />
Heat skillet over medium heat and lightly cover the bottom with canola oil. Add shallots and mushroom caps and saute until softened. Add sliced shiitake mushrooms and sage. Season with salt. Saute until mushrooms are soft and starting to brown. Add white wine and saute a few more minutes until liquid evaporates. Turn off heat and add butter, and salt and pepper to taste. <i></i><br />
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<i>To fill crepes:</i><br />
<br />
Buckwheat crepes<br />
Sour cream, to taste<br />
Mushroom filling<br />
<br />
Take warm crepes out of the oven. Spread a dollop of sour cream on one crepe. Spoon a soup spoon's worth of mushrooms over the sour cream. Fold crepe into quarters. Serve immediately.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-30804247339110262562010-01-26T22:12:00.001-05:002010-01-26T22:19:54.643-05:00January thaw<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ch5N52q3GZN_Di_J8kmyk4TmrUpKeFiG_BVnZ2K74X7JvgFPlsSqdO-C_7EuJmKUdJ1fJfjxJhoNi-HPArmPGi7xQKRwkWwNUBzTbZJ_O5tX06FeHZXEze_AbviTqN9uv3m-ZyPLTWU/s1600-h/IMG_5341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ch5N52q3GZN_Di_J8kmyk4TmrUpKeFiG_BVnZ2K74X7JvgFPlsSqdO-C_7EuJmKUdJ1fJfjxJhoNi-HPArmPGi7xQKRwkWwNUBzTbZJ_O5tX06FeHZXEze_AbviTqN9uv3m-ZyPLTWU/s320/IMG_5341.JPG" /></a><br />
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It rained yesterday, like nobody's business, ruining all our lovely snow and uncovering all the debris we never managed to clean up this fall. Let me remind you that this is January and that, really, we'd all just as soon be skiing. These cruel January thaws just make spring feel that much farther away. Yesterday's rain yielded today's flooding and ice jams which tends to raise blood pressure at work along the banks of the Winooski River. And I have to say that that's pretty much what this week has been like. I sort of wish I'd get the same kind of warning that the weatherman gives on the radio: <i>"This week: expect flooding and ice jams. Do not try to ford high water or otherwise accomplish feats requiring skill or sound presence of mind. This could be bad."</i><br />
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As just a wee sample of my frame of mind, allow me to present exhibit one. Today at the gym, some very unkind person flagrantly crossed out my name on the sign up sheet for the treadmill and wrote in her own. I'll be honest, I was torn between sitting down on the floor and sobbing and going over and yanking her sorry ass off the treadmill in indignation. Fortunately, I did neither but you know that stress is creeping up on you when you're standing in the gym, sweaty and irritated that it's only Tuesday, and find that someone's thoughtlessness reduces you to visions of hair pulling and name calling. And then, finally at home and excited because some frames we'd ordered for photos had arrived, I watched my cat calmly squat in the middle of the empty box and pee on it. Yes, it's shaping up to be one of those weeks, folks. Flooding and ice jams. This could be bad.<br />
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It's been kind of going like that lately. So in a fit of cabin fever and a desperate need to get out of my house, I talked Hubby into a spontaneous drive up to Montreal this weekend. It was such a relief to <i>get out of the house</i>, get a little urban exposure, eat some yummy food. On Saturday, we drove straight to the <a href="http://aliumgreen.blogspot.com/2009/09/autumn-abundance.html">Jean-Talon Market</a>, my new favorite spot in Montreal, and spent the early afternoon taking photos, eating, and speaking <i>very bad </i>French. We then wallowed in the pool, sauna, <i>and </i>steam room before heading to dinner.<br />
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If you ever get to Montreal, I seriously recommend eating at Le Nil Bleu. This is super delicious Ethiopian food and there's nothing else like it. It's in the plateau section of town, which was a brisk (Read: freezing. The rain had not yet come.) 20 minute walk from our hotel. And let me digress for a minute to say that I am deeply envious of people who can do this on a regular basis. There is no such possibility at my house. We cannot walk anywhere that's practical and I have to say that part of my cabin fever lately has come from all the damn time I spend sitting in my car, driving to work especially. So, anyway, I was appreciating the walk, cold as it was.<br />
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But the food. The food was truly lovely. The foundation, literally, of the meal is a huge, flat pancake called injera, made of fermented teff flour. On top of this pancake is a whole array of curry-like stews. We had one with yellow lentils, one with chicken with a sauce that was not unlike mole, a spicy-hot beef stew, and lamb and vegetables that was warm and perfumed with herbs. In the middle of all this was a little salad of lettuce, tomato and onion. With this platter, they bring a plate with strips of injera rolled into little scrolls which you unroll and use to scoop up the stew, eating the whole mess with your fingers. There are no utensils, which I have always loved after living in India. And when you've eaten all your stew, you thriftily eat the injera from the bottom. Pretty neat, eh?<br />
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I am sorry to say I have no photos of this meal. As we set out for dinner that night, I considered bringing my camera and elected not to. I then immediately found a million things I wanted to shoot. I will learn someday. But in lieu of that, allow me to share some other photos from Montreal. And along with it, my sincere hope that your week is warm and dry with no ice jams in sight.<br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-44271272068463259302010-01-16T18:04:00.000-05:002010-01-16T18:04:35.379-05:00Comfort foodThere has been so much in the news this week about the earthquake in Haiti. It's hard to know what to say in response to such a horrible suffering. It's been a dark week and my response to this sadness has been mostly to spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Food as comfort is something we're all familiar with so I offer this post and recipe as my best shot at comfort. I wish I had more to offer. <br />
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That time in the kitchen has meant more of <a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2009/12/for-ever-and-ever.html">Orangette's caramel corn</a>, a <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2010/01/poppy-seed-lemon-cake/">lemon poppy seed cake</a> that I may make again tonight, gratin dauphinois from the Joy of Cooking (thinly sliced potatoes baked in cream or milk, akin to scalloped potatoes), and chicken Marbella. It's the chicken Marbella that I want to tell you about. It's warming, homey, a nice balance of sweet and salty and sour, and easy to make. We almost always have the ingredients for this, or at least enough of them, and I think it's hubby's favorite way to eat chicken.<br />
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I've adapted the recipe from a faded photocopied page from the Silver Palatte cookbook, sent to me by my sister-in-law. She once sent an overnight package to us with a vacuumed sealed bag of the marinade, with instructions, and vacuumed sealed bread to accompany the chicken. All we had to do was add the chicken and bake. It was a very welcomed gift.<br />
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Lots of people seem to make a version of this recipe; this is mine.<br />
<br />
<b>Chicken Marbella</b> <i>(loosely adapted from the Silver Palate Cookbook)</i><br />
<i>I have completely changed the seasonings in this recipe and omitted the cup of sugar it calls for sprinkling over the top just before baking. I think that the dried fruit offers plenty of sweetness.</i><br />
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8# of bone-in chicken, cut into parts<br />
1 head of garlic, peeled and chopped<br />
3T dried sage<br />
pinch dried, ground rosemary<br />
salt and pepper to taste<br />
1/2 cup cider vinegar<br />
1/3 cup olive oil<br />
1 cup pitted prunes (we didn't have quite enough, so I added a handful of raisins)<br />
1/2 cup pitted olives<br />
1/2 cup capers<br />
6 bay leaves<br />
1 cup white wine<br />
<br />
In a large bowl, combine the chicken parts with garlic, sage, rosemary, salt and pepper, vinegar, oil, prunes, olives, capers and bay leaves. Marinate up to 24 hours, refrigerated. (<i>Though I only let it sit for 20 minutes or so and it was just fine).</i><br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Place chicken in a large baking dish - you may need to use two - keeping in a single layer. Distribute marinade between two pans and pour the wine over the chicken. Bake for 50 minutes to an hour, until the juice from the thighs run clear when poked with a knife. <br />
<br />
Serve over rice.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-5155782499811292462010-01-10T22:10:00.002-05:002010-01-10T22:14:33.051-05:00Making it through the winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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It is the first weekend in recent memory where the sun came out. After nine days of snow and freezing rain, the sun was damned welcome. We spent yesterday snowshoeing, skiing, and playing around with our cameras, and I thought I'd share some photos. Several of these are part of my <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/andrea_tursini/sets/72157623123108254/">365 series on Flickr</a>. <br />
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Much of the time when it was snowing, I was considering chocolate. (<i>Come on, who wouldn't? I said it was </i>nine<i> days of snow and freezing rain, remember?) </i>And I am pretty sure I need to hand in my chef credentials (er, well, figuratively - I don't actually<i> have</i> any). I, apparently, cannot manage to melt chocolate successfully. I even have an actual double boiler. I know I just need to look this up, and probably stop using chocolate chips, and well, just look it up. But instead, I was stomping around my kitchen, getting progressively more frustrated, as my chocolate in its fancy All-clad double boiler just turned into paste. Damnit. Why does this happen? Someone who is savvier than I am in the kitchen, please explain. I have done this before and it works out just fine sometimes, and not well at all other times. Sigh.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeiynw2p-ZReeDywjLM5RN3aDV_diHsMuo7-o87B3BNwoTK8cR7PXunMlWayPJmSKUb28oWJwZXi6_7sJRBEQhTGMsaNKyxtvbukOZs9Ejdixo5k6Wf66P5Ju3IoDd6ZT3g9tWFP67is/s1600-h/IMG_5046-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeiynw2p-ZReeDywjLM5RN3aDV_diHsMuo7-o87B3BNwoTK8cR7PXunMlWayPJmSKUb28oWJwZXi6_7sJRBEQhTGMsaNKyxtvbukOZs9Ejdixo5k6Wf66P5Ju3IoDd6ZT3g9tWFP67is/s320/IMG_5046-1.JPG" /></a><br />
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Anyway, what I'm really here to tell you is that I have been making this lovely little chocolate treat for a while and I thought it might be nice to share. It's hardly a recipe. It's not really anything special. Except that it uses lovely ingredients- dark chocolate, nuts, citrus zest... can't go wrong, right? Well, unless you have the aforementioned chocolate problem.<br />
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</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79jxOm97TgOzTYlbaibhKzNq3DA5zPfqxdgnF1UwmeLd86eIffW3MHEDjl-P8yPlR3JYnohGHdBo1hdTvWDNM-Iah5V88WjyMc3YS9QnvOkL4gKuwmZgh5kL6J-4gpHKDhMVtTqOJAfM/s1600-h/IMG_5068-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79jxOm97TgOzTYlbaibhKzNq3DA5zPfqxdgnF1UwmeLd86eIffW3MHEDjl-P8yPlR3JYnohGHdBo1hdTvWDNM-Iah5V88WjyMc3YS9QnvOkL4gKuwmZgh5kL6J-4gpHKDhMVtTqOJAfM/s320/IMG_5068-1.JPG" /></a><br />
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Yes, <i>I know</i>, this is January. The month of vegetables and tofu and vows to make friends with the elliptical trainer. And I am, I swear. I have a new gym membership that I'm semi-serious about. And I have a charming new mid-day ritual involving my husband's new XC skis and the groomed trails at my office, plus trails outside my back door. But, well, dark chocolate is good for you, I hear. So feel free to exercise your own will power. But know that this is a stellar grown-up nibble for that mid-afternoon lull.<br />
<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>Chocolate Candy Goodness</b><i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>I'm leaving it up to you to work out the chocolate melting thing. I can't be held responsible for how it goes in your kitchen. But do try this out. It's super easy and a nice little after dinner treat. I also pretty much throw any kind of nuts, fruit, and citrus I have into this. Experiment with different flavors. I think the only thing I wouldn't do without is the salt. That makes it perfect.</i><br />
<br />
8 oz. chocolate, finely chopped<br />
splash of Cointreau<br />
handful of walnuts, chopped<br />
zest from one grapefruit<br />
freshly grated nutmeg<br />
coarse salt<br />
<br />
Melt chocolate (<i>ahem</i>). When smooth and glossy (<i>unlike mine</i>), fold in Cointreau, walnuts, and grapefruit zest. Working quickly, spread chocolate out on parchment paper and spread to 1/4" thickness. Grate fresh nutmeg lightly over chocolate and sprinkle with coarse salt. Let the chocolate cool then break into bite-size pieces.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-2113327856131045852010-01-03T21:13:00.000-05:002010-01-03T21:13:33.120-05:00Something new, every dayI did complain a while back about the lack of snow, right? Well, I no longer have anything to complain about because we have something ridiculous like two feet of snow that's fallen in the last 48 hours. Everything has that frosty, muted look that big snow gives. And it has come just in time for my new venture for the year.<br />
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One of the things I've loved best about this blog is the motivation it's offered for taking photographs. Short little essays are well and good, right? But the photos break it up and give you something to think about if you're not enraptured by tamales, for example. So I've enjoyed getting to know my camera better and learning to look at the world with a bit of a frame around it.<br />
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Somewhere along the way, I stumbled upon <a href="http://www.flickr.com/">Flickr</a> (thank you, <a href="http://taramamawendy.blogspot.com/">Tara</a>). If you're at all interested in photography, this is one of those places where you will get lost, without question. It's a place to share photos, learn from others, and generally - as I said - lose a lot of time perusing. There's a group called Shutter Sisters 365 for people who have committed to taking one photo per day for 365 days. I am now one of those people.<br />
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This is my attempt to take the next step, photographically, and to challenge myself to pay attention - every day of the year. Come on over and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/andrea_tursini/">check it out</a>. If you click on the album labeled Project 365, you'll find my days of the year, laid out one by one.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-6153115594498525562010-01-01T22:36:00.000-05:002010-01-01T22:36:56.402-05:00A New Year to Try<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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On the last day of 2009, Hubby and I took a walk. The light was the flat, blue light that comes with cloudy skies and snow on the ground. We went away for a week and came back to a thick layer of snow, so welcomed after the bone-chilling, cold, hard ground we'd left. And so, I elected not to go back to work just yet and we went for a mid-winter walk. Hubby was very patient while I took a few photos.<br />
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The end of a year, the end of a decade, it demands a bit of introspection, I suppose. I'm not sure I'm up to summarizing or otherwise finding meaning in a whole decade. But 2009, well, that's something else. So, for you, and for me... some moments of note from 2009:<br />
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January meant drinking rum punch at ten in the morning with my in-laws and snorkeling with sting rays in Jamaica.<br />
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The death of a beloved grandmother and another bittersweet trip to Colorado in March.<br />
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Watching daffodils I'd planted the previous fall start to break through the cold ground in April.<br />
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May was the month of planting all things green and beloved in my garden with Hubby.<br />
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The start of this blog. <i>Will anyone want to read? What will I write? </i>Oh, how I love this blog now. <br />
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June meant a trip to Bellingham, Washington (beautiful Washington) to see friends.<br />
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And then a stopover in Ohio for a fourth of July replete with Americana and family not seen for years.<br />
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Niece and nephews camping out in the backyard felt like summer as a kid.<br />
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The tomato blight devastated gardens and farms all over the east and I sincerely, <i>truly</i>, thought I would escape this plague.<br />
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The abundance of summer, nevertheless, overwhelmed me as usual.<br />
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I jumped, at work, and the net appeared. This was not without stress.<br />
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Hubby and I spent the first ever Thanksgiving together with his family, a few days early. And then spent our own, together alone.<br />
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Another year, we made our trek down the eastern seaboard for the Christmas holidays- 1200 miles in eight days.<br />
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And now, home again, another year is spread out before us, ready to be tested, tried, tasted. <br />
Happy New Year.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-34985691975135213072009-12-27T15:13:00.002-05:002009-12-27T15:22:06.262-05:00The merits of the martini<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQrY5NcdCjoBBIO24w4otz4zNaYHCrJG9V0P75rSwGelGERFtsiqDgR64PAS4PLU2RTaNqrs44mzFHBAYOiYXN7dWVdm0pMAfD_LPPOSSt1Ev9qkFILk4nwgHrdBo9hKdQrZii5KFx6U/s1600-h/IMG_3986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQrY5NcdCjoBBIO24w4otz4zNaYHCrJG9V0P75rSwGelGERFtsiqDgR64PAS4PLU2RTaNqrs44mzFHBAYOiYXN7dWVdm0pMAfD_LPPOSSt1Ev9qkFILk4nwgHrdBo9hKdQrZii5KFx6U/s320/IMG_3986.JPG" /></a><br />
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It is the day after Christmas. There are still ribbons and scraps of paper on the living room floor. There's a plate of cookies on the table across from me looking distinctly picked over. I do not want to eat anything even remotely sweet. My nephew is across the table, cranky and tossing cheerios on the floor, belting out hoarse screeches every couple of seconds. My brother is trying not to listen to it, but getting increasingly irritated. Everyone else is in the basement playing wii. Even Grandpa is perfecting his golf swing on wii golf.<br />
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And I'm thinking that now might be a nice time for a martini. In the midst of all the detritis of a holiday party, I'm pretty sure there's a bottle of gin and some dry vermouth. Some olives in the back of the refrigerator? No doubt. It's been raining for two days. The lovely two feet of snow that was dropped on the DC area has all melted into a flat, gray landscape. And I'm thinking that martini might chase away some of the post-holiday blues. <br />
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So in the spirit of the season, a cold cocktail recipe for you. A classic. Like <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i> or twinkle lights on a Christmas tree. Just like that. Enjoy.<br />
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<b>Classic martini</b><br />
<i>While the recipe is a classic, the gin is not. This gin has an entirely different taste from something like Tanqueray- it's a bit like cucumber. And I love it. So, see what you think. It isn't cheap, but it's worth it.</i><br />
<br />
2 oz. Hendrick's gin<br />
splash of dry vermouth<br />
three olives<br />
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Add gin and vermouth to cocktail shaker along with a handful of ice. Shake vigorously - I figure it's ready when my fingers stick to the shaker. Strain into a martini glass. Garnish with the three olives speared on a toothpick or a slice of cucumber. And to be honest, I don't measure the gin. It's probably a little more than 2 oz. <i>It is the holidays, after all.</i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Ralph.</span></i><i><br />
</i>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-22598486892670779242009-12-13T19:48:00.003-05:002009-12-13T19:51:24.672-05:00Caramel corn goodnessIt is the Christmas season. Also known as the season of baking. This usually does not move me. In the years since I stopped eating gluten, it's just not as much fun to bake. This does not break my heart. It has its advantages. The loss of a few pounds, the ability to focus on the more nuanced, savory side of the plate. But then along came the damn caramel corn. The stuff is like crack. But I'm getting ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
I was looking through a list of new (to me) food blogs that a friend sent me - thank you, Sara - and got caught up in the beautifully written blog by <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2009/12/coffee-toffee/">Smitten Kitchen</a>. And there I found a recipe for coffee toffee which I sort of idly thought might be nice to make. Except that I didn't have enough butter (yesterday's tamal party-for-one having used up most of my supply) or instant espresso powder or brown sugar. <br />
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But then when I saw the recipe on Orangette's blog for <a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2009/12/for-ever-and-ever.html">caramel corn</a>, well I did have most of those ingredients. And Hubby is a pretty big popcorn fan. And what else are you going to do on a Sunday afternoon? Better yet, we have special popcorn in the pantry right now from our CSA share. It comes from a farm in Quebec, Tullochgorum Farm, and it's called white lightening popcorn. The stuff is beautiful- snowy white and delicious. <br />
<br />
So I did it. And, well, I still didn't have brown sugar, so I used white sugar plus some molasses. And have I mentioned that I've never made candy before? Which is essentially what this is. Well, it's like magic. Magic closely monitored with a thermometer. Which I dropped into the blurping, bubbling, bleeping-hot caramel just shy of the magic moment were boiling sugar turns into caramel. And then woah, people, the stuff turns to rock-hard pretty damn fast. There was some shouting, I admit, and popcorn scattering all over the kitchen; it was pretty exciting. Hubby was definitely laughing at me. This is not for the faint of heart. Or probably also not for people who substitute ingredients and don't measure very reliably. And don't get the stuff on your skin, no matter what. I'm here to tell you, it hurts. A lot. All in all, this is probably not the recipe for me. Or the genre for me, really. <br />
<br />
But then we started tasting it... and this stuff is ridiculously delicious. It's impossible to stop once you start. And now's probably a good time to mention that I added chocolate chips during the oven phase, melting over the top of half the caramel corn. Gilding the lily, perhaps, but it was brilliant, I tell you. I guess it's kind of a cross between that coffee toffee and the caramel corn, but, er, without the coffee. Orangette suggests that this might make a nice gift, packaged in mason jars. And I'm thinking, who is she kidding? I'm pretty sure this will be gone long before it comes anywhere near a ribbon-wrapped mason jar. Sorry folks. You'll have to make your own.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I know this photo isn't gorgeous, but I thought you might like to see it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This is from the gilded-lily chocolate side.<br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-35459796725879878202009-12-12T19:49:00.001-05:002009-12-12T20:01:56.067-05:00Swooning over tamales<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left;">Have you ever had tamales? If you have and you don't love them, you might want to stop reading. This may turn into a love letter. I've spent most of today making tamales and they're steaming away on the stovetop right now. The smell in the kitchen is sweet, a little dusty, homey, warming. <br />
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The <a href="http://www.rickbayless.com/recipe/view?recipeID=118">recipe</a> I use is from Rick Bayless, whom I would run away with in a second if only he promised to cook for me every day (sorry, Hubby). I know, I know. I'm a faithless hussy. But seriously, withhold judgment until you try the tamales. And then even a little longer until you nose around on his website. The man is magic in the kitchen. But I digress. <br />
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Making the filling, making the masa dough, folding the husks... this all takes hours. Tamales are party food. Something to make when there's a lot of hands on deck. They're traditionally made at Christmas-time, and I've been making them most years since I discovered how much I love them, either for my in-laws or my own family.<br />
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I made today's batch by myself. Hubby has gone to Lake Placid for the evening to see his sister and her family, and I'm working on my weekly detox from work. Something about being crazy busy and stressed at work makes me unwilling to socialize on the weekends. I am hoping that this ebbs in a couple of weeks and that I can return to the land of regular humans. But we'll see. In the meantime, I'm doing lots of reading, lots of cooking, and trying not to think about how much damn work I have to do come Monday. And I make tamales.<br />
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I made red chili <a href="http://aliumgreen.blogspot.com/2009/09/equinox-harvest.html">pork</a> for the filling, and this is what I mostly do. However, chicken cooked with tomatillos is also nice. And I just saw a recipe for <a href="http://homesicktexan.blogspot.com/2009/12/chocolate-tamales-with-pecans-recipe.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+HomesickTexan+%28Homesick+Texan%29">chocolate tamales</a>. I think this sounds inspired but I didn't have any chocolate today. Actually, I didn't have corn husks either. And it's a measure of my devotion to these things that I drove into Burlington to buy the damn husks. This is a 45 minute drive, people, and one that I make five days a week, and the last thing I want to do on the weekend. They're that good. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUoDVo5c474BJZ4RfAH2h-_GZEPUO36eufqu16X3jJwa70-jCt8arU7xOySGtyyi0lKmQCNZohnix2PC_2or1vb2JM7RYuryEgScNOy7vkMC2BYR7gmE9Ny5f9DhCBY3GqQ1nyxRG1mg/s1600-h/IMG_4732.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUoDVo5c474BJZ4RfAH2h-_GZEPUO36eufqu16X3jJwa70-jCt8arU7xOySGtyyi0lKmQCNZohnix2PC_2or1vb2JM7RYuryEgScNOy7vkMC2BYR7gmE9Ny5f9DhCBY3GqQ1nyxRG1mg/s320/IMG_4732.JPG" /></a><br />
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Tamales are steamed. They're a lot like dumplings actually. And they steam for a looooong time- more than an hour. I'm not afraid to admit that I've ruined more than one pot by boiling it dry. My attention span is apparently something less than an hour and a half. On one memorable occasion, the smoke alarm went off and the pot heated to the point where the bottom actually melted to conform to the shape of my electric burner. I shudder to think how hot that pot was. We'd retired to the porch for a drink while we waited for them to finish steaming. Those tamales tasted like carbon. I think we ate them anyway.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhE352BeVjexR8jYcz6Fabp4YVD8VUOAclwpB4lR5yadX5kO6yqRYYMYuAipDHl1RuHxWck8OguCV_wOvMKwfaSSbJAuj7MNx2pWkRH8KbHzAIjr6_YOp34bOXTlpqJS8f_sqWrVEL184/s1600-h/IMG_4744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhE352BeVjexR8jYcz6Fabp4YVD8VUOAclwpB4lR5yadX5kO6yqRYYMYuAipDHl1RuHxWck8OguCV_wOvMKwfaSSbJAuj7MNx2pWkRH8KbHzAIjr6_YOp34bOXTlpqJS8f_sqWrVEL184/s320/IMG_4744.JPG" /></a><br />
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Calamity aside, I love these things. And I wish you'd make them so that you'll love them too. You now have the benefit of knowing how not to make them (by letting the pot boil dry) and the benefit of knowing how they make one northern girl swoon. So try them out. Tell me what you think. I bet you'll be willing to run away with Rick Bayless, too.<br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-84484706465235095612009-12-10T16:36:00.001-05:002009-12-10T16:37:45.694-05:00December light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEiO5Q1u5QXzlVtH4S3B1CQlprXZTQwZRNmRVA9afJLoUnLWOifWFGowuseVkpZc1BVxmPQylyLLy1hvANsP1s_V_xTfZvfV29dmvLCPPwyQdCy8uIM4pow1g3aQNglaNTtQuayv1hIDI/s1600-h/IMG_4716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEiO5Q1u5QXzlVtH4S3B1CQlprXZTQwZRNmRVA9afJLoUnLWOifWFGowuseVkpZc1BVxmPQylyLLy1hvANsP1s_V_xTfZvfV29dmvLCPPwyQdCy8uIM4pow1g3aQNglaNTtQuayv1hIDI/s320/IMG_4716.JPG" /></a><br />
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There's something special about the light on snow. This morning, lying in bed, the light on the ceiling was brighter and softer than it's been lately, reflected off the snow outside. It's the beginning of December and this is the first real snow we've had. It was coming down hard all morning and blowing across the field in little twisters. I worked from home today and I'd nearly forgotten how much I like this. <br />
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I kept getting up from my make-shift desk at the dining room table to stand at the window and watch the snow come down. And I even braved the chill wind to take a few photos - and then immediately ran back in hooting and shivering with the cold, stamping snow off my slippers. November did not prepare us for December this year.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So this is my offering today. Light on snow and not much more. I do apologize for the silence recently. It's dark and cold; this is not inspiring. But more to come soon. More to come.<br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-4707042742347936402009-11-30T22:08:00.002-05:002009-11-30T22:16:52.105-05:00Smoke tales and chicken soupWell, it's a Monday night after the holiday and I am listening to the (not-so) lovely sound of our shop vac. See, we're having wood stove problems. The kind that leads to a big belch of smoke that suspiciously does not make our smoke alarm go off but does irritate my eyes and dry out my throat. <i>Should we open it up? Are we not burning it hot enough? It it getting enough air? Why does it smell like creosote? Shit. </i>We have a lot of conversations like this these days. We're no strangers to operating a wood stove and we've never had problems before. This is very frustrating. So Hubby armed himself with brushes, the aforementioned shop vac, a fan in the window, and some gloves to show the stove who is boss. And I am sitting at the kitchen table, trying to be quiet and not comment on the nasty smell of creosote, and the roar of the vacuum, and the chill breeze from the window. I have high hopes if only because I can't bear another night of smoke-irritated eyes. Triumph, Hubby, triumph! <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Isn't the stove pretty inside? I've never seen this before.</span></i> <br />
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And so this feeling of irritated mucus membranes made me think of chicken soup for dinner. I'd show you a picture except that we ate it pretty fast and I didn't think to take out the camera. It came from a whole batch of chickens that we bought from a colleague of mine at work. He raised 50 birds this fall and we bought 20 of them for the freezer. When we brought them home, it was a two-day butchering process with freezing cold fingers and more chicken parts that I particularly wanted to see. But we ended up with bags of chicken legs, chicken breasts, halved chickens, whole chickens, all stowed in our freezer; and here's to hoping we don't have a power outage, right?<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is part of that two-day process. Can you hear the crunch?</span></span><br />
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And worth noting is this: while I grew up vegetarian and have had a quasi-queasy relationship with eating meat in my adult life, I feel good about our freezer full of local meat. I don't want to get all preachy here, but it matters to me that the <a href="http://aliumgreen.blogspot.com/2009/09/equinox-harvest.html">pork</a> and the chicken we're eating this fall comes from animals raised by friends. I can attend a silly fundraiser cocktail party peopled by principled foodies, talking about the omega fatty acid balance in factory meat today, and not despair over the coming meal. I can read about factory farms and feedlot meat and not change my dinner plans. This is a good thing. And pairing it with veggies from our garden (<i>Still! What is this November weather we're having? I still have lettuce in my garden!)</i> makes me glad, glad, glad. I love this.<br />
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And so, back to the chicken soup. We took all the spare parts, so to speak, from all those chickens we cut up and made some killer chicken soup from them. And then <i>(I hear swearing coming from the vicinity of the woodstove. I think this is not a good sign.)</i> we froze a bunch of it in ziplock bags. And at the end of the day today, with my back aching - this is another story - and Hubby itching to get at that woodstove, that chicken soup from the freezer tasted like manna. It's nothing special, just carrots, celery, onions, chicken and chicken stock. But it honestly tastes better than just about anything else we've had in weeks. A salad of napa cabbage, cress, and tangerines, and <i>this is heaven</i>.<br />
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So, go make some chicken soup, preferably from a nice, fat, local chicken and see what I mean. And fear not, we'll not burn down our house, nor poison ourselves with carbon monoxide (I'm pretty sure that the carbon monoxide detector <i>does</i> work, in contrast to the smoke detector, apparently). I think that Hubby is slowing down in there- this is a good sign, I'm sure.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-34200954652295203272009-11-26T20:23:00.000-05:002009-11-26T20:23:16.052-05:00Another day of thanksWe've nearly finished our bottle of wine, the fire has made us lazy, we've eaten our third Thanksgiving dinner, and all is right with the world. The wine, <a href="http://www.winesofsubstance.com/">2007 Substance Syrah</a>, pretty darn yummy. This is the first year it's ever just been Hubby and I and I'm appreciating the solitude. We roasted a halved chicken, made that <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/magazine/2009/11/thanksgiving_without_turkey">amazing savory bread pudding</a> (which is worth mentioning twice), gingered cranberry sauce, and corn relish. Lovely. Not over the top with a million dishes. And we cooked leisurely all day. Took a walk up the hill. Talked to family on the phone.<br />
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<b>And so, my short list of thanks:</b><br />
Hubby on the couch beside me<br />
Maizy the kitty, lolling on her back, all four legs splayed out in cat-contentment<br />
That bottle of syrah<br />
A kitchen full of good food<br />
Family and friends on the phone<br />
A whole month of mild weather in November<br />
The chocolate candy with ground hazelnuts and tangerine peel that I made this morning<br />
Three more days of holiday weekend<br />
Willie Nelson's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Teatro-Willie-Nelson/dp/B00000AFB6">Teatro</a><br />
Votive candles in mason jars<br />
The red table cloth from our weddingAndreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-22188859925690525022009-11-24T21:27:00.005-05:002009-11-25T14:35:01.815-05:00A week of giving thanks<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, it's Tuesday and I've been celebrating Thanksgiving since Friday afternoon. Our annual Thanksgiving meal at work is something that we all look forward to. Held the Friday before Thanksgiving, at an organization essentially devoted to food, we take this holiday seriously. The turkey roasts all afternoon. We have cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, mashed and roasted potatoes, <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/magazine/2009/11/thanksgiving_without_turkey">Molly Wizenberg's bread pudding</a> (my new favorite recipe), roasted roots, mac and cheese, two kinds of pie. It was lovely. </span><br />
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<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The next morning, I flew to Newark where Hubby and his father picked me up and we drove to Vineland, NJ, home of Hubby's family on both sides. Along the way, we drove through the pine barrens, a beautiful, stark landscape that I would have loved to spend time in. Signs of a recent burn were all over, the streams flowing through were dark brown with tannins; this landscape is so dissimilar to my northern hardwood home. It was hard to pass through so quickly.<br />
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We stopped for lunch at the Columbus Farmers Market, a beast of a market that sprawls out over what feels like acres of parking lot. The vegetables there were beautiful, especially the pears, and we took our time taking photos and searching out the best looking escarole for that night's escarole soup.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And then 36 hours of making food, eating food, talking about food. We stayed in the home of Hubby's maternal grandmother, the house she's lived in since 1947. And I watched the house full of people gathered for an early Thanksgiving, revolving around Grandmom in her chair. This woman who was so accustomed to taking care of people, now cared for by everyone else as she nears the end of her life. And how she chafes at this care- just as my Grandmother did when she could no longer care for herself. </span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The meal was held at Hubby's Aunt and Uncle's house- and I realized I'd never spent Thanksgiving with his family before. We've been together nearly a decade, and we've always spent this holiday with friends, avoiding the chaos of holiday travel. So it was a process of learning a new set of family traditions and catching up with a side of the family we don't see often.</span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">When the actual holiday finally arrives, Hubby and I will not be eating a third turkey. We'll maybe roast a chicken or make tamales, maybe eat that bread pudding recipe again. But a third meal with mashed potatoes and gravy and all the other stuff, well, I don't think so. Though I did just see a recipe for <a href="http://glutenfreegirl.blogspot.com/2009/11/gluten-free-pie.html">gluten free pie crust</a> that actually looks like real pie crust, so we'll see. Perhaps we'll have some pie.</span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">(My Adaptation of) Grandmom's Escarole Soup</span></b><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>As usual with my recipes, all measurements are estimates. I really do this by look and feel. If it seems like you'll need more or less chicken stock, be my guest. If you'd rather season your meatballs some other way, not a problem. I can't remember whether I use two or three eggs, so use your judgment there. I know this is anathema to recipe writers, but honestly, it's the way I cook. Let me know how it goes.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">1 med. onion, sliced thinly</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">2 carrots, diced</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">2 cloves garlic, minced</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">1# ground pork</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">handful chopped parsley</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">8 c. chicken broth</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">1 lg. head escarole, washed and coarsely chopped</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">salt </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">pepper</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">2-3 eggs</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">handful of grated Parmesan cheese</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Saute sliced onion, carrots, garlic and a bit of salt in olive oil until soft. Add chicken broth. Bring to a simmer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Using your hands, gently mix ground pork with salt, pepper, and parsley. (Sometimes, we add garlic powder, too.) Again, using your hands, pinch off small meatballs, about the size of the end of your thumb, until you've used up all the ground meat. Add these to the broth. Allow to simmer a bit until you feel like they're almost done. Then add escarole. Simmer until the greens are wilted. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Whisk together eggs and cheese and add to soup. Simmer for another minute or two. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Season with salt and pepper to taste. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Serve hot and raise a toast to Grandmoms. <i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pear photograph is Hubby's. All others are mine.</span></i><br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-59667352074668323152009-11-16T16:52:00.000-05:002009-11-16T16:52:36.565-05:00Holding winter at bay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZ24aLEC2Ey4nY1-zDTPUPtIhyphenhyphenTud7SVIX6X_jjqEwJYSnD3GmgTxl-c_kr5VHCPjQwgxKFS87ZJwsaTV4GOwNoP0oLf9FSONGcqmSjdtJsT2sUu7p1YAAhPuImlFwJvDCOVDPth2pXQ/s1600/IMG_7053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZ24aLEC2Ey4nY1-zDTPUPtIhyphenhyphenTud7SVIX6X_jjqEwJYSnD3GmgTxl-c_kr5VHCPjQwgxKFS87ZJwsaTV4GOwNoP0oLf9FSONGcqmSjdtJsT2sUu7p1YAAhPuImlFwJvDCOVDPth2pXQ/s320/IMG_7053.JPG" /></a><br />
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I've been considering the on-coming winter a lot lately. The last week or two has been beautiful. Sunny all day and warm (well, except for this weekend, which is about what you expect at this time of year). And it looks like it will continue for a bit.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxTbEp14O0ViZI-X5ugmQSmjM2ApCIcqfxkAPo3fE7Kwl64L8XWVuAHYAkCBg22MEbuy09u9PQ8wvyeZDBWRxd3_7GgbwM_Lt5mR2ISyHx5iKrKzQ0CrSgzOyvQn-GDmxqBodgn0Le5kA/s1600/IMG_7085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxTbEp14O0ViZI-X5ugmQSmjM2ApCIcqfxkAPo3fE7Kwl64L8XWVuAHYAkCBg22MEbuy09u9PQ8wvyeZDBWRxd3_7GgbwM_Lt5mR2ISyHx5iKrKzQ0CrSgzOyvQn-GDmxqBodgn0Le5kA/s320/IMG_7085.JPG" /></a><br />
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I am storing all this sun for darker days. In that spirit, I went out this afternoon and took some photos. The sun was setting, the light was nice, and I forgot to increase the pixel size on Hubby's camera. So what you get is a series of lovely pictures that you probably shouldn't enlarge. They're a wee bit pixelated. Apologies for that. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZMab_1H-U10P8CevL_92-KED-bOV987vcNRHmlVeR4VMKWL6GLO4okKP8e7ylwz9rCagz6pwfRN4F-7rM0uksQxRFcglmQ_aIeWDgsPkrrZMsLvPNqkkh0XUepLtYiRzhd_iIPdgXvg/s1600/IMG_7060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZMab_1H-U10P8CevL_92-KED-bOV987vcNRHmlVeR4VMKWL6GLO4okKP8e7ylwz9rCagz6pwfRN4F-7rM0uksQxRFcglmQ_aIeWDgsPkrrZMsLvPNqkkh0XUepLtYiRzhd_iIPdgXvg/s320/IMG_7060.JPG" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This November light has a quality to it that I think I have never appreciated before. It's been dry this month, unusually so, and the opportunity to appreciate the bare landscape hasn't escaped me, as it usually does. The light is so low in the sky right now that everything appears backlit, almost all the time. How did I never notice this before?<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNitS2vSQGeqFRDRsVCKcbWQ_y_IJRv9ZJtp9gw0_ZHqTk4WCHwLdpbdfoZ12r3ApihMAty0z5XCJeaUMudwiAoygpYYSgq59bVlIV8jwxcGhEIXdPSkMmz41HMFzwTQUQ2_jkAmcakoo/s1600/IMG_7094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNitS2vSQGeqFRDRsVCKcbWQ_y_IJRv9ZJtp9gw0_ZHqTk4WCHwLdpbdfoZ12r3ApihMAty0z5XCJeaUMudwiAoygpYYSgq59bVlIV8jwxcGhEIXdPSkMmz41HMFzwTQUQ2_jkAmcakoo/s320/IMG_7094.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-74744579155571250782009-11-07T18:43:00.002-05:002009-11-07T18:47:46.357-05:00Popcorn at the SavoyIt was Friday night and we were in Montpelier to celebrate Hubby's birthday. A 45 minute drive from our house, we do not come here often. But Hubby loves the town and so we braved the soft, wet snow and headed out for a movie and dinner. We arrived early and so spent some time ambling around downtown, shivering in the cold. A fire dancer drew a crowd on the steps of the Lost Nation Theater. An unexpected gallery opening pulled us in for a while for a showing of Vermont artists' imagining of the future of our state. Later, we climbed the steps to the Black Door Bistro and sat in their art deco bar for a pre-movie martini. The bartender stirred my martini- no shaking here- and gave me three olives which immediately made me love her. <br />
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At quarter after six, Hubby and I walked less than a block down the street to the Savoy Theater. Opened in 1980, Casablanca was the first film shown on this theater's tiny single screen. They continue to show classics, art house, and independent movies. And that's nice enough, right? There aren't many places in Vermont to see independent films these days, but I'll bet that there's nowhere within driving distance that melts butter on a little two burner stove in a cast iron pot to ladle onto hot popcorn behind a wooden counter. Real cultured butter... did I emphasize that? And not only that, the girl behind the counter filled our popcorn bucket half way then ladled some butter on it, then filled it up the rest of the way and added a second layer of butter. This was inspired, truly. It left us both with greasy fingers and was exactly the thing to tide us over until our post-movie dinner. The shaker of nutritional yeast on the counter only adds to the aging hippie feel of the place and this reminded me of why I love this theater. <br />
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The film, A Serious Man, is the Coen Brothers' most recent movie and it was excellent. Even better than the movie, however, was the man sitting three or four rows in front of us with the laugh that filled the tiny room with huge, rolling guffaws, uncontrollable and impossible not to laugh along with. Helplessly, Hubby and I giggled, snorted, and snickered along with him as the serious man progressed from one tragi-comic event to another. Even later, at dinner, the snickering continued each time we'd think of it.<br />
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Sadly, this lovely theater is up for sale now. The customer base for the Savoy is aging- Hubby and I were without question the youngest in the crowd- and apparently competing with Netflix and the host of multi-plexes popping up all over hasn't been easy. Whatever happens to the Savoy in the next couple of years, I very much hope they keep their real-butter popcorn.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-67059478025217388532009-11-03T21:27:00.003-05:002009-11-03T21:42:00.800-05:00Saving daylight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLhG3UhaYqcO7fmB-Es9LW0JWzpOoVm2b4aTJU4lXXxyc7M7uYib3x9CnqaU7mMwNrQr5FZ3jySkFuGH7ztI_6iDNy_LS58-Mg7Cm4sKeHcMxeXZvO3tFuJEjnJAaPSEECulqZUnOSOo/s1600-h/IMG_2362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLhG3UhaYqcO7fmB-Es9LW0JWzpOoVm2b4aTJU4lXXxyc7M7uYib3x9CnqaU7mMwNrQr5FZ3jySkFuGH7ztI_6iDNy_LS58-Mg7Cm4sKeHcMxeXZvO3tFuJEjnJAaPSEECulqZUnOSOo/s320/IMG_2362.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Colorado springtime light, 2009.</span></span><br />
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</div>I know that there's exactly the same number of hours in the day today as there was on Saturday. But then why does it feel so much harder to fit everything in? Coming home from work, my drive is now in the dark. Making dinner feels like it takes so much longer now and by the time it's over, it's time to think about going to bed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPANVQ5rL7qWaT1GgXXtRPJHuOxdONmzk2SQZ4ywtIMmuMpg5VDOEpOCs-0CTT-IE7Bf7OiU6tlbanSJUCc5Oux9MnmG36FWnvY8t-zfLJQQrw1zoiC6Vi558n0Cn3hycnoL1Bf_-wUg/s1600-h/IMG_4890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPANVQ5rL7qWaT1GgXXtRPJHuOxdONmzk2SQZ4ywtIMmuMpg5VDOEpOCs-0CTT-IE7Bf7OiU6tlbanSJUCc5Oux9MnmG36FWnvY8t-zfLJQQrw1zoiC6Vi558n0Cn3hycnoL1Bf_-wUg/s320/IMG_4890.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Morning light in the kitchen, 2009.</span></span><br />
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It really feels like this fall has been the source of too much bad news. The news of a friend's recent diagnosis with Parkinson's disease has shadowed the last week, coinciding sadly with the progressive loss of light and color in the outside world. It has left us wondering how to express our sympathy and how to best be helpful to them in this dark time.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ralph's photo, perennial blooms back-lit in summer 2009.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>A cousin's divorce finalizing the rift in our family likewise casts its shadow. Does all this happen in the spring too? Is there just as much sadness then as there is now? It doesn't seem that way, but I think it might just be easier to deal with sadness when the world is full of light.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FXfQ6nJ1Nl5K4SbmMWPeGzAhBC69F69CghH3Yi2kOQB4HvVA3J4_JdeTSsiqsNuQGNvBCH1BpuRN0PccZjIJtfj_c5BzJmZrddHncOsjjR4kXS6pL5lmif3buBFJ2_y15nZCVZolvCI/s1600-h/IMG_2404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FXfQ6nJ1Nl5K4SbmMWPeGzAhBC69F69CghH3Yi2kOQB4HvVA3J4_JdeTSsiqsNuQGNvBCH1BpuRN0PccZjIJtfj_c5BzJmZrddHncOsjjR4kXS6pL5lmif3buBFJ2_y15nZCVZolvCI/s320/IMG_2404.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Back-lit Colorado blooms, spring 2009.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>In the midst of all this, it is very sweet to come home to Ralph making Indian food for dinner. Bright, full of vegetables, spice, and color. It is the perfect meal for a couple whose refrigerator is full of condiments. Plain yogurt, mango pickle, Major Gray's chutney, coconut chutney, garlic pickle. It is our meal of choice when we don't feel like doing anything complicated. We buy jarred curry sauce, saute veggies and chicken, make some rice. It is vibrant and keeps the taste buds awake, despite the dark. It was so spicy tonight that it made my ears hurt. Does anyone else know that feeling?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhryFKrMRYJ8pnkrQlqwPeEdpwXNLVQGqeZFddYwXEwinXypkqZJavFAIIOmNjdmfLEvp4bXVNvgD3UDyaCizoAWbOLs8-F8zMyWjKDeINjENJkoASevE_zZwH-zrGXG0A8boaskWVw3Q/s1600-h/IMG_5134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhryFKrMRYJ8pnkrQlqwPeEdpwXNLVQGqeZFddYwXEwinXypkqZJavFAIIOmNjdmfLEvp4bXVNvgD3UDyaCizoAWbOLs8-F8zMyWjKDeINjENJkoASevE_zZwH-zrGXG0A8boaskWVw3Q/s320/IMG_5134.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ralph's version of the Colorado sky, spring 2009.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><br />
</div>So in the spirit of appreciating light, I have reached into the photo archives for scenes from a brighter season. All are mine except where noted.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi419Aau2MlSewFlu4ql9BVUCwc8UVXSA2E1kRf465WeGA-mQDsa7Z_ixJrU2UcBcPS6oAQGY-2Ny9cd5OFt5JR22xrXMazCGWfrYqL3hEq3bIh-VjIBU8oILyLoPmnpjGfTGYQL2ApEyY/s1600-h/IMG_2388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi419Aau2MlSewFlu4ql9BVUCwc8UVXSA2E1kRf465WeGA-mQDsa7Z_ixJrU2UcBcPS6oAQGY-2Ny9cd5OFt5JR22xrXMazCGWfrYqL3hEq3bIh-VjIBU8oILyLoPmnpjGfTGYQL2ApEyY/s320/IMG_2388.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">More of that luminous Colorado light, spring 2009.</span></span><br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-12841525506653335132009-10-30T15:50:00.000-04:002009-10-30T15:50:09.164-04:00For love of beans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15XiwcdRBXWCIj_Mt4eiC1kHVtKyDnyhP3gKz_8_1n2YMo3ZA59cYyvKNtTfrditIVx0snhzn2d_HQAYJ0llFiRKGqRZ0qAzXDk95mVOCOeYtqHQa6_32GNztXZY8nmVi-13KB0BaNvE/s1600-h/IMG_6966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15XiwcdRBXWCIj_Mt4eiC1kHVtKyDnyhP3gKz_8_1n2YMo3ZA59cYyvKNtTfrditIVx0snhzn2d_HQAYJ0llFiRKGqRZ0qAzXDk95mVOCOeYtqHQa6_32GNztXZY8nmVi-13KB0BaNvE/s320/IMG_6966.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><br />
I've had a pile of bean pods sitting on the garage floor for weeks now. Ostensibly, they are drying. In reality, I'm not sure they're any more dry than they were when I pulled them off the vines. And as mice have found the apples we temporarily stored in the garage, I decided today is the day to bring in the beans (well, and the apples, too, of course). And I tossed Maizy-the-cat out in the garage to stalk mice. Hopefully our fearsome huntress will come home with her own dinner tonight.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDOGo2VQZBr9qR8qImNrJaKcU6epbHK2tC_pceaJXzlPVIm1xrUaQqlzt_ij58atFZ01kn-wNM5x_Mk7EeEOFfZZiCrXbA9cqcyVlv61AseFmH6xHXVrjHRzCxAVatnvGMm8LOks3Eig/s1600-h/IMG_6970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDOGo2VQZBr9qR8qImNrJaKcU6epbHK2tC_pceaJXzlPVIm1xrUaQqlzt_ij58atFZ01kn-wNM5x_Mk7EeEOFfZZiCrXbA9cqcyVlv61AseFmH6xHXVrjHRzCxAVatnvGMm8LOks3Eig/s320/IMG_6970.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><br />
But today is my day off. And so I felt like it was probably okay to get distracted by taking bean photos instead of shucking beans. So this is how I've spent my rainy Friday afternoon. Oh, and drinking a glass of wine too. But I didn't think that was worthy of a photo. <br />
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</div><br />
What I love about the beans - one of the many things - is how their colors are so muted now. Shades of pale green, gold, some red. It rather fits the season. Most of the leaves have blown off the trees outside my window and those same muted shades now dominate the outdoor landscape too. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRv69AGqkG_xPRasRTOog8hfxKtT5NJBpK60FP335YRk9YylnRXwcK-5NujT4_H8-kGBdzJ_csQrANLmPdg2bOLByIo-0aqu7EqkUmlZEYQtokr74_o-vsmVDatLTn2EGQ-vEMrVmjt2Y/s1600-h/IMG_6977.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRv69AGqkG_xPRasRTOog8hfxKtT5NJBpK60FP335YRk9YylnRXwcK-5NujT4_H8-kGBdzJ_csQrANLmPdg2bOLByIo-0aqu7EqkUmlZEYQtokr74_o-vsmVDatLTn2EGQ-vEMrVmjt2Y/s320/IMG_6977.JPG" /></a><br />
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Happy Friday.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-16335512087613442622009-10-24T20:49:00.001-04:002009-10-24T20:49:54.753-04:00Apple Days II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2nrBSdy-KmQdB5YfBEDR7YyLnHdR_qvL8j5o6xNMHB4qMeJ1aVeKVoFDMIzLpa1XHft3YxA-DmXGLoTTAmr9ICZIYrXqUAJoJyzCwCKW0-j6z0ZThFWVzD1_wVNj2eqelsfftt3JbHOA/s1600-h/IMG_4450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2nrBSdy-KmQdB5YfBEDR7YyLnHdR_qvL8j5o6xNMHB4qMeJ1aVeKVoFDMIzLpa1XHft3YxA-DmXGLoTTAmr9ICZIYrXqUAJoJyzCwCKW0-j6z0ZThFWVzD1_wVNj2eqelsfftt3JbHOA/s320/IMG_4450.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cluster of apples in Champlain Orchards. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUheIUvbGaBw5g2R04k6DLBk276-zThxVodIb3K3mytlhvyyqTvl3Gi8ISqKc1NrvtmAnQgboTfH8N_wYAz1ZB2_A0UnD0JGzhW9xLVOPLh9_WY1oTocWO1fTMgPUmsJNdc122Vtp740/s1600-h/IMG_4478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUheIUvbGaBw5g2R04k6DLBk276-zThxVodIb3K3mytlhvyyqTvl3Gi8ISqKc1NrvtmAnQgboTfH8N_wYAz1ZB2_A0UnD0JGzhW9xLVOPLh9_WY1oTocWO1fTMgPUmsJNdc122Vtp740/s320/IMG_4478.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Glaucous bloom.</i></span><br />
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11 gallons of newly pressed apple cider<br />
8 pounds of raw honey<br />
3 pounds of Thompson raisins<br />
1 peck of pears<br />
1 cup of mulled cider<br />
and a drizzly, dark, damp Saturday afternoon<br />
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yields<br />
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3 glass carboys of cider sitting on our kitchen floor, ready to ferment<br />
and pear sauce, coming soon. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Cider siphoned out of the carboy for tasting.</i></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Dissolving honey in warm cider.<br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-31093442681695918782009-10-21T21:05:00.004-04:002009-10-21T21:14:45.230-04:00Apple Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RJiXeFYE8WaCvqa7v3Zc1funjkxb2XJqVRDs6HcNu4u0UZiUVi90j3PBpnutfW5FUwE14R4ulljY4PjsRNFE0gfEoN44vLQXXfWzO8FCtYKuNWZxnPdL313daJhjNNHCvWj0lfdTal4/s1600-h/IMG_4481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RJiXeFYE8WaCvqa7v3Zc1funjkxb2XJqVRDs6HcNu4u0UZiUVi90j3PBpnutfW5FUwE14R4ulljY4PjsRNFE0gfEoN44vLQXXfWzO8FCtYKuNWZxnPdL313daJhjNNHCvWj0lfdTal4/s320/IMG_4481.JPG" /></a><br />
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I do apologize- you will get sick of apple photos by the end of this post. I can't help it, they're rich fodder for a girl with a camera. It is now well into fall and edging towards winter in my corner of the world. It is cold in the mornings- nearly always frosty now. The light is not yet here when I wake up and just shy of gone when I get home at the end of the day. It is harder to spend time outside, and hard to feel like the days are long enough for all that needs to be done.<br />
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I have been particularly busy with work this fall- lots of changes are on the horizon and transition is never easy for me. And so moments of quiet are especially dear to me. Like this Sunday when hubby and I went on a food pilgrimage, of sorts. There is an orchard a couple hours south of here, <a href="http://www.champlainorchards.com/">Champlain Orchards</a>, that grows more apple varieties than anyone else. There are heirloom varieties, traditional cider varieties, apples that are huge, tiny, striped, speckled, beautiful, knobby, ugly, smooth.<br />
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We took our time driving down there- this is hard core Vermont farm country. Addison county, known for its richly productive clay soils and relatively flat fields (which means rolling hills, in this state), is a lovely New England landscape- intensively farmed, rural, pastoral. The landscape is mostly open ag land with forests around the edges. Our corner of Vermont is the opposite. A background of forest interspersed with agriculture. So it felt like we were leaving our territory.<br />
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Arriving at the orchard, we picked up a map and headed out into the rows of trees. There wasn't a lot to choose from; its a bit late in the apple season. It was cold, windy, beautiful. This orchard was nearly deserted. Set along a west-facing hill, the Adirondack mountains were clearly visible across the lake. This is what people must think of when they think of Vermont in the fall.<br />
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And so we tasted our way through this orchard, landing on snowapple, Cox's orange pippin, and liberty. A peck of apples now in our garage, for eating every day at lunch and on my ride home from work. Unhappily, apples make my stomach hurt sometimes and trying dozens of varieties that day to figure out what we wanted to take home was not exactly the thing to leave me feeling hale and hearty. But I love the idea of them so much that I mostly try to forget about that when I'm eating them and this weekend, especially, I was willing to make the sacrifice in the name of autumn.<br />
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So in these days of unsettling change, reduced day length, and cold temperatures, I'm taking color and sweetness where I can. This weekend, it was in an apple orchard in Shoreham, Vermont. I hope you're finding your own sweetness these days.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-8807508696898382792009-10-12T21:15:00.000-04:002009-10-12T21:15:20.558-04:00The end of a season<a href="http://www.eotsweb.org/about.php?#part1">Mark Breen</a> warned us this weekend: a hard freeze coming on Sunday night, followed by a whole week of cold. It made yesterday feel especially beautiful. Ralph and I spent the day scrambling around the yard, finishing all the things that we meant to get to before things started freezing. We mowed the lawn, picked beans and beets, moved firewood, took down one of the hammocks (which involved some tree climbing <i>by me!</i> and a skinned knee or two). It was sunny and beautiful and decidedly not warm. I wore a woolly hat and made five bean soup for dinner. It was a very, very nice end to the weekend.<br />
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And then today, I woke up and everything was covered with sparkly gray frost. And I started remembering what I don't like quite so much about fall. I searched through the mess of gloves, hats, scarves, rain pants and miscellaneous detritus on the top shelf of our hall closet to find a matching pair of gloves. Out came the ice scraper and on went the heat. There is part of me that is not sure I'm much looking forward to winter darkness and cold. It is so dark in the morning now...<br />
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I spoke to a friend today who just had a weekend of bad news. The death of an old friend of his, and the impending death of his dog combined with a waterfall of smaller bad events made for a dark Monday for him. There's something about fall that makes sad news feel even sadder. On my drive home today, I called another friend to check in about getting together later this week, and found her crying because she was about to put her dog to sleep.<br />
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I've noticed that often people are either animal people or plant people. I have always been in the plant camp, I won't deny it. But I have, without question, experienced the incredible comfort and companionship that animals can provide. A very dark time in my life was made much more bearable by the sweetness of a cat named Stripey who always seemed to know when I was feeling badly. That cat spent many an afternoon curled up with me while I tried to figure out how to makes changes I needed to make in my life. And the thought of losing our kitty, Maizy, is nearly unbearable to me. These animals can provide a calm within most any storm and I do not take that lightly. So my heart is with both of these friends of mine.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo credit to Ralph.</i></span><br />
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</div>During these brilliant days of fall, the melancholy side of me can't help but think of an article I read years ago (and I can't remember where- Northern Woodlands?- if you read it, please point me to it for citation). A Vietnamese family immigrated to Vermont, not too many years after the Vietnam war. Their family had been through hell, survived more loss than I can imagine. When autumn started coming on, the father in the family looked upon the dying leaves as the most intolerable loss. The green world that had been a constant to him throughout his life was dying and it sunk this man into a terrible sadness.<br />
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The story stayed with me and I think about it when autumn takes on the edge of winter. And it reminds me that this season, much celebrated in my neck of the woods, can also mean the end of things. The last chapter in a season of green before winter slides in and turns the world gray again. It is the other side of the growth and promise of spring, the anticipation and bubbly excitement of new things coming to life. So I have spent the day thinking about sad things and wishing my friends well in bad times. Tomorrow will no doubt be a little better, but today I take a minute to note the end of the season.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit to Ralph.</span></i><br />
</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-59149101185413176612009-10-06T22:25:00.003-04:002009-10-06T22:31:04.910-04:00Mushroom hunterRalph and I took a long walk on Sunday. We walked through the woods, up the hill and onto a neighboring gravel road. It is narrow and lined with sugar maple, butternut (valiantly holding out against butternut canker), red maple and a stand of balsam fir that smells like heaven when the wind is blowing just right. All those sugar maples are a vibrant, burnished, golden yellow. The afternoon sun shines through the leaves, turning them transparent and making the whole world seem dipped in gold. It's really, really beautiful.<br />
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It was a quiet walk, not a lot of talking, both of us lost in thought. I think that all that quiet made us both notice where we were walking more than we might have otherwise. This attention to our surroundings meant we both noticed the huge number and variety of mushrooms underfoot. And as soon as we started noticing a few, more and more started popping out of the background leaf litter. They were everywhere. We were both wishing we knew more about mushrooms.<br />
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When I managed a CSA farm several years ago, Ralph and I both participated in the cultivation of shiitake mushrooms. He worked with one of the farm owners to cut and haul the sugar maple, hop-hornbeam, and ash logs out of the woods, and I worked with the other farm owner to inoculate the logs with mushroom mycelium. There was just about nothing better in the world than the shiitake mushrooms when they burst like little miracles out of those logs in the springtime. And sauteed with olive oil and garlic, they were way more fresh than anything you see in the grocery store. They almost squeaked with freshness. I miss that a lot.<br />
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So I've been excited that Ralph has been getting into mushrooms lately. He came home after visiting a friend toting a handful of sawdust inoculated with wine-cap mycelium. He's cultivating them in a sawdust pile under our lone oak tree and we're hoping to see them do their mushroomy thing in the springtime. He also recently went to a mushroom talk at the University of Vermont's <a href="http://friendsofthehortfarm.org/">Horticulture Farm</a>, led by a man who, when he's not a mushroom hunter, has a day job as a local public radio host. <br />
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When we discovered our fungus bonanza on our walk, Ralph picked some of the more common mushrooms and saved them. He took some photos and sent them to the aforementioned mushroom hunter, and low and behold, they're edible, even palatable. The mushrooms pictured here are <i>Armillaria</i> mushrooms, commonly called honey fungus, and they were <i>everywhere</i>. You couldn't walk without stepping on them. It was amazing to see all that food, there on the forest floor. It was another little miracle.<br />
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Ralph went back today to look for them again and they were mostly past their prime. Peaked in two days. It's a fleeting season, apparently. Just to keep things exciting, there is another species of mushroom that apparently closely mimics the Armillaria and of course, this mimic has the charming quality of being deadly to people who eat it. That's what you have to love about mushrooms. Amazing little organisms that could potentially kill you or add a lovely earthy note to your dinner plate. I won't pretend I'm not every-so-slightly relieved that they were past their peak when he went back. The last time Ralph brought home wild mushrooms, I was on the edge of my seat, just waiting to melt into a little puddle of poisoned death on the floor during dinner. I fool myself into thinking I played this off coolly. Now, don't get me wrong, he does his homework. The last mushroom was a morel and he was very clear about the ID. But it was thrilling in a mostly safe kind of way nonetheless.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photos in this post courtesy of Ralph.</i></span>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-13978990903742838222009-10-03T12:37:00.003-04:002009-10-08T19:41:03.939-04:00Gray skies in the garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The skies are gray today and it was not-quite raining when I went out to the garden to pick some of the dry beans I've been anticipating all summer. I planted them a little late, so we're pushing it for ripening right now. But they're slowly doing their thing and soon we'll be eating those borlotti, cranberry, and Christmas lima beans. Here are some garden images from the day including:<br />
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<i>the ever-bountiful Swiss chard, </i><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>the sort-of-sad bean plants, lettuce bed, and cover crop in the foreground,</i><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>a basket full of the aforementioned beans topped by the last of the eggplant, maturing lettuce in the background</i> <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>and finally, botlotti beans in the upper right, cranberry beans in the lower left with a couple of Christmas limas thrown in, discarded shells in the background.</i><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">Happy Saturday.<br />
</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-41777947305273581472009-09-27T16:03:00.003-04:002009-09-27T16:08:15.923-04:00Sunday pancakesThere is a tradition in my family of making pancakes on Sunday mornings. Growing up, my dad was the pancake maker - and I have no memories of him ever using a written recipe. The best part of the event was how he customized them for everyone. Mom likes bananas in hers. Dad likes butterscotch chips. I liked chocolate chips. Sometimes there were blueberries, sometimes nuts. He'd divide the batter into several bowls, adding the goodies according to request.<br />
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The recipe has undergone serious changes in the last ten years or so with the onset of allergies in my family. First a batch with no cow dairy. Then a batch with no cow dairy and one with no gluten. Then no dairy at all, no gluten and no eggs. I can't imagine that the recipe looks much at all like the original. But it's still customized according to request with fruit, candy, nuts. <br />
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My grandfather, however, is who started the Sunday pancake tradition. My grandmother cooked all meals for the first thirty years of their marriage. On their 30th anniversary, she told him he could cook her breakfast for the next 30. He made breakfast every day of their lives together since then. I don't know if he's still doing it since her passing this spring, but I hope so. It was never a simple affair. His breakfasts were always hot, always elaborate, often with complicated place settings and cutlery. You have to appreciate the effort and artistry involved.<br />
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When my husband and I went to visit my grandparents in Colorado several years ago, he modified his recipe to accommodate my inability to eat gluten. Those pancakes were half cornmeal, half buckwheat flour with chopped walnuts. I came home from that trip and made pancakes the next Sunday, and Ralph and I have been eating them most Sundays since.<br />
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True to form, my recipe changes a lot, mostly according to what's in my refrigerator. I never have buttermilk, which is what the original recipe calls for, so I use plain yogurt or ricotta. I started off with a combination of buckwheat and corn meal and have since shifted to corn meal alone after running out of buckwheat and deciding I liked it better with just the corn. I've used frozen raspberries, purchased on a whim (10# of them) last fall from Adam's Berry Farm, or fresh blueberries. I've made them with diced nectarines, plums, and peaches. I've made them with bananas, walnuts, frozen blueberries. When our first strawberries were coming out of the garden, I chopped them and added them to the batter. I hesitate to say it definitively, but I think the peaches might have been my favorite.<br />
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Ralph laughs at my constant adaptation of this recipe. Each Sunday, I open the door to the refrigerator and announce, <i>Oh, we don't have any...(cornmeal, buckwheat flour, yogurt, ricotta...).</i> He laughs at this but it's really what I like about them. Just about the only ingredient I haven't done without or substituted for is the single egg. Though given my dad's current recipe, there's no reason I couldn't, I suppose. I don't usually offer actual recipes on this blog, but with the assumption that if you try this one you'll change it to suit your taste, here's the one I made today.<br />
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<b><i>Cornmeal raspberry pancakes</i></b><br />
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1 egg<br />
1 c. plain, whole-milk yogurt<br />
2 T. grape seed oil<br />
1 c. coarse-ground corn meal<br />
1 t. baking powder<br />
1/2 t. baking soda<br />
1/2 t. salt<br />
~1 c. frozen raspberries <br />
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Whisk egg, yogurt and oil together in a mixing bowl. When smooth, add all dry ingredients at once. (Yes, I know, bakers would shudder that the dry ingredients aren't mixed together first. This is what I like about this recipe- one bowl. You are perfectly welcome to adapt it to two bowls, but I can't imagine why you'd want to). Gently mix the dry ingredients together, stopping as soon as they're blended. Add fruit and mix gently.<br />
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Heat non-stick griddle over medium low heat. Spread spoonfulls of batter onto griddle and cook on the first side until bubbles appear and start to pop. Flip and cook for another minute or two until sides look firm. Don't smoosh them with your spatula. Transfer to a plate in a warm oven. Repeat until all batter is done.<br />
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We eat these with butter and maple syrup. My parents skip the butter. My grandparents ate them with jam. This recipe serves Ralph and I with leftovers to toast the following morning. I double the recipe when we have more than the two of us. Enjoy.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3034398000959430885.post-9878482757393548492009-09-22T15:14:00.002-04:002009-09-22T15:22:28.661-04:00An equinox harvestThe first day of fall ushered in another kind of harvest for us. Today was the day that the pigs our friends raised this summer were slaughtered. They raised two of them- one for our freezer and one for theirs. I woke up this morning, forgetting that today was the day until Ralph mentioned it. I was significantly ambivalent about whether I wanted to go or not. And I hadn't really intended to. But I suppose, in the end (and it was most certainly an end), I am glad I did.<br />
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It was raining when we arrived to find Earl milling around his dooryard watching two drunken pigs. Apparently, giving the pigs a quart of vodka mixed in with their feed dulls their senses enough that the process is less traumatic for them. They were staggering and visibly drunken, eating from their trough while slumped onto their haunches. Is this how it ends? I was disconcerted to find that it was a little funny and a little tragic and thinking <i>shouldn't it be a little more solemn than this</i>? I guess not from the pig's perspective. A half-hour later, Joe rolled up in a blue pick-up truck, donned his rain pants, and with a .22 in hand said, <i>"Well, no time like the present."</i> Indeed.<br />
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When you have someone come to your house to do them in, the animals get shot in the head. I could not watch this. I was firmly planted in the shed, fingers in my ears, trying not to pass out. A peek outside after the first shot confirmed that it was definitely not something I wanted to see if I also wanted to appreciate pork in the near future. It was pretty grim. There's a lot of movement after they're dead- a lot more than you'd think. Enough said about that. The second one was not as simple as the first, apparently. The shot missed it's mark and then the gun jammed. It was unpleasant- I could tell just by watching Ralph and Earl's faces. But eventually, they pigs were both dead and still and at that point, I eased out of the shed to watch from the periphery.<br />
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And the rest was physics and knife work. The animal is skinned, disemboweled and the head and feet cut off. It is then cut in half and taken to a butcher who breaks it down into cuts and packages it into something you'd recognize from the grocery store. Ralph and Earl were right in the thick of it the whole time. They're both deer hunters and no stranger to skinning animals they've hunted, but even so, they both felt there was something different about the pigs. More deliberative, harder to imagine carrying out, and they both said they'd likely not do it themselves in the future. Was it that they'd spent time with these animals, feeding them, watching them root around, listening to their grunts? We'd had a fair amount of discussion about doing the slaughtering ourselves. It would have taken us all day, at least, and I'm definitely glad I wasn't in there with a knife.<br />
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Joe worked efficiently, quickly, and considering his kidney stones (<i>"they get agitated when I bend over,"</i>) I was seriously impressed with how hard he worked. Moving a 250# dead weight from where it fell to where it was strung up on a tripod looked like back-breaking work. But Joe had his system perfected and his motions were economical and swift; the motions looked like they came from muscle memory rather than something he had to think about. I was likewise impressed with how often he honed his knives. Any cook who has used someone else's dull kitchen knives can appreciate that. And as he skinned it, it definitely started to look more like the kitchen and less like the barnyard. What a strange transformation this is.<br />
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Well, until Joe pulled out the guts. That was seriously disgusting. By that time, I was sitting 20 feet away under cover in the garage and the smell hit me like a ton of bricks. Good lord, it was terrible. I can't even describe how awful that was- I've got nothing to compare it to. I had started to get a little bit accustomed to it- I forgot to be guarded. And I seriously wished I'd been prepared for that. I was queasy all morning and that was the peak of it. <br />
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And getting accustomed to it was strange. Definitely by the second pig, I was less queasy, less concerned that I'd disgrace myself by vomiting on my sneakers or passing out in the dirt. The blood-stained trough that first thing in the morning made me turn aside and hold my breath was just part of the landscape an hour later. The steaming gut pile on the ground a couple of feet from where Joe worked lost a bit of it's chilling hideousness and again became just part of the process. I suppose it lends weight to the argument Michael Pollan cites in Omnivore's Dilemma- that it's good not to participate in the killing too often so as not to become callous about it. It is taking a life - or two - and that should be noted rather than passed over and worn thin with familiarity. It certainly felt significant today but I can see how it would become routine.<br />
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When the second animal was loaded into the truck and Joe pulled away, we all looked at each other and shuffled into the house. Ralph and I were sitting at the kitchen table working on the cut list- the sheet you give the butcher, telling him how you'd like your cuts divided - and Earl called his wife to tell her the deed was done. And as he was relating the events of the morning to Tami, I saw him reach into the liquor cabinet and pull out the tequila bottle. I laughed at the time, but it felt just about right. We had tequila and orange juice at 11 in the morning, and then had tequila and limeade when the orange juice ran out. We sat at the table for an hour or more, talking over how we wanted the meat cut, rehashing the process, slowly getting buzzed on tequila as the sun came out.<br />
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I took quite a few pictures of the process, intending to post them here, but looking at them now, I'm not sure they're entirely appropriate. They're pretty grim. If you're interested in seeing them, let me know and I'll send you a link. It's not something I'd like to do again any time soon, but I am grateful to know that they lived good lives, had swift deaths, and that they will never travel far from the place they were raised throughout the whole process. I suppose that's as good as it gets.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12797908059587299218noreply@blogger.com3