Today, despite tropical rainstorms and winds, was farmer's market day, where I get the best eggs in the world and various other exciting things.
Today it was heirloom tomatoes, heard of them, never had them, splurged on some. Oh, was that worth it. Just the smell when you take off the stem.
I just handled them and sniffed for a while. My mom used to say that if you took off a tomato stem and it smelled of mint, it was fresh. These smelt of mint and ambrosia!
I chose a few different colors, and lunch today involved one of the darker ones. As well as mixed green salad from the same farm.
You just don't need anything more.
The egg man was there, cheerful as ever. And, because of all the bad news lately, I gave a donation to the Crisis Ministry, represented this morning and collecting both food and money to pass on. Glad they gave me a little something to do.
And since my peacock jasmine is looking very sad up there in the bedroom, suddenly not feeling well, I found others at the market, never saw them before, so I got a new one, which I'll put in a different window and see how she goes. This one already has growth and several flowers, so I'm hopeful.
And back home, I realized that the flowers I got last week from the market, while looking perfectly lovely, smelled perfectly awful. Like a monster rising from a swamp. So I put them in an old glass vase, and set them up on the fence outside, in the planter box, where you can see them without being knocked down by the smell. Nothing personal, I assured them.
That's them, with the sunflower in the middle of them.
And the burlap planter is doing okay, too.
The marjoram is a lot bushier than it looks at the top, because it keeps trying to get behind the nasturtium in the next pocket down. The bottom two, dill, only one of which is in the pic, look a bit sparse because I harvested them the other day for that salmon recipe, but it will grow back. So all in all, this is good, largely because the squirrels have shown no interest in interfering with it, amazing.
So that's today out and about.
So I was wondering yesterday about that leftover phyllo dough from the salmon mushroom thing I made (very successful, by the way, to my surprise after all the mixup over the oven temp), and looked up any recipes that could use any flaky dough or anything. And started some yogurt cheese in case that would be needed.
And friend G. came over last evening and installed my new kitchen light, multitasking as always, since he was on a corporate conference call at the time! also my eye doctor sent a reminder about getting my vision checked about now. So things are moving along quite well on those two fronts.
About the third resolution, to read the recipes more carefully, well, I did fall down on that a bit, forgetting to put parchment paper on the baking sheets, which resulted in some serious scrubbing after the baking was done, because, cherry jam and high temp.
I found a few ideas about making danish. Why danish, I wonder? do Danes like them? Well, you really need puff pastry for this, and phyllo isn't it, but what's a few flakes between friends. So I decided to go for cheese danish. Then I realized that I still had a little package of cherries from my cherry bushes, in the freezer, awaiting jam. So it could be cherry cheese danish.
I was saving them for strawberry and cherry jam, but I decided just to make a little recipe of cherry jam right now.
Sugar and cherries, nothing else needed, plenty of pectin in the cherries, but I added in almond essence. I didn't pit them, they're tiny, but removed the pits as the cherries boiled, worked fine. You see the jam here at the unboildownable stage.
Then I made a filling using the yogurt cheese I made yesterday using vanilla yogurt, plus some confectioner's sugar, a fresh farm egg, bit of cornstarch, drop of vanilla essence, sorry don't know exact quantities, just shook the packets in, guessing.
I think I'm channeling my mom who never seemed to measure, but when you asked how much of something to put in, would say, "Oh, enough, not too much, you'll know." very helpful to a beginner...but she was far from a beginner and was so used to how much was enough that measuring wasn't an issue.
Anyway I tasted the filling (yes, I know there's a raw egg in there, but it's from a very clean farm), and it was just great.
So I cut out squares of the dough, put filling then a dab of jam on each, turned the ends over to seal, using a pastry brush with water, and that was that.
Two batches see here, each baked at 400F for 20 minutes, and came out very acceptable. This is several breakfasts now. And maybe a little something for afternoon tea. And some for friends, if they get lucky. The pastry sort of explodes when you bite in, great fun, but you wouldn't want to eat this if you're with anyone you'd like to impress.
And there was jam and filling left over, but no pastry left, so I took the cook's privilege and just ate it.
The world is still rapidly going to hell but at least I can have a nice breakfast. And do my part in speaking up to the right people, and doing what I can to make the world better not worse.
These two items are not as unrelated as they may seem. I've been reading Jennifer Ackerman's Genius of Birds, a great study of the different forms of abilities in birds and of how humans have grappled and often failed, to understand them as forms of intelligence.
She gives many amazing examples of bird behavior which far outstrip many humans' abilities. If you want an eye opener, go to YouTube and see 007 Crow here.
This bird had an eight part puzzle to solve, and you see him studying the situation, and the parts, then trial and error to get to the next step, and at one point you swear you see a lightbulb going off as he realizes how to make this work. It's wonderful, and quite humbling for those of us who don't always get our front door key to work first time.
Then there's memory, and birds who can hide thousands of seeds in different places and find them again as needed. Or birds who not only use tools, but actually create them. And birds who can recognize human faces. As a person with face blindness -- the inability to recognize people if they're in a different context, different hairstyle, or wearing a hat and so on -- I bow down to a bird who can spot the humans he doesn't like and bombard them with nuts! Not that I want to bombard my friends with nuts, or anything, just it would be handy to know who's who when I meet them. Oddly, when I had a flock of pet parakeets, I had no difficulty in knowing who was who.
Anyway, this was all in my mind as I taped up the window wall in the front bedroom, used for playing music and growing houseplants, and known around here as The Nook. I kept wondering if a crow could do this better. If a crow would make the tape stick better. And not miss any bits. And plan on how to do the climbing up part and the not climbing part so as to extend my energy. And whether I could hire any crows, come to that.
But back to the painting, the wall came out just fine, though lighting made a pic difficult, in these humble hands, even without a handy beak to use as a tool, and I recommend the book. She does have one small fault which is that if nine anecdotes about crows using tools works, why, 339 will work better. I did skip sections on this account.
But there are some really interesting conclusions drawn by researchers who find that speed is not always good in the long run, and that steady learning might serve the species better. Speed of comprehension and execution have often been seen as markers of human intelligence and I've wondered about that, having seen some more deliberative learners end up doing amazing scientific research. But many "intelligence" tests we give kids do incorporate speed as part of the test.
And I think I've done my painting quota for the moment, and will retire to read a restful Daisy Dalrymple mystery.
Today is a wonderful summer's day, the kind you think about in February, just right for painting the staircase. What? on a holiday? well, in fact practically everyone I've talked to in the last few days is busy doing things like this. Fireworks were Saturday night, lovely display, perfect evening, celebratory dinner was Friday night.
But now, on the actual holiday, Handsome Son is at work, maybe to the shore later, next door neighbor driving in a convoy to Florida helping another friend retire there, with all her worldly goods in a UHaul, various relatives driving.
She refused to let the convoy move off until she'd opened the UHaul trailer to show me the progress of the snake plant that spent a summer with me and was very happy on my patio, never looked back. I hadn't seen it since since she lived north of here, and won't see it again, since it will live in Florida. It was like saying goodbye to a student!
The move involved many doublings back and forward to distribute people, vehicles, furniture, and so on, made me tired just watching. My part is to water his garden while he's away.
Another friend is busy organizing another household move. So my painting the stairs isn't too much of a departure.
I'm definitely down with using tape. Got a nice gallon of paint, yes, actually bought one, the two possibles from the dumpster turning out to be solid material. Taped up the stair wall and around the treads to save the rug, this was the dull bit which I did last night.
Then today, only painting below the tape, to fix the most beat up part of the wall, the upper part never getting marked up, took a bit over an hour and a bit. And I noted that ancient law of nature that dictates that when you paint walls, you're sure you've caught all of it, no missed bits, no wobbly edges. Then as soon as the brushes and pads are washed and all the gear is away again, bingo, you see a little bit here and there. So you get a little plate of paint and touch them up and nobody knows the difference, unless you blog about it, of course. And the staircase looks a whole lot better now.
So this is very pleasing, the color named Sunflower Seed, and both arms are still working.
Meanwhile, of course the Dollivers ran up the flag in a waving field of wildflowers, planted from seed saved by Boud from last year, and retired to the Adirondack chair with a big glass of lemonade, and patriotic songs from Elton.
Boud bitterly suggested Sixteen Tons might be a good theme for her today, but was swept away in a tide of anthems, fruited plains and all the rest of it.
And we all wish you a great day, if it's your Independence Day, happy all of us, and let's keep on working to improve everything, plenty of scope. If it's just a Monday where you live, well, enjoy it anyway!
The Chinese evergreen, aglaonema to the initiated, suddenly bust out with a bunch of flowers this week.
I noticed they're very similar to the flowers on other plants such as the spathiphyllum and the dracaena, and found that they're all members of the lily family. Which I suppose is why they also look like arum lily flowers. And I wonder if Jack in the Pulpit is a wild cousin of the clan?
Anyway, nice surprise. I always like it when plants bloom, just as when animals reproduce, it means they're happy in their environment. And when they point out something interesting for me to explore, even better.
And the peacock jasmine, a mail order arrival, too small to photograph when she arrived, back in May, is now developing and has started putting out tiny white flowers, which have the most powerful scent you can imagine, like being in a jungle paradise.
These are the flowers used in Hawaiian leis, pure white, scented, would be nice to wear. If you could handle the scent at that range.
This botanical excursion is meant to distract from the kitchen excitement of this morning. My overhead light went a few days ago, the replacement has arrived, and I'm hoping my friend next door will get around to installing it. He's been busy, and it's a favor, so I don't like to press.
However, cooking by the light of the sink light and the stove light is getting old, particularly since this morning I was making a new recipe, partly to try on Handsome Son tomorrow, partly to have extra in the freezer.
One of those recipes where you deal with opening canned salmon, wiping and slicing mushrooms, picking and mincing fresh herbs, cooking rice and combining it with yogurt, thawing puff pastry, frying onions, it better be good, that kind.
All went pretty much okay, and I made double the quantities, since the only can of salmon available was twice the size needed, and I am not budgetarily up to salmon steaks. Sooooo, so far so more or less good, until I read the directions for oven temp.
I thought they were a bit low, but needing new glasses, and the small type, and the suboptimal kitchen light, I soldiered on thinking well, perhaps they're right, but I thought this pastry needed a hotter oven.
Followed it to where it should have been all done, and it really really wasn't, looked pale and sad, not brown and joyful. So I irritatedly shoved the temp up a good bit higher and now it started to work better. I will finish the cooking tomorrow evening, so that it comes out fresh from the oven for dinner. And hope by then it works, because this is two complete puff pastry pie things plus another sort of quiche for the freezer. All the ingredients were cooked ahead, really, so it's only the pastry that needs to step it up.
Then I was about to make notes on the cookbook indicating that it should be at the temp I put it at in the end, and realized, doh, they had put the celsius reading ahead of the fahrenheit, a reversal of what I'm used to, not being in a decimalized world here. And the Fahrenheit temp I'd put it at was the one they'd said all along....so now I've circled blackly the correct temps for my use. Doh, again.
So this points up three needs: get the &*&**& kitchen light installed, make eye doctor appointment, and read the recipe slooooowly..in a good light.
If it comes out well after all this, I'll pic it for you. All good ingredients as my mom used to say if something came out below expectations.
On a different topic, yesterday was the Feast of Sts Peter and Paul. I've always thought this was a sort of canonical in-joke, since they did. not.get.along.at.all in life. So the Church makes them share the same feast day in perpetuity. I wonder what Pope thought that one up. Now, boys, you have to just learn to get along, see what you have in common, not what you always argue about. I bet they would have argued about the oven temp, too.
Wednesday was the talk for the last day of my textile art exhibit, and it went over so well, nice group came, everyone who promised to come and some more people who hadn't but came anyway, very knowledgeable group to talk with.
And one guest, Cynthia C., came complete with a lovely present! a solar light for the garden area, and here it is, set up right away, as soon as I got home, and last evening already charged and putting out a steady glow.
I thought this was a good home, between daylilies and lavender, and kneedeep in pachysandra. I will enjoy this for years.
Then, time for a bit of food catchup. I whipped about in a frenzy and made hot biscuits with poppyseeds, a soup of farm-picked asparagus and red lentil, and a plum crumble. Some of this is to feed Handsome Son, along with a main dish probably of pasta with my spag sauce, when he comes over Friday, some to feed Boud anyway. I make us a big meal on Friday evening, then I have leftovers for a few days!
The plum crumble is starting to be my own recipe, no reference to books or tattered copies now. I macerated the fruit, great price on plums in the Asian store, in fresh grated nutmeg, fresh ground cinnamon, a swoosh of lemon juice, and some honey and molasses. Then reduced the liquid that came off it, added it in, mixed the fruit with cornstarch, just a dusting, and that was the fruit done.
The crumble was equal parts almond flour and oat flour, both whirred in my coffee grinder from sliced nuts and oatmeal flakes, plus whole oatmeal flakes. Tart enough to suit me but maybe not other people, so when it came out of the oven still hot, I sprinkled some sugar over, not much. This is a gluten free crumble, I think, since cornstarch has no gluten as far as I know. And almonds and walnuts don't either.
So that was this morning's cooking done, on a comparatively cool day. Now back to reading Nightingale, alternating with Buddhist Wisdom.
Including finding the screwdriver to get the lid off the can. All the bits the painter could reach, now looking very spiffy. It's some of what was left over from when I painted the studio.
Painter is v.v. chuffed about this, partly because it looks so much better, and partly because she lived to tell the tale. The electric cords are waiting for the outlet to be dry and pluggable in.
So now I have ambitious plans to get on with the staircase, too, now that I seem to have established I can do this stuff again. And the taping will be a feature there, too, since as usual, it's the bottom few feet that get the traffic, and the rest of it, soaring way up there, looks just fine.
What I used today was one of those big pad things with a handle, rather than wave a roller about in such a small area. When I find a longer rod I can screw the pad onto, I might return and fix the bits I couldn't reach. Not easy leaning over immovable appliances, and having rather short arms is a bit of a liability.
I rarely buy paint, usually getting full unopened gallons at the dumpster from the surplus bought by excited homeowners overestimating their area. So the colors are a bit of a lucky dip. At the moment I have the rest of the flat latex in peachy beige, very nice, the rest of the shiny green from the kitchen, perhaps not for the stairs, though, and a full gallon of eggshell white, which might be just the ticket.
Eggshell finish at the bottom of the wall, flat white at present the rest of the way up. Might be nice. And I might even get all carried away and put in a racing stripe of the laundry area color. I think Handsome Son might be recruited to help with the taping, so as not to have wavy lines.
Of course, if anyone suddenly puts out new colors at the dumpster, I might rethink my interior design ideas. You have to allow for these possibilities.
Total cost today: about ten dollars for the pad and replacement pad. Labor free. Well, two Advil for the laborer.
See I can do clickbait titles with the best of them..
Lately I have for various reasons been in a state of fairly low spirits and high dudgeon, partly because my aging bod is resisting doing as much as I like to do, and fighting back with some pain to the point where I have to choose what to do, rather than plunge in and do it all. And I have to time it, too, so as not to be all froze up at the wrong time.
One of my biggest grievances was the fear that I might not be able to get back to painting my own walls, a very therapeutic and satisfying sort of job, but hard on the very joints that are kicking and fussing.
However, I decided, heck, let's at least give it a shot and do the laundry area which has been annoying me for years. So I emptied the shelf, chucked away some containers with a quarter inch of material in them, why do we do this, instead of just finishing it at a go, anyway, I did that. And sorted out the painting stuff I'll need.
And realized that in fact it's not half as bad as I thought. I must have painted it more recently than I realized. The upper half is pristine, no need to do anything with it. All the bits I don't like are the bottom half.
So I had a rush of brains to the head and taped up where I will paint down from, nice peach color paint that I found I'd put up on the shelf for this very purpose. Chucked a cloth over the appliances. And now it's all ready for me to work on tomorrow. And it's not half as big a job as I thought. So this will be a test of whether I can do this.
I also retired the curtain that had been hanging across this opening (you can't have folding doors and cats), and have ordered a very pretty replacement with a design of green plants and things on it, fits right in with the plant-ridden upstairs.
Then, bloated with pride, I retired to my other vice, recorder playing. I can now do this again, shoulder being at least willing to allow that, as long as I don't play the bass recorder, that being a bit heavy for my hands, and requiring some angles my fingers don't like doing.
So I practiced some Handel, largely because he's full of the blasted high notes that my playing partner and I are determined to master in this life. I realize that it's not everyone who considers Handel a good fingering exercise, but he won't know. And he puts a lot of notes in the C6 register, that's two octaves above Middle C., for them as cares about this.
And I sorted my lovely Elizabethan and late medieval music, the recorder being at home in this era, as I am. So my Morley and Machaut and others are now organized in a way that means we can just play instead of fumbling about on the floor sorting pages. This happens when you play, you get into another sort of mindset that cares nothing for organizing bits of paper, then later you realize what a mess it is.
Oh, what a great day, such joy playing music. Woodwind is particularly good for your spirits because it involves using a lot of oxygen and breath control, and anyway it's just fun.
You see here the three instruments I can still handle, well, there's a fourth, the sopranino, but its range is so high most people don't compose for it. You know the Magic Flute? those high runs? that's sopranino territory.
Anyway these here are the component parts of the soprano, alto and tenor recorders, the alto being what I was mainly playing today, the tenor being in two bits there.
And now I am going back to continue reading Donna Leon's essays on Venice, and checking various musical references on youtube to catch what melodies she's referring to.She would be horrified that I use Handel merely as fingering work, since she's a total Handelian oratorio nut, but she won't know either.
Here's the latest haul from the farm stand, strawberries, almost the end of the short season, and the first raspberries of the year. They are precious, since you have either to grow them or get them from a local farm, since they are too fragile to ship, so you are unlikely to find them in a store. I used to grow them back when I had a big garden, and give them away freely to very happy friends.
One year I offered a week of prime picking time in my patch as an auction item for a services auction in aid of a local women's organization, and that went for a nice price for the cause.
Back to my own current harvest here: you see that little bag of tiny bush cherries? the harvest in total to date. But at least it's in double digits now. They are tart and lovely, big pit for small berry, but okay, and I think they will make a great team with the strawberries I have lurking in the freezer for whenever I get the urge to make jam, a tart component of the flavor.
Not that you need to make jam. Tip from a lazy cook: take a couple of berries, any berries, and squash them onto a split hot biscuit like the ones here, and eat and they're as good as jam with no labor and no added sugar.
These biscuits look pretty rock solid, but in fact they're a little crusty on the outside and wonderfully tender inside, since I use olive oil for the fat content, and skim milk soured with lemon juice for the buttermilk component. They take about two minutes to mix, ten to bake, and they're very good indeed. When you serve them later, about 15 seconds in the microwave gives your teatime guest the impression they just came out of the oven. Oh well, now you know, if you've had tea here..my secret is out.
And today's farmstand haul also included kale and broccoli, both fresh in from the field this morning, and prepped and frozen and in the freezer within an hour of coming home.
Tonight's Handsome Son menu includes a lovely kale and Chinese sausage soup, then breaded white fish name escapes me, possibly pollock, or is that an artist, and roasted french fries. Dessert is about berries, with maybe a shortbread cookie or an almond macaroon. They've been going over a treat. Incidentally, for people for whom gluten is an issue, almond macaroons don't have any. Homemade lemonade or moscato sparkling white wine to go with all this debauchery.
After all that effort on my part, slaving over a hot farm stand, then frenzied prepping at home, HS will be required to make us a pot of tea. And carry a couple of heavy items for me. He's very happy when it doesn't involve repotting seven foot trees, complete with screams, I mean firm instructions, from Boud.
Bloomsday again! for those who weren't reading here last year, June 16 is the day on which all the action of James Joyce's novel Ulysses takes place in Dublin. The protagonist is Leopold Bloom, aided and abetted by Stephen Daedalus (late of Dubliners), hence the name of the celebration. Joyce fans invented it.
And, I think they knew, my potatoes burst into flower overnight and here they are, celebrating their writer!
who knows what Joyce would have had to say on this coincidence, probably a 600 page novel full of allusions to the potato, its vital significance to the Irish people, the tragedy of it, the comic sidelines, the in depth history of its literature, its current ironic imprisonment in a little American container situated on a huge continent, and who knows what else.
Anyway, as the granddaughter of an Irishwoman, I proffer my humble bit.
You will see, bottom left of the Kindle, showing a high percentage read, that I'm getting down to the finish line on reading Ulysses, which I will do before it does me in. You'll see the potato in blossom, down on the patio, to the left of the word "feelings".
It's wonderful reading, but so packed with allusions and references that you just have to find out more about, that it's slow going. Good thing I have it on my Kindle, otherwise my shoulders, always a bit iffy nowadays, would have packed in completely holding it up. Each year I think I will have finished reading it by Bloomsday, and up to now each year I haven't managed it.
Well, next Bloomsday, perhaps that will be true. Either that I've read it or haven't managed it. This campaign promise will work either way.
Great time at the gallery today, with a scheduled friend and then two unscheduled, very welcome, friends to guide around my exhibit and talk with. I love to do that, so as to provide a bit of information and insight into what's going on in my art.
Then perfect weather for sitting out and reading a mad series: Poirot detective short stories, Trollope (Anthony, very good, and Joanna, turned it back, already read and forgotten), and one of the Edinburgh series by the man who writes No 1 Ladies Detective Agency, name escapes me, also finished up a suspense novel by someone else whose name escapes me. Total transparency around here, if I forget I admit it!
The Trollope, Anthony, that is, is Dr. Thorne, reading it since it's the next selection at a local book group I'm going to try. A good start for me, since I do like Trollope, very funny writer as well as serious and astute. There's a different group whose selections I like but they're in permanent conflict with the stitching evenings, not working for me. The one I'm going to is a different night, and I think is not the same one as another artist group I really should get to now and then. If this sounds busy and confusing, I think that's because it is.
Then realized when my eyes got tired and I finished reading, omg no cookies nor cake in the house, disaster, this can't happen. What do I have with my English breakfast tea? so I thawed the logs left over from the Citrus Shortbread cookies, and put a dab of brown sugar on each, for a change of pace. I never buy brown sugar, just mix granulated white with molasses, just as good.
And it turned out pretty good. The sugar makes a toffee like effect. This recipe is rich, and though the cookies are small you really don't need many of them.
In fact there still one more log left in the freezer. This recipe is turning out like the loaves and fishes. I already made about 5 dozen and there are more to go. Yet I did make the logs the diameter of the recipe, and I did slice them likewise, but Martha only got about three dozen. Perhaps her kitchen helpers snaffled them when she wasn't looking.
So now I have a sense of security, coming from having a supply of nice bites for company available. Always a Good Thing, as Martha would probably say. I recommend the log method, since it's very easy to have it in the freezer, and bake. And it bakes up just fine after freezing, in case you wondered.
So after a great morning at the farmer's market, with buys of local food from four different farms, and a steel band concert going, then a cooking demo, which involved being given a very nice shopping bag, I came home to the usual frenzy of prep and freezing.
Then since the giant plum cake is finally finished, I thought, hm, self, you need a little something to go with a cup of tea. And leafed through a couple of books, then found a Martha recipe for citrus shortbread I've been meaning to try for ages.
There's an agenda here, too, since tomorrow's the reception for my solo exhibit at Plainsboro Library Gallery, and I'm putting up some very simple snack things, but it seemed nice to see if I can add in a dish of homebaked cookies, so this was the one. I don't like a lot of food in the close neighborhood of textile art, so the items are small, manageable and not likely to give me palpitations if they get near the artworks.
I never did one of those recipes where you roll the dough up and cool it then slice it. Sounded like fun. And this is one of them. So now I've done it. I've also found that half of the recipe made plenty of cookies to take in tomorrow, nearly three dozen, what do they want of my life, so the other log is now in the freezer ready to bake whenever the insanity of baking in 90 degree weather hits again.
I tested one, cook's privilege, and it seems okay to give to people. Well, actually, really good. I used lime zest rather than the orange Martha likes, being allergic to orange, but other than that I actually followed instructions. And since I needed an airtight tin for them, and didn't have one, I recycled the spice container tin my Indian friend gave me,and it works a treat.
So if you are local and planning on coming to the reception, and to hear me chat on about my work, you may get one of these little shortbreads. And you can review my art and my baking at one time!
Today is NJ Primary voting day, and for once we're in the spotlight. Usually since our primary is in June, the whole presidential picture is signed and sealed, done and dusted, over and done with, and our votes are an afterthought.
Not today though! And at the polls, I met a very young woman voting for the first time, exciting for both of us! I will bet any money our votes cancel each other, since she is of the Bernie demographic, but that might be assuming too much.
Anyway, the Dollivers broke out the moscato, for a glass of bubbly, to celebrate a truly historic day, no matter which party you vote for, in fact, first time in the history of our country for a woman to get the nomination of a major party.
Elton tactfully left the field to the women this time, so we just talked among ourselves, no accompaniment needed. And honor all the women who went before this day, in all nations where even getting the vote was a battle, and the women fighting for fairness here and now.
I thought it would be nice to make some Parmesan Crisps, from Ina Garten, for my part of a potluck event, annual stitchers' picnic. And since they're not just anybody, I pushed out the boat and got the real Parmigiano Reggiana, to make the best.
So here are the workings: fresh picked thyme from my front yard, growing very nicely after the long winter and longer spring, undaunted, fresh ground black pepper, bit of flour, bit of kosher salt, block of cheese ready to grate.
And here's the aromatic result
Let's hope I don't have to bring any home. I have a feeling I will be bringing an empty plate, though.
Here are two excitements from the world of gardening chez Boud. One, indoors, is the final appearance of a tiny baby begonia leaf, after waiting nearly a year for the planted leaf, which was broken off in a cat related incident from the parent plant, to show whether it was over it and ready to grow.
This is thrilling, since I have no access to the plant form, to replace the parent, you never know, with cats around. So I can propagate it the easy way, just stick a leaf into potting soil, keep it moist and wait. This leaf has doubled its size since I spotted it yesterday, so it's serious about growing.
And here's lavender in bloom, after three years of growing this plant in a pot. It suddenly bloomed yesterday
This weird winter into summer no spring season, evidently, is what she was waiting for. This on top of the white and yellow iris showing up after years, is a rapid series of lessons in just waiting. Don't just do something, sit there, is the moral of the story, I guess.
I do love to propagate house plants, partly because all the greenhouses and hothouses we used to get plants from, and the supermarkets with garden sections in winter, all went away, so access is much more limited now.
It's limited to gardener's larceny, that is, swiping cuttings from other people's plants, or being given them. Or, as in the case of the dracaena, cutting a leaf as rental for taking care of the parent plant for a summer. I now have my own, several inches high, all the cuttings succeeded. Or propagating from your own established plants. I give away a lot of cuttings, too, I hastily add.
And the burlap hanging planter is working out pretty well. I find that the best way to water is to aim the hose at the bottom of each burlap container, so as not to jostle the soil or the plant, but getting it all moist safely. Even though we've had rain, these little containers dry out rapidly on that warm wood fence, so I need to water daily.
Memorial Day is a mixed sort of day, partly a serious remembrance of the military lost in war, and for me, also the civilians also caught up in wars, particularly children. I try to be careful not to glorify combat and victory, so as not to be part of keeping it going, while honoring the suffering of the people in wars.
Then it's also taken as the first weekend of summer, joyful, weather permitting. This year weather was baking hot and between barbecues and various friend visits, I seized the day and the Dollivers.
I set them up with a little patriotic flower arrangement, so that they could get in training for lying about in the sun, while Elton played a rousing series of Sousa and other tunes but failed to get any marching going on around here. He tried Grand Old Flag, Stars and Stripes, My Country Tis of Thee, Star Spangled Banner, all to no avail.
The Ds were annoyed at being squashed onto one chair, wanted one each, but reluctantly agreed that a photoshoot with one D per chair stretching out into the distance wouldn't work so well.
But they did recover enough goodwill to send everyone for whom this is a holiday weekend wishes for a good weekend, a good holiday, and a good start to the season (summer up yar, fall down theah, where we also have readers).
Then last night, torrential rain, and this morning here's a wonderful Memorial Day observation:
the iris, given me by a friend, neither of us knowing what color it would be, throwing out only foliage for a couple of years, finally bust out overnight in bloom with this result.
This is enough to cheer a person up. Particularly when the friend, after seeing my pic this morning, mentioned that he would share more colors with me when he divides his iris this year. This patio is going to be an iris paradise before you know it.
This is in the nature of a Note to Self. Last week at the farmers' market I picked up a lovely bag of mixed mushrooms from the Kennet Square people, famous mushroom source in Pennsylvania, and decided now was the time to make again that quiche which makes a mushroom crust rather than a flour one.
Then came a protracted search for where the &;*&;*&;* recipe came from, using every tag I could think of. Finally found it in my ancient tattered old Sunset cookbook, so now I know where to find it. And my label on this post will help. As will a tip from JT on using the search box which I had totally never noticed in all these years. And a thought that searching in my own blog would have been good. Too late smart.
I subbed sharp cheddar for their bland old Jack, fresh chives for their scallions, and omitted paprika since I didn't have any. But it still worked a treat. Foreground cooking mushrooms with added cracker crumbs, on board chopped chives, shredded cheese, background eggs, cottage cheese and red pepper in blender.
It's one of those labor intensive deals that comes out smelling so great that it's worth it. And it's more than filling, on account of all the cheese and eggs.
So here's today's effort. Since Handsome Son is not a quiche fancier, this is for me and any neighbors who happen to get lucky.
Did I mention that strawberries came in this week?
best I've had ever, I think, right from the farm to my mouth!
A few days ago, there was a tragedy in the family of a friend, and today I walked the labyrinth as an observance of the loss of a very young man.
It occurred to me as I walked that there are now so many spirits populating these walks for me, of people who have left us, ages ranging from 23 to 93, all with such an impact on everyone around them. Every time I walk the labyrinth, they accompany me.
This young man was only known to me by name, his mother being the person I was in contact with, in the art world, and others have been similarly removed from me, yet they all have such power over our lives, and how we live them from now on. Those who were close to me have great directive influence, in ways that don't become clear for a while.
Today's walk, among the ash trees and maples and shrubs, had musical accompaniment from nesting birds. And as always, I entered confused and undirected, and left calm and with a sense that it's okay for me not to understand why such things happen.
In the interest of using up the fresh tamarinds, which had been in the fridge a while, and the rest of the plums after making a giant plum-studded cake for the freezer, I realized I could make jam.
Haven't made jam for ages, and it's not so hard. I used half a dozen of the fresh tamarinds, which I shelled and took the membrane off, then sort of broke up and poured about a cup of boiling water over it. Once it was cool enough to put fingers in, I worked it over to release the pulp from the seeds, which it doesn't want to do, then strained the lot into a bowl. The pulp goes through the strainer pretty well, giving you a thick liquid to work with.
And the plums were black dessert plums which I'd got at a good price, and I just cut them into chunks. About a dozen plums in all. Then with just one cup of sugar, no need to go mad with the sugar, I boiled the lot together until it thickened a bit, then added in only half a pouch of pectin, and went on cooking for a while.
It mostly filled two mason jars, and the day after, once it had cooled completely, made a great preserve to spoon over hot biscuits, more of those I made recently and froze, the ones with the golden raisins and the chopped walnuts.
Since there's no sugar in the biscuits, and not too much in the preserves either, you get the sweetness of the fruits, and a nice tang. You could use this preserve as a sauce with meat, if you eat meat, too. Or fish possibly. Or give as a nice little gift to a lucky friend.
Anyway, it was pretty good, and not a massive enterprise, unlike the way cookbooks act as if you were about to embark on a space mission.
This week, among a lot of other good things, three stand out nicely.
One is the shelf thing, made of actual wood, not mdf, found at the dumpster, needing only a dusting and damp wipe to take its place at the end of my bookcases, as a home for my collection of teapots. I thought the pots needed a bit more visibility, since they're so good to look at, and the top of a kitchen shelf didn't do it.
Reading north to south: Japanese clay, probably antique, pot, then shelf with three milk pitchers, one a Wedgwood Queensware piece, on an Irish Belleek, one an unmarked, aka back door, Lenox.
Then recent thriftie find, Japanese architectural shaped pot, metal handle then one down, a Chinese porcelain one, courtesy of the Asian store. Then at the bottom, a coiled pot with bamboo handle, might be Chinese, don't know, but signed in some way.
All very nice to see from the sofa. Interestingly, they all make tea taste different one from another. Same tea, same boiling water, different flavor.
Then there was a great lunch, salad of farm grown curly lettuce and scallions, with added homegrown romaine and curly, with chives, then dried figs chopped in. With a bowl of carrot and red lentil soup, into which I put a rind from a parmesan cheese, first time I tried this, and now I see why they do it. Great flavor addition, and there's yogurt whey in there, too. Also homemade chicken broth. This lunch is a repeating event, plenty of salad greens and soup available.
Then yesterday, after a brisk wind, neighbor stopped by to give me these white iris broken in the wind and she thought I'd like to have them. I will be drawing and painting and looking at these beauties for a couple of days.
So that's here for now.
This afternoon was a little tea for a friend, long planned, and finally it happened. Red Ted decided he needed her as his new person, so I agreed that since we had been thinking about whose home needed a Red Ted, this would work.
So tea laid, with Red Ted presiding, and we had a nice spread of parmesan crisps, hot biscuits with golden raisins, crushed walnuts and caraway seeds, buttered, and mixed fruit crumble with mango yogurt added on top. English Breakfast tea, two pots of same. We had a Good Time. Harrods had nothing on us.
Friend needed a respite from some major caregiving, and I decided this was a Good Thing, to cater to her, bake for her, and all that, just because someone should.
She arrived with a lovely gift, to my surprise, a pot of petunias sitting in a basket of her own make, wonderful addition to my basket holdings.
She's a great spinner, gave me my first spindle and sample of roving, basket maker, all kinds of talents, in addition to high powered day jobs.
So I guess we were both gifted today..and Red Ted couldn't wait to go home with her.
This road started last August when Piper, who writes the Comptonia blog, encouraged various readers to go to Twitter to follow a drawing series, and take part in it. Which I did, after a few minor struggles to learn Twitter, open an account, then fix the settings I'd got wrong and so on. And I found a site that has a lot of what I want to see, aside from a community of artists I am in regular touch with now, and a community of sheep farmers in the Yorkshire dales likewise.
I found that Anne Lamott posts there regularly, with all kinds of wise and funny tweets, from one of which I was directed to Henri Nouwen, a contemplative writer I'd never heard of, but got a lot out of (his book Home Tonight, mainly), which in turn led me to Etty Hilversum, and I really think this journey was foreordained in some way.
She, and, again, I had barely heard of her, is one of the most luminous and profound writers, so worth discovering and studying. I read her diaries, which are very dense and inward, to the point of being tiring to get through, since she was talking to her inner self, not an audience.
Then I went on to her letters, which are a wonderful jewel of a find. Written to many friends in Holland not yet in the camps, during the worst of the WW2 Nazi occupation of Holland, they chronicle her own internment on Dutch soil, the inevitable and terrible cattlecar transport to Poland, to Auschwitz, from which she did not emerge.
We see through her eyes the crushing series of greater
and greater restrictions put on the Jewish population culminating in the
mass arrests and removal to camps, then transport to Poland.
Even knowing that all this was going to happen, she writes cheerfully and in much more accessible language than in the diaries, for her reader, tempering her prose to the person intended, apologizing for asking for small favors to help her frail parents. Heroic.
All her family perished with her. She was 27, but in that short life packed more meaning than you can readily take in. Amazing wisdom and the capacity to find joy even in the most terrible of fates, always concerned to take care of her aged parents and her young brother, always able to stay ready for experience. She had a total zen sense of life, in that she believed that heaven and hell are present always in every moment. She lived that belief, rarely losing her good humor, sick, starving, cold, but undaunted, a social activist to the end.
She was difficult to read, but I felt I owed it to her and all the other Jews suffering then, to at least give it my attention now and get knowledge and direction from it, and to honor the writer. And to note that sadly, this kind of history is not all in the past.
It was in a way, a literary duty, like reading Foulks' Birdsong, set in WW1, about, among other things, the battle of the Somme, and the life if you can call it life, in the trenches, equally agonizing reading. I owed it to my dad who was there, and all the other young kids fighting in the trenches and not making it home, or making it home as a shell of the people they had been.
So, odd though it may seem as a recommendation to suffering, I do recommend Hilversum, a brilliant intellectual force extinguished too soon, as not just a book to read, but guidelines to a life elegantly lived, too.
The poetic coda, her last letter, thrown out from the train as they left for their sad destination, was found and mailed by a farmer, so the friend she'd written to in fact received it and understood the significance of it.
Bear with me if you have known about her for years, but I only just made the discovery and wanted to share, in case you didn't know of her. For me it's the kind of writing that forms a watershed in the reader's life, falling into before and after. It changes who you are.
It's great art, like many paintings and sculptures, that is not just an experience to have, but one that changes who you are and how you see the world after.
