Food and Kitchen Stuff / Maybe Boring, Maybe Not

Garden harvest, July 21, 2014.

Close up of pickling cucumbers, to be made into sour pickles.

A rainy day dinner of corn chowder, salad with buttermilk dressing, cold beer, and baby.

Popular open faced sandwich:  sourdough toast, thin spread of mayonnaise, fresh and sliced tomatoes, big crunchy salt.

Keeping my eye on these Italian plums down the street which made me think of all the ones I froze last summer.  I found them in the way way back and made something with them quick before the new ones ripen.

Give me just one rainy day in the summer and before you know it I'm dumping flour into measuring cups, spilling milk into a batter, creaming butter and sugar. It's like a reflex. This plum crumble cake tart thing pretty much made itself though. 

Adapted from a recipe in Ripe by Nigel Slater. 

1.5 lbs        Italian plums, cut in half 

1 1/2 cups  Flour (I used white but you could probably use whole wheat)

1 cup          Almond meal (I food processed a large handful of whole almonds)

1/2 cup      Brown sugar 

1 stick        Butter, cold and cut into little cubes

1/2 tsp       Salt

1/4 cup      Pine nuts (or not.)

Put almonds in food processor, zizz (blend) until it becomes a coarse meal.  Add flour, sugar and salt. Pulse a few times to combine. Add butter and zizz until it is broken down into again, a coarse meal. Like you are making biscuits.

Line a 9x9" pan with parchment paper. Dump 2/3 of the flour mixture in and press down. Not too much tho. Not like you are compacting gravel more like you are patting down the dirt after you plant seeds in the garden. 

Arrange or scatter plums any which way. Dump rest of flour mixture on top so plums are sticking out a little. Scatter pine nuts. 

Bake in 350 degree oven for 40-50 minutes. Let cool, mostly, before slicing up and devouring. No after photo because too good.

Before:

Walk On

There is this woman who is obsessed with Hank. Twice she has pulled over and yelled after us because she needs to say hi to Hank.  Once she invited him over to her house any time he wants. Apparently she has an entire floor devoted to his species. Last week when she pulled over I continued walking. I was about 50 feet down the road from her but she insisted we turn around and say hello.  Sawyer had just fallen asleep so I tried to mime that he was sleeping and I had to keep going.  She yells, "What is that in there?!" I replied, "A baby." "Oh, okay then." She says.  Okay then. Again, she pulled over a few days ago to tell us we are "The walkiest people she knows".  This might be true.  

We went to Seattle to visit Seamus and Liz and pretty much ended up walking the entire time.  If we aren't in our normal routine, walking is a surefire way to get the baby to sleep. If we are in our normal routine, we find ourselves walking anyway. I also think it helps me to stay awake.  If I was stationary I might just fall over. Although sometimes we fantasize about the stroller being big enough for a baby and an adult. I also wish there were way more roadside food stands around here.  Like, any. Particularly ones that sell sweet & savory hand pies. 

In between walks, Liz made us the most delicious Bahn Mi sandwiches I have ever had. Included inside was almond chili paste, sautéed shittake mushrooms, cilantro, mint, tofu, greens, pickled radish and carrots.  I could eat one everyday.  I ate two.  I could eat two everyday. She buys the buns at a vietnamese bakery.  They often see older vietnamese shoppers hauling garbage bags full of buns. That might be me in the near future. They are that good. They also make these sesame breads.  Perfectly chewy and at the very same time soft inside.  They remind me of a bagel in stick shape.  Paired with a coconut La Croix is a pretty perfect snack.  

An old building with a hand painted sign always stirs me up.  I think, we could buy this and open a business!  Or several businesses!  We'd hardly have to fix it up at all! I like it just the way it is! We could have a family business with lots of different services! A wood shop, a bakery, a sewing machine set up in the corner and we could sell stuff in the front, a mini apothecary station, probably some coffee.  I get a little delusional.

We found this old photo of my mom in a photo album.  Taken in 1978 holding Seamus at 6 months old in front of their old volvo. 

I guess someday we will look back on days like these with the same fondness. Days where we walk for eight miles without wondering where or why, stopping for ice cream instead of dinner, not looking at ferry schedules or phones, and eating perfect sandwiches. I wonder if these will always be the days. 

Dappled With Sun

We harvested the garlic a week or two ago.  Every single head is big and beautiful.  This is stuff to be proud of.  We left it out to cure in the sun, not realizing that it can spoil if you do that for too long.  The heatwave kinda cooked some of the cloves.  I mourned for a night over the whole deal but today I used a head that was perfectly fine.  Why did I ever mourn over garlic anyway. Gardening is full of hidden lessons and life metaphors.  

Sawyer gets so sleepy. He still sleeps every 2-3 hours. He rubs his eyes in this really cute way.

Then he perks right up! Always rallying for a good time.

Hank the boy.  Dappled with sun.

The sunsets have been on fire. One night we got out of bed and leaned out the window to take some pictures.

Smiling eyes.

Dried flowers and leaves from plants outside to be made into sun tea.  I walk around so much with Sawyer.  If I can't get him to fall asleep I can always take him out for a walk.  He loves motion as most babies do.  This year I've been getting into collecting plants for tea.  The more I learn about it the more it seems that nearly every native plant is edible and a great medicine.  Sometimes I have to laugh at myself for filling my pockets with twigs and debris though.

Sunshine in the morning.  Queen Anne's Lace.  Reminds me of home and summer. Of fields and roadsides.  

Sometimes we wake up too early.  Like, 5:30 after a rough night.  There's always coffee.  Coffee saves tired lives.  I can't imagine life without it and I'm so serious about that.

Morning coffee walk. Dry field, green tree horizon, blue sky, moon dot.

Trellised cucumbers, climbing high.

S got a high chair.  He doesn't quite fit into it yet so he is a king in his throne.  May there be no hard surfaces.  And that is final.

Pasta shaped like backwards S.  Made some pasta with sautéed zucchini, fresh garlic, red walla walla onion, basil and parsley.  Grana padano.  We are kings, it's true.

Hanging diapers in the sun.

I tried to get Ramone to pose with The New Yorker.  To make it look like he was reading and that he earmarks interesting articles for me. I've always wished someone would do this for me.  But he wouldn't have it.  He is too honest.

In My Kitchen

Every Thursday different folks around the world record snapshots in their kitchens and post them up to This Week In My Kitchen.  I always want to see how other people eat and how they set up their kitchen so I decided to join in. 

The usual suspects.

Cooking from cookbooks.

Summer rice noodle bowls.  With mango and fresh peas.  Cucumber and cilantro.

Shelling peas.  Just like the old days.

Sun tea with hibiscus, nettle, raspberry leaf, fir tip, red clover.

The Heartache of Acceptance

Every morning I take baby and Hank for a walk after breakfast and coffee.  Sawyer sleeps, Hank walks, and I listen to a podcast.  It's great.  We all love it and we all get something out of it.

This morning I listened to this Marc Maron interview with Rosanne Cash.  It turns out that I love her. I never knew her and now I do.  Podcasts are great for people who live in the country.  Also for a new parent. It's hard to get out and we still don't have many friends here. But now I feel like I just had coffee with Rosanne. (Were already on a first name basis.) She talked about all the lives she has lived and the hardship that came along with them. And the heartache of acceptance.  This has been on my mind lately but I haven't been able to put it into words. Well, to be honest I haven't tried. But it describes the cause for the heaviness I get in my chest sometimes. 

It made me think of change and letting go. Of relationships and relinquishing control.  It made me think of everything. Ever. I guess we must accept in order to move on, in order to love. We must accept so we can be easier on others and on ourselves.

Sometimes this can hurt.  It can feel like swimming against the current. Like a boulder on our chests. It can feel like fighting instead of accepting.  I think often we do fight it and beat ourselves up for not just accepting things to be how they are. Or how they've changed. Just accept and it will be so much easier.  But not entirely.

We will never be free from heartache. There are the little aches that will pass; the peas that never come up, the seasons changing. And there are the aches that stick around for days and years. The ones that become a part of us. 

I guess it's living with a heart. 

An Honest View

I want to write about all of it. The growing baby, the brave garden towering on, the dinners I throw myself into, the hum drum pots and pans clanking around listening to baby and dean yakking it up in the next room, and we eat it up all too fast. 

The 7:00 bed time for mr. so and so and the 3 hours I am inside after that when the sun is still beaming away out there.  

The fleeting summer fruit I madly eat like a wild animal, tucking some away for colder months like squire the squirrel.

Eating steel cut oats while I walk down the driveway in the morning, baby and dog in tow, leaving my bowl on a fence post for the walk home, also coffee cups left in trees on our favorite trail only to find and retrieve days later.  Twice running into a woman walking her dog, who can't remember Sawyer's name. "It's 'Journey', right?"  

The crowds of peas weighing heavy on curly vines and in brimming bowls of salad we struggle to finish the last bites; so full. Walking down the wild rose path on our nightly stroll with an honest view of my mom whittling a spoon on the porch. Also, she makes herself fancy scallop dinners for one.

The raspberry popsicles I made and guiltily eat in front of Sawyer while I apologize to him that he's too little for frozen treats just yet. He reaches out instinctively knowing something good when he sees it. 

Hanging laundry on the line ruminating on generations of women everywhere who have done this and who do this, later folding shirts that could stand up and walk around on their own they are so stiff. 

Picking wild sweet pea flowers and keeping close track of the progress of blackberries ripening and when will they be ready. 

Bouncing nursing laying driving walking singing patting baby to sleep multiple times a day, I lose track of time and everything. Digging my heels deep into routine and thriving in it but hoping it doesn't crush adventure and spontaneity also risk and fun. Missing everyone all the time, friends far away, friends around the block, family across the sound.

Loving the library with great passion wanting to give all librarians medals and cakes. Hearing on the radio how important it is to read to babies and giddy up pony to the library we go, totes shoved tight with books. Checking out one called "Pete's a Pizza" about a little boy who is a piece of pizza. 

Making the animals talk even when I'm home alone. Eating my dad's award winning (in my heart) bread and bagels happily. 

Walking around the block with shelling peas spilling out of my pockets feeling a tinge of longing for the farming days but only enough twinge for happy nostalgia.

The days are sometimes mundane and drift thru to weekends that we eat up like handpies. 

Loving bed and any amount of sleep I can muster up. Even 5 minutes of weird thoughts that could have been a foggy dream I don't know but I'll take it. 

Appreciating coffee so much I love that it exists and can't believe the journey it makes from the plant to my cup it's totally insane. 

Drinking up Sawyer's sweetness. His new downy hair he's a little baby duck and I croon and he yammers on and I yawn and he sings his scales. Off-key and perfectly so.