FOOD ON THE FOOD

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving this year was less eventful than last year. However, that was only because the iron I left on while we were out of state for two days wasn’t close enough to anything flammable to set the house on fire, thank god. I guess I was too distracted by checking the oven 45 times before we left to make sure it was off to venture into the other rooms in the house. This is why I keep my ironing to a minimum.

Forty-eight hours earlier, far away from the blazing iron, Thanksgiving dinner with my dad and Nonni (now 91) was cozy and pleasant. This despite the very recent shadow of a rather significant death in the family from a rather significant disease (I’ll give you three guesses as to the culprit, but you won’t need that many). Still, the easy banter between Nonni and my dad remained more or less intact, like when my dad decided to do some of his laundry at Nonni’s house:

Her: You have some nerve.

Him: I’ll pay you for the water.

Her: The water’s free.

Him: Okay, then go outside and wash my car.

So even though it’s been a rough year for everybody, it seems, there are still plenty of things to be thankful for: a nice meal, family, free water, shelter, life, etc.

Aunt Margaret Ann Donroe Bellafronto
1942-2009

Is Anyone Hiring a Dictionary Editor?

Sometimes kids can boil things down to their best, most essential parts. Take the other night. Husband made his garlicky chicken and broccoli pasta dish. The 4YO, pleased with the dinner offerings that evening, sat down and said he was going to “enjoy” it. Not simply “like” it, but “enjoy” it. He said he hoped that we would enjoy it, too. He was very proud of his new vocabulary. Then he followed it up with, “Enjoy means you have a family, and you like the pasta. That’s what enjoy means.”

Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Wow, Winter Share!

This was one of two winter share distributions from Waltham Fields. Contents included:

1 bag arugula
1 bag mixed salad greens
1 bag spinach
1 head lettuce
1 bunch radishes
1 bulb fennel
3 stalks Brussels sprouts
4 broccoli crowns
4 cauliflower crowns
1 bunch kale
1 huge bunch collard greens
1 bag rainbow chard
1 bunch Asian braising greens
1 Napa cabbage
1 bok choy
5 leeks
7 red onions
5 yellow onions
7 shallots
8+ lbs. potatoes
8+ lbs. sweet potatoes
8+ lbs. carrots
2 butternut squashes
2 delicata squashes

Only four squashes total. Phew!

Sugar Mama

We’re still working our way through the Halloween candy, if you can believe it. We (the kids, I mean) got an unbelievable amount this year, probably because it was so warm outside that everyone was in a good mood, raining entire bags of candy in the vicinity of outstretched plastic pumpkin buckets.

We’ve been rationing out the loot to the kids if they eat a good dinner: two pieces for them, two pieces for mommy. That means they each get to pick out one for me—their choice—although I have absolute veto power over Smarties, Tootsie Rolls, NECCO wafers, or basically anything that’s not a Snickers, Milky Way, Kit Kat, Twix, Butterfinger, you get the idea. Husband gets an automatic Almond Joy.

As the First Grader was agonizing over what he could possibly spare from his dwindling reserves, the 4YO, who is still unclear on the concept of consequences, handed me a two-pack of peanut butter cups with a smile. Score! Husband looked on in disgust:

Him: (to the First Grader) Watch out. She’ll trick you out of your best candy.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: Notice that she doesn’t deny it.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: She’s got guilt written all over her chocolate-smeared face.

Me: (still chewing) ...

He can say whatever he wants. I know my Miranda rights.

Maybe He’ll Get Free French Fries

Over breakfast the other morning, I was explaining to the kids why we would be seeing a lot more of daddy around the house. I said there wasn’t any more work for him to do at his old job, so he would be looking for a new job. That seemed perfectly logical to the First Grader:

Him: What kind of a job is daddy going to get?

Me: I don’t know. Maybe something the same as what he had before.

(Earnest thinking from the First Grader)

Him: I know what he should be.

Me: What?

Him: A clown.

Now, why didn’t I think of that?

Tryp-to-fun

I know. Worst pun ever. But...

Looking for something to fill you up between now and Thanksgiving? Preferably something that won’t put you to sleep? A few local events to consider:

Novella Carpenter is reading from her Farm City memoir in Fort Point this evening, Friday, November 13, from 5:30 to 7:30 p.m. Yes, I know that’s just two hours from now. Did you already have plans? Joan Teebagy will also be there to talk about raising your own chickens in your backyard. Cost is $10. RSVP here. (Fort Point Artists Community store, 12 Farnsworth St, Boston, next to the new Flour Bakery, 617-423-1100)

Did you know that some of the best food around can be found at local-foods-oriented potlucks? It’s true. This weekend, Boston Localvores and the Urban Homesteaders’ League are hosting one on Sunday, November 15 from 5 to 7 p.m. in Inman Square. Bring a seasonal dish or beverage to share. Event is free. (Outpost 186, 186½ Hampshire St, Inman Square, Cambridge)

There’s a special screening of the Danish film, Babette’s Feast, at the Coolidge Corner Theatre on Monday, November 16 at 7 p.m. It will be followed by a discussion of the sense of taste led by food scientist Guy Crosby of Cook’s Illustrated and America’s Test Kitchen. Tix are $9.75 for adults, $6.75 for children, seniors, or members. (Coolidge Corner Theatre, 290 Harvard St., Brookline, 617-734-2500)

Maybe there’s some other stuff going on, too? Whatcha got?

Pilgrim’s Progress

We took the kids to Plimoth Plantation over the weekend during that wonderful spell of Indian summer we just had. (By the way, I don’t think the word “Indian” is offensive in the context of summer, do you? There were signs posted up all over the trails suggesting the use of the term “Native Peoples,” but “Native People summer” gives the impression of overwhelming numbers of native people being around during the actual summertime and so it’s confusing not to mention unwieldy, not unlike this tangent.)

If you’re not from around here and/or live under a rock that’s not Plymouth Rock, Plimoth Plantation is one of the biggest tourist attractions outside of Boston, with a full-scale replica of Plimoth colony circa 1627 complete with walking historians who act out the roles of the actual settlers, as well as a reproduction of a Wampanoag village. Maybe it’s uncool to admit it, but I was kind of excited to go back after all these years. I loved Plimoth Plantation as a kid, sneaking into other people’s homes and snooping through all their stuff. Later, as a teenager, I engaged in the fine art of Pilgrim-baiting (trying to trick the role-players into admitting knowledge of the modern world, as if no one’s ever tried that one before). Now that I’m older and oh-so-very-much-wiser, I couldn’t wait for my kids to have the same peek into 17th century life. And to tell the Pilgrims all about the Internet!

It’s a little bit awkward, though, to interact with the staff at period museums like this (Old Sturbridge Village included). You don’t want the actors to think you yourself are actually fooled by their phony accents and thatched roofs and very convincing daily chores going on around you. You know they’re just acting, and you know they know you know they’re just acting (you hope). But it’s also important to keep the magic alive for the children. What kind of a loser goes to a place like this and then refuses to participate (loud throat-clearing directed at Husband). In this vein, I was happy to aid the First Grader in his earnest quest to locate a young Pilgrim boy named Samuel Eaton he’d read about in a library book. But then maybe you might find yourself getting way too wrapped up in conversation with a possible distant relative of young Samuel to the point of cracking the eggs for her pain perdu while your children wander away.

After a while, Husband had to intervene because the other 21st century folk jammed into the one-room dwelling couldn’t get a word in edgewise:

Me: (to Pilgrim lady) So tell me again what you like to do with all these squashes.

Husband silently leads me out the door by the elbow.

Me: What?

Him: You do know they’re not real Pilgrims, right?

Me: Duh. I know that. I was just playing along.

Him: …

Me: But I was a little offended that she didn’t ask us to stay for lunch. She had three golden opportunities but kept changing the subject to the news from England. I didn’t make all those sausage patties for nothing.

That’s okay. There's always next time. I wonder what my new friends are doing two Thursdays from now?

Biggish Night

So, in a hilarious plot twist, Husband got laid off last week. At least I think it’s supposed to be funny. I keep fake-laughing and looking all around in the hopes that we’ve been punk’d by Ashton Kutcher and he’ll suddenly appear saying it was all a big practical joke so that I can punch him in the face. I’ll have to whip off my wig before the fists start flying to get the full G.I. Jane effect, especially if the cameras are still rolling. I think Ashton would appreciate the irony.

Husband doesn’t appear to be upset about this turn of events and, in fact, has a spring in his step and a song in his voice where previously there was neither. Meanwhile, I seem to be emitting a barely perceptible, high-frequency sound emanating from somewhere within my cranium which is causing all of the dogs in a five-mile radius to howl. It’s not that the layoffs were wholly unexpected. The two surprise unpaid furloughs this summer were as clear a sign as any. It’s just that, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it’s hard to find a job these days.

I was joking with Husband that we should empty out my piddly IRAs and throw a giant party with the works like what they did in Big Night, one of my top five favorite movies. Have you seen it? You must see it. It’s joyful. In fact, that’s your homework: to watch it if you haven’t already. You can borrow my copy, but you MUST send it back.

A big, delicious food bender with friends and large quantities of spirits sounded good to me, but Husband said he didn’t want to make a big deal about it. Sigh. As a compromise, I blew a cool fifty on wine, bread, cheese, pate, and olives at a local cheese shop and we had that instead. The wine was a Spanish tempranillo called Ultimatum. Perfect! I forgot the cornichons, though. Husband didn’t miss them. I believe his exact words were, “What the fuck’s a cornichon?”

Anyway, the moral of this story is: a) somebody please hire Husband; and b) as far as my job search is concerned, if anybody calls you for a reference, regardless of whether I’m actually qualified for the job at stake, you are to say that, no, I don’t write a blog, you don’t know what they’re talking about; that, yes, I’m healthy as an ox and will not put any sort of strain on their company’s health insurance premiums, no siree; that, yes, I get along well with others, and, in fact, contrary to what they may have heard, I have a very, very sparkling personality. Okay? Practice this ahead of time if you can’t say it with a straight face.

Soup Season

It’s that time of year again when I live on soup. When I dig out the stored-up bones in the freezer from the spring and summer, and combine the resulting stock with local beans and late season vegetables like kale and sweet potatoes.

This recipe for Cuban black bean and sweet potato soup came from The Chopra Center Cookbook by Dr. Deepak Chopra, a practitioner of the Ayurvedic health traditions of India. I’ve been reading up on the different ways one might modify one’s lifestyle to reduce the risk of a cancer recurrence. You know, just to educate myself on the different philosophies in case I might be open to any lifestyle adjustments at all. It’s unclear at the moment. Especially if it means not eating so much Halloween candy.

But I’m always open to soup. Soup seemed, at the very least, an okay place to start. Except that I think we can use an entire tablespoon of oil for that whole big pot of soup, maybe two, instead of the meager 1 teaspoon called for in the recipe. Sheesh.

Cuban Black Bean and Sweet Potato Soup

It seems like a lot of black pepper, I know. I held back at first, but then I ended up adding all the rest of it in at the end. It works.

1 cup black beans, sorted, rinsed, and soaked overnight in water
2 bay leaves
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 cup leeks or onions, diced
1 cup celery, diced
2 Tbsp. soy sauce
1 tsp. black pepper
1 cup carrots, diced
1 large sweet potato, peeled, cut into ½-inch cubes
2 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. oregano
1 pinch red pepper flakes
1 cup diced tomatoes (from a can is fine)
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock
2 cups torn kale
½ cup cilantro, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste

Drain and rinse the soaked beans and place in a large pot. Cover with water by several inches, add the bay leaves, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until soft (about 1 hour for my beans). Reserve 1 cup of bean stock, then drain off the rest and set beans aside, discarding bay leaves.

In the same pot, heat the oil. Add the leeks, celery, soy sauce, and pepper, and simmer for about 3 minutes. Add the carrots, sweet potato, cumin, cinnamon, oregano, and red pepper flakes. Sauté for 5 minutes, letting mixture brown slightly. Add the beans and the tomatoes. Simmer a few more minutes, and then add the stock and reserved bean cooking liquid. Add water if the liquid doesn’t cover the contents of the pot. Simmer the soup until the sweet potatoes are soft. Add the greens and stir to wilt in the hot soup. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with cilantro just before serving.

Local Sources:

Sweet potatoes, carrots, leeks: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Black beans: Baer’s Best (Moraine Farm), Beverly, MA (via Russo’s)

Chicken bones for stock: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

Sauerkraut Redux

Cabbage, salt in.
Sauerkraut out.
You know the drill.
Forty days, 40 nights,
God willing,
For an early Christmas present.

Don’t fail me, Self.

Closing Out the ELC

I forgot to show you my last Eat Local Challenge meal of the month: Indian cauliflower and potatoes, ginger-creamed kale, and chicken tikka masala over rice. The rice was not local, but let me remind you that I was not officially doing the Eat Local Challenge this year. Just a scaled-back effort in spirit and solidarity. So although I had my local Baer’s Best barley at the ready to substitute for the rice, I didn’t wanna, and so I didn’t. I have other plans for that barley, which don’t involve pretending that it’s basmati rice.

Also, what you can’t see in the picture is that Husband and I consumed the whole meal while floating on our backs in a swimming pool, trays of food resting on our chests. Because we’re both such excellent swimmers!

Local Sources:

Onions, cauliflower, kale, garlic: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Potatoes: Picadilly Farm, Winchester, NH

Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Ginger: Me, Waltham, MA

Chicken: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

Yogurt: Liberté, Montréal (technically Canadian, but they use milk from Vermont farms and I LOVE their yogurt)

Something’s Fishy Around Here

The raccoons have been having a field day ever since we joined a community-supported fish co-op (like a CSA, but with fish). A CSF (no, really!).

Somehow the raccoons knew about our first pickup even before we brought the trash out that night, which contained the remains of two haddocks I filleted (butchered is more like it, though sharpened knives and lots of practice have since improved my technique by a small fraction). As I made my way in the dark to the trash cans, I could see 20 pairs of glowing eyes in the bushes. “Don’t get too excited,” I said, as I dropped the bag into the barrel and carefully backed away. “It’s mostly just skin.” Then I sprinted inside before they could shake me down.

Late last night, emboldened by the prospect of pollock and three flounders (where do they get their information?), the raccoons and their extended families were all lined up at the picnic table on our well-lit porch, forks in paws, one of them tapping his watch while looking me dead in the eye. Don’t they know I keep all of the good trash for stock?

Cape Ann Fresh Catch has been doing a brisk business since they started selling shares in their CSF earlier this year. After missing the boat this summer, I signed up for a trial run in October through a partnership they were developing with my CSA (cue shot of boats run aground in the fields, lines tangled up in tomatillo plants, another fisherman pulling up a rabbit).

However, the CSF ran into a snafu with the City of Waltham, which doesn’t allow for traveling vendors. I believe “gypsies” was the term the City used. Nice. Anyway, the fish people had to nix the Waltham location and so they tacked me onto the one already underway at Codman Farm, which was met with furious clapping on my part since that meant I could now combine my fish shopping with my bacon shopping. Now I’m just working on the timing of getting to the late afternoon pickup, bringing the fish home, filleting it, and getting dinner on the table before bedtime. Not easy, but the fish is great.

I like the idea of a CSF for many reasons, not least of which is that I’d rather see smaller, local fishing operations, which have a stake in the condition of the regional marine environment and fish stocks, remain in business. Certainly the large corporations or whoever they are (pirates?) conducting their massive ocean-scouring operations don’t really care about dumb things like that.

As a member of a CSF, you and the local fishermen engage in a risk-sharing arrangement. If the weather is bad and conditions are dangerous, they don’t go out. They catch what is running that day instead of chasing down whatever is going to fetch the highest price. Having customers signed up guarantees a market. In return, you the customer get the freshest possible fish for a very good price and the knowledge that you’re supporting the local economy and an industry that has been historically important in this part of the country for centuries. Have you noticed how hard it is to get local fish around here? Surrounded as we are by ocean? Frankly, it makes no sense.

I’m two weeks into my share. So far, so good. I cook some, and put some in the freezer for the winter. Has anyone else joined? And what do you think?

A Simple Matter of Interpretation

A few weeks ago, Husband was on furlough from his job and both kids were at school, so we took that opportunity to go out for Indian buffet at a restaurant that shan’t be named but which was less delicious and far filthier than I remember. As we were talking and shoveling large quantities of mediocre-but-still-somehow-enticing food down our gullets, Husband mentioned how much he loves to swim. Which goes to show that it’s never too late to learn something new about your spouse.

Me: You love to swim?

Him: Yes.

Me: Really?

Him: Of course.

Me: Oh. I didn’t know that.

Him: What are you talking about? I swim all the time.

Me: I can’t remember the last time I saw you swim. In fact, in all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you swim. Do you know how to swim?

Him: That’s completely ridiculous. We go to the beach all the time.

Me: Yeah, on the bay side where the tidal pools are up to your knees. I don’t think that counts as swimming.

Him: We go to lakes and ponds sometimes, too.

Me: Yes, with the kids. I know. But your feet are touching the bottom.

Him: So.

Me: So that’s not swimming.

Him: I know how to swim. If you brought me to a pool right now I could easily float for an hour and half. You can time me.

Me: Float?

Him: Yes.

Me: That’s not swimming, either.

Him: What do you mean that’s not swimming? It’s not drowning.

Me: But you’re not even moving.

Him: I’m not sinking…

Me: So when people say, “Hey, let’s go swimming,” you imagine everyone cannon-balling in and doing the dead man’s float?

Him: Or whatever they wanted. What’s your idea of recreational swimming? Doing laps? That, um, sounds fun.

Me: Well, treading water, at least.

Him: I consider swimming to be anything that’s not drowning. Having water cover most of my body, but not my air holes.

Me: (spitting out my chicken tikka masala) Well, that covers a lot of ground. Does a bath count?

Him: Okay, since you’re such a good swimmer, why don’t you tell your readers about the time you were a camp counselor at the Y and got fired for getting drunk in the locker room before teaching swimming lessons.

Me: That’s not what happened AT ALL. I didn’t even teach swimming lessons.

God, doesn’t anyone fact-check these posts?

A Coupla More Local Meals

There have been a few more local meals on our table during this year’s Eat Local Challenge, though none photographed. You lucked out this time.

For lunch on Tuesday, for example, I had eggplant and oregano fritters stuffed with goat cheese and a big salad with radishes and hakurei turnips. The following night, we had pork chops with an apple cider vinegar pan sauce, mashed potatoes, and creamy braised Brussels sprouts with apple crisp for dessert. For another lunch, there was butternut squash, ginger, and Asian pear soup garnished with crumbled goat cheese (and a side of non-local tortilla chips). And just tonight, oven fries and hamburgers topped with havarti cheese and green tomato relish. (The masking tape on the jar of relish says I made it 8/09, though I have no recollection of actually doing it.)

Of course, I could just be making all that shit up and no one would be the wiser. Guess you’ll never really know for sure!

Local Sources:

Eggplant, garlic, lettuce, radishes, turnips, shallots, Brussels sprouts, butternut squash, onions, green peppers, green tomatoes: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Goat cheese: Vermont Butter & Cheese Company, Websterville, VT

Eggs: Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA

Apple cider vinegar, Asian pears: Carlson Orchards, Harvard, MA

Mustard: Raye’s Mustard, Eastport, ME

Pork chops, hamburgers: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

Potatoes: Picadilly Farm, Winchester, NH

Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Milk: Our Family Farms of Western Massachusetts, MA

Apples: Autumn Hills Orchard, Groton, MA

Oatmeal: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME

Ginger, oregano: Me!, Waltham, MA

Havarti cheese: Smith's Farmstead, Winchendon, MA

Grape Expectations

We’ve been enjoying fruit from Autumn Hills Orchard in Groton for three seasons now through a partnership they have with local CSAs. The shares consist of mostly apples--different varieties, all delicious--but some weeks you’ll get a few pears or peaches mixed in, a pint of prune plums, or, as we recently received, a bunch of Concord grapes.

The grapes smelled so good, I couldn’t even believe it. I got a little drunk off the heady aroma and started engaging in some grape-related tweeting, mostly about where one might find teeny-tiny dollhouse-sized mason jars to fit the amount of jam I’d be able to make with a single bunch of grapes. Pretty soon, Ann at Autumn Hills was offering to drop more off at my house while making her delivery rounds. I tried not to sound too desperate as we made arrangements.

Later on that day, under cover of darkness, the grape fairy left on my porch five pounds of the most fragrant, sweet, musky grapes this side of Concord. Which made the most fragrant, sweet, delicious grape jam I’ve ever tasted. Seriously, I can’t bring myself to put it on peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter wouldn’t know a classy jam if it kicked him in the nuts.

I don’t have a canner or anything snazzy like that. I don’t usually “can” anything officially. I just make enough of whatever it is that can be consumed within two months and then store it in jars in the fridge. But now I’m getting the bug. Blame it on Calamity Shazaam in the Kitchen who attended Eugenia Bone’s recent canning class and had the marinated cauliflower to prove it. This other cool canning blog didn’t hurt, either. So, I canned 9 out of the 12 jars of jam, as many as would fit in my pot at one time, and refrigerated the rest.

Looking at the purple jars lined up in my pantry (aka some shelves at the top of the basement stairs), I can’t wait to savor the taste of sweet summer sunshine in between chiseling our way out of our ice house this winter. I’ve already polished off a jar spreading it on my morning toast and mid-morning snack/mid-afternoon snack/dessert of jam/Manchego cheese. This stuff is supernatural.

Next, I’m canning applesauce. You can’t stop me.

Concord Grape Jam

I accidentally bought the pectin for sugar-free recipes instead of the regular kind because reading labels is not my strong suit. It worked perfectly, though. I wouldn’t change a thing.

5 lbs. Concord grapes, plucked from the vine, washed

1 cup water

1 box pectin (not gelatin)

7 cups sugar

Sterilize your jars however you like to do it. I boiled them for 10 minutes in a stock pot, jars resting on their metal rings to keep the glass from rattling horribly on the bottom.

In another large pot, mash grapes, add water, and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer 10 minutes. Let cool a bit, then run through a food mill. Of the three disks that came with the food mill, I used the one with the mid-sized holes, which kept out seeds and skins but kept in a little bit of pulp, not too much. I was left with about 7 cups of grape puree. Return puree to pot, add pectin, and bring to a hard boil. Stir in the sugar, return to a boil, and cook 1 minute longer. Remove from heat.

Ladle into sterilized jars leaving about ½-inch of headspace. Wipe off rims of jars with a damp paper towel. Screw on lids and boil jars for 10 minutes in water covering them by 1 inch. Let cool 24 hours (you should hear the suction pull the metal lids inward with a pop as they cool). If you don’t achieve a good seal or if you want to just skip the canning, store the jars in the refrigerator and give away whatever you won’t be able to eat. Label jars with the date. Makes 12 half-pint jelly jars.

Source: Adapted from The Salted Cod. We did a jam swap last year, so I knew his recipe was a good one.

On Track

The 3YO completed his transformation into a 4YO over the weekend, right on schedule. If you’re imagining a change of Incredible Hulk-type proportions, you’re not that far off. It’s hard to grow up. There’s a lot of roaring and vein-bulging and turning strange colors. A good deal of throwing things that you thought were pretty well anchored-down, not to mention clothes fitting one minute and falling off in shreds the next. The 4YO’s growing pains are legendary, causing him to wake up in the middle of the night yowling, “My bones are breaking.” The kid is growing like a tenacious weed (but a weed that’s finally out of diapers, praise Jesus).

Another year means another birthday party, so Husband got to flex his cake- decorating muscles once again. This year, the theme was trains. Not trains with faces, though. Don’t be silly. The 4YO is WAY beyond Thomas the Tank Engine, he’ll have you know, even though I still catch him playing with them once in a while. No, non-anthropomorphized trains were the order of the day, and Husband (an engineer in his own right) delivered:

You have to admit it’s pretty cute. Each boxcar is a double-layered cake with Life-Savers for wheels. I was initially turned off by the thought of a wintergreen/ chocolate frosting combination, but Husband got the orange-flavored ones and the combo wasn’t half bad.

Husband’s creations seem to have sparked a vicious game of one-upmanship among the dads in the neighborhood (if, by vicious, I mean delicious). Tractors and treasure maps have recently been rendered out of cake and icing to the delight of children and wives alike. I wonder what feats of engineering are in store for us next year?

Thank heaven for little boys!

One Local Meal

Are the leaves unusually spectacular this year or is it just me? Every time I turn a corner, the view is more spectacular than the last. It makes me want to drive around and around, maybe even get out of my car, which is good since this is the season to stock up on farm products while you still can.

I did manage to put together an all-local lunch yesterday in the spirit of the Eat Local Challenge: eggs over-easy atop garlicky kale, pan-fried breakfast sausages from Chestnut Farms, and buttery whole-grain sourdough toast with husk cherry-apple butter. I already had most of it in the house.

It was, admittedly, a little heavy on the protein. In the end, I only ate half the sausage so you don’t have to notify the Cancer Police. Some of the reading I’ve been doing lately is leading me to believe that the only meal that won’t kill me is one that has every last drop of everything I enjoy (meat, dairy, sugar, fat of every kind) sucked out of it. But then, I ask you, what kind of a life is that?

Local Sources:

Sausage: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA

Eggs: Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA

Kale, garlic: Waltham Fields, Waltham, MA

Bread: Nashoba Brook Bakery, Concord, MA

Butter: Mendon Creamery, Mendon, MA

Husk cherry-apple butter: Local sources here

Apple cider: Carlson Orchards, Harvard, MA

Peach Fuzz

My hair is growing back!

Just barely, but there’s definitely a two o’clock shadow on the crown of my head, except soft and fuzzy rather than rough and sandpapery. This makes me happy because now I have visible, tangible proof that we might be wrapping things up cancer-wise, at least for the time being. Especially after watching all of my eyelashes suddenly disappear late last week.

This is not to say I’m throwing out my wigs anytime soon. I’ve grown very fond of them, actually. It’s their low-maintenance quality that I find most attractive, but also that they require virtually no care at all. Plus, they look nice most of the time, which is a marked improvement over the previous status quo. The blond one, I’ve noticed, seems to be especially popular with old men. So far, I’ve received several invitations to come over and watch People’s Court reruns over Steak-Umms and Klondike bars. I’m no fool. I’ve accepted them all.

Anyway, that’s my big news. Possible hair. Sorry to drag you all the way over here just for that.

Pancakes (and Parentheses)

I haven’t cooked that much this week due to a looming deadline I foolishly thought I’d be up for.  (Note to self: Get your life in order first.  You have all the time in the world for this kind of stuff later.  Maybe.) 

Happily, Husband made his famous Eat Local blueberry pancakes (along with Codman Farm bacon) for dinner last night, or “brinner” as the First Grader likes to call it.  I always find the act of eating pancakes to be not only delicious but therapeutic.  My ritual has been the same for as long as I can remember:

Place pat of butter on top of each warm pancake, preferably on a stack three high, to induce at least partial melting (soft, partially melted butter is always better than fully melted butter; cold, hard butter is unacceptable).  Pour maple syrup over the stack, making sure most of it drips down the sides forming pools for dipping.  Gravity has never let me down so far. (Over the years, I’ve settled on the dipping strategy because dry pancakes with the syrup already soaked in might as well have no syrup at all.  You can keep pouring more syrup on top, but it’s just going to keep soaking in.  How big is your maple syrup budget?  My rule of thumb is, if the piece of pancake I’m about to eat doesn’t shine with syrup, then there’s not enough syrup.  (Hence the dipping.)). 

One side of the stack at a time, cut off the edges, dip them, etc. (I tend to cut them into smaller pieces to make the process last as long as possible).  That leaves me with a square stack of interior pancakes soaked with maximum butter, which gets cut into four equal squares (NOT triangles) to mop up the syrup until it’s gone.  Add more syrup to finish off squares.  Note remaining syrup.  Get more pancakes to finish off syrup.  Repeat.  (Pancake-to-syrup ratio is similar to the milk-to-cereal ratio discussed in previous guest post.)

You could analyze this all sorts of different ways, about saving the best for last or trying to exert some control over one’s environment, but I think it’s just that I really like butter and maple syrup.  Needless to say, my manner of pancake consumption drives Husband crazy.  For me, it’s comforting because it reminds me of who I am.  This becomes increasingly important the less physically recognizable I become.  And, who I am, apparently, is someone who likes to subject herself to alternately stressful and euphoric manic writing binges with unreasonable deadlines. 

(And pancakes.)

 

Blueberry Whole Wheat Pancakes

I’m reprising this recipe from a post a few years ago, it’s such a favorite.

4 eggs
2 cups milk
¼ cup vegetable oil
6 Tbsp. butter, melted
1¼ cup whole wheat flour
1¼ cup all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp. baking powder
2 Tbsp. maple sugar
1 tsp. salt
1½ cups frozen blueberries, defrosted

Beat eggs in a large bowl until light and foamy.  Add milk, oil, and butter, and whisk to blend.  Sift dry ingredients over wet ingredients in bowl, and whisk until combined.

Heat nonstick frying pan over medium heat until hot (test by flicking some water into the pan; the water droplets should sizzle vigorously and disappear).  Pour batter into pan in the size you prefer, and sprinkle blueberries over the batter.  Let the pancakes get some color, then flip.  Repeat with remaining batter.  Apply butter and maple syrup, and you’re good to go.

Local Sources:

Eggs, bacon: Codman Farm, Lincoln, MA

Milk: Stonyfield Farm, Londonderry, NH

Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT

Whole wheat flour: Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME (mail order)

Maple sugar: The Warren Farm & Sugarhouse, North Brookfield, MA (Waltham Farmer’s Market)

Blueberries: Wyman’s, Milbridge, ME

Maple syrup: Butternut Mountain Farm, Morrisville, VT

Ch-Ch-Changes

My birthday was on Saturday and the best present ever, in addition to this decadent chocolate cake my BFF made me, is feeling like a real person again, not the hollowed-out husk of a human being I was a month ago.

Last week saw me back on my bike, pedaling through crispy leaves over to my kid’s school where I’m now a volunteer librarian.  I can run up my stairs again instead of crawling.  Literally crawling.  Precious, hydrating spring water no longer tastes like the dregs of the Charles River.  I’ve ceased to approach my meals like an entire pack of hungry wolves, desperate to fill the gaping void in my stomach and my soul.  (Oh, who am I kidding?  I still do that.) 

Other changes: the children aren’t required to talk in whispers and sign language anymore (I foolishly lifted the ban on screaming only to promptly reinstate it).  Scrolling down a web page doesn’t make me nauseous.  Everything else doesn’t make me nauseous.  The vomiting has stopped, except for the other day when I suddenly threw up for no apparent reason right as I was walking out the door (what was up with that?), but then I felt better.  Normal everyday activities don’t seem like impossible, monumental chores.  Except for vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms, which always seem like impossible, monumental chores. 

But how I really knew things were taking a turn for the better was a few mornings ago when it was time to get up, but I refused, and Husband laid his arm across me and started applying gentle but unmistakable pressure about the bladder area.  Then, when I protested and rolled over, he lovingly placed his foot in the small of my back and slooowwwwwly extended his leg all the way out until I slumped onto the floor.

Yup, things must be getting back to normal around here!