FOOD ON THE FOOD

In Which I Lose My Already Tenuous Credibility

Yesterday, we took advantage of the rain to go blackberry-picking among the canes growing wild at a nearby park.  The bees, I had heard, have been particularly agitated lately, sending several neighborhood children home in tears on one of the few sunny afternoons we’ve had.  I attributed this to the bees’ formidable to do list combined with a weather-restricted work schedule.  Don’t we all get that way from time to time?

I figured that the pouring rain might work in our favor.  With the bees on siesta, maybe our non-stealthy approach to foraging might go unnoticed.  And it did, allowing us (me, mostly) to pick a scant pint.  The rain did not, however, save me from being stung by angry three-year-olds.  Soggy, angry three-year-olds:

Him: Mommy, I want a raspberry.

Me: These are blackberries.  Here, have one.

Him: No, I want a raspberry.

Me: There aren’t any raspberries here.  Only blackberries.

Him: But Mommy, I see a raspberry RIGHT THERE.

Me: Ohhhh.   Those red berries aren’t raspberries, they’re unripe blackberries.

Him: Yes, they ARE raspberries.  I see them RIGHT THERE.

Sheesh, the kid grows up in a CSA and suddenly he’s a berry expert.  (To be fair, they do look exactly like raspberries.)

Me: No, those don’t taste good.  Try one of these.

Him: Nooooooo, Mommy, nooooo…RASPBERRIIIIIEEEEESSSSS…

Me: Okay, fine.  Here.  (handing him a red one)

He tastes it, shivers.  I go back to picking.

Him: …Can I have a blackberry, please?

Me: Exactly.

Meanwhile, the angry six-year-old stayed behind in the car.  Something about it raining really hard.  Yeah, kid, what else is new?  Mommy needs to get the hell outside before she hangs herself with her computer cord.

Author's Note: What makes this post hilarious is that, come to find out, those berries aren’t blackberries at all, but black raspberries.  Because I can never pass up an opportunity to be a moron.  You can read all about the berry differences in the comment section, but how I found out was at dinner tonight when we had some friends over and I threw the remaining “blackberries” into a blueberry cobbler I was making and my friend said, those aren’t blackberries, they’re black raspberries, and I had to smile about what I wrote, knowing how smug I was to think I could win a battle of wits with a preschooler.  WRONG.  So, yes, the 3YO was right about the plant classification.  As for me, well, at least I know my colors!

Mushroom Madness

So, while all of this medical shit was going down, there were mushrooms.  There was the first flush of oyster mushrooms back in May, as you might recall.  Then, there was a second flush.  And then a third.  But, as always, things didn’t quite go according to plan.

The plan, of course, was to eat the mushrooms.  But when the second flush appeared, as discovered by the 3YO, who seems to be developing a greenish- brown tinge to his thumbs, we were in the middle of making our getaway to the Cape for Memorial Day weekend and mushrooms were the furthest thing from our minds.  Still, I was delighted to note that there were four times as many mushrooms as before. 

A long weekend, however, was too long.  Upon our return, all of these mushrooms had curled up into sad little husks.  Damnit!  I went off and sulked.  The mushroom instructions mentioned nothing of a third flush, so I reluctantly moved on to other distractions.  A few days later, I noticed that these disgusting little wormy things were crawling all over the mushroom remains.  Whatever.  I figured they’d compost themselves and we’d try again next year.

Then came June and the rain.  And the rain and the rain and the rain.  The sun may have come out once in three weeks and, on that day, the 3YO checked on what he was now referring to as “his” mushrooms since he was doing all the work.  Look what he found among the shriveled remains of the last crop:

Whoa!  “His” mushrooms were HUGE, and instead of presenting as little individual umbrellas, as mine had, they were stacked and layered, seemingly clinging to the side of the bucket for dear life as the floods subsided.  Maybe two or three pounds worth, they were exactly what oyster mushrooms should look like (except for maybe the ass-shaped one). 

Wow, I thought to myself, this is my kind of crop!  The more you ignore it, the better the yields.  My mouth was watering.  I conjured up a mushroom risotto in my mind, something with brandy, beef stock, and thyme.  It would be the last meal I would prepare before my surgery, and it would be spectacular.

I could hardly wait to harvest them.  I got a paring knife and a paper bag at the ready and cut the top one off at its stem.  Right away, something didn’t look right.  Instead of the smooth, ivory texture I associate with mushrooms, the stem where I had cut it looked spongy inside, like bread.  I waved away a small cloud of bugs in annoyance.  And then some more bugs.  God, what’s with all the little flies, I thought?  Slowly, I turned the palm-sized mushroom cap over in my hand and saw it.  Every single one of the ribs housed at least one adult fly and large cluster of eggs.  On closer inspection, tiny mushroom-colored larvae were crawling out of every orifice.  What I held in my hand, I realized, wasn’t actually a mushroom at all but a mushroom-shaped conglomeration of squirming, miniature maggot-like worms.  I flung it to the ground.  It crawled away.  I passed out.

That picture doesn’t even do it justice.  In my semi-conscious state, I dreamt I got Monsanto corporate headquarters on the line: “Hello, Monsanto?  I take back what I said.  I need a case of Roundup, stat.”

At some point, Husband came around with the watering can to revive me.  Then, I faced the bucket once again, hand clamped over my mouth to contain the vomit.  I harvested the rest, one by one, to see if anything could be salvaged.  Not a single thing.  Total infestation.

God, this kind of thing can break your heart.  I wonder how farmers deal with the emotional effects of crop loss on a large scale?

I’m Going to LIVE!!!!

Well, at least for a little while.  After two agonizing months of waiting, the final pathology reports that the cancer is Stage 1.  That’s 1 out of 4 with 1 being the best.  Actually, negative cancer is the best, but we can’t be too picky, can we?  Stage 1 means things are still in the early stages and the lymph nodes are clear.  The prognosis is good, so I’ll probably ease up on the death posts.  Maybe. 

What I’ve learned through my extensive, exhaustive Internet research (and a few brief conversations with my doctors) is that there are two general types of breast cancer: invasive and non-invasive.  Obviously, the first kind is worse.  I’m lucky because although my tumor was alarming in size, the vast majority of it was a contained kind of cancer called ductal carcinoma in situ that generally stays within the milk ducts.  Sometimes, however, a tumor may start out contained, but then things get rowdy with the music and the keg stands and the action starts to spill outside the confines of the frat house.  That’s what mine did.  It had just recently blown a gasket (26 gaskets to be exact) and started to invade the surrounding tissue in a very shallow but aggressive fashion.  You know the type.  First base is simply not enough.  That’s invasive ductal carcinoma, the nasty stuff, and the leading cause of death in women of my age group (35-44) in the U.S.

So, due to the small but vigorous areas of invasiveness, I’ll be doing chemo July through September followed by a year of Herceptin.  Because if you pass out neon condoms at a frat party at 10 p.m. and take an aerial photograph round about 2 a.m., you never know exactly where on campus you’re going to see the blinking.

Have you done a self breast exam recently?  Once or twice a year is better than nothing.  Mammograms aren’t effective screening tools for women under 40 because our breast tissue is too dense.  We’re on our own.

Breasts (of Chicken)

This is sure to be my most tasteful post ever.

Quick update.  My drains are out, I’m showered, and dressed in real clothes that aren’t designed for post-ops.  Finally, I’m of a suitable appearance for blogging.    (I didn’t think there was a minimum requirement for one’s appearance when it came to blogging, but as blogging is reflective of one’s state of mind and/or body at that moment, it would be wise to note the correlation.  “If I’m incapable of dressing myself, then I’m unlikely to be fit for blogging” is a good rule of thumb.) 

I weaned myself off of the Percocets last week on Day 1 of my period so you can imagine what a laugh a minute that was.  It was kind of an emergency situation, though, as I alluded to in my previous post.  Husband had been so kind as to purchase some Senna early on to facilitate certain things (turns out the much-lauded Senokot had been conveniently pulled off the shelves for some reason, but luckily he found a guerilla generic brand).  Then, my mom arrived with every other weapon outlined in the comment section.  So, you see, your comments really can make a difference!  I can’t tell you what worked or what didn’t work, but the 12-day standoff recently resolved itself in a series of skirmishes that began and ended within 24 hours, so let’s leave it at that.

Hungry?

So, let’s talk about something else.  And let’s have that something else not be my breasts, either, for a refreshing change of pace.  Here’s what one of our wonderful neighbors brought for dinner the other night.  A big platter of breaded chicken cutlets (with marinara sauce), which seemed highly appropriate not to mention delicious.  This is how you know you moved into the right neighborhood!

Breaded Chicken Cutlets

8 boneless chicken breast halves
6 large eggs
2 Tbsp. milk or water
¾ cup Parmigiano-Reggiano or Romano cheese, divided
¾ cup all-purpose flour
3 cups plain dried bread crumbs
3 Tbsp. olive oil (or more)
3 Tbsp. butter (or more)
1½ cups marinara sauce (see recipe below)
1½ cups mozzarella cheese, if desired

Rinse chicken breasts under cold running water, pat dry with paper towels, and trim.  Holding the knife parallel to the cutting board, cut breasts in half to thin them out.  With meat between parchment or wax paper, pound gently with a meat mallet to reach an even ¼-inch thickness.  Season with salt and pepper.

In a medium bowl, beat the eggs, water, and ½ cup of the cheese.  One at a time, dredge the flattened chicken breasts in flour, then the egg mixture, then the bread crumbs.  Refrigerate breaded cutlets for 30 minutes to set.

Line a baking sheet with paper towels.  Place a large skillet over medium-high heat.  Warm 1 Tbsp. of butter and 1 Tbsp. of olive oil until hot.  Add cutlets, a few at a time, until bottom is golden-brown and crusty.  Turn and cook the other side.  Remove and drain on paper towels.

Serve topped with marinara sauce and extra cheese or, for Chicken Parmesan, preheat oven to 350°F.  Add a thin layer of marinara sauce to the bottom of a large pan.  Place cutlets on top, spoon another thin layer of sauce on top, and sprinkle with cheese.  Heat in the oven 10 minutes until cheese has melted.

Marinara Sauce

2 28-ounce cans whole Italian plum tomatoes and their juices
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced (about 1 Tbsp.)
6 leaves fresh basil, sliced
¼ tsp. freshly ground pepper
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. sugar (if needed)

Coarsely chop the tomatoes into ¼-inch dice by hand or food processor.  In a large skillet, heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil until shimmering.  Add garlic and stir until it just turns golden, about 2 minutes.  Without letting the garlic burn, quickly add the tomatoes and their juices, half the basil, and the pepper.  Cook uncovered on medium heat for about 1½ hours, stirring every 5 to 10 minutes so sauce doesn’t scorch.  Sauce is done when you drag a spoon across the center of the pan and no liquid seeps back into the trail.  Add remaining 1 Tbsp. olive oil, season with additional salt and pepper (and sugar, if necessary), and add remaining basil leaves.

Source: Adapted from Cooking with Grace by Grace Pilato.  Thanks, Linda!

My Appetite is Back

Well, that didn’t take long. 

It’s awfully hard not to get hungry when a parade of friends brings you lasagna and casseroles and enchiladas and Café Fresh bagels with lox and Taza chocolate and my first CSA pickup of the season from Waltham Fields and a quart of fresh-picked strawberries from Drumlin Farm and cookies and cupcakes and fruit smoothies and banana bread and, oh my god, I’m not allowed to joke about having no friends ever again.  Also, going forward, it will be harder to disrespect Husband, the best nursemaid the world has ever seen, but I’m sure I’ll figure out a way.

The surgery was a “success,” as they say.  My reaction to the battle scars was an odd mix of horror and relief.  Apparently, my healthy lifestyle enabled the tumor to achieve quite a robust size.  You’re welcome, you fucker.  Since fleeing the hospital, I’ve been spending my days ambling about in Percocet-induced partial numbness, which has been exacerbated by the eerie quiet of the children being well-taken-care-of far away on the Cape.  It’s a very strange space I’ve been occupying these days where I can sleep ‘til noon and read vampire books on the porch for hours, admiring my pretty feet because my best friend came to the hospital and painted my toenails to give an ounce of credence to the idea of Spa Day.  My only immediate concern has been whether or not my intestines ever plan on waking up from the anesthesia.  Is this guilt I’m feeling?  Or just constipation?

Anyway, the kids are back and the quiet is over but the parade of food continues.  I may do a few posts on the stuff people are bringing me.  I wonder how long I can milk this?

Spa Day

That’s what Husband and I have been calling surgery this week.  A day at the spa.  It’s a little trick we came up with to keep my feet pointed towards the hospital instead of anywhere else.  Like, say, the Aquarium. 

I can see it now: Me, barefoot in my johnny admiring the penguins, paper cone of Sel de la Terre fries in hand, when the men in white coats spot me and descend.  I fling my fries and holler, “You have to catch me first,” then sprint bare-assed up the ramp along the shark tanks as fast as I can, which isn’t fast at all, by the way, but I had a head start so they wouldn’t reach me until they got all the way to the top.  There I’d be, perched on the edge of the shark tank, dizzy and winded from, I imagine, the cancer, pausing because, after all that, the dramatic death-by-shark ending I was envisioning seemed, ultimately, way more gruesome than just losing a body part.  Also, technically, I think that still would have counted as a win for cancer.

So let me send my sincerest thanks to all of you for your comments, e-mails, and pigeon-o-grams that have done a lot to keep me from teetering into dark places.  What I’ve taken away from them is that anybody who’s anybody has a grandma that’s beaten breast cancer, so if I die, I’d better have a pretty good excuse.  No pressure.  Everyone who’s been through this, and I’ve spoken to quite a few by now, tells me that this is the worst part.  Weeks and weeks of waiting for surgery, waiting for a more comprehensive diagnosis, waiting for the final treatment plan.  Once you know what lies ahead and you accept it, while things may be rough physically for a stretch, emotionally it becomes a little easier to take.  All I know is if I’m going to be hanging out in the geriatric ward, I guess I should start working out.  (Cue Rocky theme song).  I hear it’s worse than prison over there.

And thus concludes Cancer Week.  It’s time to evict that evil gremlin before he takes gigantic dumps all over my vital organs.  Lord knows my immune system isn’t up to the task.  WAKE UP, Immune System.  Can’t you see what’s going on?  There’s a war to be waged and you’re just sitting around smoking cigarettes.  DO SOMETHING!!!!  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hot date with a surgeon from Dana-Farber.  Dear God, I hope he slips me a roofie.

Why I Didn’t Show Up For Work That Day

It so happened that I got my diagnosis five minutes before I was set to report for a day of volunteer work.  In fact, one of the first things that flew out of my mouth in the doctor’s office was that this really wasn’t the best time to have cancer because several people were awaiting my chopping skills at that very moment.  In the car, I rationalized that cancer doesn’t affect one’s chopping skills, at least not in the early stages when you feel completely fine, and so I should still go.  It wasn’t until I almost crashed into the car in front of me for no good reason that I decided it would probably be wise to back out before the inevitable wreckage ensued, emotional or otherwise.  I mean, if there were ever a good excuse, this was it.  Still, I hate reneging on a commitment, and trying to figure out the best way to extricate myself was a welcome distraction from the larger issue.

Me: You’re already late.  You need to call them.

Me: And tell them what?  That I can’t come, I have cancer?

Me: Yes.

Me: I can’t do that.  They barely know me.  What are they going to say?

Me: They’ll say something nice and get off the phone as quickly as possible, which will work out well for everyone.

Me: But they’re not going to believe me.

Me: Nobody uses cancer to get out of stuff.

Me: I make shit up all the time.  Everybody knows that.

Me: Okay, well, if lies are your medium of choice then you’d better outdo yourself this time because you’re totally screwing them over.

Me: Not me.  Cancer.

Me: Whatever.

Me: Think the flat tire bit will work?

Me: Lame.

Me: Car accident?

Me: No, too many follow-up questions.

Me: One of the kids is sick?

Me: Do not involve the children in your lies.

Me: Okay.  How about this?  I was on my way to the location when things weren’t right intestine-wise.

Me: So far, so good.

Me: I pulled over to the side of the road and ran out to throw up when somebody jumped in and stole my car.  Of course, my cell phone wasn’t charged as usual and nobody wants to pick up a vomiting hitchhiker, so I had to walk all the way to the police station.  But they found my behavior suspicious, what with the early morning vomiting and my inability to walk in a straight line while vomiting, and arrested me for DUI right after I filed my missing vehicle report.  So that’s why I can’t volunteer today.  I mean, unless you have $5000 bail.

Me: Perfect!

Lumpy Cookies

Here’s something I wrote in between appointments before my diagnosis, back before all of your wonderful comments and hopeful stories, when my only exposure to cancer was its unforgiving side.  I haven’t edited it since.

Nothing makes you ponder the meaning of Mother’s Day quite like finding a lump where there shouldn’t be one.  And then hearing post-mammogram murmurs that include words like “curious” and “needs further investigation,” followed shortly thereafter by a deep-tissue biopsy.  And even though I knew it would turn out to be nothing, that there was no need to be alarmist, there was also that teeny tiny possibility, however small, that this could potentially signal the end of the road for me.

Me: Okay, calm down, Tammy.  We’re going to be just fine.

Me: That’s what everybody says, but then how do you explain all these people with cancer?

Me: But we’re still young.  Sort of.  Mom doesn’t have cancer.  Neither of our grandmothers had cancer.  Everyone lives to be 90.

Me: Yeah, that’s what they want you to believe.  That you have aaaaaallll the time in the world before they cut you down in the prime of your life.

Me: Who’s they?

Me: I don’t know.  Secret government agencies?  Terrorists?  Monsanto?  Whoever gives out cancer.

And then there were all the nagging questions.  Questions like: Was it the meat that did it?  My lack of religion?  Will my kids even remember me if I die now?  My face, I mean, not just a nebulous source of yelling.  They’re still so little.  Who will cook for them?  What if they go back through the old digital photos someday and find more pictures of my meals than pictures of them and think I loved my dumb blog more than them.  What if they grow up sad and bitter with the world instead of gradually easing into the sadness and bitterness of the world?  What if they stop laughing?

What about Husband?  Will he recover?  What if he refuses to fall in love ever again?  What if that refusal has nothing to do with me dying?  What if he does fall in love again and remarries a bombshell?  A bombshell with housekeeping skills.  Will my spirit be mad?

What if nobody comes to my funeral?  What if nobody can think of anything to say during the eulogy: “She was…a girl.”  God, that would be awkward.  I’m glad I won’t be there to see it. 

What if people decide it’s less painful to forget me than to remember me?  And five years down the road people are afraid to even bring up my name.  I’ll be the unnamed dead person no one wants to talk about.  What if you can’t donate your organs if you have cancer?  What if no one remembers that I want to be cremated instead of buried and that I want my ashes sprinkled in two specific places and that I want my funeral at another specific place that’s not a church but I never write them down so no one knows what they are?  What if it doesn’t matter?

What if my Dad stops believing in God?  What if my Mom loses hope?  What if Nonni outlives me?  It would kill her.  But at least then I’d have some company up there.  Well, unless I go down there, instead.  Hmmmmmm.  Maybe God would let her write letters of a non-flammable sort?  Sent by carrier pigeon so I can have lunch, too?

What if there’s nothing but blackness?

…

Well, that was fun!  This is the part where I was supposed to say that the results came back fine.  That I totally wasn’t worried.  That the lumps were just raisins and, by the way, here’s a recipe for oatmeal cookies.  (This is why you shouldn’t write your posts before real-life events unfold.)  But at least now I’m off the hook for typing up the recipe because, really, are you hungry for cookies right now?

The C Word

I have some bad news.  I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to come right out with it.  I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer. 

No, I am not kidding.  Would I kid about cancer?  Okay, maybe I would kid about cancer.  And that, my friends, is what is known as poetic justice.  Cancer has a vast network of spies.  Be careful what you say.

I’ve struggled with whether or not to bring this up on the blog.  This is a food blog, after all, not a cancer blog.  And I don’t want this to become a cancer blog (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  But this blog is about my life through food, and if I censor my life too much, then it doesn’t feel honest.  Plus, logistically speaking, it was going to be tricky to hide it.  Sooner or later you were going to wonder why all of my dinners of late have been composed of 50% potato chips and 50% tequila.  The increased unexplained absences might seem suspicious given my previously consistent blogging schedule.  And the mood swings.  My god, the mood swings.  PMS is dreadfully boring by comparison. 

So, here I am with cancer (WTF?) trying to figure out what the hell this means for the future.  I have to assume that there will still be food to write about as I adapt to my new reality.  We still have to eat.  I still want to cook.  It will be more important than ever to eat healthy.  I’d like to keep things as normal as possible for my family and for me, and the blog could be an important part of the equation.  But, I really can’t say at this juncture what’s going to happen.  I’ve pretty much lost my appetite since I found out and most of the stuff I’ve written since isn’t fit for print, even by lowly blog standards. 

On the bright side, breast cancer isn’t automatically the death sentence I initially thought it was.  There are plenty of survivors who tell a happy story.  My goal is to be one of them.  And if I fall short of that goal, well, I’m still going to write the ending however I want, so fuck you, Cancer, you dick.  Surgery is next week and then at some future point a bunch of radioactive chemical cocktails will be prescribed.  Or something.  (I didn’t hear any of the words after they said cancer.)  I might have some posts  on the topic planned for this week since I have a few things to get off my chest, so to speak.  But then I have a guest blogger in the works to keep you guys entertained post-surgery.  I hope to find my way back to writing eventually.

Anyway, let’s not completely lose all perspective on the matter.  I mean, it could totally be worse.  It could have been cancer of the c-word!

Taking a Week Off

I need it.  In the meantime, here are some of the goofier shots from the Tufts photo shoot courtesy of Steve Marsel Studio.  To put these into context, you have to read the article.  If you’re too lazy to read the article (sigh), then just imagine what would happen if someone like me were tasked with cooking the food for a highly perfectionist cooking show.  How would that go exactly? 

I think you can guess.

Would you like some cake?  I followed the recipe, I swear.

Maybe no one will notice that my cake sucks?  Poker face, Tammy. 
(Whoops.  They noticed.)

Did I burn it?  Yup.  I burned it.  Fuck.

If you’d like the recipes for any of these, just let me know.

Enjoy the long weekend!

The Eating Habits of Ospreys

On the way to the bus stop, the Kindergartener was telling me about birds of prey.  Specifically, ospreys.  How they dive down and snatch fish right out of the water, and did I know that?  I said that I did.  (That may have been a lie.)  They eat other things, too, he told me, like dead birds.  Oh, I said.  And sometimes live birds.  Like ducklings.  My instinct was to make sympathetic noises on the ducklings’ behalf.  Who doesn’t love ducklings?  The Kindergartener tried to soften the blow: Well, not a lot of ducklings—just one duckling per day.

Tipping the Scales

Did you hear the news?  CSAs aren’t just for farms anymore.  There’s a community-supported fishery (CSF) that’s starting out of Gloucester called Cape Ann Fresh Catch.  They’re offering shares of fresh whole fish caught by real local fisherman to be picked up in the Boston area.  Thanks to Boston Localvores for getting the word out. 

Is this not the awesomest idea?  I get so frustrated living as close as we do to the ocean and yet struggling to be able to buy local fish.  Where does it all go?  Japan, I hear.  Makes me want to turn to piracy.  Aaaaarghh.  But since airborne piracy sometimes goes by another name (i.e., terrorism), a CSF is probably a better choice.

Much like CSAs, the idea is to mobilize a group of committed consumers who pay for their shares ahead of time, thereby guaranteeing buyers and a fairer price than the fishermen might otherwise get in a fickle market.  The benefits and some of the risk are shared between the provider and the consumer.  The fishermen then work with the weather and subjective patterns of nature to catch what makes sense, not just what will fetch the highest price.  They also have the flexibility to experiment with more sustainable fishing practices.  For more on how local fishermen hope this will keep their industry afloat while up against the ocean-sweeping big guys, read this article in the Globe.

Needless to say, I’m on board.  If you do the math, it’s a good deal ($5-$7/lb. if you subtract out the bones).  Here’s the info:

Cape Ann Fresh Catch

• 12-week subscription starts in early June

• May include fresh haddock, cod, flounder, hake, dabs, grey sole, monkfish, pollock, redfish, clams, lobsters, scallops

• Fish comes whole (cleaned and gutted, but not filleted)

• Half share: $180 (4-6 lbs per week)

• Full share: $360 (8-12 lbs per week)

Sign up here.

Test Kitchen Confidential

Every once in while, a magazine will take pity on my queries and let me write something.  It’s not often, so when it happens, it’s cause for celebration.  My latest article is in Tufts Magazine, my alma mater’s fine publication.  It’s about my short but memorable time working behind the scenes of America’s Test Kitchen.  It’s also, quite possibly, the best thing I’ve ever written (not saying much, I know).

Link is here: Test Kitchen Confidential

I wonder if Chris Kimball has a sense of humor?  Guess we’ll find out.

Shrooms

I harvested my first oyster mushrooms and, wow, were they ever pretty!  Like gorgeous ruffled trumpets.  It was painful to slice into them and listen to their Gillespie-style death throes. 

There were only four, so my plans to make mushroom risotto or a nice mushroom soup with my Baer’s Best pearl barley would have to wait for the second flush, if there is a second flush.  Instead, I made a quick bruschetta with butter, leeks, and thyme on garlic-rubbed toast.  It made a tasty, toothsome lunch.

Was it me or was there a hint of coffee flavor to my mushrooms?  I couldn’t tell if the knowledge that they were grown in coffee grounds was biasing me or if they really tasted like coffee.  Then again, why wouldn’t they taste like coffee if that’s what they were grown in?  You are what you eat.  Oyster mushrooms don't have a very strong flavor on their own.  Either way, I didn’t mind the coffee flavor.  I also felt like I had a lot more energy than usual that afternoon.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I actually cleaned one of the rooms in the house.  And did three loads of laundry.  Can anyone confirm this? 

Also, for the record, there was no vomiting.  Yay, add oyster mushrooms to the good list!  I might be developing a mushroom habit, so I hope four isn’t all I’m going to get.

Reuse is the New Recycle

I’ve been lax in linking over to my BlogHer posts lately because I’m still finding my stride.  What works over there doesn’t necessarily work over here and vice versa.  Different audience.  Different format.  I can’t write stuff the same way.  Anyway, this week’s piece on repurposing recyclables seems relevant (and applicable to blog posts, too), so here it is.  Happy Mother’s Day to all you moms out there.

***

Turning over your recycling to your town every week is great and everything, but think before you fling useful trash into the recycle bin.  Recycling still swallows resources and some materials may have plenty of remaining life before they progress on their spiritual path toward reincarnation.  Here are some ideas for getting extra mileage out of your food packaging through creative repurposing.

Egg cartons

Take a page from elementary schools across the country and start your sunflower seeds or other seedlings here.  Given my particular set of gardening skills, I don't have personal experience with this but it seems theoretically possible.
         

The blog at FamilyCorner.com has 18 more ways to reuse egg cartons.  Often, local farms are happy to take your extra egg cartons off your hands, too.

Milk cartons

The possibilities for milk jugs are endless: as scoops for the sandbox or filled with water to weigh down your sauerkraut during the fermentation process.  I also use mine as semi-disposable compost buckets. 
         

They’re light and have handles so I can send the kids up the hill to the compost bin.  They think it’s fun, and I delight in their convenient delusions.  Previous buckets have gotten disgusting after a while.  Milk jugs work well because when they get too gross, I just hose them down and then recycle.

DailyEcoTips also suggests using plastic milk bottles to protect young plants in the garden from non-human foragers.  The greenhouse effect is an added bonus.

Six-pack holders

Inspired by the local pub, these can be used as handy caddies for outdoor dining.  Carry utensils, condiments, and salt and pepper shakers back and forth to your picnic table.  Flatten one of the interior separators to fit napkins.  It also gives you a good excuse to pound beers.

Jars and bottles

I use empty spice bottles for bud vases and mason jars for larger arrangements.  That’s not true, exactly.  Husband does all the flower arranging around here.  I suck.

The Paisley Farmhouse has lots of other ideas for mason jars, too.

Anyone else?

New High Fashion Log For Girls

I was never much for dolls growing up.  The only doll I remember having was when I was maybe 3.  It was an ethnically ambiguous Afro-Inuit doll with dreadlocks named Mukluk.  My maternal instinct was…how do I put this delicately: underdeveloped.  Mukluk’s disappearance still remains a mystery to me.  There were no other dolls after her aside from a short-lived and unexplained Barbie fetish in my tween years.  Maybe there were some paper dolls at some point.  I had this bucket of small wooden blocks that I’d build houses and stuff with, and sometimes I’d draw a person onto a block with magic marker.  Does that count? 

Husband would say that my lack of dolls explains a lot about my nurturing side.  Husband would do well to fuck off.  But it’s become clear I could use a female alliance around the house, even if it is mostly symbolic.  I’m hideously outnumbered by males and my remaining cat, a female, hates me because, in her minuscule cat brain, I’m the one who came between her and Husband in their very one-sided, cross-species love affair.  Don’t ask.  But I’m not kidding. 

This is where the logs come in.  I know.  Finally.  The best way to grow shiitakes is in logs.  My preferred doll medium seems to be log-derived.  Why not cross-purpose my shiitake logs and relive my lost youth?  Ren and Stimpy know how much fun logs can be.

First I had to find some logs.  Not dead, rotting logs you find in the woods, as I had planned, because they’re already inhabited by competing fungi.  No, you need recently cut logs.  Except I didn’t want to cut down any trees.  So, I asked myself, what would Barbie do?  Barbie was useless.  She was too busy admiring her boobs in the mirror, as usual, so I asked Ken.  Ken suggested trolling the neighborhood for wood in his convertible.  Ken always got a bad rap.  He’s actually very smart for plastic. 

Sure enough, there was a big pile of logs on the curb down the street.  Turns out everyone cuts down trees in the spring.  Yay, deforestation!  But, boy, those logs are heavier than they look.  I cradled them lovingly in my arms one by one and deposited them in the trunk.  And that’s where they stayed for about two weeks to let the wood’s anti-fungal compounds wear off and to protect them from rogue spores.  (Or because I forgot about them.)  Then I got my drill and punched holes two inches deep about four inches apart, staggered all around the four logs. 

This took much longer than expected because, apparently, I have Black & Decker’s Strawberry Shortcake Purple Pie Man edition of a cordless drill, which has no power even when I recharge the spare battery pack and swap it out and put my full weight on top of it, and then have to wait around for an hour while the other one recharges, and repeat six times.  (Stupid piece of shit.)  (But it smells like strawberries!!)

Anyway, with the 100 or so holes drilled, I banged in the plug spawn with a hammer. 

See?  My doll has implants, too.  Then I brushed the holes with melted beeswax to protect them from insects (messy and a pain to clean up, but at least I made use of all those beeswax sheets I meant to turn into candles for wedding favors but then never did).  With the logs inoculated, you water them once in a while and store them in the shade.  After enough time has passed (about a year, I hear) and the right conditions present themselves (whatever those might be), fungus will start to emerge in ruffles all around the log like an ill-conceived, earth-tone flamenco dress.  If you’re lucky, you can strip down the logs and dress them up again for a good seven years!  My logs are going to be sooooooo pretty.  I can’t wait to have a tea party!

So, if you see me talking to my logs, that’s why.

What Are You Doing On Saturday?

This Saturday, May 9, Boston University is hosting an international conference called The Future of Food: Transatlantic Perspectives, which is free and open to the public.  They have five sessions scheduled with a host of international speakers to discuss the sustainability of our current food system, including a closer look at the global food chain, geopolitics, food safety, climate change, and the ethics of eating.  Speakers include Sandor Ellix Katz, author of Wild Fermentation; Mark Winne, author of Closing the Food Gap: Resetting the Table in the Land of Plenty; and Michael Ableman, farmer and author of Fields of Plenty.  Did I mention it’s free?  And open to the public?  (There are also some other events this Friday, but those have limited seating and may be full—you’d have to check.) 

The schedule is here.  Go if you can.

May in Verse

In case you were wondering who the real writer is in this family, I give you a poem that the Kindergartener wrote at school.  Except he got mad when I called it a poem.  It’s an “acrostic.”  Sorry.

Here it is.  Spring by the Kindergartener:

All rights belong to the kid.

Do You See What I See?

Baby mushrooms!  I think I squealed when I saw them.  I think I actually squealed.

It’s been about a month since I “planted” my oyster mushroom spawn, and it didn’t really look like anything was happening at all.  But then I poked around in there and I could see all these white fibers spiderwebbing their way through the material.  Mushroom mycelium!  That’s the real body of a mushroom—that fibrous network that colonizes whatever material is being broken down.  This hidden matrix can extend for acres in nature, I’ve read.  The caps we eat are just the fruits of the larger organism, the gills of which house and disperse the spores for reproductive purposes.  Yes, once again, we humans have been tricked into propagating the genes of another species.  Color me happy to oblige.

Since we’ve had so little rain lately, I supplemented my daily misting with a few extra cups of water just for kicks.  Mushrooms appeared the very next day.  It shouldn’t be long now before the bucket is filled.  Once the fruits are established, they grow by cell enlargement rather than cell division, meaning they basically balloon out in direct proportion to the available water supply.  Within reason.  I restrained myself from leaving the hose on all night for the good of the neighborhood.  Property values are down enough as it is without having to explain the towering fungus.

I’ll tell you all about the shiitake logs next week.

Stalking the Wild Rhubarb

I’m learning how to forage and spring is the best time to practice because there’s really not that much growing, yet.  The spring edibles practically jump right out at you, bright patches of green against a still-brownish background, which is useful when you’re not terribly observant. 

So far, I’ve correctly identified and not died eating wild garlic, mugwort, dandelion leaves, violets (flowers and leaves), and garlic mustard, most of which I just found in my yard.  I made pesto out of the garlic mustard tonight.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.  But the weirdest thing I’ve foraged by far was the Japanese knotweed.  It was pointed out to me on a nature walk with the Waltham Land Trust not as something edible but as an aggressive invasive species that Frederick Law Olmsted planted all around Boston’s green space on account of its beauty, but which has since out-competed many native species and is now generally despised by ecologists. 

Back at home, I double-checked my Russ Cohen foraging book (remember his wild edibles walk?) and, upon confirming its possible deliciousness, returned the next day to harvest some of the young shoots since I didn’t think anyone would mind.  Even though Japanese knotweed is a member of the buckwheat family, the shoots look like asparagus meets rhubarb meets bamboo.  The stalks are actually hollow like bamboo, so you need to pick twice as much as you think you’ll need and not peel it too deeply.

Raw, it tastes crisp and tart.  Cooked, I had read that it resembles rhubarb in character, so I threw together a quick crumble like this one with a few apples, three of four stalks of sliced knotweed, and maybe ¼ cup sugar.  Then I cobbled together a mixture of flour, oatmeal, almonds, pine nuts, maple sugar, and cold butter, dumped it on top, and baked it in a 375°F oven for 45 minutes.  It was very good.  Even Husband approved, who has not necessarily been enthusiastic about the foraging concept.  The only downside is that unlike rhubarb, which cooks down to a rose color, knotweed cooks to an unappetizing light green.  Snotweed is more like it.  But if you smother it in enough vanilla ice cream, you won’t notice.  I have some stalks in the freezer I’m saving for strawberry season.