The Old Man and Phil

For a while there, it looked like Punxsutawney Phil was right on target: the cherry trees are turning pink around the edges, and a few hardy daffodils are showing their cheery yellow trumpets. And then this afternoon, we got caught in a hailstorm while driving to the co-op. When it was over, we looked around, and the foothills looked like someone had taken a sifter of powdered sugar to the evergreens atop Tiger Mountain.

Once inside, the produce section reminded me that it’s still winter. There’s still a mountain of kale and chard (purple dragon kale and rainbow chard went into the cart). The heads of lettuce were a bit bigger, but still brown along the stems (two heads of curly red, one Bibb), and the oranges were the brightest thing among the fruits (two navel oranges, four blood oranges, four Braeburn apples).

I pass by the tiny bin of token asparagus and the clamshells of strawberries piled next to it (they probably took the same truck from California). I do splurge on a few tomatoes (four on the vine, four Roma) and then load up on potatoes: a farm twenty miles away provides us with some fist-sized Yukon Golds and a some lovely looking russets. I pile in four big bakers, and make sure I pick up some (non-dairy) sour cream for tonight.

My funky German seasonal cookbook professes to tell me the best for each month, but February looks frighteningly similar to January: red cabbage is reprised, joined by green cabbage, and we add in mussels (this book is from a Hamburg publisher) and chives. I can’t say this is particularly helpful. I have a big pot of chives just outside my kitchen, and even with our mild weather, they’re still dormant. And mussels may be in season in Northern Germany, but the freshest thing at the fishmongers these days are scallops and Dungeness crab. They both tempt me, but it still seems early; I expect to eat them with little new potatoes and asparagus. I’ll wait a bit.

Ah, but one last ingredient made it into the chapter: pearl barley. I learn that it is the washed and polished barley kernel, the oldest grain known to man. The Chinese consider it one of the five holy foods (along with soy, rice, wheat and millet). I consider it heavenly in soup.

As we lug our bags out to the car, the sun is shining again, and the mountain is a normal deep green. Psychic groundhogs notwithstanding, I don’t think Old Man Winter is quite done with us yet. I’ll open a can of three-bean chili to make the spuds into a meal, and send the kids off to bed in fuzzy jammies and with full tummies.