Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Green thumbs up, green thumbs down

Our trek down to Oregon meant that we could indulge in relatively responsible fast food at Burgerville. Their commitment to local was delicious, as I ignored my allergies for a Tillamook cheeseburger, and washed it down with a fresh strawberry milkshake. The flavor and texture reminded me of a shake we picked up at a roadside shack a few years back, with real, tasty strawberry chunks that clogged the straw. Darling Husband was disappointed in his vanilla shake, but the rest of us were too busy slurping to offer him any of ours.

But one of the neatest things was the kid’s meal: this was the first time I didn’t have to remove anything from the bag before I handed it over to Little one. Burger: Oregon Country Beef, check; Fries: Oregon potatoes, check; Shake: fresh local strawberries and Tillamook ice cream, check; toy; seed packet and pot, check. Yes, you heard right, a packet of cucumber seeds and a little rice fiber pot to plant them in. Granted, the pot was made in China, but here was a freebie that we could actually use: Little One planted it all by himself (all 23 seeds, we’re going to have to transplant!) and it sits in the middle of our summer dining table on the deck.

Little One is a happy gardener, always joining me in my morning puttering, helping weeding, planting and watering. Lettuce was on today’s agenda, together with a replant of beans that fell victim to early morning slugs. I had picked up a seed packet at the coop for some green leaf lettuce from Seeds of Change, and change they have. The little paper packet has been replaced by “Exciting New” plastic envelopes that they say take less energy to produce and use up less space in the landfill. Okay, I absolutely buy the energy statement, but must take issue with the statement about landfill. In my garden, the envelope is not wasted: emptied packets sit on a stick at the end of the row (I’m forgetful, so it’s nice to remember what I planted), and a paper envelope, if it even makes it to the end of the season intact, gets collected in the fall cleanup and dumped on our very own compost heap. I may come around, but for now, I’ll remain a stick in the mud. With a paper seed packet on top, thank you.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

The smell is free

My shopping list today is pretty boring: lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, avocado, butter. Because my car does not have air conditioning, it has to be a pretty compelling reason to get me to drive anywhere in the afternoon. And I’m trying to empty the fridge a bit, since our summer trek to the olde country is but ten days away. But Little One had a coupon for a one dollar token at the Crossroads Farmers’ Market, and I missed the Redmond Saturday market for camping last weekend, and just can’t face the wilted stuff in the crisper, so off we went.

It is a small market, but still had plenty of flavor, from the Laotian and Mexican farmers bringing fresh cherries over the mountains (1 pound of Rainier cherries go in the bag after begging from Number One, even if they aren’t organic), to the woman who tapes up the seed packets from seeds that I can’t get to grow, but which she has started (one Mammoth sunflower for Little One, who gets two quarters from me in addition to his token), and the Russian woman haggling over the price of a bunch of beets with the preteen who has been left to tend the till (many thanks to the woman who was quick with two quarters to save the poor lad).

I find my old friends from Full Circle Farm, and indeed, they are the only organic farmer represented, and the most local. I’ve been watching their selection turn from dark leafy winter greens to tender baby lettuces, and now it’s glorious summer, and the big heads of fresh lettuce are three for $5. One red sail, one green leaf, one romaine for tomorrow night’s Caesar salad. A farmer from Yakima has the only potatoes at the market, and they’re cheap: a dollar a pound. I find eight nice red potatoes for a salad; if they are nice, I may be back another time.

But it is the strawberries that are the stars of this market day: flats, half-flats, pints, all resplendently red, and one farmer is offering an heirloom variety that sells itself from the smell alone. Two overflowing pints tops off the bag and will tuck themselves into scones this evening.

There are no tomatoes here, but I know I will find them on Saturday in Redmond. I’ll swing by Trader Joe’s on the way home for avocados and butter, and make sure to get a little cream, for those fragrant berries are well on their way to overshadowing dinner.


Monday, June 30, 2008

Salmon finale

It’s hot. There’s no other word for it, just plain hot. Coming down the high rise on the bridge, lake Washington looked like a giant bathtub full of toy boats. Cyclists in Ballard wore more skin than anything else, and the shady English Gardens at the locks were a cool spot to play the final concert of the season.

I had not planned to play in this concert, since we had reservations to be camping in a cool evergreen glade at Cannon Beach with friends. Haystack Rock, pretty as a picture postcard, gave us two lovely sunsets, and we went through two packages of Trader Joe’s new vanilla marshmallows before the inevitable happened: the dread Bad Camping Neighbor Blight. Along with Lost Luggage Syndrome, Darling Husband carries this curse, whereby the most pleasant and idyllic spot can be transformed into camping hell in a flash—and usually in the middle of the night when most people are sound asleep.

This time, we had our bellies full of white bratwurst, pan-fried potatoes and corn on the cob, chased by slushy margaritas and a diabetes-inducing number of riffs on s’mores (with macaroons, milk vs. dark chocolate, one-marshmallow/two/three, etc.). We had capped off the tasty meal with a delicious sunset over the Tillamook lighthouse, and tumbled into bed, grubby, tired and happy, and looking forward to sunny weather and grilled salmon for our final day at the beach.

Alas, it was not to be: the sound of crunching metal woke every adult with title to a car in the campground who feared it might be their fender, but it was only someone trying to back a dented trailer into the campsite the farthest from the entrance. At two in the morning. Did I happen to mention our tent was pitched in the campsite the second-farthest from the entrance? The half hour of painfully haphazard backing and filling was capped by the raucous lighting of a campfire and a celebratory round of beer to mark only denting their own vehicle. A head count made with bleary eyes the next morning revealed an even dozen denizens viewing our chocolate-pancake-and-bacon breakfast the next morning (while they munched on and discussed the virtues of vinegar-flavored potato chips). Darling Husband, a firm believer in order and rules, in this case the one that says only six people per site, spoke to the owner, who flummoxed us by flatly refusing to remedy the situation. Given the choice between spending another sleepless night fuming in our tent, we decided to trek home, with our salmon filets still icy in our Coleman cooler.

In spite of the hot weather, our downstairs was still cool, and the cat was very happy to see us. A quick glance at the calendar showed that we had plenty of other things to do this Sunday instead of dancing on the singing sands of Cannon Beach: the orchestra concert was high on my list, and Darling Husband could indulge in the first half of the European Cup final, pitting his Fatherland against the Spaniards. He will have to wait until our neighbors come home to watch the tape of the second half, where Berliners weep and Spaniards dance in the street, but none of us had to wait for the grilled salmon, cool cucumbers and buttery rice that we enjoyed al fresco, in the cool evergreen glade that we call our backyard.