Racing around

I’m hopping on a jet plane tomorrow, on my way to Texas, where it’s already (or always) summer. My to do list includes things like finding sunscreen that my sensitive skin can tolerate in a container that’s less than 4 ounces, and locating my sandals (when was the last time I wore them?). Also on my list is picking up the CSA box.

Last week’s box was a real treasure trove. I was expecting a selection of mostly imported organic produce (carrots, broccoli, radishes), much like what I find at the co-op, since it’s still early in the season. But we were pleasantly surprised by such delicacies as fresh tender lettuce in addition to greens, and rhubarb and spinach—all from the farm. Darling Husband loves his rhubarb, and so do his sons, much to his chagrin. With some token fruit, the only thing missing was potatoes, but that gives me an excuse to keep going to the farmer’s markets.

Yes, that’s plural. For there are now two markets “nearby”: The University District, with it’s all-weather can-do attitude, and the yuppified-crafty Redmond Saturday Market, which opened up last week. Both markets trumpeted spring loudly, with troops of tomato starts lined up at attention, ready to march home with you. All sorts of heirlooms, paste, and cherry, all vying for my attention. Almost enough to distract me from Perfect Pete’s disappearance (Where did he go? Is toffee seasonal?).

But my arms were too full of honey to do anything but lust after the tomatoes. Precious liquid gold, my Darling husband had chatted up a local beekeeper’s son, and ordered up two gallons of the sticky stuff. He was planning to pick it up, really he was, but Number One was sick enough to skip orchestra rehearsal last week, so the lugging fell to me this week.

Which means I shall send Darling Husband, aided and abetted by Little One, to that selfsame market during my absence, to pick out this year’s tomatoes (and get spuds and Golden Glen butter). My mother’s day present to myself will be transplanting those gems to the beds and pots prepared for them last week. That, and munching on whatever goodies come in this week’s box and from the Alamo.

Full fridge, empty fridge

Last week at this time, I was busily coordinating shopping lists for our weekend couscous party. This now-annual event began as an intimate affair for eight the year of our marriage, a way to get together for good food and companionship. As our family and circle of friends (and their offspring) have grown, so has the feast, to the point that I now use a spreadsheet to scale up recipe amounts for the hundred or so who show up.

I have discovered the fringes of restaurant supply houses, taking a few tips from the pros while retaining the hands-on approach that imbues the feast with the cook’s energy, essential to the success of the event—at least in my opinion. But my amateur catering is pushing my home appliances to their limits: the fridge is full—there is no other word for it—and I needed to borrow British Neighbor’s oven for the second pan of chicken tagine. The meat that came out of the freezer had to defrost in our camping cooler, since there was just no room in the Amana.

We have gathered significant moss, and it’s a lovely gathering. We eat, socialize, and I pack up leftovers for guests to take home; we spend the next week slowly cleaning up and working our way through leftovers.

And so it was that as I sat at my computer last week, calculating cucumbers and tallying tomatoes, when an email came through from my favorite farmer, Erick of Jubilee Biodynamic Farm. His missives, irregular but worth the wait (as I hope this blog is), was full of musings on food shortages and shopping locally. I sighed, knowing that I was purchasing at the co-op and Trader Joe’s rather than the farmer’s market, since Moroccan food is by definition not local and in season here in the Pacific Northwest.

And then I see a little notice that a short, six-week late spring session was beginning this week. I filled out the form and sent it in. In the build up to the party—erecting a tent, cooking, shopping, cooking, and more cooking—I forgot completely about it (along with my dentist appointment this morning, sigh), but an email came today letting me know where to pick up my first box—tomorrow.

Oh, my, we need to empty the fridge. Leftovers, anyone?

Snow on kale

In a Waldorf kindergarten the teacher often regales the children with tales of Old Man Winter fighting to hold on to the cold weather while gentle Lady Spring sneaks sunny days and flowers into the picture. Well, this year’s battle is taking on epic proportions as crotchety Mr. Winter adamantly refuses to let anything above freezing fall from the sky, despite Ms. Spring’s tasteful floral decorating efforts. Uncharacteristically late snow—the second bout this year—is wreaking havoc on gardens and fruit trees. Indeed, as I regard the Italian plum tree in the front yard, with branches in full bloom under wet snow, I can’t help but wonder if it will set fruit.

Riots in other countries over the cost of food seem distant, even if they resonate with students of French history (“Qu’ils mangent de brioche !” intones Marie Antoinette). But I wonder how many are considering what might happen to an apple crop that has sustained the double-whammy of snow during blossom time and yet another huge die-off in beehives around the state.

This is the time of year when a girl’s fancy normally turns to love and picking posies. This girl looks forward to the spoils of spring: I crave a plate with a piece of tender salmon, sweet new potatoes and pencil-thin asparagus. But the salmon season has been sharply curtailed (and farther south it has been cancelled altogether) due to decimated Coho runs. Asparagus has yet to appear at the farmer’s market, though the first spears of rhubarb made Darling Husband’s mouth water when I asked him if I should make a crumble with it. The potatoes are starting to appear, knobbly russets that yield their skin to scrubbing.

So when the butcher from Vashon Island said he had beef, I took home a bundle of round steak, to go with russet potato fritters and yet more greens. A tiny bit of fresh kale from the garden serves as a garnish, but only after I dust the snow off its leaves. Spring may need to take off her ladylike gloves to get the old man to finally leave town. He’s just not welcome here anymore.

Stretchy chicken

It was nearly impossible to find a container for the bit of raviolini that didn’t get eaten last night, which means there are too many leftovers in the fridge.

So this afternoon, I pulled out the odd bits to see what they might add up to: most promising were two wings and a drumstick from Sunday’s roast chicken, along with the pot of carcass and stock, a container of rice, a serving of mashed potato and two spoonfuls of chili. The crisper held three leeks, one carrot, half an onion and two wilted celery stalks. The larder had some shallots and two lonely potatoes.

After discarding the spent onion and celery stalk from the stockpot, I had a more than a quart of stock. But we’re all sick of soup, and we’re not sick, so I need to learn another song. Stew, perhaps? I chopped up the onion and threw it in the pan, then picked the chicken off the bones and tossed that in as well. Added the leeks, and watched it simmer nicely. I threw in a bit of the stock, then thickened it (with cornstarch, no wheat today). A bit of salt, ah, stew!

Number One walks in, sticks his nose in the pot, and says (predictably), “what’s for supper?” “Stew” “That sure doesn’t look like much.” I look at it, and he’s right. It’s thick and rich, just like the inside of a chicken pot pie, but there’s not enough for three hungry men. Pot pie does sound good, but it’s not a wheat day, and I've never managed a golden flaky crust with rice flour. The mashed potatoes, perhaps? I just can’t quite see a shepard’s pie crust on this. Hmm again. I fish the food processor lid out of the dishwasher (this will only take a minute), and shred the two potatoes. Into lovely green olive oil it goes, to brown into a potato crust. Once it’s golden brown, I slide the whole thing on top of the stew and pop it in the oven to bubble. A big green salad will complete the meal.

I tuck the carrot, celery and leftover rice and stock back in the fridge. I can always make some soup tomorrow.

Compassionate apple seeds

I just returned from participating in the final day of the Seeds of Compassion conference, held here in Seattle. I had the opportunity to perform Beethoven’s Ode to Joy with an assembly of over 500 other musicians from all walks of life. While I am not a musician in any sense other than the rank amateur, I have made music my whole life, singing myself to sleep as a child (something Little One does as well), in choirs as a teen and young woman, and now as a violinist in an orchestra. There is a joy comes from the pure emotion that music conveys (I’m fine at weddings and funerals until the music starts) together with the exhilaration of creating so much more together than we can singly.

The convergence of a positive mindset and the desire to make music together was irresistible to me and the other musicians on stage today (and the many who were wait listed-no room at the inn, or the bleachers in this case.) But I took away more than the deep thoughts and incredible energy of the illustrious panel (I want to take Bishop Tutu home with me so Little One will have a good playmate. I think they'd both enjoy it.): individual connections.

As I boarded the bus to rehearsal, I heard a man singing, "seid umschlungen (be embraced)" with the score in his lap and ear buds playing the part. It was an old colleague, who interviewed with Darling Husband at least ten years ago, mellowed with age. We walked to the basketball arena together, where I met up with what appeared to be almost the entire second violin section from the Microsoft Orchestra. All around me, people were running into former colleagues and friends, and making new acquaintances.

The energetic organizers directed traffic well, and I ended up in the top tier with scores of sopranos, many from the Seattle Symphony Chorus, but others just there for fun like me. The redhead next to me reminded me of my friend Patti and was kind enough to laugh at my jokes. her baby girl was in the row behind me.

A baritone caught up with me as I walked to the bus after rehearsal, and, clearly worried about a woman walking alone at night, offered me a lift. I declined, but it turns out he had nothing to worry about, as a violinist and two baritones were already at the freeway station. It turns out one works on the programming language inside the products Darling Husband works on.

I found myself seated next to a different woman for the performance, an interior designer who sings in a jazz quartet, off to Istanbul the next day, full of stress and unable to turn her phone off. She was glad to have made time, and I could feel her relax as the morning unfolded.

There was the Seattle Symphony horn player named David, who walked with me part of the way to the bus, having parked in a friend's driveway a few blocks away. He shared his life dream with me, acknowledging that even if the horn isn't that dream, it's not a bad gig at all.

Oh, and there was also the Dalai and Tutu, the latter who won my heart when he snuck back in after his official departure to listen to us sing.

On my way out, I noticed something about the tables with the mountains of box lunches: people had opened them up, leaving what they didn't want there for others. I was reminded of the company meeting where Darling Husband was dismayed to see mountains of uneaten items in the trash.

I don't know who left me that lovely red apple, but together with the other seeds sown, it saw me home.

Spoon on the floor

I am in the decidedly odd position of making sure there is no food in the kitchen. Hannah, with her impossibly blue eyes, has emerged as more than a little aggressive when it comes to her next meal. She shares her catches (three birds in one day is gluttony, and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let her eat the Easter rat), but she seems to think that means she can help herself to ours. A towel draped over thawing meat is not enough; a lid perched on a pot can be knocked off. Water glasses are pushed off tabletops with alarming regularity. And you’d better not leave your cornflakes unattended for even a minute.

And so it was that this morning I found a lone plastic lid on the table after last night’s spaghetti, no cheese container in sight. Living with men, I decided that they must have finished it and thrown out the container but not the lid (it’s the same gene that causes them to place an empty milk carton back in the fridge). I sighed and chucked the lid.

Then I went around to the living room and looked back: there on the floor was the empty container and its spoon. Sprinkled about this general area was the fine crumble of a tangy aged sheep milk Romano. Sherlock Holmes was not needed to solve the mystery.

So, to the men in my life, I owe you an apology. For my cat, obviously of exquisite taste, we need to have a little chat. Once you finish your catnap, of course.

I’m not making this up, really

The folks from Coca Cola have a new product for us: Diet Coke Plus, now fortified with vitamins! What’s next, mineral-enriched Cheetos? High fiber vodka?

With over 119 million servings of Diet Coke consumed daily, they say they’re doing their part to support us in our active lifestyle, and have gone so far as to launch a campaign with an RN telling us that proper hydration is important when exercising: to make every drop count, we should drink this product.

I note they are keeping silent on the mounting evidence that artificial sweeteners (this product is sweetened with aspartame and acesulfame potassium) mess with metabolism and lead to overeating and obesity, which in turn contribute to adult onset diabetes.

So did they really turn Diet Coke into a multivitamin? No, they’ve concentrated on only a few nutrients, adding niacin, B6, B12, zinc and magnesium. The label says that a can of this green-tea flavored antioxidant brew provides 25% of the RDA for the B vitamins.

Now, I’m betting that the folks in Atlanta are hoping that their marketing focus on the wholesome goodness of vitamins will lead women (clearly their target demographic) to drink more. Aside from the fact that soda is not good for you and adding vitamins doesn’t change that, there is a very real concern then, that some might go overboard and overdose on vitamins. Let’s look at niacin: if a can provides 25% of the RDA, 4 cans would give someone16 mg or 100%, and if she eats a serving of chicken (19 mg) or an energy bar (25 mg) in addition, she’s getting even more. Niacin overdose, starting at a mere 35 mg, is associated with minor reactions like facial flushing and itching (treated with aspirin), and indigestion. Increase the dosage and we start seeing serious matters like liver damage, cardiac arrhythmias and rising blood sugar levels. And here’s the real kicker: pregnant women who think they’re doing the right thing by drinking their vitamins in Diet Coke may actually be increasing their risk of birth defects from the excess niacin, not to mention the risks associated with artificial sweetener use during pregnancy.

Darling Husband sometimes sighs when he notes that I’ve bought yet another mismatched drinking glass. But he and I both know that the cash outlay is less than a couple of cans of soda, and the drink I put in it—tap water—is far better for me. And us.