Friday, June 8, 2007

Guilt express

For no particular reason, I am bone tired. Tired as in I keep thinking about closing my eyes and sleeping. As in, I forget what ingredient I’m supposed to get out of the fridge in the two steps to get there. And I just can’t muster the energy to write up a shopping list so I can fill the larder and freezer.

When I’m this tired, I tend to do stupid things. Like forgetting I need celery when I’m picking up shrimp and peppers for shrimp étouffée. And I foolishly cave to the boys’ please for a smoothie from Boba Express. How bad could it be? Plenty bad. They start with a brightly-colored, gloopy “fruit” syrup, add a mysterious white powder and ice. They blend it up and put it in the magic machine that melts a lid onto it. Out of curiosity, I had a sip of Number One Son’s kiwi smoothie. It tastes likes a kiwi about as much as a cough drop tastes like a cherry. Two hours later, my tongue still feels burned, and I highly suspect that at least one of the ingredients in the mysterious white powder is MSG.

The upside to the smoothie debacle is that it makes me feel better about my pseudo grocery shopping this morning, yielding the overpackaged vegetables that Trader Joe's specializes in. The bell peppers may have come from Mexico and be sealed against nuclear holocaust, but at least they’re organic. Even if I don’t have any celery.

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Tender lettuces

The incredible summer weather last week really got the garden going. Between the increased foliage and the rains, the slugs are out in force. No matter, they are no match for me, patiently handpicking them and gleefully grinding them under my yellow rain boot. Last week also saw the first harvest of tender baby lettuce, which means that Number One Son takes himself out to the garden every morning for some fresh lettuce for his sandwich (salami this morning, no mustard).

However, we will not be able to live from our garden alone: our suburban backyard is too small and shady. No complaint, we adore every one of our towering cedar trees. But it makes it impossible to grow heat-loving plants like corn and basil. I have planted only what works well: lettuce, potatoes, peas and beans. I do have a few token cherry tomatoes on a sunny corner of the back deck together with a pot of alpine strawberries, for occasional munchies for passing children.

So where do I go for the rest of the bounty of summer fruits and vegetables? Well, some things are a given: Helge will call soon and ask us to come glean his raspberries (he begs, we comply and offer a token jar of jam), the plum tree is already well-laden with thumb-sized green fruit, the Mercer Slough has u-pick organic blueberries, and blackberries grow along the roadside on the way to summer camps. Any other windfall fruits will join these in the jam pot and grace our tables in cobblers and pies.

That leaves the everyday vegetables, and I have been looking seriously at CSAs. I am sorely tempted.

Jubilee Farm is near and dear to my heart, as Farmer Erick has been regaling me all winter with his measured musings on organic and biodynamic farming and what it really means. The thought that this passion goes into the very food he grows is very compelling to me. His is a traditional CSA, where you sign up for the year and share the bounty and risk. Everything in the summer box comes from his farm; which is the problem. The typical list includes things like kohlrabi and turnips, and substitutions can’t be had. Now, I’m game for a few new things, but past experience with a CSA taught me that I can’t keep up with too many new things, and my compost heap often receives a large share of the box. There is also the added expense of the produce that I continue to have to buy to fill out the way we eat (I know that we eat a huge amount of lettuce and potatoes, and no CSA can keep up with us).

Fishing Sensei handed Darling Husband a flyer from Full Circle Farm, and I recognize the name as one producer featured at our co-op. The box list very much parallels our eating style, and the depot is right around the corner from us. They have a very slick web presence, where you can change your box contents or even take a week off—with no charge for that week. But when I look closer, I realize that only a tiny portion of the produce actually comes from the farm, and much of it is not even grown in the Northwest.

I’ll spend some time on the web and look at some of the other CSA offerings (localharvest.org offers up 24 farms near my zip code, so it may take a while!) to see if I can find the right balance. In the meantime I’ll continue the status quo: as local and as organic as I can find at the co-op, where every bit of fresh produce is prominently labeled with its provenance.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Lento

The envelope with all our season tickets is empty. It’s not only the school year that is winding down; like all arts organizations, the assortment of orchestras that Number One Son and I play in are either preparing or have presented their final performance of the season. In practical terms, that means a lot of logistical planning, trying to make sure performers get to their call and audiences make it to curtain time.

Last weekend was a schedule-bursting combination of all-day Waldorf Sixth Grade Medieval Games (archery, jousting and the like) and the final concert of the Seattle Youth Symphony. We also had tickets for Seattle Shakespeare Company’s School for Scandal, Little One had an invitation to see Everyone Knows what a Dragon Looks Like, and a Number One Son had a cello lesson, which served to fill any breathing room.

I had spent a few days last week reading up on feeding oneself well on a budget, a reaction to hearing that the Governor of Oregon was going to try to feed himself on the amount allowed by food stamps in his state. The irony of this was not lost as I produced my credit card to pay for the first of four restaurant meals Friday afternoon. Piatti provided the setting for a leisurely al fresco lunch with the other field-tripping Momma, Wilde Rover in Kirkland was the scene for our pre-theatre supper (I had salmon salad at both: the Irish pub’s meager, vinegary offering paled next to the well-executed Italian version). Saturday was a combination of Trader Joe’s munchies eaten at a picnic table in Ravenna Park and a garlicky plate (or two) at Nikos Gyros down the road from the cello teacher’s.

By Sunday, I simply wasn’t hungry anymore and Number One Son was looking tired. We grabbed a quick bite before his final concert and headed to Seattle once more (we’d take the bus but for the cello…). Concert behind us, hot sun above, we drove up the ramp of the parking garage, headed for home. But the boys were hungry and not looking forward to sweltering on the ride home (did I mention that our old car has no air conditioning?). Straight instead of left, up the Ave to the Burger and Kabob Hut for milkshakes.

We slurp our way happily home, and as we approach our off ramp, we note a semi pulled over on the freeway shoulder. It is stacked high with huge cardboard containers of watermelons from points south. I think of how the heat made us swelter the day before when we were stuck in traffic, and I think of the route they must have taken, nearly the full length of Interstate 5, through my old home town of Redding, where cars routinely overheat from the blast furnace temperatures of the North Valley. The truck driver has clearly missed the exit for the Safeway distribution center, and the watermelons will have to drive a few more miles to reach their penultimate destination. I resolve to wait a few more weeks before indulging.

Our sixth grade string ensemble (of which I am a member, being an honorary sixth grader) is going to be performing the Jig from Holst’s St. Paul Suite on Friday. It’s a lively piece, packed with intricate harmonies. One of the ways we rehearse is to slow it down to about one-half tempo and play very softly. This allows us to really listen to each other, to really hear the music. When we speed up again, all the pieces fit together better. If we neglect this exercise or aren’t conscious throughout, the result is not nearly as satisfying.

Yesterday afternoon, with the sky painted Northwest grey once again, I put on some music, and put together a pot of soup. Bacon and lentils and barley and kale, simmering slowly for a few hours. A pan of fresh cornbread and some sweet butter, and a bowlful of fresh sugar peas from the school garden. We slow down to really live, so that when we speed up, the pieces fit together better. If we neglect this exercise or aren’t conscious throughout, the result is not nearly as satisfying.