Campbellsville, Kentucky

My Darling Husband’s British heritage means that at 4 o’clock, he likes to sit down with a cuppa. That’s tea for thee and me. As we have become more conscious of what we eat, (perhaps because we note that as we age that what we eat does have a direct effect on our well-being), his cuppa has gone from containing generic black pekoe tea, sugar (I weaned him off saccharin tablets early in the relationship) and a generous dollop of milk to something without caffeine, hopefully naturally sweet, and a cloud of almond or homemade soy milk.

A few months back, Trader Joe’s had a couple of Stash teas, Crème Caramel and Vanilla Nut Creme, both decaf, both delicious. I thought they might satisfy his inborn craving for creamy and sweet, and I was right. But when it came time to replace them, Trader Joe’s had only empty shelf. I tried the co-op with the same result. I was discouraged: it seems like every time we find something we really like, it disappears from the shelf, discontinued by the maker (Bear Naked’s Triple Berry Oatmeal, Mike’s Hard Sour Apple, and Larry’s Market Black Forest bread come readily to mind). So off to the Web I went for answers. Happily, they have not been discontinued! I found the teas at Stash, a 240-count box for $33. Great, I thought! The number two result was Amazon, offering 216 tea bags for only $26.56, with free shipping. Even better, said Darling Husband, so I placed the order, happy to be supporting a local company – Stash teas are based in Portland, just a few hundred miles away.

It was only when I got the shipping confirmation from Amazon that the penny dropped. The UPS tracking information showed that my package would take five days to arrive, since it was coming from Campbellsville, Kentucky. Yes, Kentucky, 2,438 miles away from here. Rand McNally tells me it takes 36 hours, 45 minutes to drive one way. Once the boxes arrive chez nous, the inefficiency and true cost of the transaction are staring me in the face.

I saved a penny per teabag, but burned enough fuel to truck four little boxes nearly 5,000 miles. From Oregon to Kentucky to Washington. Next time, we’ll buy direct.

Blushing pigs

Another sign that Little One isn’t so little anymore. On the heels of the home visit from his first grade (gasp!) teacher, I descended the stairs yesterday morning to find the door to the kitchen closed. This gesture is generally reserved for things like secretively decorating a birthday cake or sneakily making something you don’t want the others to find out about (think a whole batch of brownies you don’t want to share). In this case, it was a sure sign of Little One not wanting to get in Trouble for doing something messy/dangerous/he shouldn’t be doing.

He did jump a bit when I came into the kitchen through the dining room (the closed door is a mere gesture in this open floor plan, since we removed the other doorway to the kitchen when we remodeled ten years ago), but I had nothing to fear. Armed with a dog-eared copy of The Little Pig’s First Cookbook, he was intently following the pictures as best he could to create Betram’s Blushing Pigs. They (or rather it) consist of a half tomato tummy, carrot stick legs and raisin eyes. He had an appropriately sharp steak knife, but there was no blood, so there was no Trouble. He was happy to have me read him the pesky bits of text that held the pictures together, but other than that, I was strictly hands-off.

Once finished, he proudly brandished his creation. We’re cooks, right Mommy? Yes we are, said I. Would he eat it, I inquired? Yes. Then he looks at it. No, it’s for Papa. Who dutifully polished it off this morning.

Keeping clam

Just because I refuse to put a dish next to my name when someone distributes a potluck signup does not mean I don’t love a potluck. Au contraire, I’ve said it before and will say it again: I love a good potluck. This weekend’s potluck came to us courtesy of Fishing Sensei, who bravely organized another clamming day with his co-workers, my Darling Husband among them.

The rains threatened to make it another soggy day, but Little One wisely noted that if we brought our raincoats and rainboots with, then it wouldn’t rain, and he was delightfully right. It was cloudy for a bit, but enough sun broke out to be pleasant enough to dig in shirtsleeves without working up a sweat. Of course no raingear means mud on our clothes, but I can live with that.

I should note here that Darling Husband does not engage in the actual hunt and capture of said clams. Perhaps it’s because he’s not a great seafood lover, or perhaps he just prefers to hold down the picnic bench with conversation, but he more than earns his keep as a runner for the forgotten shovel or snack for a kidlet.

Now for my confession: I am a potluck anarchist not because of a strong conviction (though I do think overplanning can ruin perfectly good chaos), but because I am often to stretched to think days ahead in my menu planning. But since I knew I was going clamming, I was organized enough to pick up the ingredients for chowder. And then, I thought, why wait until I get home to make it?

So that’s just what we did. While Fishing Sensei threw some of his world famous BBQ ribs and corn on the grill, and his wife cleaned out a squid to do the same, I scrubbed my freshly dug clams and started steaming them. More folks arrived, with even more meat for the grill and showy prepackaged Japanese desserts, and I chopped onion and potatoes and celery and started making soup. The last folks straggled in bearing Ruffles, and I plopped the lid on the pot to let it simmer.

I brought in a string bag of potatoes, an onion, celery, butter, flour, and some milk; I hiked up the hill with two dirty (but empty) pots, a few more clams (dug with all the energy my cup of chowder gave me), and the tired happy feeling that comes from a day spent outdoors.