Late August

After two gloriously sunny days, where we tried to soak up the last rays of summer (ask me about Little One free boarding), today dawned grey and quite cool. The Bigleaf Maples along the road are less green or already yellow—not brown, not quite yet. Summer is indeed losing her hold on us. I reach for a long-sleeved shirt this morning instead of short, and the shirt in my hand is stiff. It has been line dried, and I can smell the wind and feel the sun’s warmth as I pull it over my head. Darling Husband walks by and gives me a hug; he, too is in a scratchy shirt, off to play soccer in the cool morning, before it rains.

We are calm, since we have cleaned the gutters and the firewood is under cover. Together, we bring in the hammock and the wicker patio furniture, though I leave the little drop-leaf wooden table under the eaves, in hopes of a few pleasant September days yet to come. While we are sad to see summer go, we know that the seasons that follow all bring their own gifts.

It seems a bit premature to be buttoning up, but we will be in California for most of next week, easing my mother into moving into smaller digs. I hope to see her settled before the change of seasons, but it is less noticeable there; she will still be swimming while we are searching for raincoats.

The last two weeks has seen a growing gathering of jam jars on the kitchen counter. Now they are washed and labeled, ready to be ferried downstairs to the shelves in the garage. The apple tree gave us a half-dozen big fruits in spite of its major pruning this winter (the weight of last year’s crop had toppled it to 45 degrees), and there are still blackberries to be had, so there is still more jam in the offing. However, I have but four empty jars left, and the plum tree is only just beginning to bear, dropping fruit in the bed of the pickup. The squirrels have begun their attack on the Asian pear tree: judging the state of the fruit, we imagine they pick a fruit, bite into it expecting an apple, throw it on the ground in disgust when it isn’t, and try again, much like a person looking for a cherry cordial in a box of mixed nuts.

I’ll combine the hunt for shoes for Number One (whose feet are now my size) with a jaunt to the thrift shop for empty jars. The we’ll hurry home and pick a few plums for that late summer tradition, Zwetschgenkuchen, a simple plum tart like they make in the Rhine Valley. Since we’ll be sharing it tomorrow with our new friends in Little One’s first grade class, I’ll do a little research and see if I can make some changes to accommodate the constellation of dietary restrictions this group brings. We’ll meet and potluck at the beach tomorrow afternoon—hopefully won’t have to huddle under the picnic shelter.

Leftovers

It started with a single leaf of red lettuce from Carnation lying on the plate. The rest of the head was earmarked for my lunch today, as I start in earnest to push the creeping pounds back down.

The plastic tub of homemade coleslaw was a leftover from our camping potluck, not enough to make a full side dish, but its tangy creaminess was a perfect anchor for the rest of the plate. Divided by four, each plate received a generous spoonful. Into the dishwasher went the container.

I roused Little One from his happy play on the floor to come help me pick the three tomatoes that had ripened over the weekend, in spite of the rain. We note that someone, not us, has been sneaking the cherry tomatoes, and suspect the resident raccoons. We treat each other to a wedge as we slice them, and they are an instant reminder of just how sorely lacking supermarket tomatoes are. Incredibly sweet and juicy, tender in our mouths.

Crunchy green cucumber is sliced and added, another Carnation crop picked up from the co-op. If I’d been thinking, I would have called a friend who I know always has a surplus this time of year, and we could have had a cucumber orgy. There’s still time this week, I’ll track her down.

Another camping leftover, and the inspiration for the plate, is three pieces of cold salmon. There were 30 to begin with, dealt over the campfire grate Saturday evening, before the rain started. The fire crackled as it consumed pieces of the tree that blocked our road during the Hanukkah storm, and the white oil oozed to the surface of the red flesh.

One organic avocado is split four ways, dressed in some homemade Louis dressing (Nasoya soy mayonnaise and ketchup), and sprinkle of red paprika for show.

Two lemons also made it home from camping, and one is cut into wedges and tucked between the salmon and coleslaw.

Too s'many

The numbers were looking good: we looked to be about 20 campers, an encouraging turnout for a class of only nine 7^th graders. The campsites at Bayview State Park—three, since we’re not big enough for a real group site—were reserved, the weatherman said the rain clouds should hold off, so we had a green light. We typically potluck on the second night of the trip, and this year was no exception, so Dear Friend pulled some wild salmon out of her freezer for grilling over the campfire.

Our first night’s meal plan is garbanzo bean curry: the same meal that we OD’ed on earlier in the year is perfect for camping, since it’s comprised almost entirely of canned goods. A container of coleslaw is made at home the night before. I know that The Mistress of Indulgence will bring noodles and sauce, and that Little One will defect to her (it doesn’t hurt that she has perfected oatmeal-raisin cookies and bakes them just for him, fending off hungry 'tweens until he has eaten his fill).

The breakfast menu is of the greasy-spoon type, cooked on my handsome cast iron griddle: pancakes (wheat free, in deference to me and Stand Partner), bacon, eggs, hash browns, oatmeal and cocoa. Sandwich makings, fresh fruit and other odd munchies round out the food for between the good meals.

I rummage around and find an open bag of marshmallows, half a box of graham crackers and not a single Hershey bars—they have somehow mysteriously disappeared. I put that and a few camping-type foods on the shopping list and head for the co-op.

Clearly I wasn’t the only one with the same idea, as the shelf where the graham crackers live is completely, Mother-Hubbard bare. Since we have only a half-hour to spare until we needed to pick up Little One from camp, we devise Plan B: an IGA on the way to North Bend beckons, and we stock up there. Number One Son says, “I’ll get the stuff, so there’s enough for a change. You wait here.” While I wait, I stroll the unfamiliar aisles and pick up a bar of dark truffle chocolate and some dark chocolate Petit Ecolier biscuits, since they seem good candidates for more adult s’mores. Number One finally emerges, laden with two bags of marshmallows, two boxes of graham crackers and 15 Hershey bars. Yes, he hopes that’s enough!

We all arrive late-ish Friday evening, but the horrid traffic isn’t enough to dampen our spirits. The Mistress and her minions get their mega-tent (with hinged door, no less) erected on the third try, and we light a fire before it gets dark. And then it happens: I bring out my bag of s’mores supplies, then The Mistress brings out hers. We laugh, clearly we have brought more than enough for everyone for both nights! From the neighboring site, two other people bring out their own bags. That’s right, upwards of eight bags of marshmallows, a dozen Honey Maid boxes, and an embarrassment of chocolate bars. Clearly, we have our work cut out.

By the second night, enthusiasm for s’mores seems to wane a bit, likely due to our stuffing ourselves with salmon and fresh corn (not to mention Caesar salad, potato & bean salad, beans, coleslaw,…). Undaunted, or perhaps emboldened by hard cider and inspired by my stash of alternative chocolate, Teacher Mom takes over. Kids are instructed how to roast marshmallows properly: the heat source must be at the side, not the end. The Mistress takes over setting up the crackers, and I can’t help but notice she is breaking huge chunks off the extra-thick half-pound bars. Then, Teacher Mom reaches for two crackers, places a chunk of dark truffle chocolate on one, and pulls off a roasted marshmallow so gooey that it’s just barely hanging onto the stick. It oozes, as a s’more should, and requisite oohs and aahs fill the air. Later, as we start a round-robin story, she is unable to pick up the story thread, so absorbed in the perfect s’more is she.

Sprinkles start as we make ready for bed, and we decide to break camp in the morning, after fortifying ourselves at a neighboring diner. The rush to throw things in the cars in the pouring rain means that once home I unpack eight Honey Maid boxes (one from Costco), five bags of marshmallows and several pounds of Hershey bars. Which is why we’ll be making them at least one s’more time this summer.