February sunshine

We emptied an overflowing rain gauge just two short weeks ago, and it remains eerily empty. For the last week, I have been enjoying puttering in a sunny spring-like garden, doing a happy dance when the seed packet reads, “sow in early spring, as soon as ground can be worked.” Spinach, lettuce, kale and peas (including some sweet peas in a container outside the kitchen door) are all in. But as I covered the rows, I hesitated. If this were anywhere else, I would have planted with a hose at hand, gently watering in my new darlings. But this is the Pacific Northwest, and I expect it to rain in February, even if the weather pundits don’t forecast it. And they keep forecasting it, but it’s just not happening. So, do I water them in or not?

I snuggle up evenings with Darling Husband and Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, trying not to gobble it up in one sitting, striving for a balance that will let me finish it before the library repossesses it for the next person and making sure I get to sleep enough to make it through the next day. I’m thrilled that so many other people want to read it that there are still 132 holds on it (plus the 86 waiting for the audio CD); it means a lot more people will get to revel in her joy of seasonality, but it does put pressure on me to get through her year before next Friday.

Number One Son, delighted at the stuff pulled from the freezer last night (gotta make room for the first of the couscous lamb), was thrilled when I offered him some of Fishing Sensei’s lox to go with his bagel for his lunch. “Why do they call smoked salmon lox, Mom?” asks my spoiled-by-fresh child. Out poured the explanation: the Yiddish for salmon, from the German Lachs, refers to the smoked version because historically, it was rare to find it fresh in most places (not here, thank heavens). Smoking was the best way to preserve it, and it became the de facto norm, what you eat in the off-season. I’m wondering if it will taste good with Portobello mushroom risotto tonight.

One of the side effects of the sunny week was that once we had ticked off the list of things to do in our own garden, we could explore farther afield. For us, that means letterboxing, planned to end near Theno’s Dairy. It was there that we had ice cream on Friday afternoon, and there that the boys noticed butter from Bow, Washington in the case. That easily qualifies as local, and the ingredients label was enticing: Cream, salt. We grabbed it, along with three cones (chocolate chocolate chip, mint chocolate chip and lemon chiffon), and a quart of hand-pack ice cream for Darling Husband (banana nut, his favorite).

Not surprisingly, the big thing on the table last night was not the local pan-sautéed pork chops on a bed of black kale, deglazed with balsamic vinegar, but the potatoes. Glowing Yukon Golds from Oregon, they were simply boiled and served like that, smashed on your plate for a glob of butter and a sprinkling of salt. Potatoes and butter, heroes of the meal, disappearing quickly, removing any doubt that eating locally and in season is anything but a sacrifice.

The stick of butter that was open when we brought the real stuff home is still sitting there. When I do the sniff test, it smells a little buttery, but nothing like the heady aroma from the little Golden Glen tub, which we seem to be running through rather quickly. We clearly have to make an excuse to get to Theno’s again for some more butter (“and ice cream!” screams Little One) And maybe the weather will hold off for just one more day so I can get some potatoes in the ground too. Then we can do a rain dance.