Meatballs

During the first few months of my residence in Germany, way back when, I was severely hampered in my grocery shopping because of my limited vocabulary. I had learned one word, Hackfleisch. Ground meat could get me through many a menu: meatballs, meatloaf, and burgers (tacos would have been on the menu had tortillas been available in the Vaterland).

Ground beef is in the headlines yet again, this time because of production methods. Blasted off the spines of unhealthy beasts, mixed with ammonia and tainted by the now-infamous pink slime. Once again, real butchers stand tall and proclaim that they grind their own meat, and that it is meat and only meat, nothing else. A few more customers have woken to question just what is in their food.

It is in this context that I stroll into the tiny butcher shop in the sleepy village of Cloughjordan in Ireland, hoping to find something for supper. I had leftover noodles and red sauce from our first jet-lagged evening, and was hoping against hope for a few hundred grams of ground beef that we could eat. I wasn't sure what to expect, given that the shop window featured not only an etched cow's head, but a display of assorted tools, as the butcher's doubles as the hardware store. Screwdrivers and sausages.

The selection of both hammers and meat was not huge, but it all looked very good, clean and bright. Still recalcitrant, I asked about where the meat came from. "Nowhere," replied the rosy-cheeked fellow without a hint of mischief. Wondering if my accent was hampering communication, I tried again: From how far away was the meat? "The family has a farm just up the road."

In other words, nowhere. Nothing to fear here, no frightening slime or corporate profits. Just real meat from a few yards up the road, from the man who raised and slaughtered it. No need to make it any harder. Or tastier.

Winter

It is winter's darkest hour; we passed the official marker just a few days ago, but even as the houses glow with icicle lights and trees in front windows, the earth sleeps. Unlike excited little boys straining to hear hooves on the roof. In the kitchen, the local roast is sitting on the counter salted, waiting to enter the hot oven in a few hours.

Our vegetable stores are slowly emptying from the bounty of the fall harvest: first the frost-tinged greens, made all the sweeter by Jack's kisses, then the crcucifers and squashes; we are now into the roots. A generous handful of Brussels sprouts made it this far, and by coddling them and sacrificing the outer leaves to the compost heap (oh, if I had chickens, how happy they would be today!), we will have greens on the table. Some of the parsnips and beetroot will join the roast and last of the fingerling potatoes in the oven.

We still have five weeks before our weekly deliveries from the farm resume. But all is not entirely bleak. We have pears, and the little bundles of sunlight that my family call "Christmas oranges" have burst on the scene. We are fortunate to live in an era and area where we may choose to eat local, and supplement those dark days with sunshine from faraway.

In some cases, very far away: A bottle of red wine from France will come off the rack, set aside for such a day. Spices that filled the corners of our cases when we returned from Morocco released their prize under the pestle yesterday, and joined nuts and candied fruits in holiday baked goods, some of which were offered on a plate in front of the fireplace last night by children waiting to be nestled snug in their beds. And chocolate from places so distant we have never been there, warming our hands in hefty mugs, drunk under warm wooly blankets and in the glow of candles on the tree.

We may be assaulted this time of year by the loud jingles and incessant chatter reminding us to consume for the sake of our loved ones, to save money by getting everything we need for our table from one national chain store at unbelievable prices. But I for one shall snuggle into the warmth of family and small treasures chosen or crafted with love, and let the bounty of the now faded sunlight grace our table and nourish our souls.

And so I send my wishes for warmth and peace to you in this quiet season.

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.