Salmon finale

It’s hot. There’s no other word for it, just plain hot. Coming down the high rise on the bridge, lake Washington looked like a giant bathtub full of toy boats. Cyclists in Ballard wore more skin than anything else, and the shady English Gardens at the locks were a cool spot to play the final concert of the season.

I had not planned to play in this concert, since we had reservations to be camping in a cool evergreen glade at Cannon Beach with friends. Haystack Rock, pretty as a picture postcard, gave us two lovely sunsets, and we went through two packages of Trader Joe’s new vanilla marshmallows before the inevitable happened: the dread Bad Camping Neighbor Blight. Along with Lost Luggage Syndrome, Darling Husband carries this curse, whereby the most pleasant and idyllic spot can be transformed into camping hell in a flash—and usually in the middle of the night when most people are sound asleep.

This time, we had our bellies full of white bratwurst, pan-fried potatoes and corn on the cob, chased by slushy margaritas and a diabetes-inducing number of riffs on s’mores (with macaroons, milk vs. dark chocolate, one-marshmallow/two/three, etc.). We had capped off the tasty meal with a delicious sunset over the Tillamook lighthouse, and tumbled into bed, grubby, tired and happy, and looking forward to sunny weather and grilled salmon for our final day at the beach.

Alas, it was not to be: the sound of crunching metal woke every adult with title to a car in the campground who feared it might be their fender, but it was only someone trying to back a dented trailer into the campsite the farthest from the entrance. At two in the morning. Did I happen to mention our tent was pitched in the campsite the second-farthest from the entrance? The half hour of painfully haphazard backing and filling was capped by the raucous lighting of a campfire and a celebratory round of beer to mark only denting their own vehicle. A head count made with bleary eyes the next morning revealed an even dozen denizens viewing our chocolate-pancake-and-bacon breakfast the next morning (while they munched on and discussed the virtues of vinegar-flavored potato chips). Darling Husband, a firm believer in order and rules, in this case the one that says only six people per site, spoke to the owner, who flummoxed us by flatly refusing to remedy the situation. Given the choice between spending another sleepless night fuming in our tent, we decided to trek home, with our salmon filets still icy in our Coleman cooler.

In spite of the hot weather, our downstairs was still cool, and the cat was very happy to see us. A quick glance at the calendar showed that we had plenty of other things to do this Sunday instead of dancing on the singing sands of Cannon Beach: the orchestra concert was high on my list, and Darling Husband could indulge in the first half of the European Cup final, pitting his Fatherland against the Spaniards. He will have to wait until our neighbors come home to watch the tape of the second half, where Berliners weep and Spaniards dance in the street, but none of us had to wait for the grilled salmon, cool cucumbers and buttery rice that we enjoyed al fresco, in the cool evergreen glade that we call our backyard.

Is this the cake you baked for me?

I got to be the queen in our second grade play. She was a demanding woman, who commanded her head baker (played by my best buddy Hiroshi) create the most exquisite cake ever made to grace her table. What she ended up with was a tiny little thing presented by a lowly baker’s apprentice (played by my other best buddy Jeff); thus the line my father made sure I never forgot, “Is this the cake you baked for me?” delivered with a just a touch of disdain in my voice.

This week’s CSA box contained the usual roots that are hard to be enthusiastic about after a long winter, but there were also some early shoots: rhubarb, raab, and—gasp!—asparagus! The kids weren’t around to hear my shriek of glee; probably just as well, since everything I do serves only to embarrass my 13-year old. Another cackle: Farmer’s wife has won Darling Husband’s everlasting adoration by throwing in an extra stalk of the red stringy stuff. I quickly slate that for compote with a wee bit of orange peel and plan to bake up some lace cookies to dunk/scoop the glop.

But it was the asparagus that made my heart leap, because I’ve lived here long enough to know that when the green spears head upward, it’s the time when the salmon arrives. Sure enough, a trip to the market revealed that the Copper River season started today, which would have meant waiting a day to eat the asparagus, which frankly wasn’t an option. So we “settled” for Columbia River King, and fired up the grill. Potatoes (yes, they were in the box as well) first, then the asparagus (ever so quickly!), and finally the filets, oozing enough oil to raise flames from the coals. No worries, though Number One Son, aka Armchair Fire Chief wanted to know if I wanted water to throw in the Weber.

The play has a happy ending, as all second-grade plays have: It turns out that the cake the apprentice baked was incredibly delicious, and I am duly impressed. But as I sit back licking my lips from that plate of fresh local goodness, I feel like a different sort of queen. Not only do I have the privilege of eating an incredibly tasty meal, not only have I had the honor of working with fine food, I have trod the soil that grew much of it, and have met the farmer (though I have yet to thank the farmer’s wife in person for that extra rhubarb in Darling Husband’s tummy). But there’s more: in that modest waxed cardboard box I have found something more than vegetables and other goodies: I have found time. I am spared standing in front of tables of produce asking myself, “Is it local?” “Is it in season?” No, I just say, incredulously, but with no disdain whatsoever, “Is this is the box you made for me?”

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.

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.

Corn in the chowder

It seems it is the season for soup. Dear Friend (mother of Stand Partner) called yesterday, asking for advice about adapting a chowder recipe to their dietary restrictions. She's still working her way through the salmon that thawed too much during the power outage, as well as trying to use up the celery that fell victim to the Cuisinart mini-prep.

Since it was to be dairy and wheat free, we decided that the thickener should be cornstarch or kudzu, added in a slurry after the milk, rather than starting with a traditional flour-based roux. The milk was rice dream, though soy milk would do equally well (not the vanilla flavor!) She prefers margarine to sauté her onions, but I remain faithful to butter. She had some nice new crop potatoes and frozen corn for the veggie contingent, along with thyme and bay. The salmon was already cooked, so it went in last.

She stopped me in the parking lot at pickup today--her family had gobbled it up, even her son, a mostly-vegetarian.

Christmas eve

We started off, quite festively, with champagne at the neighbors, enjoying conversation, playing music together, and then playing murders until at the bottom of bottle four, we reached a lull where kids were hungry enough to bring home for supper. After that much champagne, I was quite pleased that I had had the presence of mind to skin the salmon filet before we went over.
I put the water on under the potatoes, then we popped over to the other neighbors for the annual exchange of cookies: I offer up Vanillekipferl, Zimtsterne and Lebkuchen, she reciprocates with her Swedish cookies: Pepperkakkor, Krumkake and Spritz. We have two Christmas-y trays that the cookies go on, and they move back and forth between our houses yearly.
Once the cookie exchange was accomplished, along with the usual catch-up on offspring/girlfriends/niece, we headed home and put on the salmon. I was thinking a nut crust and some pretty fresh cranberries would make for a nice counterpoint to the buttery flesh, but apparently the acid of the cranberries reacted with the carbon steel of my pan, and the juices turned out a grubby grey. Luckily, there was no metallic taste, and it looked worse in the kitchen than by candlelight on the table. The potatoes did the buttery melting thing, with herb salt, and lemon juice gave the steamed broccoli the perfect tang. A lamb's lettuce salad with a lemon-herb dressing made for an elegant but festive supper on a busy evening.
We only managed one of the cheesecakes this evening, but there are enough leftovers that we can resume more scientific testing tomorrow.

Aftermath

There are still many in the dark at this point; we are realizing how very lucky we are. But even this misfortune has its upside: for this is the point where the Feast of the Thawed begins. One dear friend had 100 pounds of salmon in her freezer; the top layer thawed too much to refreeze, but not too much to eat! We came home with eight huge King salmon filets, which we promptly reduced to three by giving some away to the neighbors, re-freezing some and making a pot of soup.

Half of one filet, sliced thinly on the diagonal, went into a pot of onions simmering in olive oil. It was joined shortly thereafter by dill, salt, milk and a splash of California Gewürztraminer. A light green salad with avocados and tomatoes was all this meal needed for a tasty Sunday supper. (A loaf of warm crusty sourdough would have been perfect, but between not eating wheat for a while and the absence of bakeries with power, we had to make do with oyster crackers...)