Slow

As I slowly turn the spoon in the pot, I let out a long sigh. Finally, the breakneck pace of last-minute school events and end-of-year projects has ended. The berries in the pot took no notice of our hectic high-mileage days in May, instead slowly setting fruit and turning the berries an irresistible red that I feel compelled to capture.

As I sweat from the steam in my sultry kitchen, I revel in that fact that the days have finally turned long and sunny, soaking the berries with warmth and sweetness. It is time to slow down, to indulge in nibbly-type suppers in the cool of the back garden, to sip icy drinks to counteract the steamy heat.

As the jam bubbles, I think about when we will eat it; in the winter, on crunchy toast or English muffins or waffles. Perhaps a jar will find its way into a Christmas gift. The mornings will be chilly and the light pale, and we will bundle up and see our breath. But we will venture out into the chill with summer in our tummies.

As each jar sounds its happy plonk! I relax into summer. It is time, finally, for hammocks, for ice cream, for books and beaches, for sunburns and mosquito bites. Time to capture the warmth in our bones, in our hearts, and in jars.

Phinney & Hayton

With the kids shipped off to summer camp, Darling Husband and I embarked upon a week-long date night (interrupted by work, sigh). We had only one "required" activity; the Microsoft Orchestra concert at the Ballard Locks. Sunshine, and appreciative audience and prime parking make this a perennial favorite, though the picnic blanket looked kind of empty with only the big man sprawled on it.

But traffic this weekend was extra-messy with Pride Parade snarls in the north end, bigger than ever this year on the tails of the New York law (I love New York!), and a Sounders game to the south. We managed to get there before the downbeat--barely. And the trip back home was looking to be just as bad. Ugh.

Darling husband earned his stripes as he steered the car off the clogged main drag onto peaceful Phinney, parking next to the Mecca of chocolate, Theo. There, we browsed samples of favorites, old and new (the toasted coconut was lovely, but orange still has a place in my heart, and fig fennel makes Darling Husband's heart got pitty-pat). The only thing that truly tempted was the closeout of their 74%. When we re-emerged, we saw banner flying a block off for the Fremont Sunday Market. Given my proclivity for farmer's markets, it bore investigating.

What we discovered was not a farmer's market, but a hodge-podge of artists, ethnic food carts, psychics and antiques dealers, selling everything from homemade ice cream sandwiches to old postcards to exquisite handmade jewelry (the coral piece was tempting but too pricey) to distressed furniture and more. The crowd was a pleaser too, for those who indulge in that sport. And there, in a positively un-funky white easy-up, was a very normal-looking man selling just one thing: local, transitional strawberries.

As I chatted with the amiable fellow from Hayton Farms in Mount Vernon, I could smell them. As I checked my pint ($3) for fuzzies, I could feel that even chilled, they were tender, like the berries we pick in our garden, not those crunchy things that arrive in clamshells. No, these were real berries, and I needed more than a pint.

The half-flat we scored has so far yielded two batches of jam: a big batch of just plain strawberry, and a smaller batch of strawberry-chocolate-balsamic. I'm thinking the remaining pints will become a third batch of strawberry mint, since Little One picked a bunch of chocolate mint last week, and it's been waiting for a pot to jump into. Or maybe I'll run out and grab a bit of rhubarb (it's been a good year for rhubarb locally) and do that instead. I'll let you know.

All this, very local; indeed, the chocolate and the berries both scored on the same street, in the middle of the universe.

Indulgence

As any parent knows, the ultimate indulgence is time. Luxury is something we sip rather than gulp, little stolen moments rather than long stretches. And even more so, as this mother stares down the barrel of nine weeks of summer vacation.

It seemed odd that I would shop alone once the kids were in school last September, but I soon grew used to the meditative escape, the leisurely browse. Granted, my kids are well past grabbing things off the shelf (yes, toddler mother, I understand why your cart is in the middle of the aisle), but they do disrupt the calm: they actually started punching each other in the cracker section last week.

Other than the requisite violence inherent in parenting boys, I also buy more food when they shop with me. Little One, a spring baby, loves all the little berries of spring and summer; my fall boy is drawn to the bags of crisp apples, and grumpy that I won't buy from things shipped from the southern hemisphere. We buy a big clam-shell of strawberries from California. Even though they're not local, at least the fruit in our patch has set, and we did see some local (but not organic) at the farmers market the day before.

On the way home, we stop by the library: Little One staggers under a stack of Hardy Boys and thicker books. I head to the magazine section. A little of this, a little of that, and I have my own thick stack to dip into and sip.

That evening, Darling Husband also partakes of my paper indulgence, and as we sit, exclaims, "eww!" "What?" I say. "Here's a recipe for chocolate mousse with strawberries and balsamic vinegar!" I smile and explain that the vinegar is a good foil, much like vanilla for chocolate, deepening the flavor.

So as I eye those strawberries that evening, I have it--nothing so involved as mousse, no, just a little indulgence.

Chocolate and Strawberry pots de crème
Serves 4

• 1/2 c strawberries
• 1 cup heavy whipping cream
• 1 oz. semi-sweet or dark chocolate, chopped (I used Theo's 74%)
• 1 t cocoa powder
• Splash of balsamic vinegar

Wash and hull the strawberries, chop them into bite-sized bits and place them into the bottoms of four espresso cups. Set aside two pretty ones for garnish, cut in half lengthwise.

In a saucepan, heat the cream until it boils, then stir in the chocolate and cocoa powder until smooth. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar and stir it in. Gently pour the mixture over the strawberries, using a spoon to push down any berries that float to the surface. Chill in refrigerator 1-2 hours.

Just before serving, garnish with strawberry half.

The smell is free

My shopping list today is pretty boring: lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, avocado, butter. Because my car does not have air conditioning, it has to be a pretty compelling reason to get me to drive anywhere in the afternoon. And I’m trying to empty the fridge a bit, since our summer trek to the olde country is but ten days away. But Little One had a coupon for a one dollar token at the Crossroads Farmers’ Market, and I missed the Redmond Saturday market for camping last weekend, and just can’t face the wilted stuff in the crisper, so off we went.

It is a small market, but still had plenty of flavor, from the Laotian and Mexican farmers bringing fresh cherries over the mountains (1 pound of Rainier cherries go in the bag after begging from Number One, even if they aren’t organic), to the woman who tapes up the seed packets from seeds that I can’t get to grow, but which she has started (one Mammoth sunflower for Little One, who gets two quarters from me in addition to his token), and the Russian woman haggling over the price of a bunch of beets with the preteen who has been left to tend the till (many thanks to the woman who was quick with two quarters to save the poor lad).

I find my old friends from Full Circle Farm, and indeed, they are the only organic farmer represented, and the most local. I’ve been watching their selection turn from dark leafy winter greens to tender baby lettuces, and now it’s glorious summer, and the big heads of fresh lettuce are three for $5. One red sail, one green leaf, one romaine for tomorrow night’s Caesar salad. A farmer from Yakima has the only potatoes at the market, and they’re cheap: a dollar a pound. I find eight nice red potatoes for a salad; if they are nice, I may be back another time.

But it is the strawberries that are the stars of this market day: flats, half-flats, pints, all resplendently red, and one farmer is offering an heirloom variety that sells itself from the smell alone. Two overflowing pints tops off the bag and will tuck themselves into scones this evening.

There are no tomatoes here, but I know I will find them on Saturday in Redmond. I’ll swing by Trader Joe’s on the way home for avocados and butter, and make sure to get a little cream, for those fragrant berries are well on their way to overshadowing dinner.