Exclusivity

I still remember the week that Trader Joe's opened up near our home: a hitherto empty strip mall parking lot was suddenly full and people in the know streamed through the doors. Curious, I ventured in. Here were the "gourmet" foods I had missed from my European sojourns: the cheeses, the chocolates. And here were organics and staples at decent prices. I was in love.

It didn't take long, of course, for the bloom to wear off: favorite products "discontinued," the incessant and insistent displays of balloons (potentially life-threatening to those of us with latex allergies). It would be safe to say that we are more realistic about our relationship. This is after all, business, designed to make money for private owners. Even those incredible avocados are designed to line their pocketbook rather than feed my cravings for them.

Perhaps it is because of the attractively-priced rice pasta that I turn a blind eye, but I'm wondering if we are headed to counseling or at least a gripe session with a girlfriend. I'm referring to the use of the word "exclusive."

In my mind, that term conjures up images of a social bargain: they are the only ones to offer it, and I will seek it only there. But when the neighborhood busybody posts pictures on the Internet, falsehoods are exposed. The busybody here is the FDA, doing their job with their new and incredibly transparent recall website: not only do we get the names and objects of the offense spelled out, we get pictures. And there Joe is, the last in a lineup of little Splendido tomatoes, his label proclaiming exclusivity, when the other pictures clearly tell another story.

The online Bullshitometer reminds me that advertising and politics are rife with this kind of deceit, and this label scores a perfect 10 of 10. I would be lying if I said it didn't undermine the trust in our relationship. Perhaps Joe thinks I won't come back if I knew his inner truths; or perhaps I am using him as much as he is using me.

Shopping at home

The dish has gone through a family evolution: in my childhood, it used plastic-wrapped ground beef from a white styrofoam tray from Fred Meyer, two cans of Contadina sauce  and a packet of Lawry's spaghetti seasoning. By the time I had moved out to my college apartment, the ingredients list on the seasoning packet was a turnoff, so I replaced it with real (well, Spice Island) herbs.

In the piles of my past is an essay written as part of a freshman English class in which we were to instruct someone how to do something: I wrote, unsurprisingly, about preparing a meal. Spaghetti, as it would have it, and I instruct the dutiful reader to add red wine to the mix and to pour a glass for themselves and whomever else might be around. I'd like to tell you I waited until my 21st birthday before I started adding it to the mix, but given that I was underage throughout my university career, that seems unlikely.

In France, it took patience while the slow hotplate heated water to boil noodles, and I admit to resorting to jarred sauce--cold. It was one of the first dishes I taught my darling to-be-husband, and soon became a code for I'm not making it:

"Hi honey, I'm home! What's for supper?"
"Spaghetti."
"Oh, that bad? I'll make it."

As food sensitivities mounted and our numbers increased, the basics have been replaced by fare from the co-op, including pork sausage (my Italian Girlfriend admonished me).  My shopping list and habits changed. Until this year. This year, or rather last summer, we shopped the farmers markets, peeled, chopped, boiled, dried, and stuffed our larder and freezer full. Add to it a quarter pig that we affectionately call 'Porker,' and I haven't had to shop for anything but the pasta and onions since July.

Instead of making a shopping list, I head out to the garage, and reach into the arctic box for some Porker sausage and a bag of chopped heritage tomatoes (Yellow? Black? Or red?). Behind me, one jar breaks rank from the soldiers of tomato sauce. Upstairs, hanging from wrought iron hooks (from the blacksmith who visits at Michaelmas) are garlic and herbs.

This is the first year we have tried this, and it has been a glorious 7 weeks. Only seven, as the last of Porker's sausage (there are still chops and ribs and bacon) went in the pan this evening, so we shall revert to the co-op's decent-but-not-as-good stuff. The chopped tomatoes should last until late spring, and the canned ones should last 32 more weeks--until just about the time that the first local tomatoes start showing up at the farmer's market.

Summer stretch

"Mom, why do you keep making all these fancy dinners? I mean, like with more than one course and dessert and stuff."

Why? Pretty simple, really: it's a great way to get yet another plate of vegetables on the table. While I'd like to say that the extra vegetables are a calculated effort to make our meal offerings more healthy, it really boils down to a practical matter. With a friend on vacation, I acquired her CSA share in addition to our own--at the end of summer, when things are finally starting to come in after such a slow start. Caprese was an easy choice: my tomatoes, her basil. Less obvious was the tzatziki (her cucumbers and dill) and the baked ratatouille (my tomatoes and peppers, her zucchini). And there's no way that chocolate zucchini cake could be considered healthy in any way. The strawberry sorbet might come close, if it weren't for all that added sugar.

As an added plus, it keeps us at the table longer on a summer's eve, a luxury that will likely disappear in the coming weeks as schoolwork and orchestra rehearsals and their ilk resume for the school year.

I will resume canning and freezing this weekend, as I fear the beans and apples will get ahead of us if I don't. But until then, the table (outside, as long as the weather permits) will groan under the extra dishes. The fancy ones.

The pleasantness of surprise

"Isn't it wonderful," he marveled with that twinkle in his eye, "that every time we make love, it's different? Sometimes quick, sometimes slow, sweaty and cool, furious and calm. Never the same way twice, but always amazing. Don't you agree?"

She returned his glance with a sly smile and arched eyebrows. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "In fact, I think there's a good case to be made for sameness, a sort of McDonald's approach to marital bliss, if you will. Imagine knowing exactly what to expect--the same every time!" She nuzzled in, close to his ear. "Think of it, standardized lovemaking, no surprises, either unpleasant or pleasant. Wouldn't that be reassuring!"

He smiled and nuzzled back, "Ah, so you agree."

*****

With the gift of a few quiet hours today thanks to my Darling Husband, I took my time in the market, allowing myself to look at items that don't usually land in my cart. An intent-looking fellow crossed my path, reached in to a familiar spot on the shelf, and took a can, only glancing at the label long enough to make sure he got the right thing--the thing that he presumably always buys. I looked at my usual canned tomatoes, and opted instead for the small (and BPA-free) aseptic box of tomatoes. Yes, I will use these in tonight's spaghetti sauce, along with a good number of the tomatoes from the farm, where summer has finally taken hold.

At home, the sauce does look different; the sausage and onion are the same, but they are joined by sweet peppers and carrots and lovely heirloom tomatoes, yellow, black and green. The boys note the difference in appearance right away, but the first taste wins them over. "It's different," mumbles Number One, with his mouth full. Little One finishes his sentence with a slurp: "But really good."

*****

Little One has the bright idea of making our own sorbet from some roadside blackberries. I recall a chapter in The Curious Cook by Harold Magee where he discusses ratios of fruit to sugar and water in terms of flavor and scoopability, so we pull it off the shelf. I wend my way through the passages preceding the recipe tables, and smile to myself when I reach the part where his mathematical formulae fall victim to the vagaries of fruit's natural sugar content, which depends on many factors, many of which are unknown and certainly beyond the control of the casual cook.

Yes, we use recipes to provide ourselves with predictable results. But when we always reach for the same package, we deprive ourselves of the unpredictable and pleasant surprises that nature willingly gives us. We need to find the freedom within ourselves to diverge from our usual paths. Ah, but you say, for things like baking, we need to follow the recipe exactly. To which I say piffle, remembering the sweltering weekend when the wedding cake would not rise even though the math said it should. Nature, like the love of a good woman, will not be made predictable. Isn't it wonderful?

Quality time

A large cardboard box of tomatoes from the market is hefted up the stairs with a small bag of basil wrapped around a pinkie finger. Darling Husband gets to work bathing the red beauties. Children filter downstairs, peering into the box.

I place a pot of simmering water on the stove,  and get out two forks and two paring knifes. Even the teenager is interested, and does not resist the chore of peeling, but cannot refrain from complaining about the burnt finger. He would be wise not to complain too loudly, since he is usually the happiest one on spaghetti night in our household.

Little One is drawn to the small fragrant bag and begins the process of picking leaves from stems, making a neat pile. I give him three big cloves of freshly-pulled garlic to peel as well.

An intense hour ensues, with the big man ferrying bowls of now-naked fruit between the two peelers and corers; the food processor makes short order of the batches, and the big stainless pots fill quickly. The compost bucket is nearly overflowing, but these many hands have made truly light work, and it feels very special to all be doing meaningful work together.

The pots go onto the stove to simmer, and while my two big men wipe things down, I help Little One use the food processor to whiz together his labors. He gets the fun of spooning the pesto into an ice cube tray, and the kitchen is starting to smell summer-wonderful.

I dig out the jars and the canning kettle, the rings and the lids. Soon I am ladling the hot summer sun into neat packages for our winter pleasure. Little One stands on a stool to watch them lowered into the bubbling pot. And we all rejoice at the happy 'pling' of sealing jars through the evening.

Righteously content, we have all earned a reward. Some oil in a small pot, a scoop of sugar and a big scoop of popcorn, and we settle down to a good movie with a big bowl of fresh, hot kettle corn.

Bounty hunter

The running joke around these parts is that summer doesn’t begin in earnest until after July 4. Many natives firmly believe that grey skies, in addition to providing an interesting background to fireworks, are preferable to the high fire danger other communities around the nation have to contend with. But when the sun finally emerges on July 5, we joyfully join in the summer dance, digging deep into our closets for shorts, rummaging in the glovebox for sunglasses, and foraging in the back of the medecine cabinet for sunscreen. Sure, we complain when the mercury climbs above 80 degrees, but it's never more than a few days (and sleepless nights, since no one has air conditioning).

But not this year. On July 5, the skies remained stubbornly grey and we were still zipped into our polar fleece. The plants we had dared set out in the garden (with wall-o-waters to keep them warm) were still the same size as when we planted them two weeks prior. Green shoots were everywhere, but that turning point, when vitality takes over and a bountiful harvest seems inevitable, hadn’t happened. The Seattle Times reported that our governor had applied for federal disaster relief for 29 counties, where rain, wind, frost and too-cool weather have conspired to seriously damage crops and discourage pollinators.

And here were are, preparing to turn the calendar page tomorrow, into a month that should be full of overripe tomatoes and stealth zuchinni giveaways. But our tomato plants have yet to set a single fruit. Each squash plant has had exactly one blossom, and it’s too early to tell whether fruit will set. Our CSA farmer has fared a little better, with peas and dark leafy greens still the only part of our share that hint at excess. And we are still wearing sweaters and socks.

When will the season turn? Well, two weeks ago, after two days of temperatures barely over 80 degrees, the first tomatoes appeared in our share; a disappointingly scant pint basket for each member. They were, without question, delicious, but my visions of rows of jars of summer-red sauce for pasta throughout the winter will never be realized at this rate.

It feels frankly odd to not be canning and jamming my way through a summer: last year I was not home, but rasperries and stawberries came our way in enough volume that more than a few jars were made (and given away before we moved). This year, berries can be found at the co-op, to be sure, but most are still coming from far south, and carry price tags to discourage the would-be bounty hunter. The federal assistance has not come through, and I can only hope the bees aren't too discouraged by the still unseasonably cool temperatures.

Little One finished up his week of day camp in the foothills, where we traditionally fill baskets of blackberries and blueberries on the drive home, But there are no blackberries to be had--yet. I remain hopeful on this account. The blueberry farm did put up their sign on Friday, so there is a glimmer of hope on that horizon. But it remains to be see how easy or slim the pickings are.

They say that eating seasonally means learning grace. Grace to wait patiently for fruits to set and ripen, grace to put things up for the leaner months. I tell myself there is still time, and indeed, there is plenty of green fruit on the plum and apple trees. We will scour the farmers' markets this coming week, and pray for warmth to ripen the bounty yet to come. We will pray for grace.

The kitchen sink

With a kid home sick from school right on the tail end of a trip, creativity in leftovers was called for. Luckily, there were still a few items in the garden, so not all was from the freezer or a can. I rounded up all the odd homegrown potatoes (I counted at least four different types), cut them up, seasoned and roasted them. The freezer had a package of Hempler’s bratwurst, which are so tasty that the boys (all three of them) fight over the fifth one. (The packages have, over the years, had six, four, and now five sausages in them.) I resorted to frozen peas for a token green item.

***

Right on the heels of our fast food binge (though Burgerville’s fast food is slower and better for you than the market leaders), I read Mark Morford on Wendy’s new Baconator burger, which is garnished with six strips of bacon and boasts 51 grams of fat. That’s 830 calories before we add the fries, and we can’t forget the fries and the Coke. Call it 1300 even. For the record, I gain weight at anything more than 1200 calories a day.

I imagine someone who orders this must be ravenously hungry. A niggling voice reminds me of a piece I read a few days back about how food is less nutritious in terms of micronutrients and phytochemicals. I can’t help but think there has to be some correlation between our “appetite” for the extreme things the fast food industry is pushing, and the logical extrapolation that we have to eat more to get the same amount of the nutrients we did twenty years ago.

I think that hungry person is also looking for something other than food, but they're not sure what. Marketing preys on our insecurities: if nature is telling you that nutrients are lacking and culture tells you that you are lacking, you will be on the lookout for something, which meshes nicely with the obvious sophistication of the marketing machine. When you’re hungry, you don’t think clearly. Which is a recipe for disaster.

***

Air fresheners have hit the fan: an environmental group is suing to have air fresheners regulated because the chemicals they contain are clearly implicated in air quality and respiratory and reproductive health issues. The response is predictable: faced with irrefutable evidence, one company has pulled and quarantined their products. The folks who open a window after using the bathroom are feeling vindicated, while others sputter that they need their plug-in scents to keep their houses and stores smelling fresh and clean. I can safely predict new product lines cashing in on natural scented oils, potpourri and baking soda. They’ll still contain noxious chemicals of course, just ones that aren’t on anybody’s bad list. And it’s unlikely that the government will defy lobbyists and require disclosing the ingredients. Plus ça change…

***

All this talk gets many people upset, worried that the government is becoming a nanny state. Part of me agrees, reasoning that we should just let people kill themselves with smoking, eating poorly, or inhaling toxins. But I also understand that harming one member of our society harms us all. I watched my father kill himself with his pipe; I now see my brother repeating the pattern, this time with food from the supermarket. Diagnosed with arterial disease, his doctor does not prescribe a diet void of hydrogenated fats and rich in omega-3 fatty acids, but gets out his pad and writes a scrip for Prilosec and blood thinners and tells him to avoid leafy greens. The corporations that manufacture foodstuffs continue to profit, as do the drug companies who have no interest in seeing people adopt healthy habits. It all boils down to money – big money – and that makes my blood boil. The money to be made in buying unprocessed local food simply can’t satisfy the greed of the huge corporations.

***

Which brings me back to my bare cupboards. I’m left with a bunch of fruit well past its prime in the bowl, a mess of leftover rice in the fridge and a lonely packet of Umpqua Valley ground lamb in the freezer. All the fruit goes into a pot with plenty of sugar, making jam that I have dubbed “kitchen sink” for its mishmash of ingredients (blackberries, plums, blueberries, one peach, half a pear and a lemon). The lamb had me scratching my head: the garden had two smallish but ripe tomatoes, but I didn’t want to sacrifice them to roast with the lamb, and besides that really wants feta, of which I have none. Tomatoes in hand, I walk past the grape arbor. Of course! I pick a few dozen leaves, mix up half the lamb with some leftover rice, and roll up some dolmas. The rest of the lamb got the garlic and dill treatment and roasted. The tomatoes got eaten, just like that. And the whole house smells of lovely, sweet garlic.

Cups that runneth over

This morning’s San Francisco Chronicle, which always has excellent food coverage, had an article on really good home cooks. Of course, it caught my eye, since I really want to count myself as one of them. A read through validates: we work with what the good stuff that comes our way (or is in the fridge), we cook a lot (and subject our families to plenty of mistakes along the way), we taste as we go, and we read cookbooks (but we don’t slavishly follow the recipes in them).

So I guess I am one of them, just not in a California sort of way. Ever since the apples started falling from our front yard tree (I admit I favor this Gravenstein tree over the eating apples and Asian pears in the backyard), I have been dreaming about pork chops. I absolutely adore the pairing of apples and pork, and last night was the night. I found some lovely pork chops at the co-op, and decided to top it with butter-sautéed apples, together with fresh cauliflower from the Redmond Saturday Market and some brown rice from the larder. A salad (also from the market: the head was so big it’s given us two dinner salads and two lunches) would round things out, topped with Trader Joe’s new sweet & salty crunchy nuts. I threw in a tomato from the market for color.

As I was deglazing the chops with some of the hard raspberry apple cider I was drinking, in walked Darling Husband with his ample hands full of tomatoes. Seems the neighbor was out in her garden when he walked by on his way home, and unloaded some of their bounty on him. With a silly grin, he handed them to me, because he knew what was coming: these beauties were going to be our entrée. The new bottle of balsamic vinegar beckoned, and I immediately started a vinaigrette (today’s jar of French mustard sports cartoons of “Le monde de Narnia”). I pulled a knife from the block and cut into the biggest tomato, purply-red and lobed, clearly a heritage fruit. Its flesh was still warm from the sun, and I could smell the sweetness. Three others joined the plate, Number One picked some parsley from the garden (too shady for basil here), and Little One helped set the table.

It may not be Tuscany, but we did have our little moment of late summer bliss, sitting outside under the grape arbor, eating tomates vinaigrette, followed by a dinner starring cider-glazed pork chops and buttery apples. I must remember to drop a jar or two of plum jam at the neighbors today.

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.