Golden sunshine

The sun is shining today, but it is a weak light, barely able to warm the floor where it casts its rays. We have turned the corner into deep autumn, and Old Man Winter is waiting in the wings. So it is no surprise that the part needed to make our boiler produce hot water did not arrive in a timely fashion. Friends have provided us with space heaters, though we have learned that we can’t have heat and run the microwave at the same time.

The effects of living in a cold house, though, are showing: Little One woke pulling and rubbing at his ear this morning and we suspect his cold may be becoming an ear infection. The windows in our bedroom have condensation on them, and the room needs airing, something we dare not do, lest we lose any precious warmth. We have not sat in the living room as a family for a week, and our stringed instruments refuse to stay in tune.

Upstairs, suitcases are out, piles of clothing are mounded on our bed, and my desk has been cleared. We shall pack our bags and decamp to California, to the city of my father’s birth for the rest of the week. A professional conference is our official reason, but the forecast of 68 degrees and sunny, typical fall weather from my childhood beckons us.

Before we leave, we’ll finish up the leftover lentil soup and the last cucumbers and tomatoes from the Redmond farmer’s market. The doctor will swing by this evening and look in Little One’s ears, and British Neighbor has promised to turn on the space heaters if Jack Frost threatens to freeze our pipes.

Our local South 47 Farm shutters for the season tomorrow, but we know there’s a bountiful farmer’s market across the street from the hotel in the Ferry building this Saturday. We’re ready for a little warmth.

Celebrate!

Today is National Chocolate Day, an auspicious occasion by any measure. I really want to take the opportunity to celebrate by getting up to my elbows in obscene amounts of the stuff, but am stuck at the keyboard, trying to overcome writer’s block on a campaign speech for election to the board of directors of ATA. Make no mistake, I have no aversion to intellectual effort, and I’d really like to be elected, but it really seems a pity to spend such an important holiday slaving away on mere words.

And then I recall the words of fellow chocolate-lover Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, that fabulous French gastronome whose day job was that of magistrate. He notes that chocolate is, “above all, helpful to people who must do a great deal of mental work.” (« Le chocolat est très convenable aux personnes qui se livrent à une grande contention de l'esprit »)

So there you have it. It’s not a matter of either/or. I must do the chocolate work to be able to write that speech. Which is why I’ll move the space heater upstairs to the kitchen and work on flavoring the latest incarnation of the auction truffles. In case you’re still searching for a suitable way to celebrate, I append the result of my mentally taxing research below.

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate
1/2 cup coconut milk
1 tablespoon extra virgin coconut oil

Coarsely chop the chocolate and place into a clean bowl. Heat the coconut milk and oil to nearly boiling. Add the milk mixture to the chocolate and stir to melt the chocolate evenly, working quickly. Refrigerate the chocolate until firm, about 2 hours. Using a measuring spoon, scoop up 1 teaspoon of chocolate, and quickly roll into a ball about 3/4-inch across. Chill until firm and coat as desired. Makes about 30 truffles.

Nipping at our toes

The frost is on the pumpkin this morning. This is usually one of my favorite days, a decisive turning of the season. The leaves have been changing color and dropping for so many weeks now that it hardly seems special anymore, just as we take the green leaves for granted by July. But today it is clear that there is no turning back: the tomatoes that we thought could take a few more days to ripen must come out, the flower containers should be tucked in unless we want leggy impatiens.

But Jack Frost beat us to the punch this year. I have been informed by the Boiler Guy that our boiler is in need of a new gas valve, and that I should be ecstatic that they even make parts for it anymore. I’m used to discussions like this with my Volvo mechanic, but the boiler is only half the age of my car. It was installed when I was pregnant with Little One, and he’s not old. And like the Volvo, the part has to come from New Jersey, and won’t be here before Monday.

No heat, and and Frost rapping at the window. We broke out the long underwear, filled the hot water bottles and bought a couple of space heaters, but Jack is laughing at us. Little One’s cough has turned all chesty, so I’ve kept him home, even though it’s warmer at school. We’ll add another layer and go hunt pumpkins this afternoon, but will plan to spend the evening eating out where it’s warm.

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The good, the bad, and the tasty

Sweet cream butter. Nope, sorry, butter is bad: you should use margarine or canola oil. No, wait, those trans fats can clog your heart up worse than a cork. Butter isn’t so bad after all, but only in moderation. Top of the pyramid.

We seem to be getting a little pudgy as a population: the finger points at fat. We should stick to fat-free foods, then we can have as much as we want, guilt-free. Oops, now we seem to have an obesity and diabetes epidemic. Maybe a little fish oil will help after all.

Everyone knows that you shouldn’t drink too much, it’s not good for you. But, wait, red wine keeps the French healthy. Two glasses a day should do. But hold on, drinking can increase the risk for cancer.

Chocolate. Clearly something this good must be evil. But wait, the bioflavonoids in high-cocoa content chocolate can be good for your heart. So eat your chocolate—for now. Someone will no doubt notice that chocolate bars are candy, and as vital as it is to my life, I know that I must enjoy it in moderation.

Honestly, it makes me wondered what happened to common sense. I can hear my grandmother repeating, “Moderation is the key.” (I somehow envision a woman I’ve never met cast in this role, in a flowered apron and snapping beans on her front porch.) Our fad-riddled society has us moving from the newest to the latest with lightning speed. Last year it was all blueberries and red wine. Now it’s pomegranates and 70% chocolate. Who knows what next year will bring? It really doesn’t matter: if we look to tradition to guide our choices, we will find that the wisdom of ages automatically builds in moderation.

With that in mind, I started recipe development work (a euphemism for messing about in the kitchen) for a dessert offering for the kid’s school auction. The dessert portion of the live auction can really move, as there are never enough to go around – by design. Add to that the fact that we tend to be über-responsible adults most of the time, and the desserts are usually out of this world.

I’ll fall back on my tried-and-true Chocolate Stout Cake, the richest chocolate cake I make, but I wanted a second offering to accommodate our vegan/allergic/pc-even-at-a-party compatriots without making them feel they were sacrificing anything. I had toyed with a pot of drinking chocolate and an assortment of cookies, but my tests weren’t going well. Even the boys were picking at our test subjects. Not good. Then Saturday, pure serendipity: I reached into the magazine holder and pulled out a Bon Appétit at random. It was a Christmas issue from 2003. I opened it, to see a page of truffles. The (compact fluorescent) light bulb went off. After a quick web search, I found a way to make truffles using vegan ingredients. Saturday evening’s ganache passed muster, and Sunday was spent trying different taste combinations, and learning hand-dipping (Darling Husband thinks that the clean-up for the latter should involve him—why should I get to lick my fingers all by myself?). A quick trip out for dessert wines, and British neighbor stepped up to the plate for the first round of testing last night. We have the wine chosen, and a few winner truffles. We’ll have to do at least one more round of tasting, but she’s assured us that she’s up for it. Brave woman.

Soy Truffles

1 cup high-quality dairy-free chocolate
1/4 cup full-fat soy milk
1/3 cup extra-firm silken tofu
1 tsp. vanilla or 1 Tbl. liqueur

Chop the chocolate and place in bowl. Blend soy milk and tofu together until smooth. Heat the soy mixture until very hot, but not boiling. Working quickly, pour the hot soy mixture into the grated chocolate, stirring constantly until smooth. Beat in flavoring. Cool in refrigerator 1-2 hours. Shape into balls and chill. You can cover and decorate them as for any truffle.

Of course, now that I’ve made these truffles using soy (which is still “in” for pre-menopausal women, but still a high allergen food), I’m wondering if I can find a way to use other non-dairy ingredients with similarly tasty results. Watch this space!

Popping balloons

I admit it, I’m not a telephone person. One of the reasons my job suits me well is that I don’t have to talk to people a lot: a quick note here, a short call there, but most of the time, it’s just me and the words on the page.

So I had to wipe an appalling amount of sweat off my palms this morning to call Alaska Airlines and try to calmly explain that their balloon display is a problem while my hands shook. I explained it to a patient Alice of Alaska twice, and then she asked to put me on hold. It was a long wait, as I anticipated. She returned, and let me know that my best option was to print out the boarding passes online, and then go around the middle part of the airport to avoid the balloons, and proceed straight to security. Unless I needed to check bags. Did I need to check bags? Um, yes.

Oh. Undaunted, Alice put me on hold again. When she returned, she announced that she had called the gate itself, and was assured that all the balloons were already gone, it must have only been for a few days. I thanked her, and asked her to pass my concerns on. She sounded relieved that I hadn’t said the word “lawyer” or “sue,” but I somehow doubt she’s going to take up my crusade.

So I cuddled up with my computer and drafted a follow-up letter, the old-fashioned kind with a stamp that am popping in today’s mail to the Alaska folks. While I was at it, I sent off an electronic note to Trader Joe’s, which they assure me will be read by a real person.

My brother, livid at the thought of losing his mechanic to latex allergy (An aside: I’m still having trouble with why mechanics need latex gloves—do engines carry HIV? Can they catch it from infected mechanics? Or is soap too expensive?), hollers that I should hire a lawyer, but the nervous toll of one phone call is enough for me. For now. We’ll see if I’ve popped any balloons today.

The Grinch strikes back

No, I’m not angry because of all the other drivers out there, clogging the roads so that it takes me an hour and a half to go 15 miles. No, I’m not ticked that someone dropped the ball in organizing an event and now I have to reconstruct an entire month’s work. Even the solicitor who abjectly ignored the “NO SOLICITING” sign hasn’t ruffled my feathers that much. And I’m only mildly fuming because my mother has decided not to move after all, despite all the effort that so many people have put into the move.

Nope, I’m angry because I picked up the paper to see this:

MIKE SIEGEL / THE SEATTLE TIMES

Yes, that is the checkin counter that I will be using in ten days, and yes, those are hundreds of latex balloons arching gracefully over it. They might as well herald the arrival of this new era of flight by building a shrine to it, with no ramps for wheelchairs.

I’m angry because I’m so very tired of having to explain my latex sensitivity over and over to people who ineveitably respond, “Oh, gee, I didn’t know it was that bad!” or “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you had that allergy” or “The Health Department says we have to wear these gloves.” I’m tired of walking into Trader Joe’s and having to turn tail and leave. I’m weary of having to leave kids’ birthday parties. And if that’s not enough, now I need to take on the airlines just so I can check my bags in a public space. This action will open myself to the derisive attitudes of the uneducated, the same ones who make snide remarks about peanut-free school busses.

I take some solace that I am not alone in all this. There is ample precendent set by those brave women who champion for their kids to be able to attend school safely, and a handful of them, met online, are cheering me on. So watch out: I’m drafting letters, gathering phone numbers and then I’m going to go tilt at balloons.

Tending our garden

With supper simmering on the stove, I went outside to chat with the Irish neighbors, recently returned from their sojourn on the Emerald Isle. Jetlagged, they were trying to catch up on tidying the garden, having missed out on the last month of pruning and mowing. Leaning on his rake, he recalls his Dublin neighbor, an old woman telling him not to sweat the weeds, since that’s what a garden is. He sighs as he relates how his US neighbor welcomed them home by dropping a strong hint that they needed to “do something” about the weeds. He says to me, whatever happened to neighbors gardening together, planting victory gardens, helping each other out? America used to be such a great country, says this normally jovial Irishman, what happened?

My mother has decided to stay in the house she and my father built, stairs or no stairs. She reminisces about her childhood dream house, built by her family right before World War II. It was a perfect white house with a picket fence in an upscale neighborhood, and one of its proudest features (tended by a man who made his money in the oil business, no less) was its victory garden. Even this affluent family was doing their part to help the war effort.

Americans in 1943 produced more than 24 million tons of vegetables for sale, including potatoes, in market gardens and on farms, and an estimated eight million tons of vegetables for family use, in home gardens.

(From the Victory Gardens Handbook, a wartime publication by the Pennsylvania State Council of Defense)

Think of it: home gardeners produced a third of the nation’s vegetables in 1943 (some estimates place it as high as 40%). Their success actually resulted in items being removed from rationing lists at the height of the war. What’s more, families were taught to can or dehydrate anything that couldn’t be eaten fresh (housewives, Home Ec teachers and university extensions were all enlisted), and any surpluses in excess of a family’s needs were canned for the greater good—the local hospital, school lunches, and food banks. Everyone embodied the adage of ‘waste not, want not.’ This combined effort released food for the military, increased the amount of vegetables consumed, improved the nutritional quality of the food on most people’s tables, reduced the stresses on the transportation network, and improved morale by empowering people to contribute. It also built community at a time of national crisis, as people from all walks worked together in community plots “in most cases in a very healthful, enjoyable way.”

Imagine if we could do something that could help reduce our nation’s dependence on foreign oil; if we could do something to improve the nutritional value and safety of the food on our tables, and in schools and hospitals and food banks; if we could get people to eat more vegetables; if we could do something to get people moving and outdoors; if we could do something to bridge the ever-increasing political chasm that threatens to paralyze our democracy.

Think of the victory garden the next time you are stuck in traffic behind a car with a yellow ribbon magnet proclaiming, “support our troops!” Think of what tending our victory garden together could mean.