Jigsaw puzzle

When I first moved to France, mealtime was a minefield of challenges. My mother and I cut our teeth on restaurants, where I now realize the proprietors were excruciatingly patient. There was the Alsatian hole-in-the-wall in Paris where we ordered nothing but first courses and salads, skipping the main course altogether, and the poor innkeeper at the Hotel de la gare in Tours, who very politely informed us that the plateau de fromage was not intended solely for us, and could we please finish up so other patrons might enjoy their one or two slices of cheese as well.

But at least in a restaurant, we had an idea of how many courses we would be served so we could pace ourselves accordingly. Once I started working, I was at the mercy of the lunch ladies employed by the French Ministry of Education. Their secret menu (forget about a monthly cafeteria menu--they wouldn't even tell you on the day) might be two, three, or even four courses, and any one of those courses might be so unappetizing (think tongue or brain) that I couldn't stomach it. Easy if the first course was unbearable, but a disaster if I had passed up seconds of the egg and pickles to leave room for it. Dessert might be fruit or cheese or a delectable flan; you just never knew in advance.

And then there was the baguette and wine puzzle. The point of this game was to make the wine and bread come out even, with neither too much nor too little bread or wine left over when the food was all gone. The natives always seemed to manage effortlessly (I also envied their aplomb at navigating cobblestones in stiletto heels), but I would often  have but a skimpy crust to my name when the cheese plate came my way or worse, a huge hunk of bread in anticipation of a cheese course that turned out to be mousse au chocolat.

I was reminded of this as I laid my plans for today's preserving. As the result of a visit to a farming friend Saturday, we had a paper bag of Mirabelle plums, a box of Damson plums, about four pints of blueberries and a Frisbee full of roadside blackberries. Add to that the apples dropping in the front yard, and it was clear that this long weekend would be the date on many jars on the shelf.

Last night, the golden yellow Mirabelles set off some blackberries nicely in a cobbler as the family cuddled together on the sofa for a campy movie. This morning, I snuck  out of bed before breakfast and got two small batches of jam going, pairing up blackberries with both blueberries ("black and blue") and more golden plums. What didn't fit in jars was happily drizzled on waffles. That takes care of the blackberries, and whatever blueberries avoid the kettle will move to the arctic confines of the freezer for winter morning muffins and pancakes and such.

Which leaves me plums and apples. We'll freeze a few cups of plums to join fruit that ripens later, and make a huge batch of plum jam--I'm thinking the sunny yellow and rich purple will make an interesting mix. The apples, Gravensteins as luck would have it, will require a child or two working the corer, and patience to cook down into applesauce, a favorite with steaming Milchreis and oily Latkes, and the ultimate comfort food for a child (or adult) recovering from a bout of tummy bug.

I also may put up a couple jars of grape leaves from the front yard (think dolmas in winter) and freeze some of those extra vegetables in the fridge from last week's CSA share. By Tuesday, we should have everything tucked away, ready for the next week. And if something doesn't make a full batch, I'm thinking a pot of autumn soup will be an excellent way to warm our tummies and make it all come out right.

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?

Squeaky clean

Annie Leonard is at it again, this time with a video talking about the incredibly icky stuff in our personal care products. She throws stones at the use of "organic" on top brands riddled with petrochemicals, and rightly dings one producer for displaying a pink badge for breast cancer awareness on the outside of the bottle, all while putting known carcinogens in the bottle.

When I was a girl, my father picked up a copy of The Foxfire Book, a compendium of lost and disappearing lore in Appalachia. He was revved by the notion of making his own soap, and managed to find someone at church who was slaughtering a pig: could he have the fat? A bit of lye from the hardware store, and a foul-smelling brew over a fire in the backyard (no way was Mom letting that in the house!), and he produced a tray mounded with oddly shaped bars that he touted as usable as soap, shampoo and laundry detergent. We all gave it a go, but it was soon relegated to my father's corner of the shower and the utility sink--the caustic concoction was ace for getting automotive grime off and cutting through Brylcreem.

Now you know where I get it. I have never felt the urge to render my own pork fat (well, maybe a little), but certainly prefer a fine hand-cut bar to the mass-packaged uniform cakes in the big box. Currently in my shower is a hemp and honey bar, the last of a handful from the West of Ireland that I had tucked into my luggage before returning. And next to it stands an empty shampoo bottle.

Since you can't see me,  I'll let you know that I have long hair. Down-to-my waist, hints of grey, thick, wavy hair. You would think I would have a whole hair care system, a daily routine to keep my tresses looking photo-shoot ready. But I don't. A single bottle of shampoo, used sparingly and weekly, is all I need. And I'll tell you another secret: shampoo is only ever used on the top; the ends are far enough away from the scalp that they don't need washing (unless they've dragged through something). What this means in practical terms is that I use very little shampoo--much less than my shorter-coiffed counterparts.

Which brings me to back to that empty shampoo bottle: it's taken just shy of two years to get it to that state. There have been times when I'm traveling that I used hotel samples (they're very smelly, and really strip oils off hair, which isn't good), and the odd camping trip that pushed a wash out a few days, but by and large, I buy shampoo about as often as some people buy jeans or cars.

So I need to do a bit of research before I buy. This particular bottle was purchased shortly after we arrived in the Emerald Isle, at my favourite health shop in Blessington. I also knew I was in the EU, which adheres to a precautionary principle, meaning chemicals must be proven safe before being added to foods and personal products. So I chose what smelled good to me, in this case lavender and geranium--from the real thing, not a chemical fragrance.

But I can't be that sure here. With no governmental oversight and laws that allow companies to largely hide their ingredients under umbrella terms like "fragrance" and "color," we could only guess. But the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics provides an online database of brand-named products and their ingredients. I am delighted to see local brands like Ballard Organics, and most of the brands from our local coop represented there. And I'm even happier to see that I have several options. And that I don't need to render any pig fat.

Resistance

Regular readers will know that I subscribe to the FDA Twitterfeed: with a seemingly endless supply of recalls, they never have to dig deep for content. There were a few drug-related, and "undeclared allergen" recalls this past week, and one voluntary recall each for salad with listeria and ground beef with E. coli. Nothing exceptional. I'm not sure there's much more to say about it, other than the regularity of so many alarms being raised is in itself dangerous, as we become inured and lax about it. After all, what can we do about it?

There is a Calvin & Hobbes strip where Calvin has the hiccups. He asks his tiger buddy to scare them away, so Hobbes mentions the hole in the ozone and nuclear waste piling up. It doesn’t cure the hiccups, but it does drive home just how frightening this is--and how cynical we have become.

I was reminded of this strip when I opened up my virtual papers this morning, and read the headlines from across the pond. The UK press has a frightening tale to tell, of published studies of common bacteria that "have developed near total resistance to all forms of antibiotics." The words "total" and "all" frighten me. A gene in some bacteria has been identified that confers antibiotic resistance to the bacteria. And if that's not scary enough, there are three more bits of information we all need to be aware of:

1. It has been found in two very common bacteria, E.coli and Klebsiella pneumoniae. Yup, the same E. coli you read about in all those FDA recalls.
2. It can spread to other bacteria.
3. It has been found in at least eight countries, including the UK, India and the United States. The study's conclusion? "The potential of NDM-1 to become endemic worldwide is "clear and frightening" (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-10925411).

I had the opportunity yesterday to listen to an interview with a friend's mother, who was witness to the murders at Kent State. It was both horrifying and inspiring. A war protester in the 60s, this grandmother is still struggling with understanding why we as a country have settled into complacency over so many things the corruption and lack of political will of both government and industry does. How can we incite to change?

There is no one solution to this, and it is unlikely that any individual will make enough difference on their own, but we simply cannot desist from trying. So the next time you are faced with a skinned knee, don't reach for the antibiotic cream. If you must use anything against germs, walk past the sanitzer dispenser and try soap and water. The next time you decide to buy meat, support a producer who avoids routine anitbiotics by practicing responsible animal husbandry. And, if you are so inclined, write that letter to your representative or the FDA and ask them to clamp down on antibiotic use.

Resist.

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.

Stepping back

When I was in sixth grade, oh-so-many years ago, our Teutonic red-haired teacher transfixed us with a cautionary tale: it seems a man had a magic machine that could add, subtract, multiply and divide. He carried it everywhere with him, and any time he needed to do any arithmetic, his magic machine did it for him. One night, as he slept, machine on his nightstand, a fire broke out in his house. He escaped just in time to save his life--but not his precious machine. He found himself bereft of the ability to perform even the most basic mathematical functions that we need in everyday life. Obviously, we were the last generation to not have calculators in the classroom, but I doubt we were the last to question why we had to learn this stuff.

So here we are a generation later, where art classes give way to "calculator skills" and our Swiss-army cell phones take the care of any mental math (calculate the tip? There's an app for that!) that we may encounter. But we know computers aren't perfect--they are programmed by people, after all. If your phone-cum-adding machine told you 2+2=5, only a person with some real math under their belt would know something was wrong.

But what of other "old-fashioned" skills? Europeans are finding it increasing challenging to find stonemasons capable of restoring Gothic cathedrals, and even here in the New World, it can be difficult to find someone to float plaster over cracked walls, or make pendulum clocks tick again, or handily use a light meter and a film cameras (to say nothing of finding someone to develop said film). The basics of washing dishes by hand seem lost past my generation (am I really that old?). A year without a dryer--unthinkable in this country--forced everyone in our family to learn how to hang (and how not to hang) laundry. Thank heavens we old folks were around to help out the young'uns learn that clothespins have a use other than craft projects.

But the biggie these days is the age-old craft of cooking. As the machines and services have made our lives "easier," we have become more and more removed from our physical world. We all should know by now that the supermarkets have erased all semblance of seasonality from our food supply, but it is truly appalling to see how many people simply don't use their kitchens for more than microwaving and refrigeration, taking their Styrofoam clamshells into the living room to watch the Iron Chef.

I put to you that reheating a burrito is not the same as making one. Takeout teriyaki is cheating. Delivered pizza pales in comparison to the real thing. Rolling a feast of sushi takes less time--and is certainly cheaper--than driving to get it. Even confirmed bachelors and Cosmo girls deserve a home-cooked meal, and deserve the satisfaction of knowing they can care well for themselves. Like basic arithmetic, it is not rocket science. You get better at it the more you do it. And the veil of the commercialized, commoditized substitute is brushed aside, revealing that the emporer is in fact, naked.

Let us relegate convenience food, drive-ins, and restaurants to the celebratory, the exception. Let us return to our kitchens and entrust paring knives to our children's hands, model good habits for their lives, and put good food in their bellies. For our future.