By a nose

The subject, as my scatological nine-year old would put it, is snot. Those of us with more diverse vocabularies turn to more civilized terms, such as sinuses and mucous. But it all boils down to the same thing, no matter what we call it. All these thoughts are the result of the last few weeks, which you may have noticed, have been a bit quiet. Unsurprisingly, things have not been quiet here in the real world of my life.

It all began rather innocuously with a scratchy throat during orchestra rehearsal. By the end of the evening, I knew I had submitted to a cold, the first of the season. I took to my bed, allowing myself to indulge in the first juicy oranges of the season and devour astounding amounts of pulp fiction (I love our library). The boys somehow survived, and after three days in my semi-comatose state, I returned to the kitchen to make up a huge pot of soup to use up the uneaten vegetables. My sinuses rejoiced at the steamy broth and released everything that had been cooking up there. Out came the boxes of tissues, and the wastepaper baskets filled to the brim far too quickly.

On the heels of the cold, Darling Husband and I flew to Denver for a conference (sans enfants!) and were struck by the lack of humidity and the attending drying of the sinus membranes. Granted, we come from the other extreme, but this was amazing. Our return home was a matter of rehydrating sinuses by drinking vast amounts of water.

Which made me realize that one of the downsides of this moist climate (there are many upsides that I may wax poetic about on another occasion), is that our sinuses are--how shall I put it--chronically hydrated. In practical terms, it means that a box of tissues is standard issue on the nightstand, and is one of the first things we tend to reach for in the morning.

Delving into a book that Hubs brought home from his latest foray into Library Land (No Impact Man), I realized that I had forgotten one of the lessons learned as a child: those expensive paper tissues were wonderful things when you were ill, but for the odd everyday blow, we had hankies.

And yes, I called them "expensive." You see, my father worked in a mill where they made the stuff. And precisely because he knew exactly what went into their manufacture (a lot of water, chemicals, virgin wood and electricity), they were not something to be used unthinkingly. He himself used bandannas for their original purpose (not a fashion accent).

I dug in my closet and found them, that stack of hankies from my youth: some dainty white things, some with colorful designs (including souvenirs of New York from the fifties), some basic, some a little more heavy-duty. I remember it was my girlhood job when Mom was hanging laundry to take the wet wads and flatten them on the bathroom mirror: when they dried, we didn't have to press them, since the flat surface did the work for us.

We will certainly use the boxes for future colds, but I am thankful for the reminder that we don't need to cut virgin forests just for our morning toilette. And as if to reinforce this lesson, our family curled up to watch a movie from 1980--not so very long ago. And here was this bad boy, dancing his escape from gangland, producing a hankie (albeit crumpled) for the weepy damsel in distress. How very civilized.

Autumn bouquet

I was going to write about how the bouquet of flowers from the CSA this week was significantly smaller than in weeks past, and how the colors are deeper, gold and purple, than the bright yellows and blues of August.

I was going to write about the pile of spent tomato vines piled outside the hoop house, vines that had once climbed high to the ceiling on red string, also now tattered and hanging forlornly from the ceiling.

I was going to write about the spots of fungus and mold on withering plants and fruits, speckling the ends of beans that got too close to the ground and stems that can't give any more. That weekend of rain (2" by my rain gauge) left a scent of decay in the air, so unlike the sweet smell of summer rain.

I was going to write about all this, but then the radio announced that the Chilean miner rescue operation had started, and I turned my attention to the video feed, transfixed like many others around the globe. At a time when our winter is looming, it is early spring below the equator, where hope is in the air in more ways than one.

I am reminded that the life force we see so exuberantly exhibited in the dog days of summer is still very much there: the flowers have filled the hives with honey, and the bees are feathering their nests for a winter of either sugar water (what the beekeeper "pays" them for the honey he takes) or sunnier climes (our supplier is heading to the orange groves of California in anticipation of a harsh winter); the withered heritage tomato vines have produced ample fruit and seed that will incubate, ready to propagate the species next season (they don't know we've consumed the lion's share of the fruit, or maybe they do…) and will give the rest of their corporeal being to the compost pile; the mold and fungus on late and fallen fruit are themselves a form of life, transforming what remains imbued with vitality into the most important crop on the farm: a living, vibrant soil.

As the Fenix 2 descends down the mineshaft, so the life force of the farm descends into the earth; both will emerge in their time in a process uncannily similar to rebirth.

Heat in the cold

It is September, and as if on cue, things are changing: the cedar boughs take on a new tinge, the air feels cooler, and the wind has been picking up up, all conspiring to deposit successive layers of crunchiness underfoot. I feel a bit like the squirrel scurrying, hurrying to tuck away all the bounty for the cold and dead season.

The warmth we felt last weekend was likely all we will get, leaving home gardeners and farmers alike wondering if we should pull those last tomatoes and make chutney and relish instead of sauce. While the supermarkets continue their blinders-on march ahead to the end of October, the rest of us remain in the here and now.

Which means canning, freezing, and drying excesses, and making soups and stews to use up those odd handfuls of beans and squash that no longer make up a full dish on their own anymore. The baskets of sweet berries are dwindling to tart handfuls, to pucker our lips while picking, or to adorn morning cereal or evening ice cream.

And so, I was feeling virtuous as I put my canning kettle back under the sink for the season and took stock: 30-some odd jars of tomato sauce for Wednesday spaghetti nights when there are no fresh local tomatoes; the usual jars of jam, a few jars of pickled beets, and even some grape leaves for dolmas. Beans and basil were the only success story of summer, and I have been blanching and freezing them, dreaming of winter roasts flanked by potatoes and gravy and these green (and purple and yellow) jewels. Little One has learned to make and love pesto, spooning the green oobleck into ice cube trays.

And then, a sudden shock to my pastoral life, as I padded downstairs to pack a school lunch for my Little One: the freezer, keeper of pesto for his lunchtime noodles, guardian of beans and cold harbor for all things summer, was warm. No, this wasn’t just a door left ajar resulting in a premature winter wonderland; this was the spring thaw.

Which thrusts me from the farm and kitchen to the appliance store, with its bright lights and hungry salespeople. The game has changed since I was here last: online shopping means I could buy a major appliance without getting dressed and leaving the house. However, if I want to actually kick the wheels, I must pull on jeans instead of train pajamas and go.

I am pleasantly surprised by the energy efficiency gains made even in the last decade; I am less pleased by the overwhelmning plastic smell that hits as I open the door. American eating habits are clear: pop can holders and filtered water and ice dispensers loom large, while veggie drawers have shrunk--substantially in some cases. I reflect on the year abroad, where our family of four was fine with a smaller fridge, and ruminate on why we seem to need twice the cubic footage here. Too many jars, grumbles Darling Husband.  He's right: many are legacy condiments, from housesitters or our own, doomed by allergy tests, but they need to go.

So many choices to make, weighing decisions, not just financially, but their human cost. The brick and mortar stores are rightly frightened: they cannot compete with online prices. But these are people in my community, and if we don't buy from them, they may well not be there when we want to peek inside and press buttons in the future. The cheapest solution comes from Korea, and while it is best in terms of energy efficiency, it comes from over 6,000 miles away, and I wonder about the quality of life of the people who made it. I discover a company in California that makes incredibly efficient fridges, but their steep pricing and made-to-order schedule spells doom for my food, which is exiled to the freezer of Darling Husband's office fridge for the interim.

We will likely opt for an interim repair, to squeeze the last life out of this one, and head to the local store, who has done right by us in the past, and purchase a standalone freezer. We don't want to loose what little summer we have tucked away.

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.