Mother knows best

The beginning of the week is always a bit hectic: violin lesson, pick up Little One, take him back to teacher's house for viola lesson, race home, get dinner on the table before heading to orchestra rehearsal. Tuesday is a bit better, but Number One Son needs a ride up to Woodinville during rush hour, so supper is something that can bubble on the stove or braise in the over while I'm doing the first run, and he doesn't eat until he's home later.

But Mother Nature had other ideas this week. She's clearly not crazy about the notion that we're starting off Thanksgiving week by eating dinner in shifts (in spite of Spaghetti Wednesday). So she set about to fix things. The first thing she did was start dropping fat snowflakes on us. Pretty, but at just above freezing, roads were clear, and the cedars just very pretty. But when we didn't listen, she played mean, plummeting temperatures to negative degrees Celsius, right about the time Little One was sight-reading a new piece. We emerged from lessons and tried to limp home.

Three hills later, after a few skids (downhill) and fishtails (uphill), I pulled the Mom-mobile into a parking lot and announced to Little One that we were walking. We were about two miles away from home and had warm jackets, and I knew he could do it, since he done a much longer trek when he was just five.We strapped the instruments to our backs and headed home.

As we walked, we watched cars slip and slide. A call to Darling Husband awakened him to the fact that what he thought was bare pavement was in fact a sheet of ice;after hoofing it home himself, he called back later to tell me the play he and Little One had tickets to was canceled. A call to Number One Son revealed that he had made it home safely, and that orchestra rehearsal was canceled. The sweet young man walked up the hill to meet us with home-made hand warmers. Not long after, we all made it home to our snug, warm house, and had supper--together.

Friends posting on Facebook reveal a similar story: "husband and kids still not home after 3 hours on the highway," "felt guilty I couldn't get my kids from aftercare, so they went home with friends," and my personal favorite: "power out, kids in bed early, nothing to do." Mother nature chortles: the problem isn't that Seattllites don't know how to drive in snow, or that the city doesn't have enough snowplows/sanders. No, the problem is that our lives are built around traveling around too much, keeping us so busy that the simple act of getting together for dinner becomes a logistical nightmare. Guilty as charged.

The boys' schools are off today, the office up the road is closed, and even the budding firefighters called it off tonight. We shall eat together again this evening, but I'm not even going to attempt to rescue my car until Wednesday, when the thaw begins. I'm thinking of dishing out a hearty risotto and sausage and maybe a board game in front of the fireplace. And eggnog cocoa. Thanks, Mom!

In the can

He was in my dreams last night, uninvited, but certainly welcome, as it has been too many years since I have seen him. He looked relaxed and happy, relieved of the suffering that plagued the last years of his life, and clearly enjoying the sweet monologue of Little One, the grandchild who barely remembers him, as he held hands with my mother, who was uncharacteristically silent, not making any comments about why I was tying gingerbread ornaments on the cello teacher's laurel hedge. I still haven't figured out the ornaments (perhaps because we are headed into the holidays?) and the hedge (the cello teacher's house doesn't have one), but I welcome visits from those who have passed over the rainbow bridge, and am comforted to know that I will still be able to visit every now and then after I have made that journey.

So, it seemed a perfectly normal thing to do, making pancakes for the boys' breakfast on this crisp autumn morning. It was, after all, my father who taught me to make pancakes on a morning similar to this, to use bacon grease in the cast iron pan from freshly cooked bacon and the can for that perfectly golden edge.

Yes, I did say can. You see, my parents came from a time where no one could afford to waste, and one of the things that is still present in my mother's home is an old tin can next to the stove with bacon grease in it. The heavy cast iron pan lived on the stove (never made it into the cupboard), and the hot grease was poured straight into the can, to be used for pancakes and any other dish that might need a bit of grease to preserve the cast iron's cure and add a bit of flavor.

At some point, I realized I was using olive oil by the case, but was having to add back the odd bit of bacon or prosciutto to flavor the base of whatever pot-au-feu was bubbling on the flames. At some point, I caught myself pouring bacon grease into the food waste container (our municipality composts food waste, including the grease that would attract too many rodents to our cool heap), and stopped dead in my tracks.

How could I lament industrial processes like refining flour that take out the good and then have to put chemically extracted vitamins as artificial, if I was essentially doing the same thing to my own coq au vin? I set down the hot pan, rummaged through the recycle bin for a tin can (looks like Number One had chili for lunch--again) and poured the grease in there instead.

As a child, my parents had bacon for breakfast nearly every day, so the can filled faster than it could be emptied. In our household, where bacon is a weekend affair, the can never empties all the way, but it never seems to get very full either. I'd like to think my father would smile at that as well.

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.