Two-car garage

On a summer's day two decades ago, Darling Husband and I had a date: off to the Sears store we went, where the big lug took my hand an led me to the tool department and told me to pick out a table saw. As if I wasn't in love with him before, I fell head over heels all over again. Over the years, it has seen use, building ash nightstands to hold up lamps from the pottery down the lane from where we held our wedding dinner in La Borne; new bathroom cabinets for an astoundingly turquoise 60s bathroom; a custom shelving unit in the kitchen to hold my cookbooks in style; a play kitchen that both boys have outgrown.

But lately, the saw has seen precious little use: there are only so many pieces of furniture we can fit in the house, and so many hours in a day (and there seem to be fewer of those, not sure if it's age or kids or both).

If you drive into any American town, there on the outskirts, next to the freeway entrance, you'll see them: storage facilities. Drive through neighborhoods, and you'll see them too, attached to houses: garages, with cars parked in front of them. We have a car parked on the street, largely because of the table saw (and the wood stockpiled next to it, leftovers from projects that might come in handy someday).

And so it was time. The new car needed a place to sleep and charge at night, and it made no sense to park the other one outside. The scraps turned out to be enough to floor the hallway and build a shed to house the push mower (in the backyard, where it is used). But there was just no room for the big saw.

For the most part, this purge of stuff has been uplifting, leaving me feeling lighter and free (and padding my wallet with 20-dollar bills). But I'd been lying if I said that saying goodbye to an inanimate chunk of steel was easy. I will miss the dimming of the lights when it revs up, the whirr of the motor, the sound of the blade biting into wood, and even the mound of sawdust.

The giant plum tree overhanging the drive has been pruned, the car charger installed, and a shiny new garage door opener lets the red car cruise silently in. As for the saw, it has moved to a house on the islands, to find second life building someone's dream home for his retirement. I wish them both well.

Jack Sprat

We both grew up with the nursery rhyme, "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. And so between the two of them, they licked the platter clean." In our early days as a couple it became clear that Darling Husband and I were like Jack and his dear spouse, but it was the salty/sweet divide. He adored sweets; I craved salty. He bought milk chocolate; I bought dark. He would snack on candies; I would munch on cheezy crackers. It has been a good match.

Over time, I have come to appreciate the sweet, and he the salty. Salted caramels covered in dark chocolate, cardamom saffron cake, and chicken mole satisfied us both. It has been a long journey, but there are now days when I will slip raisins in my purse, and he will opt for almonds.

But one food we have always agreed on is cheese: he might levitate toward a sweet fresh rambol with dessert wine, and I will aim for the stinky chèvre with a flinty sauvignon blanc, but we both spread it on baguettes and sip from each others' glasses.

With dairy off the menu for so many years, and resolve to not buy supermarket junk pumped full of chemicals in boxes, it has been difficult to satisfy my cravings. It has been a long time coming, but I have finally broken the snack barrier, concocting a recipe that satisfies my salty-cheesy cravings without compromising diet or boundaries. Even my sweet-toothed spouse agrees.

Cheezy crackers

• 8 oz Daiya cheese substitute (extra-sharp cheddar cheese works too, if you eat dairy), shredded
• ½ stick unsalted margarine or butter, at room temperature
• 1 c GF flour (I use a mix of brown rice flour and tapioca starch; wheat flour works too)
• 2 T ice water
• 1 t kosher salt

In a food processor, pulse the cheese, butter until soft and combined. Add the flour and mix on low speed (the dough will be dry and pebbly). Slowly add the water and continue to mix as the dough forms a ball.

Pat the dough into a disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 375˚F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking sheets.

Divide the dough into two pieces and roll each into a very thin (1/8 inch or less) 10 x 12-inch rectangle. Sprinkle with salt. Using a fluted pastry cutter, cut the rectangles into 1-inch squares, then transfer to the baking sheets. Use the tip of a chopstick to punch a hole into the center of each square.

Bake for 15-17 minutes or until puffed and browning at the edges. Watch carefully, as the high fat content of the crackers makes it a fine line between deliciously crispy and burnt. Immediately move the crackers to racks to cool.

Delicious with cold hard cider and a good book on a warm afternoon.

Not for sale

In 2006, I made over a hundred jars of jam. In case you're wondering, I don't have a particularly good memory, it's just that there are still a good lot of them left, as we plug away at the larder shelves. It was a year that the plums and apples were good, and so were the raspberries, and blackberries, and Mirabelles, and blueberries and currants, not to mention apricots and peaches. It was also the year that I learned how to make chocolate jam, and, perhaps out of boredom, started getting fancier, adding herbs and wine to various fruit combinations.

It was also the year that three of the family tested sensitive to wheat and gluten, meaning vehicles for said jam like bread and croissants were off the menu. So just as jam production increased, jam consumption plummeted. In economic terms, we had a surplus. I set about seeing how I might make lemonade out of the situation.

My first thought was to sell the extra jam ,which would fetch a fair price if the signs at the farmer's market were any indication. A quick look at the relevant regulations revealed that because my kitchen at home is a residential kitchen, as opposed to a commercial kitchen, it was illegal to sell my jam. The same applied to donating it to food banks. Nope, it was our jam, and we were stuck (sorry!) with it. Luckily, jam keeps.

A few jars went to friends, a basket of the more fancy combinations fetched a fair price at the school auction. Jars got tucked into teacher appreciation bags and brought as hostess gifts. We learned that jam was good in oatmeal; indeed, we started referring to jam as the duct tape of failed meals. But still, there was too much jam. And did I mention I kept making more jam each year? We have an over-achieving plum tree, and well, blackberries are free! And I do find it hard to pass up delicious, overripe fruit.

And then came the year in Ireland, where every farmer's market and farm stand had a few of these "extra" jars, with hand-made labels. We had seen the same thing on jaunts to Britain. I taught our farmer how to make jam, bringing home just one jar of amazing raspberry jam and leaving the other 50 with her to sell at her farm stand. But the idea of cottage industry had been drummed out of us in the States, replaced instead by the misconception that only commercial operations can produce safe foods.

So imagine my delight last night when Junior Firefighter showed me a column filler that mentioned that our Governor had just signed a "Cottage Food Operations" law, that expressly allows for selling homemade food products, including baked goods, jams and jellies, preserves and fruit butters, defining them as "nonpotentially hazardous." Maybe my home kitchen isn't so dangerous after all.

So I look into the rule, and here's where it falls apart. It does not mean that on July 22 (the date the law takes effect), that I can put a quaint handmade sign at the curb offering up some of my surplus for pin money. Nope, I'd need about a hundred dollars out of pocket for a yearly permit, plus I'd have to invest in jars and labels, so I'd have to be pretty serious about selling more than the odd jar to cover my outlay. Add to that inspection requirements and limitations on outlets (no internet or mail order) and earnings limits (less than $12,000/yr.), and it's clear that this law is intended for a very small group of people indeed.

So, even as the fresh fruit verily beckons to me in the farmer's market, there will be no sign in my front yard for the foreseeable future. Sorry, folks.

Phinney & Hayton

With the kids shipped off to summer camp, Darling Husband and I embarked upon a week-long date night (interrupted by work, sigh). We had only one "required" activity; the Microsoft Orchestra concert at the Ballard Locks. Sunshine, and appreciative audience and prime parking make this a perennial favorite, though the picnic blanket looked kind of empty with only the big man sprawled on it.

But traffic this weekend was extra-messy with Pride Parade snarls in the north end, bigger than ever this year on the tails of the New York law (I love New York!), and a Sounders game to the south. We managed to get there before the downbeat--barely. And the trip back home was looking to be just as bad. Ugh.

Darling husband earned his stripes as he steered the car off the clogged main drag onto peaceful Phinney, parking next to the Mecca of chocolate, Theo. There, we browsed samples of favorites, old and new (the toasted coconut was lovely, but orange still has a place in my heart, and fig fennel makes Darling Husband's heart got pitty-pat). The only thing that truly tempted was the closeout of their 74%. When we re-emerged, we saw banner flying a block off for the Fremont Sunday Market. Given my proclivity for farmer's markets, it bore investigating.

What we discovered was not a farmer's market, but a hodge-podge of artists, ethnic food carts, psychics and antiques dealers, selling everything from homemade ice cream sandwiches to old postcards to exquisite handmade jewelry (the coral piece was tempting but too pricey) to distressed furniture and more. The crowd was a pleaser too, for those who indulge in that sport. And there, in a positively un-funky white easy-up, was a very normal-looking man selling just one thing: local, transitional strawberries.

As I chatted with the amiable fellow from Hayton Farms in Mount Vernon, I could smell them. As I checked my pint ($3) for fuzzies, I could feel that even chilled, they were tender, like the berries we pick in our garden, not those crunchy things that arrive in clamshells. No, these were real berries, and I needed more than a pint.

The half-flat we scored has so far yielded two batches of jam: a big batch of just plain strawberry, and a smaller batch of strawberry-chocolate-balsamic. I'm thinking the remaining pints will become a third batch of strawberry mint, since Little One picked a bunch of chocolate mint last week, and it's been waiting for a pot to jump into. Or maybe I'll run out and grab a bit of rhubarb (it's been a good year for rhubarb locally) and do that instead. I'll let you know.

All this, very local; indeed, the chocolate and the berries both scored on the same street, in the middle of the universe.

Indulgence

As any parent knows, the ultimate indulgence is time. Luxury is something we sip rather than gulp, little stolen moments rather than long stretches. And even more so, as this mother stares down the barrel of nine weeks of summer vacation.

It seemed odd that I would shop alone once the kids were in school last September, but I soon grew used to the meditative escape, the leisurely browse. Granted, my kids are well past grabbing things off the shelf (yes, toddler mother, I understand why your cart is in the middle of the aisle), but they do disrupt the calm: they actually started punching each other in the cracker section last week.

Other than the requisite violence inherent in parenting boys, I also buy more food when they shop with me. Little One, a spring baby, loves all the little berries of spring and summer; my fall boy is drawn to the bags of crisp apples, and grumpy that I won't buy from things shipped from the southern hemisphere. We buy a big clam-shell of strawberries from California. Even though they're not local, at least the fruit in our patch has set, and we did see some local (but not organic) at the farmers market the day before.

On the way home, we stop by the library: Little One staggers under a stack of Hardy Boys and thicker books. I head to the magazine section. A little of this, a little of that, and I have my own thick stack to dip into and sip.

That evening, Darling Husband also partakes of my paper indulgence, and as we sit, exclaims, "eww!" "What?" I say. "Here's a recipe for chocolate mousse with strawberries and balsamic vinegar!" I smile and explain that the vinegar is a good foil, much like vanilla for chocolate, deepening the flavor.

So as I eye those strawberries that evening, I have it--nothing so involved as mousse, no, just a little indulgence.

Chocolate and Strawberry pots de crème
Serves 4

• 1/2 c strawberries
• 1 cup heavy whipping cream
• 1 oz. semi-sweet or dark chocolate, chopped (I used Theo's 74%)
• 1 t cocoa powder
• Splash of balsamic vinegar

Wash and hull the strawberries, chop them into bite-sized bits and place them into the bottoms of four espresso cups. Set aside two pretty ones for garnish, cut in half lengthwise.

In a saucepan, heat the cream until it boils, then stir in the chocolate and cocoa powder until smooth. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar and stir it in. Gently pour the mixture over the strawberries, using a spoon to push down any berries that float to the surface. Chill in refrigerator 1-2 hours.

Just before serving, garnish with strawberry half.

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.

The Piper

Little One has had a sheltered childhood: he has been spared images of falling towers, flooded New Orleans and tsunami-ravaged India. But he is slowly awakening from his reverie, as images of jackknifed trains and obliterated towns and exploding reactors flood our lives this week. It seems fitting that his class is studying Norse Mythology; they have reveled in the great trickster Loki and the power of being godlike, and have just arrived at the fall of the gods.

Dinner table conversation was interesting last night: the sausage was tasty (a local, smoke bratwurst), so much so that both boys asked why I couldn't make twice as much so they could have two each. I was just launching into my "do you know how many resources go into meat production" tirade when Darling Hubs jumped in, reminding them that we just ordered an electric car, and asking if we are carbon neutral yet? I pointed out that even though we purchase green energy and offsets, we're not, since we continue to heat with natural gas. But we do much better than average.

Once the conversation bounced to the nuclear plant situation in Japan, Little One, who had been watching intently with a furrowed brow, finally chimed in. He's trying to understand the big deal with nuclear energy. When we give him a simple explanation that it generates electricity using radioactive materials, his eyes widen at the word, and he says, "Radioactivity?! Don't they know that's dangerous? Why would they do that?"

I am a child of the nuclear age, ducking and covering under my desk during earthquake and nuclear drills: my father actually designed and supervised the building of part of a nuclear power plant, and both he and I voted to mothball it very few years later. Darling Husband can proudly say he marched against the nuclear plants placed along the Rhine. And we held on to each other through a frightening spring of misinformation when the cloud from Chernobyl was passing over our heads even as our governments said it wasn't.

But in the end, we must, as they say, pay the piper. There is a price for convenience--for flipping a switch and having it there, for leaving lights burning in an empty room, on an empty street, or an empty sports field. We are happy to abdicate the details to someone else, let "them" think about it. But "they" are us: we are complacent and complicit. Those who squeak warnings are squelched and silenced, and sidelined, but we would be wise to listen and wiser still to join in the chorus. Little One is being taught the lesson in school, but we adults fail to embody it. Those arrogant Norse gods thought themselves invincible, and fell. We would do well to remember.