Souls

Frustrated by escalating market prices for decent bread, and inspired by our new neighbor (who makes an incredible crusty rye bread in his dutch oven). Darling Husband has taken to baking bread. The Internet gave him a basic recipe for Seelen, and after a few weeks of practice runs, we have been enjoying spectacular golden Seelen on Sunday.

After posting pictures on Facebook, many friends asked about what they are. Seelen, literally "souls" are the bread found in the pocket of Swabia where my Darling Husband originates; the same place he rushed to, to gather with his family and share salty tears and Seelen with his family. For while he was baking Seelen here, his father was slipping towards the other side, and passed the threshold in the wee hours of our morning, shortly after his son arrived in the Vaterland.

Seelen were originally the small loaves placed on graves for All Soul's Day. But they're so good with fresh butter, it would be a waste to not share it with the living, and make it daily.

This is where I admonish you to hold your family tight, and perhaps share a crusty loaf with those you love. Because all too soon, we must say goodbye.

Thoroughly Modern Millie

I went to the bank yesterday. In my line of business, contracts are irregular but not infrequent, which means that checks need to be run to the bank irregularly and fairly frequently. In the interest of saving time, I often let client checks pile up for a week or so before running deposits--the joke is that the way to make a pending check arrive is to deposit the others.

While I was handing checks to the teller for deposit, she asked if I was aware that they had added a shiny new feature to the mobile banking app--I could now deposit checks from my home office--she thought I might be really interested, since I seem to be in so often.

Sure enough, after that bank visit and picking up Little One from school, and getting some more ice cream (Jr. Firefighter is home from college for the summer, and this wreaks havoc on frozen inventory), I swing by the mailbox on the way up the drive, and there it is, another check.

Oddly enough, I find myself torn: Yes, it is a good idea to reduce trips, with all those pesky carbon emissions, traffic congestion, and such. Yes, it is an ease of burden for the busy to be able to take care of errands in a few seconds. Yes, reducing the amount of paper reduces cost, both environmental and administrative.

But. When I walked into the bank, the manager looked up from his desk, and greeted me by name. I still remember when he came to this branch as a teller, long before Little One was born. I think of the times a trip to the bank counted as human contact, during those years as the tired mother of two young boys. I think of the time that same bank manager flagged a transaction because he knew I wasn’t in Texas (having a spa day and buying a flat screen TV) because he had seen me just an hour ago (and he knew I wasn't a Red Door kind of girl). I think of the phone call from my mother's bank when something didn't seem quite right with her, and I wonder if my bank will still be around to provide that same human connection and safety net. Can the mobile app call my kids when I'm 84?

I could get on my high horse and justify a drive to the bank since the carbon emissions don't apply to me in my electric car (and it's true), and discount my contribution to congestion since I try to combine trips. But it's still a car on the road, and an electric car is at best a compromise (maybe I should get a bicycle). So I take the newly arrived check, endorse it "for mobile deposit," snap pictures of it, and send it off through cyberspace. And fight the urge to email the bank manager just to say hi.

Brambles and sweet

There is a moment near the end of summer, when you can smell the blackberries on the dry wind that musses your hair as you drive past with the car windows open. It's the time of year when you try to make sure there is some sort of container in the trunk in case you have a few extra minutes to stop and pick a pint.

My childhood is punctuated with memories of snatching those drupes from the thorny vines. There was the time that Mom let us stand on the hood of the car and pick blackberries from the brambles peeking over the fence at the back of the parking lot while she went into the bank, and there were countless weekends of puttering on hot dusty back roads with my father, when we would fill hats and frisbees and baggies and cups with the dark berries, and stick out our purple tongues at each other.

It should be no surprise then, that I did the same with my kids, at first passing berries to their toddler selves, and then enlisting them to pick the lower branches.

In the final months of my father's decline, he was unable to leave the house easily, and so I stopped at the side of the road and picked a handful of sun-drenched berries for him. He relished them as only a dying man can. It was one of the last times I saw him.

The weeks and months before leaving to college are full of partings as well: goodbyes to teachers and classmates, goodbye to the explorer post, goodbye to the cello teacher. When Jr. Firefighter first started playing the instrument, Little One and I would sometimes play in the park across the street, where brambles weave their way up the madrona trees. Many of those berries made it into mouths and under ice cream--if they made it home at all.

And so it was that on his return from his final cello lesson, Number One came home with a baggie of blackberries picked from the same park, a parting gift, and a request for one last cobbler before setting off on his next adventure, where I play only a sidelined role.

A handful of blackberries. A parting. Pain and joy. Brambles and sweet.

Double delicious

I am stuffed. Full of smiles that make your cheeks ache, and endless hugs--the solid kind that last long enough to synchronize breathing--of laughter, of touches, of love. And then there was the potluck table, groaning under the weight of multiple and tasty savories and sweets, all washed down with wine produced by one of ourown, followed by s'mores at the fire pit late into the evening, and a hearty brunch the next day.

It was a reunion, of family of a sort: 30-some odd years ago, we were young theatre students, so sure of ourselves and so incredibly unsure of ourselves, trying on new personas and discovering who we might turn out to be. Some still work in the industry, many do not, but all agree that they use their degree (or near degree) every day of their life. And all have turned into lovely people I am just tickled to be able to count as friends.

With all the missteps and misunderstandings of our youth behind us, we could truly appreciate and enjoy each other, and we did so joyfully as we devoured the food and each others' tales. And so I offer you these special cookies from a very special  place--my heart.

Giant Toffee Chocolate Cookies

makes about 18

1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 lb. bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
1/4 cup butter

1 3/4 cup packed brown sugar
4 large eggs
1 tbl vanilla extract
8 oz. chocolate-covered toffee, coarsely chopped
1 cup walnuts, toasted, chopped

Combine flour, baking powder and salt in a small bowl; whisk to blend. Melt chocolate and butter together in a double boiler set over simmering water until smooth. Remove from water and cool mixture to lukewarm.

Using an electric mixer or food processor, beat sugar and eggs together until thick. Beat in chocolate mixture and vanilla. Stir in flour mixture, then toffee and nuts. Chill batter until firm, about 45 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper or a silicone mat. Drop batter by 1/4 cupfuls onto sheets, spacing 2 1/2 inches apart. Bake just until tops are dry and cracked but cookies are still soft to the touch, about 15 minutes. If baked cookies are misshapen from escaping toffee, use a spatula to coax the still-hot cookies back into shape. Cool on baking sheets. Share with friends.

Connections to the past

A package arrive yesterday from my home state. "Fragile" was written on it side in an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar hand. Inside, buried under Styrofoam peanuts and bubble wrap and a single layer of tissue, was an oil painting. The painting is not signed on the front, but primitive lettering on the frame reveals the maiden name of my grandmother. The painting was suffering in the dry heat of my mother's attic, rescued by my visiting cousin, beautifully restored by a friend in Berkeley, and tucked into a used Eileen Fisher box for its trek here. The brush strokes of that young girl took me right back to the golden sunlight of my childhood; I can almost feel the dry grass against my ankles, and smell the dusty warmth. I want to go find cool shade in the white house. The image and the feeling connect me, however briefly to the bent old woman I knew, who shared her love of music and chocolate bars with me.

The farm is in full swing, sunny and dusty on the roads--there is just enough water for the fields. There are sunflowers and squash and basil and beans, which means tomatoes and corn aren't far behind. The zucchini are no longer the delicate shy little fruit of the early season, but are putting on weight faster than the crew can pick them. Those baseball bats of summer have one role: to be made into zucchini muffins, some to eat now, some to freeze for a chilly morning in the fall. The markings are long worn off my old Pyrex measuring cup (good thing I am not a slave to level cups), the muffin tins are blackened with use (bakes lighter), and the kitchen timer's chipped paint only offers hints to its former art deco glory. These items, and a yellowed recipe, connect me to the women before me as well, who may also have padded around in their nighties while others slept, filling the house with aromas of summer and sleepy mornings.

Slow

As I slowly turn the spoon in the pot, I let out a long sigh. Finally, the breakneck pace of last-minute school events and end-of-year projects has ended. The berries in the pot took no notice of our hectic high-mileage days in May, instead slowly setting fruit and turning the berries an irresistible red that I feel compelled to capture.

As I sweat from the steam in my sultry kitchen, I revel in that fact that the days have finally turned long and sunny, soaking the berries with warmth and sweetness. It is time to slow down, to indulge in nibbly-type suppers in the cool of the back garden, to sip icy drinks to counteract the steamy heat.

As the jam bubbles, I think about when we will eat it; in the winter, on crunchy toast or English muffins or waffles. Perhaps a jar will find its way into a Christmas gift. The mornings will be chilly and the light pale, and we will bundle up and see our breath. But we will venture out into the chill with summer in our tummies.

As each jar sounds its happy plonk! I relax into summer. It is time, finally, for hammocks, for ice cream, for books and beaches, for sunburns and mosquito bites. Time to capture the warmth in our bones, in our hearts, and in jars.

Mailbox weeds

They are as unwelcome as dandelions and crabgrass, and fill my curbside toter as much as blackberries and buttercups. Years ago, I went on a systematic campaign to rid myself of these postal weeds, setting aside coupon mailers and other junk mail as they came in, and then working my way through the myriad of opt-out scenarios.

Most could be tidied up with a quick online form, with the requisite four weeks to process; some forced me to resort to phoning a call center wage-slave to have them remove me from their list (after a four week wait…). But one was a persistent as bindweed; the RedPlum flyer. You likely know what I’m talking about—it’s like the advertising section inserted into the Sunday paper, the first thing you pull out and recycle. But this one comes straight to the mailbox of every single address in the country.

This particular one stood out from all the others, because not only did it take up half my mailbox several times a week, no opt-out website or phone number could be found on the flyer itself. Sleuthing online I finally found a website that provided a physical mail address. Maybe most people won’t bother. But I’m not most people: I eradicated bindweed from my raspberry patch, and I send off an opt out notification in a letter in an envelope bearing a stamp. After a few weeks of wait and a note taped inside my mailbox alerting the habit-driven postal carrier that no RedPlum flyers should be delivered, I was able to downsize my recycle bin.

The relative calm has endured, punctuated by the occasional flare-up of a catalog in the wake of an online purchase. These blights are quickly dispatched, chucked into the bin after a quick visit to the website or a expeditious call to the 800 number on the back.

A few merchants have figured out that if I order online I might not want a paper catalog, and they make it possible to opt out at the time of purchase, though the default is still to pop a paper catalog in the shipping box. But there’s a huge difference between a mailing received because of an existing relationship and “Every Door Direct Mail (EEDM)” blanketing entire zip codes. These mass mailings are actively encouraged by the USPS, as they represent a steady revenue stream to the struggling behemoth.

To my great dismay, I opened up my mailbox this Tuesday, and pulled out a RedPlum flyer. I was thinking it must have been an unthinking substitute mail carrier, one who didn’t know my foibles. But no, there in the address field was our address, and the addressee was “Resident.” Sure enough, after five years, RedPlum opts you back in. At least this time, they have an online form for opting out. Though I note it now takes them six weeks to process the request.