Baby greens steps

It’s the last week of the mid-season CSA, and the box is absolutely stuffed. Seems the greening of my own garden and the blooming of the rhodies has its counterpart on the farm in leafy greens. Yes, there are oodles of lettuce, which is a good thing, because I love salads, and become testy at the mere thought of wimpy winter lettuce. But I’m talking about greens, the leafy greens that all those annoying studies talk about.

I remember asking about greens once as a teenager, and my mother replied simply, “we don’t have to eat greens,” as if voting for McCarthy provided ample protection from the Western diseases. I shrugged it off, and was thankful for spinach, which remains one of my favorites: creamed, steamed and just plain raw.

But at some point along the journey—and it has been over decade of little tweaks here and there—I realized wanted to bring greens, the heavy-duty stiff bundles you don’t see anywhere but farmers markets or the co-op, onto our plates.

My first attempts were dismal. I bought some kale at the co-op, brought it home, and steamed it to death. Darling Husband, usually game for new things, just pushed it around his plate, and Number One just gaped at it in disbelief. When faced with another bunch a couple of years later in a gift CSA box, I put off preparing it long enough that it ended up on the compost heap. This did not bode well.

Then one day, back when I still used to put up my feet and read a magazine, I delved into the February 2002 issue of Bon Appétit, and found a recipe for tortellini-kielbasa soup. You should know that I do not consider recipes or patterns to be gospel of any sort. This is usually only a problem when knitting socks, and on rare occasions in the kitchen. But this sounded like the base of an attractive and hearty soup: sausage, tortellini, kale and white beans in a vegetable broth, and sprinkled with some Parmesan cheese at the table. No worries, I thought, I have all the ingredients except Kielbasa (but I have another sausage that would work), fennel (just skip it), and kale (I’ll just substitute the old zucchini in the fridge).

I made a pot, and the family loved it. Number One always loves noodles and beans, and gladly ate the sausage; a toddler Little One gleefully picked out a tortellini with his fingers and giggled when he saw how the cannelli bean nestled in the belly button. But once they realized there was zucchini in there, the honeymoon was over.

But the soup was too good to abandon: on the next trip to the co-op, I picked up a bunch of kale—“dinosaur kale”—and brought it home. I made the soup again, only daring to use half the bunch. The kids loved it; perhaps the zucchini had put it all in perspective. Whatever: they were hooked. When a good friend had her darling baby girl, I made up another pot to use up the rest of the bunch and brought it to her family. A call the next day informed me that the soup was “slammin’!” and so it shall be called for eternity.

Once the floodgates opened, I learned that you can roast kale into tasty chips, and that if you cook it quickly (and deglaze with balsamic vinegar), it is sweet like candy. Once I got over the kale hump, I could even branch out into chard and pok choi. I tasted real fried greens in Louisiana and fell in love. No, we don’t have to eat greens; we get to.

Calendar pinups

I imagine most people’s June calendars have sunny beach scenes or images of warm people and gardens full of blossoms. I turn my calendar page, and there stands Little One in full rain gear (that’s boots, a coat, rain pants and a hat with ear flaps, for those of you who don’t live in a temperate rain forest), soaked to the skin and covered in a fine layer of sandy mud. Yes, folks, it is June, damp beginning of the clamming season in the Pacific Northwest.

Fishing Sensei has scheduled a muddy extravaganza to celebrate low tide next weekend, but alas, Number One son will be sawing away at his cello that afternoon, on a stage, which really does require our attendance. Not that it’s a hardship listening to his orchestra, but I admit hesitating a bit, recalling the heady aroma of fresh clam chowder made on the same beach where we dug the main ingredient. Mighty tempting.

The cat meowing loudly at the back door breaks my reverie. I look up and see a soggy mop that looks like it needs rinsing, and then realize she’s either fallen in the creek again, or it’s really raining. A peek through the open door verifies it is the latter, and I’m pretty sure I left the car window open last night. Just a crack, just enough.

Clearly, our plans to mow the lawn and clean the hot tub deck are on hold, and we won’t be dining al fresco any night this week. But I am glad we got the downspout fixed, some beds weeded, and the hanging baskets planted before the deluge. It is tempting to simply crawl back into our nest, where I suspect the covers may still be warm. I note that the cat has taken this approach. On the other hand, I think I have may some clams from last year in the freezer, just enough for a pot of chowder.

Week of mysteries

Number One son, off to swing from precariously high ropes in an exercise of class bonding and character-building, also had his first exercise in eating around allergies away from home. Working together with another mom, we procured the menu to see if we needed to offer up different options, and the camp obliged. A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I read what sounded like a typical school cafeteria menu from my childhood, updated to this century: corndogs are still around, but there is now a soup bar; French toast still comes with bacon, but also with a strange-sounding “goop.” Number One obliged with a picture of it, and one of his classmates described it with the kind of ardor usually reserved for the latest heartthrob off the cover of Teen magazine. Apparently, some brilliant mind, weary of their shoes sticking to the floor at breakfasts served with syrup, figured out that they could mix said maple stuff with margarine and powdered sugar, creating a frosting-like mixture that would melt appealingly on the lost bread. In spite of its unfortunate moniker, it has become an institution at that camp. Mystery number one solved.

Number two involves the share box from Jubilee Farms, our weekly gift to ourselves. Usually, Wendy posts the contents of the box on the website Monday so we can email her to lay off the cilantro or beg for more rhubarb, that kind of thing. This past week, I was too busy (doing what, I couldn’t tell you), and as for Wendy, well, it’s May on the farm. I don’t imagine they’re getting a lot of sleep, and we didn’t even get the customary short note in the box letting us know about the contents. Which left me and Darling Husband scratching our heads about those white orbs: they’re much bigger than any radish I’ve ever seem, but awfully smallish for a turnip. No purply-turnipy tinge, but no pink either. If the farmers are too busy to pen a missive, I think, I shouldn’t bother them with vegetable identification queries. Darling Husband bravely volunteers to eat one. Salt shaker in hand, he takes a nibble: a radish, he pronounces, and devours it with gusto and sodium. Mystery number two, happily solved.

Now, good things come in three, and there was a third mystery I thought of to share with you while drifting off to sleep, but I simply cannot recall what it is. I have been racking my brains and driving my family nuts for days now: is it the mystery of how to cook raab so it looses its fibrous prickliness (still unsolved)? Is it the mystery of trying to find rhyme or reason in the budding teenager’s mood swings? (That one may require a trek up a hillside to a guru.) Perhaps I was wondering how many eggs Mama Robin is tending outside my office door (a sneak peek reveals four perfect blue eggs in a cedar-lined nest). But none of those trigger the aha moment.

If I’m lucky, it may come to me in the next few days, as I head off to slumberland or in the shower, which Darling Husband has equipped with a pad of waterproof paper. It seems he grew weary of being called to the bathroom to take notes, and applied the same ingenuity that led to the creation of goop. Until then, the mysterious mystery shall remain a mystery.

Worms

I hear little peeps from the nest above my office door, which means Mrs. Robin’s eggs have begun hatching. Little One moved the garbage can, exposing a fat juicy worm, and papa Robin swooped in to pick up. Soon they both will be flying themselves ragged, trying to bring in enough tasty morsels to feed their growing brood.

Number One Son and his class are headed off to a high ropes course this coming week, a supposed exercise in adolescent bonding. I found it easier to not read the release form before I signed it, and found myself more concerned about what the kids were going to be fed.

The YMCA camp was kind enough to provide the planned menu to those of us who are eating around allergies, so I touched bases with the other moms and started to take it apart. Mostly, the exercise consisted of scratching off anything clearly containing eggs, wheat, and dairy, and identifying hidden corn for Nose in a Book: scrambled eggs, dinner rolls, pasta, and French toast all get the axe. Based on the fact that they actually serve school cafeteria staples like chicken nuggets and corndogs, I don’t think it’s a reach to assume that they’re not using local, organic produce, so Number One demurs on eating their meat. I don’t blame him: it has been years since I have seen a school menu, and while I recall corndogs, there are foreign dishes such as “French toast and goop” together with “turkey pot roast” that I have trouble picturing at all. I don’t even want to think about “goop,” let alone force my kid to lose his mystery meat virginity before college.

Judging from the comings and goings from the birdhouse in the lilac, it looks like Mr. and Mrs. Junco also have a new brood to feed. I admit a certain amount of admiration for these birds: faced with a choice between six unique birdhouses (old fence boards, repurposed), they opted for the one nestled in the lilac (was it his choice, and he knew her well, or did she put her foot down, and he just said, “yes, dear”?). The scent must be heavenly with the white blossoms dangling just outside their front door.

In the end, we come up with an alternate menu. Our threesome will have German potato salad and deli ham, and I’ll make a fruit crisp that I know has less than five ingredients. The YMCA folks gamely say we can use their fridge. I guess they know that moms feel compelled to feed their brood, with the best we can offer them.

Is this the cake you baked for me?

I got to be the queen in our second grade play. She was a demanding woman, who commanded her head baker (played by my best buddy Hiroshi) create the most exquisite cake ever made to grace her table. What she ended up with was a tiny little thing presented by a lowly baker’s apprentice (played by my other best buddy Jeff); thus the line my father made sure I never forgot, “Is this the cake you baked for me?” delivered with a just a touch of disdain in my voice.

This week’s CSA box contained the usual roots that are hard to be enthusiastic about after a long winter, but there were also some early shoots: rhubarb, raab, and—gasp!—asparagus! The kids weren’t around to hear my shriek of glee; probably just as well, since everything I do serves only to embarrass my 13-year old. Another cackle: Farmer’s wife has won Darling Husband’s everlasting adoration by throwing in an extra stalk of the red stringy stuff. I quickly slate that for compote with a wee bit of orange peel and plan to bake up some lace cookies to dunk/scoop the glop.

But it was the asparagus that made my heart leap, because I’ve lived here long enough to know that when the green spears head upward, it’s the time when the salmon arrives. Sure enough, a trip to the market revealed that the Copper River season started today, which would have meant waiting a day to eat the asparagus, which frankly wasn’t an option. So we “settled” for Columbia River King, and fired up the grill. Potatoes (yes, they were in the box as well) first, then the asparagus (ever so quickly!), and finally the filets, oozing enough oil to raise flames from the coals. No worries, though Number One Son, aka Armchair Fire Chief wanted to know if I wanted water to throw in the Weber.

The play has a happy ending, as all second-grade plays have: It turns out that the cake the apprentice baked was incredibly delicious, and I am duly impressed. But as I sit back licking my lips from that plate of fresh local goodness, I feel like a different sort of queen. Not only do I have the privilege of eating an incredibly tasty meal, not only have I had the honor of working with fine food, I have trod the soil that grew much of it, and have met the farmer (though I have yet to thank the farmer’s wife in person for that extra rhubarb in Darling Husband’s tummy). But there’s more: in that modest waxed cardboard box I have found something more than vegetables and other goodies: I have found time. I am spared standing in front of tables of produce asking myself, “Is it local?” “Is it in season?” No, I just say, incredulously, but with no disdain whatsoever, “Is this is the box you made for me?”

Concierge level

I have just returned from another board meeting, this time in the Lone Star State. The hotel that hosted our meeting was eager to book us for a full-fledged conference in San Antonio, and so pulled out all the stops. I was greeted at the airport by a limousine driver holding a sign with my name on it, and upgraded to the concierge level at the hotel itself. The room, a suite with a huge bed and French doors, heralded my arrival with a mini-buffet of cheese (Boursin) and crackers (Carr’s water crackers), mixed nuts (no peanuts!), a green apple and a tower of tartlets and chocolates. There was even a small bottle of wine (and a corkscrew) holding up a card with my name on it. I was beginning to feel special.

During the meeting, they fed us lavishly (fresh, local strawberries for breakfast, one of the benefits of the sweltering heat) and even secured reservations for us at the hottest restaurant in town, Boudro’s. This Texas bistro, surrounded on all sides by kitschy Tex-Mex places on the Riverwalk, delivered both the excellent and the unassuming. Tableside guacamole sounds like a gimmick, but it more than lived up to the hype, and I can see why the prickly pear margarita is on the list of 1,000 things to do before you die. I returned to my concierge level suite satisfied but not stuffed, slipped on the supplied fluffy bathrobe and worked my way through the cable channels and chocolates. I could almost get used to this. (Don’t worry, I missed recycling bins, and my knee still jerks at fresh towels every day.)

After our meeting, the hotel graciously provided a limousine back to the airport, perplexed that we were insisting on sharing rides, practical (read non-Texan) folks that we are. My flights home were uneventful, if full, but I was greeted at baggage claim by a young man with a sign with my name. Not my driver, but Number One Son, trying to make me feel special.

But here’s the thing: As nice as that designer hotel bed with Egyptian cotton sheets was, my bed, with down comforter and Darling Husband, is far superior. The soap in the white-tiled shower was full-sized (oatmeal soap from Ballard Organics), and my fluffy blue bathrobe was waiting on a hook for me.

I was woken far too early by a Little One eager to share his mother’s day gifts for me: a candle, a beeswax kitty, and a rock that he found that glitters in the sunlight. Number One made me a bouquet of Mexican tissue paper flowers and scraped up enough for a box of Theo confections. And they all brought me breakfast in bed. Sorry, Marriott, you may think you have the luxury thing down pat, but these guys make me feel like a queen.

Racing around

I’m hopping on a jet plane tomorrow, on my way to Texas, where it’s already (or always) summer. My to do list includes things like finding sunscreen that my sensitive skin can tolerate in a container that’s less than 4 ounces, and locating my sandals (when was the last time I wore them?). Also on my list is picking up the CSA box.

Last week’s box was a real treasure trove. I was expecting a selection of mostly imported organic produce (carrots, broccoli, radishes), much like what I find at the co-op, since it’s still early in the season. But we were pleasantly surprised by such delicacies as fresh tender lettuce in addition to greens, and rhubarb and spinach—all from the farm. Darling Husband loves his rhubarb, and so do his sons, much to his chagrin. With some token fruit, the only thing missing was potatoes, but that gives me an excuse to keep going to the farmer’s markets.

Yes, that’s plural. For there are now two markets “nearby”: The University District, with it’s all-weather can-do attitude, and the yuppified-crafty Redmond Saturday Market, which opened up last week. Both markets trumpeted spring loudly, with troops of tomato starts lined up at attention, ready to march home with you. All sorts of heirlooms, paste, and cherry, all vying for my attention. Almost enough to distract me from Perfect Pete’s disappearance (Where did he go? Is toffee seasonal?).

But my arms were too full of honey to do anything but lust after the tomatoes. Precious liquid gold, my Darling husband had chatted up a local beekeeper’s son, and ordered up two gallons of the sticky stuff. He was planning to pick it up, really he was, but Number One was sick enough to skip orchestra rehearsal last week, so the lugging fell to me this week.

Which means I shall send Darling Husband, aided and abetted by Little One, to that selfsame market during my absence, to pick out this year’s tomatoes (and get spuds and Golden Glen butter). My mother’s day present to myself will be transplanting those gems to the beds and pots prepared for them last week. That, and munching on whatever goodies come in this week’s box and from the Alamo.