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.

For Anna, Carrie and Lorelei

I have made this dish many times; certainly for the legendary couscous party well-known to our friends. It has attended two Bat Miztvah celebrations, and numerous school potlucks. There's always some in my freezer. It is, not surprisingly, the most requested recipe from my repertoire (other than jam!).

********

 Chicken Tagine

INGREDIENTS:

12 oz. Apricot sauce (puréed apricots or peaches)

¼ c up Creamy peanut or cashew butter
1/3 c Orange juice
1/3 c Dry sherry
2 T Balsamic vinegar
2 T Lime juice
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 t salt
2 t Curry powder
½ t Cinnamon
½ t Cardamom
½ t Ground cumin
1 lb. Chicken

INSTRUCTIONS:

In a large ovenproof dish, combine preserves, peanut butter, orange juice, sherry, vinegar, lime juice, garlic, salt, and seasonings. Cut the chicken in large bite-sized pieces. Add the chicken pieces to the marinade and coat well. Cover and refrigerate for 3 to 4 hours.

Preheat oven to 350F degrees and bake the chicken and marinade uncovered for 20 to 30 minutes. Serve over the prepared couscous. Share with friends. 

Of lettuces and elections

November brings two things around these parts: elections and the end of our CSA season. September and October have been a flurry of roadside campaign signs and roadside stands hawking local corn and cherries, growing piles of election fliers and a growing pile of colorful organic squash to get us through the winter.

And then came November, and the airwaves and the CSA went quiet. I put three long-overdue spring weddings on my calendar and washed my last head of Claire's lettuce. But despite the joyful weddings to come, the news wasn't all good, and it wasn't all local. California's Proposition 37, a mandate to label GMOs, was defeated. Even though the vast majority of people say they want to see labeling, Big Money from Big Corporations saturated the airways and billboards with confounding messages, and we all lost.

With that last head of CSA lettuce gone, I headed to the co-op to buy vegetables. The heads of red leaf were tiny and trucked from California. Organic, yes, but not bursting with the energy of the farmer I know. It might have come from a small-scale farmer, or it might have come from a mega-farm irrigated by water from huge canals. I don't know, and it's not obvious.

Like the anonymous lettuce, it isn't obvious who provided the Big Money against Prop 37. We expect it to be limited to big corporations that sell only pseudo-foods, neon-colored and laden with unpronounceable ingredients. But it's far more complex than that. Many of those mega-corporations (exercising their right to free speech by supporting anti-labeling rhetoric) actually own some of the more popular organic brands. There's a nifty infographic from the Cornucopia Institute that shows who is really who.

The anonymity of the supermarket is like a huge online chat board--you can't tell if you're talking to a gorgeous blond or a pedophile stalker. Infographics can help, but there has to be a better way for the person who wants to eat real food and do the Right Thing.

If complexity hides the truth, then simplicity exposes it. Just as my magic trick this summer, we have a simple tool. Get as close to the source of your food as possible. It's helped by social media, to be sure: it's the old-fashioned analog conversation. A chat with the produce manager, a regular date with your year-round farmer's market sellers, a buyer's club, a cold frame in your garden. Small money, simple, and the Right Thing.

Vegetable alchemy

"Wow, mom, you did magic!" exclaimed Little One as we left the farmers market this afternoon. And I did feel a bit like a medieval alchemist, transforming juicy fruit into root vegetables.

It started back in early spring, when we had a glorious stretch of sunny and warm. I looked out at the mass of bees and blossoms on the plum tree and thought to myself, "it's going to be a good year for plums (and apples)." As it turns out, I was right.

But it was also a good year for strawberries and raspberries, and somehow the finite resources of empty jars and shelf space dwindled long before we got to plum jam season. In our house, it's the last hurrah of summer when we pick the late-ripening plums and add foraged blackberries, a sort of bookmark on the jam shelf: once you get to the plum-based jams, you know that season has come to a close.

So what to do with the excess plums this year? It turns out the answer was staring us in the face, as we have joined an informal online group that arranges shared buys of various local produce. I put out an offer, and a few people responded. It's a perfect match: we still had plenty of fruit to use up every last jam jar, and the excess was magically transformed into a handful of bills.

Yes, the bills were the intermediary that I traded for the spuds, but it somehow felt direct, taking the same worn three bills that had been pressed into my hand only a few hours prior and pressing them into the hands of the farmer, so, yes, I agreed with Little One that it was indeed magic, transforming purple plums from the front yard into purple potatoes on the supper table.

____

The post script to this, is of course, that money is a kind of magic, based on mutual trust in a system. In a time when we hear terms like mortgage-backed derivatives and bankrupt brokerage firms bantered about, it's a good reminder, seeing how those leathery slips of paper can represent real value. It's pretty easy to follow the trajectory of those dollar bills, but how much of our economy is that firmly based in the real and tangible? Yet another compelling reason to keep it local.

Single shot

It crept up on me slowly, a mere dash of instant coffee from a leftover packet of instant for a bit of a lift one brisk autumn morning. And before I knew it, my morning cocoa had morphed into full-on mocha. Rich and creamy with coconut or soy milk, tasty syrups adding a little kick. Mint and eggnog prevailed over the holidays, and caramel, vanilla, and salted caramel flavored my summer.

At first, I didn't pay any mind to the syrup, just checked the label to make sure that the mysterious concoction was made of sugar rather than the evil corn syrup. But after a while, it seemed I was seeing a lot more of the fellows at the Cash and Carry, and lugging increasing numbers of bottles out the door. Not to mention chucking a couple of empties into the recycling bin every month.

And then, bent over the u-pick herbs at our CSA farm few weeks ago, Little One called out, "Mom, can I pick some mint?" Sure, I say, even though I have no idea what to do with it. But while I'm making my mocha the next morning, Darling Husband sidles up and starts making cocoa for the aforementioned boy, spiking it with mint syrup.

I look at the label on the green concoction. The main ingredient is sugar, which I have plenty of. I am after all, a jammer and a ten-pound bag sitting on the counter from making blackberry-plum jam last night is staring me in the face. I race to Google; sure enough, those fancy coffee syrups, the ones that cost about $3 a bottle? Simple syrup.

Simple syrup is about the easiest thing to make in the world. It's just sugar and water, heated until it dissolves. So I do, boiling it with a handful of mint for a few minutes. Voilà, homemade mint syrup, and it isn't bright green. If I caramelize it a bit first, I have caramel syrup (predictably, if I add salt, it becomes salted caramel syrup). A drop of vanilla extract is all it takes to make it into vanilla syrup.

So there it is, easy-peasy, homemade coffee syrup. Icing on the cake, it only costs about 86 cents to fill the bottle that gets reused now instead of thrown away.

String of pearls

I am dunking a lovely flaky pain au chocolat in my mocha this morning, thinking about how lucky I am, not just for the pastry and chocolate, but for my life in general. I’m enjoying what many would call success: the bounty of my years of professional experience, an amazing spouse (who brought me said pastry), a healthy and mostly joyful family (except perhaps for those testosterone bursts that happen in the back seat when someone gets grumpy); life is good.

In my professional persona, I read glossy (well, what would be glossy if I read the print edition) business journals. One article recentlyconsumed noted that the one trait common to all successful people is gratitude. Yup, that positive outlook that makes you truly grateful for all others have given you. And when you express that sincerely, it makes folks like you and want to do things for you. Voilà, success!

But my weekly CSA provides me with the missing pearls to complete this necklace of wisdom, in the form of the single Xeroxed sheet tucked in my bags between zucchini and lettuce. This week, after letting us know how the tomatoes are doing (always a cliffhanger in the short growing season in the Pacific Northwest), our farmer cogitates on success, clearly spurred by the tone of much rhetoric being spewed this election year. I can’t say it better than her:

 “When encountering the philosophy that maybe we are all responsible for caring for, and about, our 'neighbors,' there are two extremes of thinking. One is 'I came from a poor background, I worked hard to get what I have, I’m not going to give any of it to anyone,' the other is 'I was helped when I really needed it most and I want to give as much back as I can.' … [But] have you ever wondered why you are living where you are, in the time you are, why not born somewhere else in a very different life style. Maybe in a country with very different opportunities? I think we all have wondered about those things—how certain circumstances of physicality or people who were part of our lives have had a huge part in determining our current living conditions.

“The more I ponder on this, and think through my life, I can’t find anything that I can actually say is something I can take credit for. Every single thing I do, how I react, everything I have done, good or bad, is mostly due to circumstances and genetics.

“So maybe that’s the key to humility? Must we grasp that concept in order to be truly free of what I call 'fear' of sharing, giving, responsibility for caring about all other humans?”

Thank you, Claire, for completing this string of pearls: gratefulness, gratitude, humility, freedom.