August 2009 – The Greener Biener

Peachy Keen

daphne on August 27, 2009

I haven’t asked them directly, but I think there’s a chance that my parents–and I say this with deep respect–don’t like peaches. Perhaps my memories are tainted by that fateful rhubarb incident, but I don’t know. Inundated as I’ve been lately with the juicy orbs, not one childhood image of a peach comes to mind. Sticky pools gather at the elbows of my own ecstatic peach-eating children. We have been contentedly working our way through recipes thick with the tantalizing fruit, yet not one rings a personal bell.

Without peaches to pave the way down memory lane, I’ve got a bit of lost time to recover. And so I baked this incredible cake.

It’s so wholesome looking I had no problem calling it lunch and serving it to my friend Leslie. I spruced up a recipe from Gourmet magazine called Stone Fruit Tea Cake, which sounds rather British and unappealing, don’t you agree old chap? I call mine Shortbread Cake with Peaches and Berries, which is much better and as long as the children aren’t around, it does make the perfect lunch.

Leslie, on loan to me from pioneer days, stopped by to teach me how to can peaches yesterday, a full day before Gourmet magazine’s Can Do approach to canning landed in my inbox. I am cutting edge, in a pioneering sort of way of course.

My initial thought was that a pot that big should hold nothing but succulent lobsters, but then I remembered that we were fresh off the covered wagon and putting up our reserves for the harsh winter ahead, so I pushed away thoughts of tasty crustaceans and pulled out the peaches. I gave them a quick boiling bath followed by a dunk in icy water. They practically slipped right out of their skins.

We then sliced them, and soaked them in a citric acid bath (more soothing than it sounds) to prevent browning.

Next we added the slices and syrup to the jars, and while they steamed away stovetop,

we strolled through the gardens (still feeling a little British from our lunch I suppose) where I selected a much healthier snack for my unsuspecting children–fresh chard, tomatoes and sage. I swear they’ll be thrilled (as long as I don’t let on about my own choice for lunch.)

We also dropped in on the squash vines.

So lush, so healthy looking, and yet still sporting only one tiny female. As I watch squash in other gardens already ripening to the size of mini coopers, I worry that mine is not destined to become much of a meal. Sad, but true, I have gourd envy.

The sound of the timer called us back to the homestead, where we pulled the 12 jars from their bath, stacked them up nice and pretty, and gloated.

We’ve got another CSA delivery today; is it selfish to hope for more peaches? After all, we are down to a sole uncanned peach, and I am already craving more of Dave’s Outrageously Good Salsa, with ripe peaches and tomatoes straight from the vine. Not to mention that lunch time today holds no promise of cake. How am I going to lure friends over for lunch without a cake?

In conclusion, let me paraphrase my winsome teenage self–this fruit is totally awesome. It’s psychedelic. It’s peachy keen, man. There are many, many ways to enjoy a peach, so what do you say Mom? Dad?

You lived the 60s. Give Peach a chance.

Shortbread Cake with Peaches and Raspberries

daphne on August 27, 2009

I adapted this recipe from the Stone Fruit Tea Cake recipe in Gourmet magazine (because raspberries make it taste better, and my name sounds yummier.)

Ingredients–

2 cups diced and peeled peaches (about 2 large peaches)
½ cup raspberries
2 ¼ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup sugar
¾ cup unsalted butter, room temperature
3 eggs
1 Tbls vanilla extract
1 Tbls turbinado sugar (optional)

1. Whisk flour, baking powder and salt together. Set aside.

2. Cream sugar and butter for about 5 minutes, until light and fluffy.

3. Add eggs one at a time, then stir in vanilla.

4. Add flour mixture and stir until just combined in a sticky dough.

5. Wrap in plastic wrap and smoosh down into a 1 inch disk. Freeze dough for ½ hour.

6. Preheat oven to 375°. Butter a round baking pan.

7. Divide dough in half. Spread one half the dough evenly on the bottom of the pan. Spread the fruit over the dough. Break the rest of the dough into 4-5 inch pieces and place on top of the fruit (they will spread and mash together.)

8. Sprinkle turbinado sugar across the top. This is optional–it is not needed for taste since the cake is sweet enough, but it does add a little glitz and sparkle to the top of the cake, you know, if you’re serving it to princesses.

9. Bake 30-40 minutes, or until golden brown. Let cool a little before serving.

Dave’s Crazy Good Peach Salsa

daphne on August 27, 2009

This salsa fresca is unbelievably good. This version is medium-mild, but you can always increase the number of jalepenos if you like it hot hot hot. The key here is using ultra-fresh ingredients.

2 c diced tomatoes
1/2 c diced yellow bell pepper
1 large diced, peeled peach
1/4 seeded and diced jalapeno (more or less to taste)
1/2 c chopped red onion
1 tsp salt
3 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tbls lime juice

Add all ingredients together and toss lightly. Put it in the fridge for about an hour and serve cold. The extra liquid can be drained off before serving.

Footloose and Sneezy-free

daphne on August 22, 2009

Thank you to all for the plethora of suggestions on how to beat the seasonal snotties. I take it you were not impressed with my plan of barring the doors and windows and never venturing forth into polite company again?

Worries over me becoming a hermit are groundless. Why just today I strolled out through the door and into my garden. I made it almost 5 minutes before the allergens launched their merciless attack. And despite the onslaught I lasted another half hour past that, long enough to photograph the progress of the garden. Because, yippee, we are making progress.

Not only have the cucumbers finally gone co-ed, but they’ve been (getting) busy. They are not big, they are not ready, but they are going to be tasty. . .if they reach their teens before the first frost. (Note, objects taken at extreme close-up may actually be just a tiny fraction of apparent size.)

Not quite as far along socially are the squash vines. Still, credit where credit is due–they too are showing signs of leaving bachelorhood behind. Here, without further ado, is our first female flower.

Allow me to introduce you to Big Bertha, our beautiful butternut babe-to-be. I am expecting big things from her, assuming some studly male steps up and does his duty.

I am impressed by the perseverance of the rainbow chard. I had given it up as gone to the bugs when we returned home to find the leaves holey and frail; but when I trimmed them back new growth sprung forth. Looks like the cucumbers may have someone to play with after all (you know, on my salad plate.)

The raspberries are numerous and ripening fast–

Ahh, and the tomatoes. The tomatoes are hanging heavy. Really heavy.

Is it wrong to think that it might be time for my produce to get a bra?

The Downside of Cool

daphne on August 20, 2009

Back when I was still knee-deep in needy newborns, it was hard to conceive of a day like today. A day that loomed out there, somewhere in a future where children attended school all day and I would have hours upon hours of fulfilling self-reflection and silent contemplation. Well, it’s here. Today is the first day in nine years that I loaded both of my big girls onto the school bus, not to return until 3:00pm. Pass the bon-bons; I’ve got six hours of silent bliss. I will write a novel. I will read all the editorials. I will cook a meal the likes of which gourmets round the world will clamor to taste.

Or I’ll strip every bed and rip up the rugs and douse the entire house in bleach and lemon-scented spray stuff. Anything that will increase my chances of breathing through my nose once again.

Don’t be fooled. These are no ordinary allergies. They laugh in the face of Benadryl, my trusted old friend that typically knocks me out faster than a blow to the head with a falling piano. And the sneezes just keep coming.

My waking hours are spent buried in a box of tissues, and I haven’t slept in days. I swear last night would have been better if someone filled my pillowcase with freshly cut grass and a bag of kittens and then wrapped their fluffy little tails around my eyes as a blindfold.

I have been so busy ooohing and aaahing over the delightfully cool weather and the extra dose of lush rain that I didn’t stop to consider the consequences. Something new is growing out there, and it does not play well with me.

The doctor gave me an appointment for next week, and extracted my sincere promise not to step foot outdoors until then. In the meantime to rid my house of lurking pollen I am dousing every inch with a bottle or two of bleach. Cleaning isn’t really my thing, but if it will buy me an hour or two of snot-free sleep, I’m in. And since I’ve only got a few hours left in this precious gift of a day nine years in the making, I’d better run and dump more bleach into the laundry and see about some dust monsters under the couch.

Yes, these are tears in my eyes. It’s all this sneezing, of course. It’s purely coincidental that this morning I bid farewell to my little darlings as they set out for first and third grade, so big and so grown-up already. Of course my eyes are itchy and red. Allergies or not, that is the price I pay for watching my babies morph into real people right before my very eyes.

Morning Glory Hallelujah

daphne on August 16, 2009

Eight years ago when I worked in New York City my morning commute included a subway ride across the river and a stroll across 13th Street. Locks rattled as chains were unwound from storefronts preparing for the day, and car horns bleated passionately. On warm mornings the scent of urine wafted out from neglected corners. One wall of a shabby brownstone boasted a tattered hand-lettered sign that read “Fresh Paint — No Sex Against This Wall.” It was, in all likelihood, your typical Manhattan commute. Until I got to the corner at 2nd Avenue.

Climbing out from the well of a basement apartment was a startling blue explosion of Morning Glories. Hundreds of them, winding up out of the dank darkness and twisting around wrought iron banisters. Their faces stretched for the sun. I saw them every day, yet they were always unexpected. I rushed along as rush hour demanded, with my head bent and my feet hustling, but when I got to that corner I had to pause. I loved those incongruous blooms.

The walk to work that second week of September 2001 was utterly different. The air was eerily still. Shuttered shops didn’t open. There was no drone of traffic. No slurring of vagrants. Everything was different, except that damned blue sky and the Morning Glories.

I planted my own Morning Glories for the first time this spring with no conscious thought to that terrifying time eight years ago. I was thinking simply of the vivid blue petals. I wanted them to unfurl each morning in my yard. I wanted flowers to climb up and over my deck railing. And so I planted the seeds, and despite a historical lack of success with growing flowers, a Morning Glory showed up.

I went to dump the compost this morning and there it was. Bright and determined, rising up out of a clump of neglected dirt in which I had tossed the remainder of a packet of seeds. And with the early sky blazing and the old familiar blossoms I was right back there on 13th Street. I sank down on the steps next to the vine. I felt like I was going to cry. I rubbed my finger gently against the sole flower and took a deep breath. I stared into the periwinkle petals and its lemony center. It’s such a fragile, ballsy little thing. I wiped a tear, and had to smile.

Welcome to the Jungle

daphne on August 10, 2009

We put in some time in the garden this weekend, and I think I finally understand those people who think slapping bugs and pulling weeds is relaxing. It was delightful. I sat myself down in the wet dirt and wrestled with the overgrown jungle in our backyard. There was no traffic concerning me. I didn’t have to worry about finding a smoke-free room with two beds somewhere on the safe side of some random town. After weeks out on the open road it was terrific to be hemmed in by strawberries plants in the midst of staging a coup to overtake the yard and towering 6 foot high raspberry bushes.

Also standing strong was the rhubarb. Back in June, as we were getting ready to leave town, I judged it done and planted squash right on top. But clearly I was premature in writing off the rhubarb–

Before I get all puffed up about the glorious successes in our garden, I admit one major disappointment. Though the vines of the pumpkin, the squash and the cucumbers are gorgeous thick twists heavy with flowers, I worry that when push comes to grow, they will not produce. NO FEMALE FLOWERS. AGAIN. Now, I like hanging with guys as much as the next sorority girl, but I’m begging for a nice nerdy science guy out there somewhere willing to explain why inside the house I make all girls, but outside the house it’s one bachelor party after another. Please?

At least I have some producers to appease me while I ponder the infinite questions of vegetable sex. Our tomatoes did just fine without us.

Even the rainbow chard that I thought would never show poked it’s head up. In our absence the bugs had a feast, but at least I can feel good knowing that the little critters received a healthy dose of vitamin-rich antioxidants.

We got potatoes! These truly were the easiest things to grow. I stuck one rotten looking spud in the ground, cruised around the nation for a couple of months, and Wham! Bam! French Fries Ma’am!

And finally, after 7 weeks of gifting our CSA share to the happy, healthy Redfern family, we finally got our hands on some local, farm-fresh veggies

We started with the eggplant. According to Dave, a self-acclaimed afficienado, the eggplant parmesan I made that night was the best he’s ever eaten. I take full credit, gracefully. Though real credit is probably due to the fact that the eggplant was the freshest we’ve ever had. Freshly-picked eggplant–ours was picked 24 hours beforehand–is much sweeter and holds far less water. The less water in the eggplant, the less of a bitter aftertaste.)

Eggplant Parmesan

daphne on August 10, 2009

Ingredients:

Eggplant
Flour, wheat or white
One beaten egg, or milk
Breadcrumbs
Marinara Sauce
Mozzarella–fresh is best

If you use a fresh eggplant (picked within 5 or so days) there is no need to “sweat” it. If it’s been around a little longer, salt the slices to draw out the bitter liquid.

Peel the eggplant.
Slice the eggplant into thin circles—I try for about 1/4 inch thick.
Dredge the slices in flour to coat both sides.
Dip the floured pieces in beaten egg or milk.
Coat in breadcrumbs and fry in mild oil (I use canola) over medium-high heat for about 3-4 minutes, or until golden brown.
Flip and fry for a couple more minutes, then transfer to a cooking sheet.
Top each piece with marinara sauce and fresh mozzarella.
Bake at 350 for 20 minutes, or until cheese is melted and eggplant can be very easily cut.

And the medal goes to…

daphne on August 4, 2009

Ahhhh….Home sweet home! After 45 days away, 6,519 miles traveled, 22 states visited, 3 time zones traversed I am chomping at the bit to get back to my garden-turned-overgrown jungle. I cannot wait to resume CSA deliveries, fresh from the farm that is promising me eggplant and peaches. I am ready to share the myriad of garden secrets and outrageous recipes that I collected on my travels.

But first things first.

Our road trip culminated in Des Moines, Iowa, which in addition to being a balmy 78 degrees during our stay was the gracious host city for the Junior Olympics. A number of our most avid jump rope fans have made it clear that there will be no waiting for an official post. And so, without any further ado, the results:

Kira rocked it, jumping as high and fast as her little legs would go. She got off the floor after most events with a smile on her face, proud of her performance, and that was all that I had hoped for. We were awed and amazed when she placed both individually and as a pair, even scoring a silver medal for her pairs routine.

Thanks to everyone who showered Kira with support, and in so doing helped me figure out how to manage my little champ. And now, a snapshot of Kira’s events at the 2009 Jr. Olympics…