daphne – Page 10 – The Greener Biener

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…

A Girl By Any Other Name…

daphne on July 27, 2009

A rose by any other name is just as sweet. And so it goes for children, right? At least for our wildly natural, rocky coastline of a kid, Acadia, who got to meet her equally wild, equally rocky, equally beautiful namesake last week–

That’s my girl. Acadia. Bar Harbor, Maine was the next stop on our crazy never-ending summer road trip extravaganza. We packed up the kids and spent four days in a cottage near the park. Despite a chill in the air and some wet mornings, we toured the park, ate lobster, and went kayaking.

We also logged some serious beach combing time.

Some folks like to watch crime dramas. Some like to knit. Some try Valium. For me there is nothing more relaxing than plopping down and combing the beach for sea-glass. And there is no place better suited for this than Bar Harbor.

Perfect, sure. Beautiful, yes. But edible? Not so much. So when it came time for snack we moved on from seaside to hillside, where the Maine blueberries were just coming in.

I was in my element. Happier than the clams that were being dug up all around us. But all the wonder and natural beauty of our surroundings was nothing in the face of a couple of content kids harbor side.

Usually I have no problem remaining stoic where shopping is involved. But I was powerless here. What’s the point of having a destination child if you don’t cash on some really cool shwag?

The Eye of the Tiger

daphne on July 19, 2009

Just in case you’ve been wondering, the song looping in my head these days is Survivor’s Eye of The Tiger. It’s become a favorite of Kira’s for jump rope warm-ups. What worked for Rocky also happens to be perfect for an eight year old girl heading to the Junior Olympics.

Practicing your routine is no walk on the beach. Or maybe it is if you happen to take that walk upside down.

Not even a picture-perfect day on the beach in Amagansett stopped Kira from practicing. She cartwheeled and hand-standed her way through her routine on the sand, pausing here and there to build castles, dig holes and jump in the enormous waves with her sister. Now all I’ve got to do is convince those Olympics folks that the beach is a better spot to host the games. (Though I don’t doubt, as the nice lady at the chamber of commerce promised, that Des Moines is indeed delightful this time of year.)

Grandma has become quite the jump rope enthusiast. In addition to providing a lifetime supply of garlic for her granddaughters,

she leased the use of a racquetball court at the gym down the street, where Kira has been diligently jumping for about an hour every day. For the record, so has coach mom. I don’t want to brag, but I can hang with her for about half an hour without collapsing into a pathetic heap. Maybe not Olympic-material, but it’s something.

The nice people at the gym have been watching Kira come and go for the past month with curious looks on their sweating face, so Kira indulged them with a preview —

I’ve been fielding lots of question about this sport, and though I’m no expert, here’s how I think it will go down at the big competition in less than two weeks: Kira is competing in 6 events; 3 individual and 3 with her partner. These include Speed–how many single steps she can do in 60 seconds (think Rocky;) Power–how many times in 60 seconds she can turn the rope double for every single jump, and the freestyle routine.

Big plans aside, Kira unwound with some family time on the sailboat. Just the wind, the waves, and the time to ponder some really deep thoughts.

Grid, Shmid…We Can Do It All On Our Own

daphne on July 14, 2009

Thanks to Grandmother’s garden, we need never go hungry. I have eaten more than my fill of salad greens and herbs and snap peas, though they have yet to convert me into a beet lover. (Yes, I know all about how delicious they are. Now run along and enjoy them and leave me out of it.) Despite reaping the rewards of a garden well-equipped to feed 976 vegetarians for twenty two years, we felt like we needed a little more. Lucky for us Grandma’s sidekick was up to the task.

That’s a seven and a half pound fluke being hefted by Grandpa Mikey. And yes, seven and a half pounds of fish is so big that it pushed all but Grandpa Mikey’s forearm from the frame.

There are a million ways to prepare fresh fish, but it really doesn’t get better than fried. Here’s how we do it. Even my kids beg for seconds, and they’re barely bigger than that fluke.

Fresh fish offers more than a great meal. If you’ve got a retired surgeon on hand, you can use the carcass as a lovely stained glass window.

That’s Grandpa Mikey: world-class fillet master, and a talented boat builder to boot. Last year he built an adorable little sailing dory for his grandchildren. Dave took Kira and nephews MJ and Evan for a row around the bay sans mast.

This year Grandpa is trying his hand at kayak-building. I may be biased, but I think he’s pretty darn good at it.

Grandpa also pulled some strings and entered the girls in a marine naturalist camp. They strolled the beaches, collected specimen, and learned all about life in, on and around the water. If you have been wondering how to tell the difference between male and female fiddler crabs, Kira is your source (hint: she told me that the males have one big claw.)

All questions about hermit crabs or star fish should be directed to marine expert Acadia.

Fun fact of the day: A baby oyster is called a spat.

Fresh Fried Fish

daphne on July 14, 2009

This simple recipe is the reason my kids love fish.

Fish fillets–I use a flaky white fish. Use pieces of even thickness for easiest cooking.
Flour
Bread crumbs
Corn flour crumbs
Milk or Egg or Beer for dredging
Canola oil for frying

Cut the fish fillets into equally sized pieces (more or less)
Coat both sides of each fillet in flour.
Dip floured fish into liquid. I usually use milk since it’s the easiest, but you could also use a beaten egg or beer, white wine, etc.
Coat wet fillet with mixture of corn flake crumbs and bread crumbs. The corn flake crumbs are sweet, so use more for sweeter fish or less, per taste.
In a frying pan over medium/high heat, heat a few tablespoons of oil
When hot, put fillets in and cook for about 5 minutes per side, depending on thickness.
When you can easily cut fish in half (it should separate in soft white flakes) with the side of a spatula, it is done. If a fork or spatula won’t go through the fillet, it is not cooked yet.

Serve and enjoy. The kids love it plain, but I like to spoon salsa over the top for the grown-ups.

My, What Big Spinach You’ve Got Granny

daphne on July 9, 2009

There is a chance, I suppose, that since I’ve deserted it our sweet little garden has runneth over, but I’m not holding my breath. I’m visiting my mother, and she has shown me how a real garden behaves. It’s not that my cute little berry patch back in Colorado isn’t special; it is. But next to this macho New York garden with its prime beach-front location and vines reaching for the stars, mine seems a bit underwhelming.

Look closely. Can you find my girls? That’s them being consumed by greenery as they munch their way through grandma’s garden. My what big spinach you’ve got granny…now how about you get it to spit out the children?

It’s not just the size of her prolific garden, or the fact that it’s situated on a piece of real estate that makes broccoli everywhere envious. Something about those leafy greens put a spell on our children. It was all we could do to tear the six cousins out of the garden and convince them to jump in the bay. The beach? Maybe later; hey, who wants more salad?

The snap peas are sweet and crisp, a favorite along with the cucumbers. But surprisingly, these kids can’t keep their picking fingers off the fennel (they call it licorice, and save it for “salad dessert.”) They also chomp with glee through the spinach and chard. Ok, so for those keeping score, it’s North Carolina for earth-friendly, grass-fed protein, and New York for getting kids and their vegetables together in harmony.

Cousin Emily adored the mint leaves. And I think Evan owes his Spider Man powers to the hundreds of blades of lemon grass he chewed.

My mother remains modest about her remarkable gardening success. She suggests only that we place lo-jacks on the children to allow us to pull them to safety when it’s time to give them their ice cream.

You do remember ice cream, don’t you kids?