What about those pumpkins?

daphne on November 13, 2008

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. We need to talk about those post-Halloween pumpkins. They are still handy, you know, once the cute pictures have been snapped and the last of the candy has been pilfered from the children’s hiding spots.

The way I see it, once the carving knife has been retired there are a couple of options.

Option Number One: Stage your own Disney-esque critter film festival. I set the bait and then used my extensive techno-abilities to create the following neat-o retro flip-book-style film. Simply wiggle your computer back and forth to see Squiggy in full animated motion.

We first meet Squiggy as he cautiously approaches the treasure,

He gives it a little sniff-sniff,

Then dives in, ass over tea-kettle.

He perches, savoring the fruits of his labor.

Finally we see our hero; leaning in exhaustion and searching for the inner strength to carry on.

I know, I know, it’s touching and sweet. I am a woman of many talents. But for those of you who may be hesitant about challenging Mr. Disney and his world of critter creations, there is another way to go.

Option Number Two: When life rots the pumpkins, make pumpkin puree! That way, with a freezer of golden orange mush and just a modicum of self restraint you too can enjoy pumpkin treats on many a snowy day to come.

I love these muffins but I do recognize that it’s time to branch out. I hereby promise to collect, cook, taste and share recipes for other pumpkin treats. Soon.

Pumpkin is perfect for reasons beyond just keeping muffins moist without adding fat. If you’re into the health thing, or just wish you knew more about our favorite gourd, swing by Kermit’s Corner. We’ve got a list of interesting factoids about what a couple of cups of pumpkin can do for you.

Happy feasting!

Pick a peck of pumpkins

daphne on November 10, 2008

Disclosure: I don’t know how all those bloggers out there stay on top of things. I write the stuff down, really I do, but then there were election results to check 157 times a day (phew, anyone else happy that that’s behind us?) There’s the laundry to swap out, and then it’s time for swim lessons and dinner, and well, here I am weeks later and that brilliant piece o’ literature I prepared is all yellowed and crinkly.

So for this post I’m going to take you back, back a few weeks when the weather was still on the fence and I was feeling crabby about the sunshiny threat of an eternal summer. Back when the innocent days of early October beckoned our family to the pumpkin farm…

I was thinking pumpkins and spiced cider, but the wishy-washy weather felt differently, rearing its sunny head to the delight of the raspberries and other evil pollen producers that extended my sneezy season well beyond the limits of what a rational person should have to bear.

Lovely, yeah; sweet, sure. Everything coming up floral; frankly, I’m over it. Hello? Ice and snow? I’m bumping up against the legal limits for Sudafed purchases here.

Still, the unseasonable warmth did provide a nice opportunity to hit the pumpkin patch unburdened by heavy coats and muddy boots. The corn maze was high and the wheat was a’waving as we met up with Uncle David and cousin Felix to pick a perfect gourd, or five.

The children frolicked in the corn and fed some chickens. And occasionally gave in to mom’s irritating requests for pictures.

We came. We picked. Maybe we whined a little bit but that’s only because it was really hot and the hay was poking through the flip flops and come on when is it going to be time for lunch? You know, pumpkin patch perfection.

After all, Acadia found this guy, and he kept her pretty busy.

Who is this chick?

daphne on November 6, 2008

Yeah, that one. The one planning for a flowering spring. The one with a song in her heart and a belief in the future. The one dancing with hope.

That’s me, really. With just a few tweaks to the old personality.

I am not known for having patience. A fondness for delayed gratification didn’t make my list either. But hey, if America can climb on board with a big plan for change than the least I can do is try for some changes of my own.

So recently while the girls helped Dave rake yellowing leaves into billowing piles,

I planted something that would not emerge from the soil for 6 month. Talk about delaying some gratification. Talk about hope. I’m talking about lovely ladies that demand a nice six-month nap in the dirt before rearing their pretty faces. Tulips. And daffodils.

I’m never one to jump up and down at the return of warm weather, but I do like the bright colors that litter my neighbor’s yards while our property remains the sole landscape slumbering away beneath a blanket of blandness.

And each year I am reminded that these April flowers demanded attention way back when the first snows were threatening. They require planning ahead. Way way ahead. Which has always been enough to send those tulip-thoughts tiptoeing out of my head.

Not so with the new me. After an eternal election cycle the idea of waiting a paltry six months for flowers seems reasonable. So I read the back of my little packet of seeds. And I dug the holes. And while I may have skimped a bit on the suggested 12 inches of depth and 6 inches of spacing, I remain confident that my yard will look very much like this.

Ok, I can’t say for sure that my yard will blossom like that. But after a long long time I find myself believing in a future bright with rainbows and gilded with hope. My dreams are rich in solar paneled rooftops, electrically-charged cars and daughters bedecked in white lab coats out to change the world.

So why not? Anything is possible. And come springtime I believe we will be dancing in daffodils.

Here it is, your moment of Zen

daphne on November 2, 2008

For those of you who aren’t obsessive fans of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, let me explain.  At the end of each of his faux news shows, Jon Stewart features “a moment of zen.”  Typically it’s a funny quote or a ridiculous image from the day’s news.  The point is to send the viewers off with a smile.

Just the other day I was, as usual, frantically scrolling through polls and predictions. My heart was racing to and fro, so I took a break to read an email from my mother.  She forwarded a link to a blog she reads from the Martha’s Vineyard Fiber Farm, which calls itself the “home of the county’s first fiber CSA.”

CSA, if you remember, stands for Community Supported Agriculture.  Monroe Organic Farms CSA provided our family with farm fresh fruits and veggies all summer long.  Martha’s Vineyard Fiber Farm keeps my mother and other members in organic wool.  My mother, in turn, keeps her grandchildren cuddly and warm in handmade sweaters.  It works out pretty well for everyone. Well, everyone except those chilly little goats, I suppose.

In the final days leading up to this historic election, I have a challenge for you.  Relax, it is one that does not include knocking on doors or calls to mysteriously undecided voters.

Nope, here’s my challenge to you: I challenge you to click on this link.  Baby Goats Wearing Sweaters. Go on, click it, and try not to smile.

It’ll only take a second.  Positive results guaranteed.  It’s a crowd pleaser, something for everyone, regardless of the color of your state or the state of your mind.

Go on, click it:  Baby Goats Wearing Sweaters. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

My favorite things

daphne on November 1, 2008

When the dog bites, or the bee stings, or the polls show an erratic swing and it feels as if we won’t ever make it to election day, I simply remember my favorite things. You know, my favorite things, plus a bottle of wine and a sack or so of mini-snickers. That’s all a girl needs, right?

And I am a lucky girl. A fact that occasionally gets lost what with all the whiny there is to be done. But I’ll leave the whining for another day. Today, I’m focused on my favorite things…

Here’s a perfect example. Just look what I caught the children doing the other day: each other’s hair.

Really, if they keep pulling this kind of behavior, CNN’s going off for good. It’s enough to make a mom feel a little guilty for eating all their Hershey bars. Well, almost. I’ve got my gripes with this national fascination on seeing how much candy mom can consume once the kids head out for school. But that’s for another day. Today only the positives (or at least the abundant photo ops) of Halloween.

Like pumpkin carving.

We made them cute. We made them scary. We made them hopeful (oops, there I go, slipping back onto the politics bandwagon.

And to answer the question burning in your minds: A witch, scary, and a fairy, magical. Here they are:

The witch spent the day correcting people who dared assume she was a good witch. Our witch is all evil, all the time. And while I’m straightening records, Kira is a fairy who also happens to be a princess. Not to be confused with a fairy princess. Got it?

Now that that’s clear, pass the candy. We’ve got to bulk up a little before hitting the leaves.

Hey, Maria von Trapp was on to something. This favorite things thingy really worked! Just look at how relaxed I am in this picture:

Oh, ok. That is Acadia, not me.

But I’m sure that I am no more than a few more fist-fulls of Halloween loot from being there. Or maybe one more bottle of wine. Right? Who am I fooling? Check back on Wednesday–maybe then I’ll be able to finally relax.

The Celery is Coming, The Celery is Coming

daphne on October 29, 2008

Run for your lives!

Yes, I know that there’s plenty to be scared of these days.  Is it irresponsible for me to heap insult atop the terrifying fear that grips so many of us regarding the very future of our families, our country, our whole suffering planet?  Sorry, I’m just telling it like I see it.  And frankly, if you’re not already a little jittery around veggies, this is the stuff of nightmares. After years of playing second fiddle to the ever-popular carrot, celery has gone mad.

Following our final CSA delivery, Kira got a little too close, drawn in no doubt by the frilly fronds of this 30 lb menace. No worries, my parenting instincts kicked in, and I knocked the monster to the floor, protecting my darling daughter from the green hulk.

Seriously. That’s celery.  And at no more than half a dozen months old, it’s practically engulfing my seven year old.  What on earth has it been eating?

If you look closely you can see the anxiety behind Kira’s smile/grimace. No doubt she’s thinking that if the vegetables have been breeding for superior size trouble is close at hand.  Think of the poor poor chocolates.  What chance does a mere cookie hold against greens bent on global domination?

What’s that? Have I gone too far?  Too much on your plate these days to increase your worry to include our imminent demise by celery?  OK, I can see that.  Perhaps I should be doing my part to ease the pre-election pressure.  How about this?   I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s been way too long since my last Gratuitous Picture of a Cow. I love the cows.

Meet Bessie, a proud milker-to-be. I met her on the Kindergarten Pumpkin Patch field trip which I found informative and interesting. (Acadia’s take: no snacks=no fun.)  At one year, Bessie is serenely awaiting her bovine prince charming, who will arrive in the form of artificial insemination.  After the romance has cleared, Bessie will be ready for a lifetime of providing milk to happy little children.  Thanks, Bess.

Strike Two, Cauliflower’s Outta Here

daphne on October 27, 2008

Ok, Ok, I’ll give cauliflower another chance. Geez, I had no idea the cauliflower lobby had so many activists. You guys really love the stuff.  Apparently you’ll go to the ends of the garden to make some converts (or at least leave me a comment…thanks!)

Our final CSA delivery featured this royalty of the cauliflower family, lovely in shades of lavender.

So fancy did it seem that I decided I would try one of the many delicious-sounding recipes that flooded my inbox (does sarcasm come through online?)  No, really, I’m a grown-up and the mature thing to do is to take my medicine eat my vegetables like an adult.

This royal purple variety did present an opportunity to test the uncanny ability of the girls to identify the category of a food item simply by hearing its name:  Present them with tiramisu, and they’re in, foreign language or no;  though fois gras will send them screaming.  Bon bons? Oh yes, yes.  You get my drift?

Which brings me back to the cauliflower:  I boiled, blended and whipped that lavender bouquet into mashed cauliflower, all the while using my happy fairy thoughts to devise the perfect name. The color was extraordinary, like something out of Neverland.  Perhaps a plop of purple passion?  The girls would be on board, for sure.  It’s all in the name…

I sat in the kitchen, mashing and pondering, when Acadia come in.

What’s that Mom? Cauliflower?

Damn!  That child is quick.  I hastily revised my plan, figuring I’d sell them on taste, an angle best known historically for its total lack of success.

I scooped up a spoonful, brought it to my smiling mouth, and prepared to be blown away.  And blown away I was as I hit a major, deal-breaking snag: it was yucky. Really, really yucky.  I know, I know and I am sorry. Truly I am. But what was I supposed to do? It was just that yucky.

The girls didn’t know what to do with themselves at dinner. Not only did mom not make them taste the cauliflower but she’s wasn’t pushing the broccoli either.  They were on to me.  Something was rotten in the state of the kitchen.

(And considering the smell, I’m blaming the cauliflower.)

Oh the weather

daphne on October 18, 2008

Throngs of people will tell you that life in Colorado is just grand thanks to the 300+ days of glorious sunshine. I’ll let you in on a little secret: those sunny days can really grind on a person. They come with a burden of responsibility to get out there, get the kids outside, go ride a bike or climb a mountain or some such nonsense. Frankly, it’s exhausting. Ok so maybe it is just what the doctor ordered; but sometimes fresh air is overrated.

Last weekend came roaring in like an angry wet lion. Chilly and soggy and not a reason in the world to pull off pajamas or venture outside (well, except Dave, who braved the weather to save the last of the tomatoes.

We read that pulling in the whole vine and wrapping the bunch in newspapers is the answer to an early frost. They did in fact ripen nicely, within about a week.)

Oh yes, and Dave heroically ventured back out into the yard for wood, making the the girls enormously happy as they settled in before the first fire of the season.

I too eventually shed my pajamas to join neighbor Kristin and her daughter for pie-crust-making 101. (Full disclosure: that beautiful pie I boasted of was made of home grown apples…and Pillsbury crust. I know, I know, shame shame on me. I’m a stinky cheater. Lucky for us all Kristin was on a crusade to change that.)

Kristin’s claim? Not only is homemade crust infinitely tastier, but contrary to popular opinion it is not something to be feared. I had my doubts, but in the interest of research and dessert I crossed the street with a bag of apples, a pie dish and an open mind.

Once we got the apples peeled and ready to go, Kristin and daughter Rachel showed us the ropes, following Grandma’s (not so anymore) secret recipe. Kira joined us, delivering the lemon for the filling so I could follow my favorite apple pie recipe for the filling, passed down to me from my late cousin, Valerie, a woman who knew her way around a pie. And Kira stayed, putting her muscle to work rolling and patting and well, you know the drill.

So? Was it worth it? All the rolling and the kneading and the flour in our hair?

Resoundingly, yes. We enjoyed a morning that was wonderful, warm and neighborly. And later on, we enjoyed our pie, our flaky, melt-in-your-mouth, fresh-from-the-tree, hot apple pie. With home-made crust, and of course, ice cream on the side.

So they all puree Part II

daphne on October 10, 2008

Did I mention in that previous post how totally lucky I am to have parents that not only keep my children from falling out of trees better than I do, but also do all the leg work so that I can create squash-based masterpieces?

Lest my parents think me ungrateful, I took that squash and bam! turned it into soup. With the weather outside finally turning frightful, this butternut squash soup is certainly worth a try. I mean, how bad can anything be if it’s topped in cheddar cheese and buttery apples? And do not fret if you’ve no butternuts. I still haven’t a clue what squash I inhereted, and it all worked out just fine.

Also, thanks to Amy at Five Flower Mom for mentioning that the pureed squash would make a fine impersonator in pumpkin muffins. Pumpkin muffins are a favorite around here (not in the least because ours come loaded down with dark chocolate chips) and the kiddies are always happy to roll up their sleeves and help mix it up.

With snow predicted for tomorrow, an empty calendar at long last, and my high school reunion behind me, I’m settling in for a nice long weekend of baking, and eating.

I wish you the same.

the cat goes away…so they all puree?

daphne on October 8, 2008

Away I went. Really. All by myself on a handful of airplanes and trains and cars to land at my high school reunion. Who me, worry? Not a chance, for back in the real world I had grandma and grandpa settled in to help Dave with the girls. I am told that all went well. Sure there is some underlying chatter about a glass platter that is no more; and yes, we do have a brand new microwave though no one will confirm nor deny the occurrence or lack thereof of an explosion or not in our previous microwave. But really, all is well and good.

The children are in one piece. Acadia, bless her little heart, was kind enough to wait for my return before falling out of a tree (minor scratches only, miraculously.) The kids are so ecstatic to have Mommy home again that they have totally forgotten that I am the same monster that notoriously turns down candy requests and demands unreasonably early bedtime rituals. I’m riding this wave of popularity as long as I can.

Of course, when you are the lucky recipient of free childcare it goes without saying that things will be done a little differently. And of course I wanted nothing more than for my parents to settle in, in a mi casa es su casa kind of way. And I for one am fine with a weekend full of ice cream for breakfast and 127 trips to the pool. That’s what grandparents are for.

That, and pureed squash. Surely this has happened to you? You return home to find a freezer chock full of unmarked fluorescent orange baggies?

No? Suddenly we’re not on the same page anymore? I’m telling you, retirement changes people.

The story goes that my parents were accosted by a “greenish pumpkiny looking thing” at the market. Really, what else could they do? Mommy-rules fly out the window faster than a greased cat through a keyhole, but my story about putting up enough food for the winter? That they took to heart.

And so I return, exhausted from a wonderful weekend of pretending that absolutely no time has past since the glory days of 1988. I didn’t have to worry about my children. And I certainly don’t have to worry about running out of squash.

I wonder if I can interest anyone in soup?