who me, jealous?

daphne on September 29, 2008

Over the river and through the woods, or up the road and across the town line, lives my little brother. Say what you will about my use of the diminutive regarding a grown man with a wife, 2 sons, and his own business; the fact remains that this is my little brother. And you know how little brothers can be.

Just as soon as I got around to planting a garden and cooking up the harvest he had to get in on the game, which is fine, really. I don’t care. One thing, though. As you may have heard, I have had a difficult history with pumpkins, what with the all stag parties my gourds tend to throw. But does my brother have the same troubles? Noooooo, he does not. Just look at this. I shudder to think of the multi-gendered orgy that went on in his pumpkin patch last spring.

And here’s my brother’s oldest son postulating to my daughters about the fecundity of their soil, the robust sexual appetites of their gourds, the, oh all right, he’s telling them that the pumpkins are turning orange, but still, it all seems just a little unfair.

Oh, and lest you think his green thumb is limited to the garden, let me tell you that it’s not all pumpkins being made over yonder at baby brother’s house. This little nugget was also freshly plucked. Apparently they’ve got an active cabbage patch too.

That’s Javi, my gorgeously adorable new nephew.

So I ask, why does my brother get pumpkins AND a new baby? What about me? I like pumpkins. I like babies. (And yes, I apparently am partial to pouting and whining too. But I happen to think that makes me all the more human and likable.)

Yes, the ugly but honest is that I am jealous. I’m a greener biener, all right; green with envy. Greener than those pumpkins in his patch that I know will soon turn the perfect pumpkiny orange.

It sure is swell that my little brother offered us a pumpkin for Halloween. Right. Pumpkin shmumpkin, I need to get these hungry hands on that yummy baby.

Holy Tomatoes Batman

daphne on September 28, 2008

Shout out to our new farm hands, friends Bridget and Colin , who joined our own little seasoned pickers in the field. Without those extra built-low-to-the ground pickers, I don’t know if I would be spending all my waking hours up to my elbows in tomato juice. Thanks, guys.

Ok, so let’s say these extra farm hands result in a lot of tomatoes. I mean, A LOT of tomatoes. I’m talking about 40 pounds of big red beauties. And with their looming threat of transforming from a delicate treat into mashed rottenness, these tomatoes demand attention.

There are some seriously scary stories out there about the horrors that result from amateur canning. I’m not opposed to learning how to manage boiling hot glassware; in fact, reader Amy has it spelled out nicely at her site Five Flower Mom, and I’m going to give it a go with the next batch, I swear. I just know I’ll be more open to that lesson once the frozen veggies start infringing on my ice cream space. I’m the type who needs plenty of room for ice cream.

For now, since Ben and Jerry have some wiggle room, I was happy to stumble upon this site, http://www.pickyourown.org/freezingtomatoes.htm, that walked me through the easy process of freezing. I froze tons as diced tomatoes and the others I put up as sauce.

Here’s a quick break-down of the easy steps:

(1) Drop tomatoes into a pot of boiling water. Leave them for about 45 -60 seconds.

(2) Drop them into an icy bath. I filled the sink with ice cubes and cold water.

Looked like a mooshier version of bobbing for apples.

(3) Pull off the skin.

(4) Once the skin came off, I cut the stem end. Then I took the whole thing in my hand and squeezed. A nice tight hug, to get out the extra water and some of the seeds.

(5) Dice the tomatoes and set the pieces in a colander in the sink to drain.

For diced tomatoes, I put them in ziploc baggies, squeezed out as much air as possible, and laid them flat in the freezer.

For sauce, I followed my dash-o-this, pinch-o-that style tomato sauce recipe, then froze the sauce in jelly jars (lucky for me we polished off the strawberry jam so quickly!)

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And enjoy.

Little House in the ‘burbs

daphne on September 26, 2008

With half-pint and quarter-pint off to school it was time Ole Ma got that kettle on the fire. That food’s not going to put itself up, you know. How this family expects to make it through an unforgiving winter without a hefty supply of tomatoes in the freezer is beyond me. You know that Slow Joe can’t make it over a snowy pass and Nellie won’t give much milk with the ground covered in snow…

Can’t have the family facing starvation, but wait, wasn’t Ole Ma supposed to work on her novel this morning? And what about those updates to the blog, and never mind a certain five year old who’s expecting a birthday party to be planned. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got 40 pounds of mean tomatoes roaring my name.

Last Sunday was the harvest festival at Monroe farm (yeah, I know that was a week ago, but you see, I’ve been dealing with these tomatoes…) This is the place that supplies our luscious veggies every week, and where we went to pick strawberries earlier in the summer. Something happens when you’re in a field with a green light to pick until your heart grows content (or until your back gives out.) What happens? I’ll tell you, this–

You go a little nuts. Picking with thoughts of packing pickled peppers, even if you have little idea what that means and even less of a clue of how to accomplish such a feat. Needless to say, we went a tad overboard.

Particularly in respect to the peppers.

Now, I’m not sure how many jalepenos and poblanos your family plows through in a year, but a rational estimate for our foursome is somewhere between none and one. Not that we let a silly thing like that stand in our way.

So, we had a ton of peppers to deal with, and by ‘we’ I mean, Pa, who was happy to settle down in front of the Giants game with a peck of said peppers. His plan? To slice and dice in preparation for making some of the killer salsa (recipe coming as soon as I get it out of Dave) we’ve been downing lately. All was well and good, what with the Giants winning and all….

Until, WHAM, the peppers went wild, attacking Dave’s sensibilities and filling the living room air with a pungent, powerful spice. It took two days for his eyes to stop tearing, at which point he loaded said poblanos in the car and hauled them down to the office.

Which is all well and good, except for the couple of distractions that remain to keep me from completing (ok, beginning) my great American novel. First, there’s the little matter of pinata-prep for Acadia’s party tomorrow–

And second, this overflowing box of jalepenos. Not as potent as the poblanos, but still, I’d be pretty unpopular around here if I slid a couple of these bad boys into a grilled cheese or two.

Ah-hah! I’ve got it. It’s perfect, don’t you see? I can avoid stuffing the butterfly with plastic bobbles and high fructose corn syrup AND be rid of these pesky peppers once and for all. Imagine the smiling faces of the children as they are rained down upon by these multi-colored treats.  Fiesta Time!

Happy Birthday to Acadia

daphne on September 25, 2008

I’m working on a boatload of humorous articles, useful tips and wonderful recipes following our harvest day at the farm last weekend, really I am. But how can I be expected to formulate sentences when I am swimming (drowning?) in the inconceivable fact that, as of 2:54 last night, my baby turned five. FIVE!

Here’s an indulgent look at five years (well, four. We didn’t get the digital camera going until her second year) in the life of Acadia…Happy Birthday, baby.

Super-Squirrel

daphne on September 20, 2008

You remember Squiggy? Our poor, tuckered out squirrel? He featured prominently a few posts ago, back when I was all ga-ga with love for the creepy critters that share our outdoor space.

I assumed then that this lazy backyard beast just needed to take a load off. You know how it is what with birds to chase and nuts to gather and gardens to plunder. A squirrel gets tired.

But no, apparently lazy Squiggy was just resting up for the big fall event… Sunflower Tipping.

Oh yeah, it’s all the rage in suburbia.

The super-squirrels lay in wait, nibbling nuts or stealing apples while us hair-brain humans dig, and plant, and water, and weed.

Ever the enthusiast to play the stupid human, we did just that. We planted, we watered, we weeded and we waited. Despite the hours we put in, I was still surprised (shocked, really, though that sounds a little strong) when these beautiful, enormous, strong flowers poked their sunny heads out alongside our driveway.

The kids used them as measuring sticks. We lined up in front of them each day to marvel over their growth (the flowers, not the children.) See how they stand, strong and stately?

Or should I say, stood, formerly strong and no longer stately.

What we didn’t account for was Super Squirrel, able to leap tall stems in a single bound. I came outside to meet the school bus yesterday, just in time for the big event. Here’s how it unfolded:

Super Squirrel darted out from the shade of the crab apple tree, correcting for wind on the run. In one giant pounce, he sprang up from the grass and landed 3/4 of the way up the sunflower stalk. From this position he slowly ooched his way up towards the head, rocking the stem until it tipped towards the ground. At this point he grabbed the flower, stuck his pointy nose inside, and started to feed on our hard won sunflower seeds.

We screamed, waved our arms, and shooed the Olympian back from whence he came. But as he slunk off he cast a backward glance. And I saw it. That smug smirk on his pompous little rodenty face.

Oh no you didn’t. Bring it Squiggy. It is so on.

Yeah, yeah, it’s just a cold

daphne on September 17, 2008

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with what I’m about to write. It’s simply a ploy to lure you in to the bout of whining in which I am about to engage. My apologies, but…

…do not tell the children, these adorable trusting veggie-munching children, that I’ve been bad. Really bad. I’m talking impure thoughts. I mean really not natural. Not organic at all. As in the idea of picking up another massive delivery of fresh veggies and bountiful fruit that insists on being sliced and sautéed and chopped and canned has got me a bit bent. Seriously? I’ve already got a fridge full of enormous cabbage heads and pathetic parsnips and so help me I swear if I see another bag of string beans I’ll tie those lanky things together and wrap them noose-like around this killer sore throat of mine.

Don’t mind me, I’m just a little peeved because I’ve got a cold. Not just any cold. I’ve got this miserable, long-lasting, super-power bug that I caught back during the French Revolution. Or sometime long ago in an era far away where mere mortals were ruled by microscopic thugs bent on snot production. It’s not pretty.

So you’ll forgive me if I am too busy wiping my nose to get out to the garden these days. I did make it to Target though, to apply for a special security check to access the locked-down stash of Sudafed at the pharmacy aka Ft. Knox. And since we were there already, I told Acadia that after I got my fix we could head over to pick out her birthday piñata and corresponding loot.

Now, being a greener Biener of course I have a brilliant brown-bag, tofu-toting, eco-solution to the quandary that is a piñata. Unfortunately that earth-friendly answer is lying unconscious beneath the layers of cold-medicine-induced fog in my brain. At least I loaded all those plastic bobbles and individually wrapped nuggets of high fructose corn syrup into my canvas bag at check out.

Aarrrggh, I’m spiraling downward faster than Alice in the rabbit hole. I’ve given up hope that I’ll ever breathe through this useless appendage squatting between my eyes and my mouth again. The only hope, the only thing hanging out there that might possibly turn things around and get me back to hugging some trees is the harvest festival at the farm this weekend. Surely a day of crisp blue skies, fresh apple cider and hay rides can knock that eco-sense back into me.

If not, woe is me, this Biener’s a goner. I’m going to have to start blogging at Nyquil and Nachos dot com.

Au natural

daphne on September 12, 2008

Ok. Enough. These days everything stands puffed up like the Lorax, proclaiming to be all-natural this and organic that. So just who do I think I am with my holier-than-a-tree-hugger-attitude? After all, didn’t I just this morning fill a ziploc baggie for Kira’s lunchbox? And what about all the plastic water bottles we guzzled from on vacation last month?

And pah-lease let’s not talk about all the high fructose corn syrup in that noggin size snow-cone the girls devoured at the Rockies’ game. Greener Biener indeed. What do I mean we’re going green?

Fair enough. I’ll tell you this much: we are trying; trying to make choices that are healthier for our bodies and smarter for our planet. Trying, even if some days life is more la vida loca than la vida verde.

Journeying a little lighter is not just agonizing over the P.C. purchase of the day at Whole Foods. It’s bigger than that. There’s a fuzzy montage that loops in my head when I try to articulate what I mean by living green. It finally snapped into focus one weekend this summer.

We were in the mountains with our friends, the Eagans. We always camp with the Eagans (and no Brian, it’s not just because you make the best dang campfire coffee around.) As opposed to our action-packed adventures of earlier in the summer, what I wanted from this weekend was a cozy camp chair and some fireside chatter. What I got, inconceivably, was just that. The four children eagerly disappeared into the woods, happy to leave the boring adults behind to lounge around and sip our beverages. After all, there was fun to be had.

I’m talking old school fun. With nothing but each other, a muddy creek, and some active imaginations they became children of nature, four kids on their own in the woods. Kira laid out the scenario over an enforced break for some food:

We are on our own, you know. All us nature kids have lost our mothers.

Um, verification, please.

What do you mean, lost them? Like, left them behind at Target?

No mom. Lost. Like we are orphans on our own in the woods. Nature kids.

She went on to explain that they were The Nature Children, finding food, building houses, and scaling small streams in single bounds. They were coated in dirt with twigs sticking out from their frayed braids, but their smiles were the biggest and most authentic I had seen in a while. Peace and quiet reigned supreme. We were all, undeniably, content.

I sat in my chair, swatting mosquitoes and reading a book, periodically looking up at the busy fantasy the kids were creating just across the creek, and it hit me. This is it. This is what I’ve been trying to say. It’s more than a garden and reusable bags. It’s not just eating from the slow-food movement menu, it’s taking it all more slowly. Life in the slow lane.

Because let’s face it. When you’re rowing up stream with your best friend in tow it doesn’t matter that your canoe is a sunken log. It doesn’t matter that that your paddle is a stick. What does matter is that the dragonfly is hovering close enough to show off the iridescent green of her wings. And the fish are jumping high enough to flash an orange belly before diving back into the deep blue. And the children are unplugged enough to drink it all in. Here’s what I figure–if we slow it down, really slow it down enough, we can get it right. And then what does color matter? We can go right ahead and call ourselves green.

Or blue.

Or even purple with orange polka dots.

Hello Happy Autumn

daphne on September 4, 2008

Yesterday morning’s air had a chill that stuck around through most of the day. It was delicious. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and hugged myself a mug of steaming coffee. I was giddy with the thought of packing away the miserable swelter of summer’s heat in exchange for the crisp bite of autumn days. I know some of you adore summer, the tight squeeze of heat against a sweaty skull, the ripe smell of children left outside a little too long, but it’s just not for me.

With school beginning mid-August I had to wait for other signs to tell me it’s time to pull out the thick socks. Signs like this:

That’s Dave on the roof of the shed, harvesting our apple tree. Apple trees produce in full every few years, and this is going to be one of those years! The first batch was impressive, the apples are tart and tasty and have already been boiled down into scrumptious apple sauce. And the tree is still heavy with more. Added bonus? With a pot of simmering apples on the stove the house smells so good that I can barely hear the dust bunnies scuttling around. Besides, they’re almost cute when coated in the intoxicating scent of warm apples and cinnamon.

Another sign of fall? These gigantic sunflowers that are just now coming into their own.

The girls begged for the packet of seeds a million years ago (well, back in the spring) and you know how it is when the kids grab stuff as you’re leaving the store. I broke down, and they planted them all along the side of the driveway. They are amazing. Taller than me, some plants host four or five of the brilliantly bright yellow faces. One plant is inexplicably covered in these cool red striped flowers.

Ah yes, the signs of autumn. I had all but pulled on a hat and written off summer when the girls plucked these from the garden. Raspberries? In September? Drat. Foiled again. Looks like summer is not ready to go quietly into the night just yet.

Take my cauliflower, please

daphne on August 30, 2008

Really. Please, take it. It is so totally icky.

I have come a long way from my days of subsiding on nothing more than vanilla yogurt (my childhood motto: have Dannon will travel) and my ironclad stubborn refusal to try anything new. Part of the idea behind joining a CSA (don’t remember what this is? I revealed the mystery of that acronym here ) was bravely tasting whatever the farmer picked for us each week. You know, choking down broccoli in the name of family harmony and health.

The kids are on board, facing up to beets disguised as french fries and taking at least a no-thank-you sized bite of whatever arrives in the red mesh bags. The abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables has been incredible. Check out the pile of produce we pulled in this week:

Gorgeous right? The peaches, divine. Farm fresh corn? The best. And the melons, don’t even get me started on the melons. But the cauliflower? Yuck. I’m digging my heels in. Cauliflower is yucky.

But it is abundant. Last week’s portion allowed me to be neighborly. I sent it home with the babysitter. The week before I placed it benevolently in the donation pile for the homeless shelter. I suppose I should be honest; I haven’t even tried the stuff. I can’t (see above yucky reason for clarification.) I know, I know, the children graciously swallow their bites of whatever bizarro veggie I put in front of them so why am I such a hypocrite?

Because I said so, that’s why. Because I’m a grown up and as far as I’m concerned passing on cauliflower is a privilege of adulthood. I don’t stay up late. I don’t see scary movies. I don’t eat cake for breakfast (well, except for very special occasions.) This is my thing. So there.

Anyway, does anyone want a head of cauliflower? It’s farm-fresh-fabulous, and it’s yours for free.

Update from the bachelor-pad: It’s ladies night! I don’t know whether it was the free drinks or the sugar and spice, but the ladies have finally made an appearance. Here’s one

And right down the vine is her lovely friend:

And another lady who has already snagged her man, done the deed, and is growing an adorable little squash. Mmmmm, can’t wait to snuggle that little babe in a little olive oil and brown sugar.

Meanwhile, the dating game may just gearing up for the squash, but the cucumbers are going wild. We’ve eaten about eight of the sweet treats so far, and there are close to 15 more on the vine. For the uninitiated, here’s a peek at a newby cuc:

And away we went…

daphne on August 16, 2008

I feel awful. Just as you were getting used to a regular dose of dry wit and a side of brilliant recipes, poof, the green Bieners just up and disappeared. My sincere apologies. Thing is, I’m pretty new to life in the blog-o-sphere and while I did remember to pack 18 pairs of panties and 35 bathing suits, I somehow set out for our annual east-coast extravaganza without my passwords. Come now, surely I could have gained access from my remote vacation locale? Perhaps this quaint state of New York has even heard of cell phones and emails and techno gizmos? Well, good point. Why didn’t I think of that?

I feel guilty for neglecting the site. And I feel guilty for guzzling high fructose corn syrup 35,000 feet up in the sky and recklessly burning fossil fuels in our selfish quest to visit family, friends and foaming oceans. And yes, I felt a twinge for each plastic bottle of imported agua and individually wrapped snack-food that wrestled itself down our throats along the way. Despite wild swerving off the greener path, we still received this amazing reward–

That’s best friends, loving family and pure joy, all wrapped up beneath the third rainbow of our trip! We weren’t all bad. We patrolled the beaches, pulling beach glass and abandoned sea shells from the shore. We harvested fresh fish and clams with our own sea-wrinkled hands.

Best of all, we each got a turn setting sail in this incredible nut-shell pram hand-crafted for the kids by their talented Grandpa Mikey.

That’s me, ensuring its sea-worthiness before launching the little ones.

And now, despite efforts to the contrary, it’s time. Time to get back. Back to Colorado, back to school, back to the much neglected garden. I should be out there right now, freeing up the tomatoes from the weeds and unwinding the ambitious cucumber vines, but it’s raining and it’s fifty degrees and so the poor veggies will have to make it on their own yet one more day.

Rain or not, we are busy. Check out the CSA bounty we picked up yesterday. Yummy corn, melons galore, and enough jalapeños and tomatillos to have me googling salsa recipes. Eggplant parm, anyone?