Pretty please with chard on top

daphne on February 23, 2009

Rainbow chard is the prima donna of the produce aisle. Just take a look at this princess of a vegetable–

You should see its colors pop against the other dull greens stacked in the produce aisle.  Here, in the middle of February, when everything else seems shades of tan, the chard looks exotic.  It’s no wonder the children clamor for nibble. But children have to learn that throwing a temper tantrum and begging is simply not appropriate grocery store behavior.  No matter how much they want that veggie.

Of course I jest.  If my kids express even the most remote interest in a food that falls into a green category, I’m all for it.  So when I left it up to them to choose a veggie for the night, they were drawn to the amazing technicolor dream-chard.  No contest. How could boring broccoli even hope to hold a candle to such a dazzling veggie?

I thought it at best a begrudging choice, but then something incredible happened.  We were tucking into our Friday night movie and popcorn when Acadia spoke. Five years and counting and I still never know what may come out of that child’s mouth.

I don’t want any popcorn.  Can I have some chard instead? The purple leaf, please?

I kid you not.  The child asked for a leafy snack.  And said please.

Acadia’s movie treat aside, chard is a tough chew.  It looks a little like spinach, but the leaves are thicker, waxier and denser.  Still, there are ways to get the whole family to eat it, and receive a heaping dose of the good stuff in the process.  But chard is more than just a pretty face; it’s jam packed with good stuff.

Swiss chard is good for your lungs, bones and heart.  It’s a notorious cancer fighter.  It’s loaded with fiber, and vitamin K, vitamin A, vitamin C, magnesium, manganese, potassium, iron, and vitamin E.   And copper, calcium, vitamin B2, vitamin B6, protein, phosphorus, vitamin B1, zinc, folate, biotin, niacin and pantothenic acid.

Not familiar with that last one? Lucky you have me, and lucky me, I have wikipedia.  Pantothenic acid is another name for vitamin B5, a water-soluble vitamin required to sustain life. Sustaining life is good.

And I thought the biggest triumph of the Swiss was Toblerone chocolate.  Mmm, Toblerone.  So so good.  But I digress…

On a return trip to the store this weekend I giddily pointed out the chard,  and graciously offered to buy more for my young connoisseur.

Uh, no thanks mom.  I don’t need any.

Oh, well.  It was a good thing while it lasted.


The Mighty Mushroom

daphne on December 16, 2008

It was bound to happen.  Word gets out that you plant a couple of vegetables and before you know it the postman arrives bearing mushroom logs and shitake spawn.   Think that sounds scary? It looks even worse–

This organically zany gift arrived from my sister via this gourmet mushroom site.  The gourmet mushroom site offers interesting products, like mushroom plug spawn and log inoculation.  It does not offer anywhere near the number of references to poison that I happened upon while researching mushrooms this past summer.

And what had me rushing to google for mushroom facts this summer?  Grandpa Mikey.  Grandpa Mikey was playing with the children in the backyard when he discovered a plethora of wild mushrooms.  Yummy!  Never mind that until this day we referred to those vegetative gems as Toadstools of Doom.  Forget too that I had convinced the girls they’d be turned into warty newts if they dared touch the forbidden fungi.

All was well with the princesses. Harmony ruled the land with the division between poison and not poison firmly drawn in the dirt.  And then along comes Grandpa claiming that yes, perhaps they were poisonous.  But maybe, just maybe, they weren’t.  It had all the ingredients for a fun little homespun experiment: nature, science, plus the very real possibility of death.  Thunderbolts clapped and lightening shattered the peaceful little village…

Ok, the sun stayed put and the girls got down to experimenting with their beloved Professor Grandpa. First up, harvest the tasty treats. Next gill-print the ‘shrooms.  I was away from the lab when Grandpa said what came next, but I think once you’ve got the prints you just cross-reference them in the fungal offenders’ data base, then book ’em.

Assistant Mushroom-ologist Grandma snapped these shots for posterity (or maybe for poison-control? That Grandma is always prepared.)

While the science was bubbling away, I snuck off to google poisonous mushrooms.  Here are some delightful phrases that I encountered:

  • Wild mushrooms may contain one of the deadliest poisons found in nature;
  • Because (these) mushrooms have definitely caused death, we cannot recommend that you eat them.
  • If you nevertheless choose to do so, they should be thoroughly cooked in a well-ventilated room.

I wish I were so totally cool and open-minded that I could issue a stern warning of death, and then move right on to cooking tips.  Alas, I am dull. Or am I…?  Go ahead and try this recipe for KILLER pumpkin muffins…If. You. Dare.  Insert evil laugh here.)

Note:  A Greener Biener does not release any recipes that may or may not cause sudden death.

Gotta go for the garlic

daphne on December 4, 2008

You know how it goes, your spend your whole life without a particular nugget of knowledge, and then suddenly there it is; everyone is talking about it everywhere you go. Lately, that’s how it’s been with me and garlic.  I love having garlic on my team.  I use it indiscriminately–always starting out with a little of it simmering softly in some olive oil, and regardless of where I end up my kitchen smells like I mean business.  Like I know what I am doing.  But the buzz I’m hearing says that cooking with garlic is not the end all be all. The universe has been badgering me with a different message:

You can grow garlic.

What? Grow garlic? Now I know that garlic doesn’t arrive on this planet neatly pulverized in glass jars. But truth be told I never gave any thought to how it grew.  Until recently that is, when the universe became bent on converting me into a garden garlic maven.

The latest hint I received by way of a new magazine called the Edible Front Range. It’s a cool new freebie that focuses on the local food movement.  And guess what? They’re talking about planting garlic.

Most of what I’ve been hearing revolves around this one fact: you plant garlic in the fall.  Hey Universe, know what? It’s December. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so deftly ignoring your hints.  Ok, maybe the first whisper about planting garlic arrived before the first frost, but hey, I was still preening about my revolutionary day spent planting tulip bulbs. My thoughts were dancing with the colorful, not the culinary.

Looking out over my computer into a white blanketed yard, I can safely entertain ideas of growing garlic without actually having to put spade to frozen tundra.  I know this, thanks to a fact I unearthed in that cute new magazine. Procrastinators delight,  garlic can be planted in the spring too.

And so it shall be…

But spring is a long way off, and I’ve got garlic on my mind now.  So here’s what I’m thinking: the last of the CSA garlic sure would be tasty roasted up and slathered the next loaf of homemade bread. The one I’ll be baking just as soon as my copy of Artisan Bread in Five Minutes arrives.

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!

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.)

Still life with Squash

daphne on October 24, 2008

Beautiful right? Like something you’d see hanging in a Parisian museum between a reclining nude and gaggle of ballerinas.  Just don’t look too closely or you’ll notice for sure the wine glass towering above the tiny squashlings. Shortly after I snapped this shot I downed the glass of wine.  I wasn’t exactly drowning sorrows, but I felt plenty bad that all of my hard work and eager anticipation was for naught.  Especially given my active involvement in squash reproduction back in the heat of the summer.  Well, upon serious consideration it looks like next year’s sex 101 will take place early in the spring. I’ll just clear the March snow from the garden and get to work, that’s all. Seems there’s credence after all to those birds and bees getting busy already by April and May.

Here’s the harvest from today, the thing that’s got my panties in a twist.

There you see my squash babes, some barely larger than a berry, growth halted and flesh withered from a day that began at close to 20 degrees and despite a blazing Colorado never heated up.  The berries could care less.  The squash, (and my toes) have called it a season.

As I am relatively new to the greenish thumb club there is something I don’t understand.  How is it that the raspberries are still going strong long after the time to toss them into a crisp has past? Why are my fledgling squash floundering just as the time comes for their ultimate sacrifice in autumn soup or my favorite pasta?

And of course, the age old question returns with gusto: how in the world will I keep my toes warm until flip flop season comes back?

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.

Summer lovin’

daphne on October 1, 2008

Sure there was that boy, cute as can be, splashing around and all that jazz. Really, what’s not to love about summer? Oh wait, I know. There’s that inescapable, miserable, sweltering heat. Which frankly I can do without.

Suffice it to say that if my calendar tells me it’s time for fall, I become a bit impatient with the stubborn resurgence of 80 plus degree days. I’ve got certain expectations of my September, and heat isn’t one of them. I’ll tell you who is grooving on this protraction of summer love–my garden. The raspberries are flat out refusing to pack it in this year.

And they are not the only ones. Out on the porch the petunias (or pansies or pandas for all I know. I’m still a bit rusty on the flowering things out there, what with my preoccupation with veggie knowledge and all.) Flower-lovers, share with me. What are these hearty beasts?

Whatever they are, they are tough as nails. After taking a couple of months off during that dry spell (when I forgot to water them, I mean) these lovely ladies re-reared their purple and pink faces. Following the hostile take down recently suffered by the sunflower patch, my plan is to immediately cease all other floral attempts and replace them with Pinky Tuscadero and her friends.

As I begin this bout of whining, Acadia’s birthday is behind me and back to school nights are a thing of the past. It’s time for pumpkin picking (you know, if, like my brother, you’ve got some frisky squash at hand.) It is the time for leaves to yellow and leap and for apples to give themselves up for pie.

And if a perfect pie isn’t your thing, the girls have been munching away at these babies, dipped in honey, shmeared in peanut butter, or warmed with cinnamon sugar. All I’m missing is a steaming mug of spiced cider. Welcome Autumn my old friend.

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.