No, wait, that’s not right.  This is not you anymore, lounging around under the table with the balloon, waiting to blow out the candles on your 3rd birthday cake.

This is you now.  Independent.  Determined.  Generous.  Empathetic.  And unbelievably eight years old. When did you make the leap from being my little baby to winning jump-rope medals?

And swim team ribbons?

I blinked, and the wrinkly newborn days are long gone.  Despite the bumbles and struggles and my blatant lack of experience going in, we made it this far.  I could have asked for no better initiation into motherhood than your patient, wise self.  Thank you for your willful insistence, for it is you who remembers the canvas bags, you who composts the carrot peels, and you who asks to take the bikes instead.

Happy Birthday dear Kira.  My funny, caring, loving, smart, incredible baby.  You are, perhaps, the Greenest Biener.

Not me.  Maybe it’s my Minnesota roots, but I like it when a blast of brisk air demands I throw on an extra sweater.  I even get kind of whiny when the summer heat hits sweltering.  But lately frigid temperatures are making it hard to remember just what was so bad about those toasty warm days after all. With temps plummeting below zero parenting gems come pouring out of me.  I’m saying things like “human-beings cannot function this far below freezing,” and “Danger! Your skin will crack away from your skull if you dare take that hat off again.”  I do think the children are enjoying my take on this big chill.

Though I have been transformed into the abominable grinch, there remain two types able to smile despite the precipitous drops in mercury.  Brave children that have been promised a hot cocoa in lieu of lunch,

…and my brother, the sherpa, whom said children conned into dragging them back up the sledding hill during the five minutes I relented and allowed exposure to the harsh elements.

Last winter I had it all going on.  The garden put out enough squash to keep me in butternut squash soup through the first 10 snows, even though those 2007 snows arrived well before December.  For cold to the bone, there is nothing better than this bright orange steaming soup, heaped high with cheese and apples so the focus is hearty, not healthy. (Ok, it does get a low-fat, healthy kiss if you just say no to the cheese.)

Without the squash around to keep me cozy, I give thanks for the gift I gave myself, the amazing cookbook Artisan Bread in Five.  Confident now with cookbook in hand, I’m not letting a little thing like a magnificent failure in the bread baking department keep me away from a hot oven.  The first few loaves were more lumpy than lovely, but tasty all the same.   We made this one…

And this one too…

But these whole wheat loaves only call for a 350° oven, and I was looking for a little more heat in the kitchen, if you know what I mean, wink-wink.  (Ok, no, I’m kidding. Not that kind of heat. This was a family-friendly baking project.)

So we cranked that puppy up to 450° and look!

Gorgeous baguettes hot from the oven.  Crusty.  And hot.  And ooo-la-la, look at me!  I’m sipping cafe au lait in gay Paris.  I’m dipping my toes in the aqua waters of the French Riviera.

Or maybe I’m shmearing a warm piece of homemade bread with peanut butter and jelly.  But my toes, oui, they are starting to defrost.

Bizarre, right? Why would someone save their trash for an entire year?  Perhaps he’s looking to usurp Oscar the Grouch.  Or maybe he’s making a point.  His point?  We don’t have to be nation of garbage-addicts.

In a fit of procrastination I came across this news story, which chronicles the year during which Dave Chameides and his family saved every last piece of trash that they accumulated.  Biodegradables were composted, but recyclables and straight-up garbage was stacked and stored.  He’s got the pictures, in which his trash is more organized and orderly than the bookshelves in my living room.  I’ve got to think that there are a number of lessons to be learned in facing down, all at once, a year’s worth of wine bottles consumed, shoe boxes purchased, and hard plastic wraps wrestled from birthday gifts or beading kits.  It would be humbling.

Or, as Dave explains, it would stepping up and taking responsibility.  Which he did in a big way when he carted his vacation-based refuge home with him.   This guy is committed, or should be committed.  Either way, there’s a lesson there.

He stored his collection in the basement. His wife had to be grateful that the family created nowhere near the American average of 1600 pounds of trash, and not just because it earns them some serious eco-bragging rights.

When it comes to eco-bragging, I won’t be doing much for a while.  Sure, we’ve done well by ridding ourselves of the paper goods. Gone are the plastic grocery bags.  But I’m lugging around some guilt regarding my silence during the recent spate of holiday parties at the elementary school.

I sat, and I kept quiet as convenience won out over consciousness. Scores of ubiquitous water bottles filled the classroom, enough for every child, sibling and parent to drink his weight in water during an hour-long party.  And so, inspired by “Sustainable Dave,” I hereby promise to stand up (or at least sit down and send off a fiery email) suggesting we use pitchers for school parties next year.

It’s a little crusade, but I’m making it mine.

Check out Dave’s site 365 solutions for some great tips on cutting down on household trash. Just promise to send me a picture if you decide to knit a sweater from shed dog hair.

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.

This is Kira’s plea against eating turkey.  She can offer up a defense for not eating just about anything.  She says she wants to be a vegetarian.  What she means is that she wants to be a pasta-candy-dessert-atarian.  Not that I blame her.  I too am partial to a diet that leans heavily on the most vital layer in the food pyramid: the chocolate one. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but just because I’ve got the computer set up in the kitchen doesn’t mean that I’m to blame for the pan of brownies that mysteriously disappeared this week.

Some of you may recognize the blatant plagiarism creative adapting I’ve done in the title of this piece as coming from Michael Pollan’s book, In Defense of Food.  Like the Kingsolver book I mentioned last week, it’s a must-read.  Food needs defending, Pollan claims, because much of what we eat today is actually not food, but “edible, foodlike substances.”  Real food he defines as something that “our great grandmothers would recognize as food.”  I concur 100%, and not just because both of my grandmothers were big fans of baked goods.  Most food labels these days read like War and Peace, and with a couple of kids in tow that’s just too much literature to consume in the bread aisle.

Yes, another book.  What–you didn’t know this blog came with a required reading list? Oh relax, there’s not going to be a test.  For all I know you’re not even looking for a fearless food defender.  Maybe this guy is already working for you–

It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s….Carrot-Man! He’s the strong, silent, food defending-type. Be warned though; his shtick relies heavily on pushing the veggies.  (Note to self: Consider getting out more.  Or at least getting the camera out of the kitchen.)

Michael Pollan said that after researching and writing his book his point could be boiled down into a few short sentences: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

It’s a worthy philosophy. I’d add only this: Brownies too.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not shirking from the Herculean task of doing right by my children.  Broccoli and beans are a vital part of healthy development.  I’m just saying that there are defensible reasons for breaking a rule every now and then.  One, I need my treats.  Two, it’s fun to keep the kids guessing.

Our family has packed up campfires, and so go the s’mores for the season.  But as outside fires die down the heat of the oven kicks up.  We haven’t let the spectacular exploding bread caper deter us from throwing things around the kitchen.  This weekend, inspired by the wonderful book I just read, we made brownies.  And when I say brownies I do not mean the same brownie recipe, that dependable and foolproof recipe that I’ve been making since I was 12.  I mean these incredible brownies.  We made them for guests that got sick and canceled.  Our brave family of four heeded the call.  And ate the decadent brownies ourselves.

Sometimes going green means eating your veggies.  And sometimes going green means letting the flour leave poofy trails on the floor and on your cheeks.  It means letting the little ones lick the bowl.  And sometimes success is measured not in grams of fat or molecules of vitamins, but in globs of chocolate shmeared on smiling faces.

2/3 cup butter
5 oz unsweetened chocolate
2 teaspoons vanilla
4 eggs
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups sugar
1 cup sifted flour (add 1 Tbls for high altitude)

Preheat oven to 400°.

Melt the butter and chocolate in a double boiler.  Remove from heat, add vanilla and set aside

Beat eggs and salt.  Add the sugar and beat at high speed until white (about 5 minutes.)

Add chocolate and butter mixture to the eggs and beat on low until just mixed.

Add flour and mix until just combined.

Pour into greased and floured 9X13 (or so) pan and put in oven.

Immediately reduce heat to 350°.  Bake for about 35 minutes (toothpick should not come out clean.)

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.

And I’m kind of falling in awe with the little guy. Such a busy beaver rodent. Scurrying to and fro gathering apples from the tippy top of our tree and pumpkins from doorstops around the neighborhood, all in a thorough preparation to keep his furry family fed.  I’m passing my parent-of-the-year award over to Squiggy.  Perhaps my children as well, since I totally missed the boat on shoring up my shelves for the long cold winter.

It’s November. Only mid-November, and gone are the pounds of delicious strawberry applesauce. Gone are the hundreds of jars of jam.  Of course you remember the freezer full of squash puree that my dear parents put up in my absence? Gone. Every last ziploc baggie of it, gone.  What’s left? Two jars of tomato sauce.  I’ll consider it serendipitous that the kids prefer pasta and pizza sans sauce while I try to configure a lasagna that’ll take us through Spring.

As I gaze into my bare cupboards I think of Barbara Kingsolver.  She made it seem fun and easy to keep her family fed on homegrown efforts.  I think too of Frontier House, a gem of a reality show on PBS a few years back.  The mission: survive out on the homestead.  Those who failed to put up enough food and firewood by the time the snows came got voted off.  (Disclaimer: no families were left to freeze and/or starve in the making of this show.)

This much I know is true:

1. I worked hard.  I planted. I picked. I pureed.
2. The food did not last. My family is doomed to starvation (let’s pretend that old nag Nellie is not well enough to make the trip to SuperTarget.)
3. I am fiercely competitive.
4. I will not be voted off this homestead.
5. Squiggy sure is looking plump these days…
6. Stuffed full as he is with fresh apples and pumpkin…
7. I’ll just tell the kids he went away for little awhile,
8. A vacation, a little squirrel sales trip, that’s all. Nothing to worry about kids,
9. Now sit down and eat your dinner.

If you are dreaming of fresh loaves that look something like this:

You might want to go and check out Farmhouse Greetings. She makes bread the old fashioned way, without glass fragments.

But if you’re not a sissy, stick with me.

I should make one thing clear: my mother is in no way responsible for the events surrounding the spectacular exploding bread caper of ‘08.  Really. It’s just that in sharing the recipe over the phone some things got lost in translation, like the fact that her lasagna pan was made of something other than glass.

The gist of the bread baking is this: you create a huge hunk of the dough, keep it in the fridge, and then tear it off and bake as needed.  What keeps the bread soft and fluffy on the inside yet crusty on the outside?  A steaming pan of water, simmering just beneath the baking bread.

Word to the wise: despite the fact that your inner voice might object using only a nagging whisper, LISTEN WHEN IT TELLS YOU NOT TO ADD WATER TO A HOT GLASS PAN.   I’m not saying that I would do anything that insanely stupid, I’m just saying, if you’ve got a little voice, you might want to listen up.

So how do you encrust a warm loaf of artisan bread with billions of tiny shards of glass?  Easy.  Just heat an empty glass pan to 450°.  Lean your head into the hot oven. Pour lukewarm water into the pan and watch the fireworks.  It’s a spectacular show.

Brave reader, here is what your oven may look like after just one shattered glass, bread-baking bash:

Mom got her recipe from a new book, Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day. She loves it. Having pilfered the recipe over the phone I can say that I am not a huge fan of the million shards of flying glass part of the recipe. But Mom’s breads consistently turn out warm and crusty and, most notably, glass-free.

And she tells me that eating bread without risk of blood is just as enjoyable as my way.  So maybe next time I’ll just buy the book.

]]> http://www.greenerbiener.com/2008/11/crusty-artisan-bread-with-shards-of-glass/feed/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2008/11/crusty-artisan-bread-with-shards-of-glass/ http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/greenerbiener/~3/451873354/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2008/11/what-about-those-pumpkins/#comments Thu, 13 Nov 2008 15:13:15 +0000 daphne http://www.greenerbiener.com/?p=203 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!

I’m first in line behind the old rallying call of Let Them Eat Cake. So trust me when I say that adding pumpkin to your cakes, your muffins, your breads, is the way to go. Open up, and embrace all things pumpkin. Why? Well, it’s a great low-fat substitute for oil, plus it makes things taste great. But there are loads of other good reasons. I’ve scanned the web and gathered a few for you here.

• Pumpkin is rich in carotenoids, good for keeping the immune system strong.
• Beta-carotene, found in pumpkin, is a powerful antioxidant as well as an anti-inflammatory agent. It helps prevent build up of cholesterol on the arterial walls, thus reducing chances of strokes.
• Being rich in alpha-carotene, pumpkin is believed to slow the process of aging and also prevent cataract formation.
• Pumpkins have been known to reduce the risk of macular degeneration, a serious eye problem than usually results in blindness.
• The high amount of fiber, present in a pumpkin, is good for the bowel health of an individual.
• Being loaded with potassium, pumpkin is associated with lowering the risk of hypertension.
• The presence of zinc in pumpkins boosts the immune system and also improves the bone density.

The Native Americans were aware of all the benefits in pumpkin. Here’s a handful of random fact, borrowed from HUBpages.

• Yuma tribes created an emulsion from pumpkin seeds and watermelon to help heal wounds. The seed oil was also used to treat burns and wounds.
• Catawabas ate pumpkin seeds either fresh or dry as a medicine for kidney support.
• Menominees mixed powdered squash and water to for urinary support.
• Modern folk healers believe the pumpkin to be beneficial in ridding the body of intestinal worms and also believe the ground stem of the pumpkin brewed into a tea may help ease women during their menstrual cycle.

Here’s how it’s done:

• Microwave a whole pumpkin for a couple of minutes. This is not necessary, but it makes it a whole lot easier to cut in half.
• Cut the pumpkin in half, and remove as much of the seeds and strings as you can.
• Tip them cut-side down into a non-glass baking dish with about an inch or two of water.
• Roast in a 425° oven for about 45 minutes, or until the flesh is very mushy. If the water evaporates before the pumpkins soften, add more water to the pan.
• When they are mushy, remove and allow to cool. Put into a food processor in small chunks and blend until smooth.

Use right away, or freeze for later.

To freeze for easy use in recipes later on, measure out the puree in 1 cup heaps and place on a wax-paper covered cooking sheet. Once frozen, remove and put in a ziploc or other container for storage in the freezer.

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.

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.