Log Cabin Kit

  

My last tiny cucumber house of the season!  

What will I build houses out of now? 

More importantly, what will I build pickles out of now?

Spooning

If you live with me long enough, you'll learn several important things, such as: I can't stand to leave the dirty dishes in the sink until the morning, I like the cast iron pots and pans to dry out all the way before they go back into drawers, I am really good at packing a refrigerator to the gills, I like many kinds of tea, cereal, and nuts available at the ready, I much prefer my cocktail before dinner, rather than after or during, I'm fastidious about sticky spots on any kitchen surface, although I am sometimes shockingly unconcerned about what goes on behind the closed tupperware cabinet, I turn into a raving lunatic if I run out of olive oil or pepper or coffee, I am rather clever when it comes to spontaneously making up songs while cooking in the kitchen, and I tend to spend a really long time making decisions about things that don't actually matter, like where the rolling pin should live, or how to slice the onions (when they're just going to be cooked down anyway). But there is one thing it may take you awhile to notice. It's a sneaky little idiosyncrasy, yet one that rises to the surface several times a day. Watch closely. It's all about the spoons.

Okay, so I'm particular about utensils. I am quite used to other people not being particular about utensils, although I'm still pretty confused about why people don't care more about the size and shape and characteristics of the device that is going to touch their very own mouth many, many times in a sitting. For example, if Matthew and I happened to be in the depths of the wilderness with a pot of chili, he would be perfectly content using any of the following items as a utensil: splintery stick, tiny twig, rock, leaf, squirrel tail. I, however (you know, the picky one), would be in the corner of our makeshift shelter, furiously whittling away at the rib bone from a deer carcass as I attempted to craft the perfect spoon. Granted, the chili might be long gone by the time I finished the spoon construction project, but it would be worth it. I'm not much for settling when it comes to utensils.

When one researches spoons, one learns that the earliest northern European spoon was made of a small splinter of wood, and there were spoons being born all over the world, made from shells and horns and, yes, even spikes and thorns. This is the kind of setting that would have suited Matthew quite well. In fact, when I start to worry that he is actually a barbarian parading around as a modern man (which is actually sort of often), I need to remember his roots. You know, back when folks made do, adorning their bodies with leaves and muskrat pelts instead of boxer briefs. He would no doubt argue that he is quite a MacGyver, such the boy scout. My response, of course, is we're not cave dwellers. We have more than just rocks and dirt in our kitchen. See this? It's called a table! And this? It's called a plate! Oh, and this over here? It's a pan! A cup! A bowl! A spoon! This, though, is when a person like me, in order to maintain sanity, must opt to pick my battles, as it were.

I have certain utensils that I like for certain things. I mean, I have a whole, real adult set of perfectly respectable matching utensils, and a box of real, actual silver, but I also have many other options in my drawers -- because certain foods call for certain tools. My multiple utensil drawers look, admittedly, like that of a college student's. It's a mish-mash of all sorts of things. Some items look like they were stolen from the cafeteria. But that, you see, is precisely the point. See, the small spoon with the flat top is the best yogurt spoon, and the black-handled spoon with the egg-shaped bowl is really good for polenta. The spoon with the tiniest bowl is good for eating things out of jars, like peanut butter or, ahem, chocolate sauce. The big bowled, brown-handled spoons are perfect for soup and cereal, and some kinds of macaroni and cheese. And soup spoons! I do love the rounded bowl of the soup spoon. One of the best spoons is the one with the swirly handle and broad, shallow bowl, which is either on loan from my mother or something that I've stolen from her. I will, for the sake of daughterly love, hope that she chose to let me borrow it. The best part is that, when I am at my parents' house, I can use their spoon that is just like this. I have one, they have one, and I am very happy eating spoon foods at both places. At one point in time, there was a whole set of this kind of silverware, but there aren't many pieces left now. And I think I know why! Everyone who tried this spoon at my parents' house immediately and surreptitiously slipped it into their pocket or purse. It's that good.

When I am faced with a plastic utensil situation, I definitely panic. First of all, let's just get this plastic knife issue out of the way. The only time plastic knives should be used is when teaching very young children how to cut things. Pardon the assumption, but all adult humans feel silly when using a plastic knife to actually try and cut something. No one can possibly take their own self seriously when trying to saw through a food with a stick of slightly ridged plastic. It's not possible.

But, really, more about the panicking now. A plastic fork or spoon feels like a joke to me. First, I feel sad thinking about how it's going to end up in a landfill -- you know, because it's not a real utensil. It's an impostor! It's a temporary tool that lessens the eating experience by about a hundred percent. And sometimes they're strangely sharp! And flimsy! And people tend to chew on them and suck on them longer than a person ought to. And that is certainly not very becoming.

Eons ago, when Matthew and I first ordered take-out together, he had the gall to A.) try to eat out of the container from whence it came and B.) try to use the utensils that were provided in the bag. Umm, no. Not okay. It probably goes without saying that when we order take-out nowadays, before the bag is even opened, he asks what kind of dish I would like to eat out of -- and, the best part is, he likes to ponder his choice for a little while, too. Which fork? he will say next, and I will stare at the options in the drawer for awhile, making sure I pick the right one for the job, and he will choose his fork. I try to steer him away from using a dessert fork for his dinner. See? I try to explain. This fork is smaller. Shorter tines. Shorter altogether. And if this doesn't resonate, then I take an approach that connects with his psyche a bit more: you won't be able to fit as much food on this small fork. Ah ha! The light bulb goes off. And, once an opportunity for retrospect comes, he will openly admit that it is a more pleasant (and, uh, civilized) experience this way. Let's save the plastic for picnics, I urge.

The thing about a spoon is that it is the kitchen tool that is most multipurpose, and therefore the most useful overall. And there are so many kinds! Just think! Serving spoons, mixing spoons, teaspoons, soup spoons, iced tea spoons, dessert spoons. And the unlimited possibilities of spoons! Why, they're musical instruments, of course. You can hang one on your nose for a party trick. You can take your medicine with a spoon. Spoon bending stage magic! Air guitar! A non-threatening sword! The safest utensil-juggling around, the best utensil for digging a hole, and, we must not forget that a spoon is the only utensil in which you can check your reflection. Plus, how else would schoolchildren learn about concave and convex surfaces? A spoon can serve as a fork in many instances, but a fork cannot serve as a spoon. And a knife can certainly not help you with soup or with pudding! Or peas! A spoon is the best mixing tool around, and while it cannot cut to save its little life, it is much less dangerous. Set your kid down on the floor with a drawer of spoons and everyone's happy. Set him down with a drawer of knives or forks, and everyone's screwed. See? Spoons.

Ahhh. Spoons.

Over and Out

 

In honor of summer (which, I've heard, has officially disappeared since last we spoke), I will now be drawing myself a bath of these small summery-warm tomatoes, which are sweet and fine and quite magical. If you are looking for me, I will be in my tomato bath until whenever the tomatoes decide to start growing again. What's that? Oh, yes, I will miss you, too! Maybe we could be pen pals? Nine months is too long to be without you, after all. Okay, okay! I am trying...I am trying really hard to release my devilish grasp on the summertime...right...now. There! See?

Now then. Turnip bath? Pumpkin bath? Parsnip bath? Argh. I'll get there. I will!

Alien Baby

Quack Quack

Ducks are a miracle!

Think about it. They can quack better than anyone, they wear those fancy waterproof bird costumes, their rubber counterparts have been given a very prestigious placement in the bathtub, they can swim and fly, their babies are so cute you want to poke them and squeeze them and eat them whole (ew, gross! Not in a real eating way! In a nuzzling way! Sheesh!), and, ahem, adult ducks might be, um, sort of delicious (okay, yes, in an eating way). And, man, can they lay some special eggs or what? See those things? Green! Pink! Yellow! Brown! White! Big, little! Great work, ducks.

These particular eggs I purchased from Millie, who sells her honey at the farmers' market that I go to in northern Michigan. Apparently, her bees are not the only talent in her household -- these ducks have produced a really incredible product, too. Some of the eggs in the box were so big that the lid wouldn't even close, and some were such bold colors that they looked like they had been attacked by the PAS Easter egg dyeing kit. And that Millie, well, she's a doll. There's a handwritten sign by each of her products on her table: Millie's Honey, Millie's Tomatoes, Millie's Fresh-Washed Eggs, Millie's Herbs. And, indeed, the eggs were possibly the cleanest eggs on the earth, and she was so proud of her ducks that I wanted to buy all the eggs in her cooler.

The eggs lasted for almost a month. They were so special that I parceled them out, one by one, using them in ways that would really make them shine. They made their appearance in an omelet, in scrambled eggs, in pasta dough, in quiche, and one even received special hardboiling privileges. The yolks were deep orange and huge, their shells thick and solid, and everything the eggs touched became gold! More soon, when you hear me go on and on about my new quiche obsession. Unless you think that four quiches in a week isn't categorized as an obsession. Perhaps just a protein interest? An attempt at perfecting my pastry or finding the perfect combination for the custard? Perhaps...an excuse to flaunt my duck eggs? Ah, yes. That must be it.

Phew.

My mission is complete.

Off! Into the rainy morning I went, thinking Asian pears, I'm coming!

And there they were. Waiting for me. Lots of them. And, yes, I came home and promptly ate three of them. They were just like I remembered!

And I did my homework this time. I learned that the variety is Seuri, and it is sometimes called the "bubble gum pear" or "candy pear" because of its super-sweet taste. Which it is. Sweet. I won't bore you with details of Asian pear agriculture, but I will tell you, there are many, many, many incredibly fine details, and it is an amazingly complicated procedure. If you find yourself in need of a quick tutorial, you might want to take a look at this absolutely amazing story of Oriana, who has 500 Asian pear trees on a farm west of Chicago. She has sold her pears at Green City Market for years, but she very recently was added to the roster of farmers at my neighborhood farm market, which suits me just fine. If you can find someone with more of a true passion for Asian pears than her, well...you can't!

So I have fifteen Seuris, and I will visit Oriana tomorrow, and, well, then I will likely complete my physical transform into an Asian pear at that time. (Can an Asian pear write and cook? I hope so.) 

Phew. My obsession has finally settled down. Now that's relief.

Now I can find something else to obsess over, like these adorable, brilliant baskets, or the exquisite simplicity of this incredible new bakery here in town, or this crazy-good chocolate-jalapeño gelato. Or, honestly, just this September weather that has draped its splendor all around me. 

Yes. For good things and pulses of complete happiness, I think it's best to just look around you.

Choose Your Own (Peach) Adventure

Peach Refrigerator Jam

Do you like peaches?

Yes=make this jam!, No=go find something better to do!

If you said Yes,

Buy, find, or steal some really good peaches

Peel skin off peaches

Slice or chop peaches

Put peaches in a big pot

Are you using about 8-10 peaches?

Yes=add 1 C water, No=um, use another amount

Does this seem like enough water to start cooking the peaches?

Yes=go ahead to the next step, No=add more!

Add a tablespoon of sugar or 2 tablespoons agave nectar

Wait, taste it! Don't burn yourself!
Does that taste like too much?

Yes=don't worry, it'll be okay. Add a little lemon juice to balance it out, No=add more

Cook gently, stirring every once in a while

As peaches get softer, mash them in the pot

Is it starting to look like jam?

Yes=stop cooking it, No=keep cooking it

Cool it off for about 15 minutes and put it in a jar

Refrigerate

Are you hungry?

Yes=eat it now, No=wait, don't eat it yet

Clean up your kitchen!

You don't feel like cleaning up?

Right, I don't feel like it=do it later!
Wrong, I can't wait to clean up=do it now!

The Unlikely Pear

Pears are among us, it being September and all (wait, really? It's September? I am so sorry if I was the first one to break it to you. Although it might come as some consolation that September is actually a pretty great month. It features completely delightful weather, a full span of farm market fun, and it still mostly feels like summer, save for the start of school and all. Which is good. School is good.) And so, when one has pears, one often has unlikely pears, and perhaps even a pair of the most unlikely pears. As you will see above.

Exhibit A is a half-pear, half-apple, so you may call it whatever you like, as long as you are respectful. "Fruit mutt" is not so nice. Asian pear, some say. Apple pear, others say. Either way, this thing just wants to be known for its deliciousness and handsomeness. The worst choice I ever made was buying only one of these at the farmers market yesterday. Oof, I panicked! I already was making my way through herds and herds of uptight humans -- I was muled up (you know, muled up) with ears of corn, cabbage, apples, and, of course, all of the other heaviest stuff that they had available. I couldn't carry one more thing! And who's to say that the apple-pear would be a success, anyway? Well, as it turns out, me. It was perfect. Perfect consistency, perfect flavor, perfect everything. I'm one motion away from calling the farm and asking them to save me a bushel of those amazing things. I have no idea which variety it is, though, so I will end up referring to it as the "roundish, greenish, smallish, smoothish kind." That should make sense to any farmer. Nichols Farm, I swear I'm not crazy! Wait for me!

Exhibit B is a full bred pear with special contours and qualities. I am trying to see how long I can keep it. I have officially had it for 29 days, and it is exactly as hard as it was when I received it. The best thing is that I got the pear as a present from someone who knew how much I would like to have a pear that looked like this. And I do! I like having a pear that looks like this. Thankfully, it is apparently a rock, so I will have it forever. Meanwhile, I will wait for more (edible) pears to come into my life. Starting...now.