FOOD ON THE FOOD

Farewell to the Muse

According to the person of questionable sense who hijacked my body, I decided not to join Drumlin’s Winter CSA this year.  I have yet to fully understand the logic behind this decision, especially given my recent cost analysis, but I think it had something to do with the avalanche of squash.  If you need me, I’ll be furiously digging a root cellar under my house to keep the five or six local vegetables I have fresh throughout the winter.

Ah well, the Farmer has tolerated my overbearing affection longer than any halfway reasonable person should have to (without alerting the authorities, I might add).  And so I believe it’s time for us to bid him farewell.  He is hereby retired from this blog so that he might tend to his crops unmolested by excitable food writers.  Well, this one anyway.  I can’t speak for them all.  It’s pretty rare to come across someone who captures your imagination the way he clearly did, but now it’s time to get back to real life.  Normal Social Boundaries, reactivate.

What the hell am I going to write about now?

You’ll send him off right, won’t you?

Crisp Autumn

Last weekend, there was a CSA potluck dinner at my farm.  I cursed myself for already having plans.  After all, that might have been the only chance I’m ever offered to see the Farmer in a purely social setting (deep breath), with his hat off (gasp!), eating something that he himself prepared (hyperventilating).

I thought about standing up our friends at our own house, as I’m known to do when something better comes along (or when nothing better comes along).  But then my conscience got in the way.  I mean, what were the odds that I’d get to have the Farmer all to myself at a romantic table for two that I would have set up in the spot with the best view with candlelight and lots of booze?

Not good, I thought.  Might as well keep my plans intact.

The esteemed harrison3 brought his family over, and we had burgers with homemade pickles, coleslaw, and watermelon.  Apparently I was trying to fool myself into thinking it was still summertime.  I know that menu looks like I totally phoned it in, but did I mention that the pickles were homemade?  Homemade and amazing.  I made the hamburgers and coleslaw, too (half-hearted applause).  Oh, and apple raspberry crisp, the only clue that we were, as we continue to be, firmly entrenched in fall. 

I’m not sure which was better, the pickles or the crisp (the pickles?), but the photo of the crisp came out better, so that’s the recipe you’re going to get!

Apple Raspberry Crisp

You don’t need too many raspberries for this.  A handful or two will do you just fine.  Who can make it all the way home with a full pint anyway?

Topping
¾ cup rolled oats
1/3 cup brown sugar
½ cup flour
1/3 cup cold butter, cut into pieces
1/3 cup sliced almonds

Filling
6-8 apples, peeled, cored, cut into ¼-inch thick slices
½ cup raspberries
Juice from ½ lemon
½ cup brown sugar
2 Tbsp. flour
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. grated nutmeg
¼ tsp. almond extract

Preheat oven to 350°F.

For the topping, combine oats, brown sugar, flour, and butter in food processor.  Pulse until crumbly, with butter pieces the size of small peas.  Stir in the almonds by hand to keep them whole.

In a large bowl, combine apples, lemon juice, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and almond extract.  Gently fold in raspberries.  Dump into an 8x8-inch baking dish, spreading evenly.  Pour topping over the fruit.  Bake 50-55 minutes, until apples are tender and bubbling and top is golden brown (use the broiler if you must).  Serve warm with vanilla ice cream.  That is not a suggestion.

Oh Squash, How I Curse Thee

Last weekend saw me back at the farm trying to complete my farmwork hours as slowly as humanly possible.  We volunteers meandered our way to the field in question, which turned out to be the winter squash patch.  My smile immediately disappeared.  That was the last thing I wanted to help harvest.  I already have a small pile of winter squash and no plans for them whatsoever.

The tasks were assigned to two groups: the Lucky and the Unlucky.  The Lucky got to locate the squash and then clip their stems.  The Unlucky got to pack them into crates and carry them halfway across the field to the pickup truck.  Can you guess which group I was in? 

Man, those bins were heavy.  After the first few trips, I tried to fill them up only halfway to make it easier on myself, but then one of the other helpful volunteers would helpfully stick a few more in there to fill the headspace.  Thanks, I said.  Thanks on behalf of my imminent groin pull.

It was made all the more difficult by the hundreds of twiny squash vines that were conspiring to trip me in retaliation for all the bad press last winter.  Squash are vindictive.  Still, I wasn’t about to look like a wuss in front of the Farmer.  I tried to summon one of the more encouraging voices in my head to spur me along.  She was sleeping on the job, as usual:

Me: Run away.

Me: I can’t.  Everyone will see.

Me: You’re going to hurt yourself.

Me: Pipe down.  These are the sacrifices you have to make for love.

Me: At least lift with your legs.

Me: I am lifting with my legs.

Me: No, you’re lifting with your back.

Me: My knees are bent, see?

Me: But you’re still bending at the waist.

Me: How the fuck am I supposed to pick up the crate if I don’t bend at the waist a little?

See?  So encouraging.

At some point I lost all feeling in my arms, so I just started promising sexual favors to anyone who would carry the crates I had just filled over to the truck.  Armless sexual favors, I guess.  You know the kind.  The takers were not who I had hoped for.

In Which I Find Myself Completely Covered in Dirt

In the spirit of Labor Day weekend, I did manage to put in some hours of actual labor on the farm.  Although, judging by the amount of dirt all over me and pouring out of my shoes afterwards, you would have thought that something else had gone on in those fields.  No such luck.  We weeded spinach, planted lettuce and basil, and that was all.  I have witnesses.

Since there was nowhere to hide in the open fields, I finally had a chance to chat with the Farmer for more than five seconds.  Chat and plant, plant and chat.  Except chatting is something I find hard to do in combination with other things.  I’m more of a one-activity-at-a-time kind of girl.  Still, I think it’s important to stick your pinky finger out of your comfort zone twice, maybe three times a year. 

That there was any dialogue at all was a miracle given the cacophony going on in my head:

Me: What’s he talking about?

Me: Pressure cookers, I think.  Stop crushing the lettuce.

Me: I’m not.  This is what he showed me. 

Me: I’m quite sure he wasn’t pounding the lettuce into the ground with his fists. 

Me: Shut up, I can’t hear.  What’s he talking about now?

Me: How sungolds make the best pasta sauce ever. 

Me: Mmmmm, I bet he’s right.  I wonder if he peels them all.  He couldn’t possibly.  That would take freaking forever.

Me: Why don’t you ask him?

Me: No, you ask him.

Me: You better pick up the pace.  If he gets too far ahead of you, he’ll start talking to that other guy.

Me: Right.  I don’t think he’s talking anymore.  He’s not.  Crap.  Say something.

Me: Ummmmmmm…..

Me: Anything.

Me: Uhhhh…

Me: Comment on those weird-ass husk tomatoes you tried last week.  Only make it sound like you really liked them.

Me: Okay, I just told him.

Me: What did he say?

Me: He thinks they’re gross.

Me: Goddamnit!

I wonder what the odds are that any of my lettuce is going to survive?

Another Vignette from My Fantasy Blog Life

So, we already know one reason why the Farmer and I would never survive a domestic arrangement, no matter how many romantic notions one of us might have.  Here’s another one: possible, unconfirmed vegetarianism.  Observe:

Him: What are you cooking?

Me: Oh, you’re home already?  Don’t you have a few more fields to plow?

Him: Is that…bacon?

Me: No.

Him: It sure smells like bacon.

Me: It’s not bacon.  It’s, um, a new sustainable bacon substitute. 

Him: …

Me: Yeah, it’s made from the dried husks of…

Him: …Of what?

(He’s a farmer, Tammy.  Choose your words carefully.)

Me: Of…

Him: …Yes?

Me: …Okay, fine, it’s bacon.

(As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not good in the moment.)

Him: I thought we talked about this.  How eating low on the food chain is a better use of resources in an overpopulated world.

Me: Lalalalalalalalala…did you say something?

Him: (sigh) I’m still waiting for you to sign the papers.  They’re right over there, same as before. 

Me: I’ll sign them if you have this piece of bacon…

Him: (leaves the room)

Me: (yelling after him) Pay no attention to the ham substitutes hanging over the stairs…

And we lived happily ever after.  The end.

Finally Facing Facts

I may have finally come to terms with the fact that it’s not going to work out between the Farmer and I.  There are the usual practical problems that arise when you take the triangular peg of fantasy and try to jam it into the square hole of reality (so to speak).  Things like existing relationships and the small matter of reciprocation.  But then there are other obstacles, too.

For example, here’s a perfectly plausible scenario that might occur if the Farmer and I, in some crazy mix-up of the universe, somehow found ourselves shacking up together:

The Farmer wakes up at the crack of dawn and gets ready to hit the fields.  Meanwhile, I remain lazily in bed.  He looks at me with disdain.  When he gets home after a hard day’s work, I’m pretty much in the same position as he left me.  Dinner is uncooked despite a plethora of vegetables at my disposal.  As diplomatically as possible, he asks me where the hell his dinner is.  I say something like, “What, it’s not on the table?  Swear to god, it was there a minute ago.”  With resentment simmering, there would be nothing left to do but engage in grueling, angry sex.

Ah, to be the lazy wife of a hard-working farmer.  It looks so good on paper.

Eggplant, Ooooooooo

Just when I start to get things under control, my Farmer fixation flares up again.  This time, it’s eggplant.  I loooooove eggplant, but it really all depends on the preparation and, as I’m learning, the eggplant itself.  These tiny, little specimens we’re getting from the farm, in addition to being cute, are also DELICIOUS, and so the Farmer has no one to blame but himself.  And maybe the rain. 

The first thing that jumps to mind with eggplant for me is eggplant Parmesan, but I didn’t want to get oil spatters all over my newly painted walls quite yet.  Maybe next week.  Also, I was in the mood for something different.  Something Asian, perhaps.  The Elephant Walk Cookbook to the rescue. 

People, this may not look like much, but it is so good.  It’s beef and eggplant in a Cambodian curry sauce over rice, which might sound like the eggplant would get lost in the shuffle, but it doesn’t.  It shines.  Even with all the substitutions and subtractions I made, it rocked.  Frankly, I couldn’t believe the cook was me.

(For the record, the kids just want me to mention how much they hate eggplant, and it doesn’t matter how much coconut milk I smother it in.  Fine, I said, you can have that opinion, but only after you take a bite.  Until then, you love eggplant.  You want to marry it.)

Cambodian Beef and Eggplant Curry

I made a whole bunch of substitutions to keep things as local as possible.  As for the coconut milk, well, I’m afraid I can’t divulge my source for locally pressed coconuts.

2 fresh jalapeños, seeded and deveined (next time, I’ll add another)
1 stalk lemongrass, thinly sliced (I used 1-2 Tbsp. lemon thyme from out back)
5 garlic cloves, peeled
2 large shallots, peeled, quartered
1 Tbsp. ginger, peeled, sliced
8 kaffir lime leaves (I used a similar amount of Vietnamese coriander instead, just for the hell of it)
¼ tsp. turmeric
2 Tbsp. cilantro
1½ cups water
¼ cup vegetable oil
2¼ cups unsweetened coconut milk (something like 1½ cans)
1 tsp. shrimp paste (I omitted this)
2 lb. sirloin steak, cut into strips about 2x1x¼-inches
¼ cup fish sauce
¼ cup sugar
1 tsp. salt
2 cups water
1 lb. small Asian eggplants, cut into half-moons
Fresh basil leaves for garnish

In a blender, purée the first nine ingredients until smooth, 2-3 minutes.  Set aside.

Heat 3 tbsp. of the oil in a large pot over medium-high heat.  Add 1 cup of the coconut milk and cook, stirring, until the oil in the coconut milk separates out, 2-3 minutes.  Stir in the spice mix from the blender (and shrimp paste, if you’re using it) and cook until the sauce has thickened, about 5 minutes.  Stir in the beef and cook 5-6 minutes.  Add the fish sauce, sugar, salt, the remaining 1¼ cups coconut milk, and water, and bring to a boil.  Lower heat to medium and simmer, stirring occasionally, 30-40 minutes, until meat is tender.

Meanwhile, heat the remaining 1 Tbsp. oil in a medium frying pan.  Add the eggplant and sauté until soft, about 5 minutes.  Stir the eggplant into the stew and cook until heated through, 2-3 minutes.  Serve over rice and garnish with fresh basil.  Serves 6.

Source: Adapted from The Elephant Walk Cookbook.

Amends

Last week, while doing some important business in the bathroom, I noticed a ladybug trapped between the storm windows.  Normally, finding a ladybug would be cause for celebration, especially considering I have yet to redeem myself for an earlier ladybug transgression.  But, my several attempts to return one to the farm have ended poorly.  I had to ask myself how many ladybugs I was willing to sacrifice to right my previous wrong. 

I sized up the insect:

Me: Are you getting enough to eat in there?

Ladybug: …

Me: Looks like the spiders have it pretty well locked up, huh?

Ladybug: …

Me: If I told you there was a place far, far away with an all-you-can-eat buffet of juicy bugs, all arranged by type in neat little rows, would you believe me?

Ladybug: …

Me: It takes a special kind of ladybug to survive the journey, though.  It’s not for the faint of heart.  Lesser beetles have died in the process.  Perhaps you want to sleep on it?

Ladybug: …

Me: All right, then.  If you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll take you.

Not only was the ladybug still there the next day, but she brought a friend.  So, five minutes before departure, I emptied out the Preschooler’s bug house, which had half a moldy corncob and two dead corn worms inside.  In went the ladybugs. 

Me:  If you make it there alive, I only ask that you deliver the following message. (whispers)

Then I handed them off to the Preschooler, who carried them with us to the fields and deposited them on some tomato plants.  One stayed put while the other flew off in the direction of the tractor rumbling in the distance.  That’s two ladybugs to replace the one we viciously stole. 

That should make things even between the Farmer and I, don’t you think?

Peek in My Drawers

Crisper drawers, that is.  So you can see what I got in my farmshare this week:

2 heads of lettuce
a bunch of basil and dill
4 peppers
4 cucumbers
12 ears of corn

4 eggplants
a bunch of beets
4 summer squash
3 onions
an armful of fava beans
a bunch of carrots
8 potatoes

Exciting!  But I know a good half of you don't come here for the food, so...

***

It was beginning to look like my dreams of being trapped under the CSA tent with the Farmer during a thunderstorm would never come to fruition.  This despite the abundance of storminess this summer.  On the way to the pickup yesterday, mighty Zeus hurled lightening bolts in my direction and unleashed an urban tsunami like nothing I’ve ever seen (well, except for that storm two weeks ago, and then again the previous week, and then a couple of times the week before that). 

With the roads flooded at every turn, I rolled down the window and yelled up at the sky, face streaming with water: “You can’t keep me from going.  I won’t miss it two weeks in a row.”  Another flash of lightening and crack of thunder and I sputtered: “Is that the best you can do?  I laugh at your scary electricity.”  Then he hurled 15 more lightening bolts at me and an immediate explosion of sound that caused both kids and I to scream and soil ourselves simultaneously.  Unfortunately, only one of us was wearing a diaper.  Luckily, it was me.

All my detours around the washed-out roads landed me back at home and, seeing Husband’s car parked out front, I dropped off the traumatized kids and headed back out again, undeterred.  It was still raining when I got to the farm, but a more reasonable soaking rain.  The Farmer was manning the tent this time, Zeus having presumably chased him out of the open fields with his jagged javelins. 

This is an awful lot of buildup to get to the Farmer and I alone at last among the vegetables.  But, I’m afraid I can’t tell you what went on under that tent.  How am I ever going to have a normal relationship with this beautiful man if I keep on detailing our every interaction in my public diary?  How would I like it if someone were writing about me on his blog?  I would like it very much, actually.  IN THEORY.  I’m a girl, after all.  But probably not in practice.  Also because it wouldn’t be anyone good, I’m sure.  You never get to handpick your own stalkers.

So you’ll just have to use your imagination.  In the comment section.  Best ending to the story wins Uncle Oinker’s Savory Bacon Mints.

Bok Choy: Suggestions Welcome

Bok choy is to my Summer CSA as squash was to my Winter CSA.  Not necessarily in terms of outrageous quantities (though that remains to be seen), but in how much I look forward to seeing it. 

Of all the new-to-me Asian vegetables I cooked last year, the only one that didn’t win me over was bok choy.  I made it a bunch of different ways (steamed, sautéed, slowly fermented in the bottom of my crisper drawer), but it never took. 

Recently, though, I overheard the Farmer say he likes bok choy.  He called it “delicious.”  That’s not the word I would have chosen.  Watery and bland with a bitter edge—that’s how I would describe it.  Like celery, but worse.  Still, I thought, maybe I should give it another try.  If anyone was going to get me to change my mind, it was the Farmer.

So at some point in the past week or two (hard to tell since I painted right over the calendar), I made a stir-fry.  I used pork from Stillman’s Farm, and snap peas, bok choy, and komatsuna (Japanese mustard spinach, which I LOVE) from Drumlin.  I was hoping that mixing the bok choy in with other, better stuff might help.  Also, in the past, I had always kept the bok choy leaves attached to the stalks, and I had a feeling that was what turned me off.  Since the leaves and stems cook at different rates, I found myself having to guess at some kind of unhappy medium.  This time, I separated the two parts and added them in at different times.  I liked the results much better.

I started by heating some canola oil until quite hot.  I added six or seven smashed garlic cloves until starting to brown, and then the pork, which was just 2 pork chops deboned and cut into ¼-inch-thick pieces.  I stirred that around for a bit, then poured in 3 Tbsp. fish sauce, 2 Tbsp. soy sauce, and 1½ Tbsp. sugar, pre-mixed.  Next, I added the bok choy stalks cut crosswise into boomerang- shaped pieces and the destrung snap peas.  A minute or two stirring, then in went the bok choy leaves, komatsuna, and black pepper, tossed until the pork was cooked through. 

The stalks stayed pleasantly crunchy while the leaves got all wilty.  So clean and crisp, it was a really excellent stir-fry.  How could I have been such a fool?

I always suspected that the Farmer knew his way around the kitchen, and now I’m convinced.  He acts all modest, but if he can make bok choy taste good without even trying, well that’s really saying something.  I have my work cut out for me if I want to get invited to dinner, though.  We should probably get to know each other a little better first.  As friends, I mean.  Or, you know, whatever.  Maybe someday when he doesn’t scare the living shit out of me.

And Did I Mention the Peas?

Look what I picked at my CSA.  Do you know what’s better than taking your kids strawberry-picking?  Strawberry-picking without your kids!  Woo hoo! 

Boy, do I need to get out without them more often.  I felt so light and unencumbered.  And it seemed so unbelievably quiet without the whining and the screaming.  I mean, yeah, other people’s horrible children were nearby, but they were not my responsibility.  And when I ignored them, it actually worked. 

The weather was perfect: breezy and cool, with blue sky resting on big, puffy clouds.  I saw birds.  I saw ladybugs.  I even saw the Farmer going back and forth on his tractor.  I was careful to wait until he was facing away to blow kisses in his direction, and then pretend like I was too busy with my important berry-picking to notice him on his return trip.  Farmer who?  I’m sorry, I’m not aware of any farmers in the vicinity.

When I was done stuffing my face with strawberries, the timing worked out just right so that the tractor would be carrying the Farmer toward the end of the rows just as I was walking by.  I considered just standing there in his way to see what would happen, but he’s a very focused worker and I‘m not in his good graces as it is.  Instead, to increase the odds of acknowledgment, I joined a gaggle of little boys and their Tractor Fan Club, and waved along with them.  He waved back.  Hooray!

Soon we will be wed.

Our Fallen Hero

The ladybug was doing quite well up until yesterday, the day when he was to be returned to the farm.  The Preschooler had diligently provided spinach and lettuce leaves peppered with aphids each day, along with just enough water to keep his worms and the other bugs in his mini-ecosystem happy.  He slept with his transparent bug bucket at the head of his bed every night despite my better judgment.  And even though my dad tried to drown every living creature inside with a Katrina-like deluge when I wasn’t looking, I was able to downgrade the storm to a Category Two before any long-term damage was sustained.  Or so I thought.

At 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning, the ladybug seemed fine.  By 10:30 a.m., he was not fine at all, having fallen from his perch at the top of the bug bucket into the muddy soil below like a tiny, discarded strawberry.  I tried to soften the blow to the Preschooler by explaining that he must have been an old ladybug.  After all, the Preschooler had just guided a dozen ladybug larvae through the pupa stage and beyond a month earlier.  I assured him that the ladybug didn’t die from lack of love. 

But really, Ladybug, you couldn’t have held out for just a few more hours?  This was not going to endear me to the Farmer, who, by my calculations, had 350 more aphids than usual to contend with.  The story was supposed to end with our triumphant return to the farm, ladybug in tow.  The Preschooler would release him into the wild with a bittersweet flourish, thereby learning a valuable lesson about love and letting go, while the Farmer would bestow upon me a knowing look that I would interpret as his pledge to be my backup husband.  Instead, it was almost as if the ladybug was making some sort of grand statement.  A refusal to be a pawn in the elaborate lover’s games of another species.  Leave it to me to find the one principled ladybug.

I didn’t want to return to the farm empty-handed (more for the Preschooler’s delicate pride than my own, I swear), so I spent some undisclosed amount of time outside looking for a replacement ladybug.  Normally, you can’t walk three paces without being swarmed by ladybugs, but you just try looking for one when you really need it.  I was not successful. 

So, I think we’ve all learned a valuable lesson from all this.  If you ever find a ladybug in your CSA produce, don’t tell your farmer.

Survivor’s Guide to Your First CSA: Part II

More tips for adapting to, even flourishing under, your new farmshare:

• Get a salad spinner.  Like it or not, you will be eating a lot of salads.  I ate more salads last year than I had eaten in my whole life previously.  I did not own a salad spinner and I refused to buy one on principle.  The principle that salads aren’t delicious.  So, to dry my wet greens, I would wrap them up in a few dishtowels, wrap a plastic bag around the whole thing, and whip my arm around real fast like a windmill on crack.  It works.  But you look really dumb.  And if you let go, well…just don’t let go.  But it turns out that salads really are delicious (they are!), so I bought a salad spinner last week to celebrate my one-year anniversary with my farm!

• There are very few herbs that can’t be made into pesto.  If you can’t use up your basil, parsley, mint, or cilantro before they wilt, make pesto and it will last for a week in the fridge (or practically forever in the freezer).

• There are very few vegetables that can’t be made into cold, puréed soups.  I live on gazpacho during tomato season.  But I’ve made gazpacho-like concoctions with things other than tomatoes in almost every other color of the rainbow, too, not all of them good.  Some of them got poured right onto the compost heap, but most of them were delicious.

• Whenever you fire up the grill, stick some extra vegetables on there so you have them cooked and ready to eat for the week.  I do this a lot with the endless supply of summer squash.  And, if you have a charcoal grill, you can harness that leftover heat to roast beets.  Nobody wants to turn on the oven in the height of summer for an hour to roast beets (shouldn’t nature be thinking about these things?).  So, when you’re cleaning up from dinner, once the grill has cooled down a bit, just wrap up the beets in some foil (you can peel them later), maybe three to a packet, and position them around the perimeter of the rack (not directly over the glowing coals).  Cover the grill and forget about them for an hour or two.  Three days is too long.  They’ll look all puckered and scary, but they’ll be as sweet as candy.

• Stop looking at your farmer like that.  It’s going to get you in trouble.

• When it comes to recipe ideas, the Internet can be your best friend.  Epicurious, blogs, even checking out your favorite chefs’ menus online are good sources of inspiration.  But I think I’m preaching to the choir here.  Books are also good.  Any good cookbook will do, but the vegetarians tend to know their way around a vegetable.  I’ve also mentioned The Cook and the Gardener before, which arranges its recipes by season and month.  And there are several CSA-centered cookbooks that I’m just beginning to explore.  From Asparagus to Zucchini by the Madison Area CSA Coalition is one, and another is Recipes from America’s Small Farms. 

Finally, my Neighbor reminded me of what, perhaps, is the biggest adjustment when joining a CSA.  The mindset.  When you have every possible ingredient available to you at any time of year at the store, you get into the habit of planning the meals first and getting the ingredients second.  With a CSA, it’s the other way around.  Your lovely farmer does the shopping for you, and so you learn to use what you have.  If you’re stubborn like me, it may take an entire summer to get used to this mode of thinking.  But, the result is that you suddenly become a much better cook.

Enjoy!

Survivor’s Guide to Your First CSA: Part I

So, I hear a lot of you guys have joined CSAs this year.  Congratulations!!  I’m so proud.  I’d like to think it was all thanks to me, so I’m just going to keep on thinking that no matter what you say. 

A couple of you have asked if I had any advice for how to survive the onslaught of deliciousness that’s about to ensue.  Indeed I do.  Adopt some children.  Here are some other thoughts:

• Start cooking as soon as you get home.  Just kidding (not really).

• There will be bugs.  And holes in the leaves from the bugs.  It’s annoying—let’s not pretend that it isn’t.  But they’re just bugs.  They don’t cause cancer or birth defects, and you can see where they are so they’re about a million times better than invisible, toxic chemicals.  But, I’m sure you already knew this.

• There will also be dirt.  You may realize this in theory, but, in practice, you may forget to add extra time for washing and prepping your vegetables.  Everything takes a little longer in the beginning, but you’ll get used to it.  In the meantime, tell your impatient family to pipe down.  Or better yet, put them to work.

• Cook stuff in the order in which it wilts.  Usually, the green, leafy stuff wilts first, but you’ll find out soon enough.  The crisper really does keep stuff crisper (I thought it was just a cute name).  Use it.

• It’s entirely possible that everyone in your farmshare is a better cook than you.  Take advantage.  If there’s something you’ve never cooked before, ask.  The best way to do this, I’ve found, so you don’t have to admit your ignorance, is to say things like, “God, I hate [insert vegetable here].”  There will be audible gasps, and then everyone will try to outdo each other with the best way to prepare said vegetable.  Take careful mental notes while making comments like “Tell me you’re kidding” and “Gross!” every so often so they know you’re paying attention.  Then go home and make something awesome as if you came up with it yourself.  Incidentally, this is also a good way to make friends.

More to come tomorrow.  Feel free to share your own advice, too (as long as it's not the same stuff I'm posting about tomorrow).  (I'm serious, I'm going to be pissed if I have to rewrite that post.)

My List of Demands are Pending

You may be wondering how my long-awaited CSA pickup went yesterday. 

Picture this.  It’s been a day of unrelenting rain, but as the kids and I approach the downhill slope leading to the tent, it suddenly stops.  The sun peeks through the clouds.  A giant rainbow forms before my very eyes.  The 2008 Summer CSA Theme Song is playing in my head at top volume.  The kids start running down the hill.  I catch sight of the Farmer, so I start running, too.  The kids fall down.  I hurdle right over them.  And then, just as I’m about to launch myself into the Farmer’s unsuspecting arms (cue sound of record player needle scratching across vinyl), another CSA member starts talking to me, blocking my trajectory.

Well, I didn’t want to be rude, so we exchanged pleasantries.  But all the while, I could sense the Farmer withdrawing and eventually disappear.  No, wait.  Come back.  He did eventually come back, but our long and passionate embrace only took place in my mind.  So, yeah, it’s pretty hard to live up to my expectations at this point.

I was bagging my 4 heads of lettuce, bok choy, radishes, and spinach, when I noticed a bright red ladybug on one of the leaves.  I quickly handed it over to the Preschooler, for he loves insects with a fervor that even I would find hard to understand.  He ran over to show the Farmer who, in his calm way, suggested that he leave the ladybug on the farm to do his good work eating aphids. 

Uh-oh. 

I could tell by the crestfallen expression on the Preschooler’s face that this was never part of his agenda.  He planned to add the ladybug to his cache of inchworms he collected over the weekend, along with some woodlice and a shield bug I captured for him yesterday, and we would all live happily ever after in a house infested with bugs. 

There was no way around it.  I would have to take sides.  But whose?  In one corner was the Preschooler doing his best not to burst into tears while I made a convincing argument for letting the ladybug go.  In the other corner was the Farmer looking particularly devastating.  Does absence make the heart grow fonder?  Why, yes.  Yes, it does.

I ran some quick numbers in my head, and the Preschooler kept coming out on top.  I banged on my calculator really hard, but numbers are numbers.  We would be taking the ladybug home no matter what.  How many aphids can one ladybug eat, anyway?  (Note: turns out ladybugs can eat as many as 50 aphids per day.  Crap.)  Still, I got the Preschooler’s back while he absconded with his prisoner. 

On the drive home, I brokered the following deal.  We’d keep the ladybug for a week, feeding him aphids from our spinach, and if he survived the noise and chaos of our home, we’d return him to the farm next week.

Or.  Or maybe I’ll hold that ladybug hostage until some ransom demands are met.

Fasten Your Chastity Belts

I just got back from a long weekend down the Cape, and, upon my return, there was an e-mail from Drumlin saying our first CSA pickup would be on Wednesday.  As in this Wednesday.  The day after tomorrow.

Holy crap!  So soon?  The fields were a complete wasteland not two months ago!  What happened?  Not to mention that I’m not even close to graduating from my Program, yet.  What do I do?  Should I get my hair done?  Put on a dress?  No?  Too obvious?  I have to at least brush my hair, though.  I learned my lesson.  Goddamnit, where’s my brush?  WHERE IS IT?  

Oh, wait.  First, the pictures.  I have to burn all the dirty pictures like this one:


It was fun while it lasted, California, but you’re dead to me now.  You hear that?  Dead. To. Me.

Wahooooooooooo!

Love’s Theme
Barry White
The Ultimate Collection

Caught on Video!!

Shockingly, that CBS piece on supporting local farmers does seem to have run, though it appears it was demoted from national news to local Oregon news.  Which is fine by me.  I only know a few people in Oregon. 

The segment came out much better than what I was envisioning, that’s for sure.  The idea of eating locally was not portrayed as completely wacko, but rather somewhat sensible, which is a refreshing change of pace in the mainstream media.  I must reluctantly extend props to CBS. 

You'll find the video here, but you are under no obligation to watch it.  If you do, just remember what I said about the hair.  I could have brushed it, sure, but then I would have been misrepresenting myself.  I’m just keeping it real. 

Other notes: Only bacon could make me forget that I was on camera.  Thankfully, they cut the orgasm part out.  The Toddler was so sweet and well-behaved that day that it appears that I've been lying about his daily antics.  I am not.  But, I'm glad we have some smiles to save for posterity.  And at the end, the great food discovery they made mention of me making in my own backyard was this: I’m a shitty gardener.  I pulled the only three red tomatoes off of the only three surviving plants in my yard that weren’t weeds.  But, shhhh.  I think you’re supposed to draw a different conclusion.

So, that's my moment of fame.  Let’s just stick to print from now on, shall we?  Speaking of which, the written transcript of the segment is entertaining if you enjoy the butchery of the English language as much as I do.  Points for finding all the typos (hint: there’s more than two).  Also, they gave Husband my maiden name (I win!).

[Update 6/9/08: It did run nationally.  Here's the proof.  Well, I'll be damned.]

Yup, Still in Therapy

We haven’t really gotten to the heart of the matter that landed me in therapy, have we?  And the clock’s a-tickin’.  Very soon I’ll be back on farm property, at which point I’ll have to figure out a way to summon some semblance of composure. 

So, let’s see what else Dr. Typepad has up his sleeve:

Him: I had an idea that might help you work through some of your feelings for the Farmer that you haven’t felt like discussing so far.  Why don’t we try role-playing?

Me: (sigh) Fine.  But, only if I get to be the Farmer.

Him: Well, I was thinking I would be the Farmer and you would be yourself…

Me: (yawn)

Him: …but since you’re the patient, we’ll try it your way. 

Me: Okay.  How do we start?

Him: Let’s set the stage.  You should pick a location that makes you feel comfortable.

Me: Hmmmm...oh, I know.  There are these stairs in the horse barn that go way the hell up to somewhere.  I’ve always wondered what it’s like up there.

Him: Probably just a hayloft.  But all right, if that’s what you want.  So, since I’m you, why don’t I begin so you can feel empowered by the fact that you’re initiating the dialogue?

Me: Yeah, whatever’s going to make this go faster.

Him: Are you ready?  So, Farmer.  There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.  I’ve been experiencing feelings that go beyond the typical Farmer/CSA member relationship and I was hoping we could talk about them.  Now you.

Me: Okay, um…I’m glad you brought this up, Tammy, because ever since that day we met, when you were trying to unstake the tomatoes with an incompetence never before seen on a farm, I can’t get you out of my mind. 

Him: Okay, stop.  The idea here is that you try to be realistic about his response. 

Me: No, it’s true.  I totally sucked with those tomatoes. 

Him: As the farmer, you want to be receptive, but not too forthcoming.  Remember, this may not be an entirely welcome development.

Me: (sigh)

Him: Let’s try it again.  Here we go.  So, Farmer, given the standard Farmer/CSA member interaction as outlined by the Massachusetts Department of Agriculture, I’d rather address these feelings now to avoid any potential misunderstandings.

Me: Okay, this is stupid.  That’s not even how I talk. 

Him: Well, how would you say it, then?

Me: I don’t know.  Something like, you know, this probably isn’t what the Eat Local people had in mind when they talk about forging new relationships with local growers.  But none of the Locavore literature warned me about this.  And Drumlin’s web site certainly didn’t offer up any clues.  I’m used to just going to the store and all the vegetables are laid out all shiny and pretty, like storks dropped them out of the sky or something.  It’s kind of a sterile arrangement, I guess, so I wasn’t prepared for the close and sudden bond you feel with the kind stranger who feeds you.  How intimate the relationship between cook and farmer would be.  Not intimate that way, necessarily, but you know, I mean, the way he pulls stuff out of the ground with his bare hands?  No, scratch that part.  But, you see how much work goes into it, how much care, and everything tastes sooooo good.  …Um, you’re standing kind of close, don’t you think?

Him: Kiss me.

Me: What??  I’m not supposed to be kissing the Farmer, remember?

Him: Special circumstances. 

What is up with my therapist, can somebody please tell me? 

So, whatever, I kissed him.  Was that wrong?

Farmer-Crush Eradication Program: Step 6

As I could have predicted, Step 3 (Spring Cleaning) never quite got off the ground.  Step 5 (Get a Life) isn’t going so well, either.  And since there’s still a whole month before the Summer CSA starts, let’s add one more step to what, in essence, has only been a pathetic 3-step program that isn’t helping anybody.

Step 6: DIY Project

As in Do-It-Yourself project.  Not Dig-In-Yard project.  To flail about in my so-called garden like I did last year would be to send the wrong message to the Farmer.  The message that I want him to come over and give me some private farming lessons, which I DON’T. 

Subsequently, there will be no foolhardy attempts to grow stuff this year.  Well, maybe some herbs on the deck and an heirloom tomato plant or two since they seem to grow themselves, but otherwise I’m leaving that to the professionals.  It’s time I acknowledged that I am a cloud of black death hanging over the living and, as such, my rightful post is in the kitchen with the rest of the dead.

My task, then, will be to complete the painting of my kitchen.  It has been half-painted for more than a year, and that, I’ve decided, is too lazy even for me.  I got off track because of a setback that threatened to derail the whole project.  But since when do I let my emotions get the best of me?  Never, that’s when.  (I still hate you, Brickman’s.)

This will probably be the last step of the Farmer-Crush Eradication Program because I have a feeling it will take me at least a month to finish.  Maybe all summer.  But, by the time I’m done, I expect to be totally over the Farmer.  Completely, 100% over him.

Spring Stew

I was excited to see that we got some lamb in our latest Stillman’s meat share.  Half of it was ground lamb, which I used for moussaka, and the other half was stew meat.  Warm, bright weather doesn’t make me want to rush inside to braise anything, but lately we’ve been having just as much rain and gloom as sun, so the Le Creuset hasn’t been retired just yet.

For a little springtime inspiration, I leafed through The Cook and the Gardener by former New York Times writer Amanda Hesser.  I like this book not only because the recipes are arranged by month and season, but also because there’s something about the author’s relationship with her timeworn French gardener that reminds me a bit of my Farmer.  Only their dynamic seems a lot less psychotic.  To each her own.

This braise is greener than the average stew, but just as satisfying.  It pairs spring lamb with asparagus, peas, tarragon, and chervil.  Tarragon, I know and love, but somehow chervil wasn’t ever on my radar.  Which it should be.  It has that lovely anise flavor that I enjoy so much in fennel and liquor.  If you know someone who hates licorice, go ahead and taunt them with this dish with extra chervil.  They’re crazy and they deserve it.

I’m submitting this dish to Kalyn’s Weekend Herb Blogging, hosted this week by Mediterranean Cooking in Alaska.  Look who’s trying to be social again?  Don’t worry, I give it two more weeks, tops.

Lamb Stew with Asparagus and Peas

I served this with roasted potatoes one night and buttermilk biscuits the next.  You need something to soak up all the wonderful gravy, besides your fingers.

2 Tbsp. canola oil
1½ lbs. lamb stew meat (or shoulder or leg cut into 2-inch pieces)
1 onion, sliced thinly
1 carrot, peeled and diced finely
3 Tbsp. flour
½ cup white wine
5 cups beef stock (or veal, chicken, lamb, or vegetable stock, or water)
1 Tbsp. Italian parsley, chopped, stems reserved
3 sprigs thyme
2 bay leaves
10 stalks asparagus, tough ends snapped off, spears cut into 1-inch pieces (or, in my case, last night’s leftover roasted asparagus)
2 cloves garlic, crushed, peeled, and minced
1 tsp. chopped, fresh tarragon or chervil (or both)
1 cup frozen peas
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large, heavy pot that has a lid, heat the oil over medium-high heat.  Season lamb with salt and pepper, and brown on all sides (no bunching up—do it in two batches, if you have to).  Remove meat to a plate with a slotted spoon.

Reduce heat to medium.  To the pot, add the onion and carrot, and sauté until starting to soften, 3-4 minutes.  Sprinkle the flour over the vegetables, and cook stirring quickly for 1-2 minutes.  Add the wine and reduce to 2 Tbsp.  Add the stock and the lamb with its juices, increase heat, and bring to a boil.  Meanwhile, tie the parsley stems, thyme sprigs, and bay leaves together with kitchen string, and add them to the pot (you don’t need to tie them; it just makes it easier to fish them out later).  Once boiling, reduce heat and place cover slightly askew to maintain a gentle simmer.  Cook 1-1½ hours, until meat is falling-apart tender.

While the meat is cooking, bring a medium pot of salted water to a boil, and cook asparagus 1-2 minutes to take the edge off its crispness.  Drain.  In a small bowl, combine parsley, garlic, tarragon, and chervil.  When the meat is almost done, stir in the blanched asparagus, frozen peas, and half of the garlic herb mixture.  Cook 3-4 minutes longer.  Season with salt and pepper, and remove bundle of herbs.  Serve stew sprinkled with reserved garlic/herb mixture.

Source: Adapted from The Cook and the Gardener by Amanda Hesser.

Just the Facts, Ma’am

The numbers are in from Drumlin’s Winter CSA:

Cost of farmshare vegetables for the season: $400
If you helped with the farm work: $300
Broken down by week: $20
Pounds of food per week: 22
What it would have cost at the store: $516
Total money saved: $216
Having your heart broken by the local farmer: Priceless.

A Beautiful Day for a Neighborhood Feud

Yesterday was gorgeous, so the kids and I went for a walk with the neighbors at our favorite farm.  You’ll never guess who I ran into.  The Farmer!  Wearing fewer layers than the last time I saw him.  Yay, Spring.

I assaulted him with my usual script of questions in a most unnatural fashion (starting with the smooth opener: “What are you doing here?  At your place of employment.”).  When that was over, he dove back into his work.  The next thing I know, my Neighbor, who up until that point had been a loyal and true friend, was over there chatting him up. 

I did my best to eavesdrop:

Me: What are they talking about?

Me: Basil, I think.

Me: Basil?  Since when is she so interested in basil?

Me: Since always.  Don’t you remember mooching it off her every year since your own basil is so pathetic? 

Me: Shouldn’t they be done talking by now?  It’s just stupid basil.

Me: Basil is awesome.  And if you’d been smart, you would have been the one asking all the basil questions.

I hope she got the information she needed.  Because she is hereby banned from Drumlin. 

Yet Another Conversation with My Therapist

It’s that time of the month, again.  No, not that time of the month.  Therapy time! 

Things went pretty well last visit, I thought.  Okay, no they didn’t.  But after a series of desperate e-mails and late-night hang-ups, Dr. Typepad finally convinced me to see him again.  (I think my therapist has more problems than I do.)  And the shameless spying continues:

Him: Today, I’d like to try some association games.

Me: Yay, games!  Oh, it’s just those inkblot thingies. 

Him: You’ve seen these?

Me: Only on TV.

Him: They can be rather insightful.

Me: Really?  I always thought they were kind of stupid because, obviously, you’re only going to see what you want to see.  But, that one you’re holding right there?  That one is clearly a pickup truck.  A blue and white pickup truck.

Him: Interesting.  People don’t usually see colors in these black and white prints.

Me: I must be gifted.

Him: What about this one?

Me: A squash.  Duh. 

Him: This one?

Me: An Einböck tine weeder.  This is child’s play.  Give me something harder.

Him: Okay, how about this one?

Me: Oh, I like that one.

Him: What do you see?

Me: I see…wow.  It’s, um…nothing.  It’s a kangaroo.  Can I bring this one home?

Him: Well…okay.  If you bring it back next time.

Therapy is taking a turn for the awesome!

Farmer-Crush Eradication Program: Steps 3, 4, 5

Okay, so I had a few weak moments.  That just means I need to kick things into a higher gear.  So in addition to the Cheating on the Farmer part of the plan (which is ongoing and great slutty fun), I have several other distracting activities on tap:

Step 3: Spring Cleaning 

But for real, this time.  Like windows and shit.  Stop laughing, Husband.

Step 4: Exercise

I know what you’re thinking.  You think the true objective of this is to make myself as firm as possible for my June date with the Farmer.  You couldn’t be more wrong.  It is way, WAY too late for that.  There’s only so much you can do to combat the effects of having 21 lbs. of babies in two convenient installments (I’ll let you do the division).  No, I’m exercising to make myself as exhausted as possible.  Too exhausted to entertain ridiculous notions of free-range farmer love. 

It’s good timing, too, because the Boston Marathon is in less than a week.  Not that I run it or anything, but I get so inspired by the Kenyans kicking everyone’s ass every year that I take up running with a vengeance the very next day.  It never fails.  Then, three to five weeks later, when it becomes clear I’m not cut out for sprinting even sprintable distances, I stop running just as abruptly as I started.

Last year, I took it upon myself to train for this inevitable surge of physical activity so I don’t end up hurting myself.  As motivation, I would pretend I was the lone Mexican in a pack of Kenyans, my short little legs working double-time to keep up with their gazelle-like strides.  Everyone loves a good underdog story, especially me.  So far, I’m up to Part A of Step 3: Put running shoes on feet.  I hope to have my feet on actual pavement by Friday.  And my bloated corpse floating down the Charles in time for Monday’s marathon coverage.

Step 5: Get a Life

Obviously.

Greenlight

Well, this looks like a movie I might want to see.  If they put my farmer in it.

Falling off the Wagon

I was cleaning out all the dirt from my crisper this weekend, taking stock of how many carrots I have left, when I found two little CSA radishes in there.  Six-month-old radishes, yes, but they were still perfectly good and crisp.  There was also a beet.

The rational side of my brain told me to stick with the steps in the program, and whip them into the bushes outside.  But it wasn’t my rational side’s turn to win, so instead I made myself a radish sandwich, fried thin slices of beet until crispy, and started fantasizing about the summertime.  Summer, when we get big bunches of radishes in our farmshare and I can have them with bread and butter and big grains of sea salt sprinkled on top every day of the week if I want to.  Followed by moist slabs of rhubarb cake.  And pick sugar snap peas right off the dewy vines.

For God’s sakes, June, HURRY UP.

Farmer-Crush Eradication Program: Step 2

Okay, people, now it’s time to get back to the serious business of farmer crushes.  My carrots aren’t quite gone, yet.  But, since some of us are getting through this process faster than others, let’s move right along to the crucial next step of my patented Farmer-Crush Eradication Program.

Step 2: Cheat on your farmer every which way.

This is a foolproof plan.  If subtracting food miles got me into this situation, adding them back will surely get me out.  My goal is to put as many food miles as possible between me and the Farmer before the Summer CSA starts.  Strawberries from California.  Pineapple from Hawaii.  Only the finest in European olives and cheeses.  My food will be racking up the frequent flier miles, which, with any luck, will land me a round-trip ticket to Maui where I’m long overdue for a visit anyway (you know who you are). 

I’ve been very faithful to my farmer over the past 10 months.  Maybe too faithful according to the other farmers I'd sometimes find myself heckling (“You call this Swiss chard?”).  But now it’s time for me to sow my wild oats.  Or, rather, my factory-farmed oat substitutes.  Everything I’ve heard about these kinds of tawdry culinary affairs is that they leave you with an overwhelming sense of emptiness and regret, but we’ll just see about that.  What if I eat a lot?  And really, really enjoy it? 

First up, braised fennel with olives.  The cheese, the olives, the fennel itself?  None of it local.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all imported.  Can’t you just smell that precious oil burning?  Let’s see, that’s about 10,000 air miles, which should be enough to get at least a one-way ticket to Idaho. 

There.  I’d like to see me get to first base now!

Braised Fennel with Black Olives

This is my favorite way to eat fennel, and I’ve been fennel-less for far too long.

3 Tbsp. butter
2 medium fennel bulbs, stems trimmed and discarded, bulbs cut vertically ½-inch thick
½ cup chicken stock or white wine or both
½ cup pitted black olives (oil-cured or brine-cured, your choice, but not canned)
¼ cup grated Parmesan or Romano cheese
Salt and ground black pepper

In a large frying pan with a cover, heat butter over medium heat and add fennel in a single layer (or close to it).  Add stock or wine, season with salt and pepper, and cover.  Simmer over medium-low heat, about 12 minutes.  Turn slices over and cover, simmering, until fennel is starting to brown on the bottom and most of the liquid has been absorbed, about 10 minutes.  Turn fennel again so it can brown on the other side.  Add olives and cook, uncovered, a few minutes longer.  Sprinkle with cheese, add more salt and pepper, if necessary.  Serve.

Farmer-Crush Eradication Program: Step 1

It might say spring on the calendar, but that ain’t no spring out there.  The kids and I spent the better part of an hour at the park this morning freezing our donkeys off.  Until I can break out the spring clothes, I certainly won’t be able to wrap my mind around spring ingredients.

Having all these root vegetable remnants from my winter farmshare doesn’t help matters. They’re just a cold reminder of winter’s icy grip on the season, not to mention the steely vice of forbidden love that has clamped itself around my heart.  So, I’m proud to announce my newly launched Farmer-Crush Eradication Program, a multi-but-less-than-twelve-step process to help you cope with the inevitable heartache brought to you by that special farmer in your life.  You’ll be glad to know that I came up with this myself, with no help at all from my dumb therapist.

Step 1: Eliminate all traces of CSA vegetables in the off-season. 

It’s best to do this right away.  Compost them if you have to.  I, for one, couldn’t bring myself to compost them, so instead there’s been some ill-conceived experimentation in my kitchen.  Things with parsnips that tasted horrifically like vanilla pudding.  Things with turnips and molasses that tasted okay in moderation, but they’re definitely not for everybody.  The Meyer lemon gnocchi in the March issue of Food & Wine actually turned out half-decent.  The recipe had a twist where you pan-fry them after boiling, which lent them an interesting hash-brown quality you don’t usually expect in a pasta.  But, would I make them again?  I don’t know.  Gnocchi always seems too heavy to me, which I never remember until after I’ve made them.

Anyway, I’m down to mostly carrots, now.  I’ll have to eat about a pound a day if I want to get to Step 2 by next week.  And I do, I do.  Step 2 promises to be delicious.

Meat and Greet

Today was my first time doing the Stillman’s Farm meat pickup over in Brookline.  Somehow, I’d managed to weasel my way out of it every other time, leaving Karen of Verbatim (my meat partner) to do the dirty work.  But I sucked it up so I could finally meet the farmer and add yet another name to my little black book (though my heart still belongs to another, it’s always a good idea to keep your options open).

I haven’t talked much about cooking from my Stillman’s meat share (except here) not because it sucks.  It doesn’t.  But because when you split a half share and you’re me, it barely lasts the whole ride home.  That’s only, like, five or six pounds of meat.  I’m sure Stillman’s wouldn’t recommend sucking on the frozen packages like they were giant meat popsicles while gunning it through Fast Lane, but we do things a little differently inside the 128 belt.  So, yeah.  Anyway.  It’s not nearly enough.

I was also excited about this meat pickup because I would get to meet one of my readers, Andrea, who recently joined Stillman’s and drives all the way up from the Cape.  Usually, I like to keep a low profile and let people construct outlandish ideas of what I might be like.  But much like the first intimate encounters in a budding romance, sometimes it’s best to get the disappointment out of the way early.

Anyway, Andrea proved to be as nice as could be, and brought me THE BEST present ever.  Have a look:

This shan’t be given the indignity of mud splatters on the bumper of my car.  I will be wearing it on my forehead now and forever.

While I was there, I also ran into Jo of Amuse Bouche, and Tse-Wei and Diana of Off the Bone.  Wow.  It’s almost as if everyone loves farmers!

After buying the Preschooler a cookie the size of his sweet head at Clear Flour, we returned home with the loot.  Here’s what we got: lamb chops, a porterhouse steak, 2 packages of ground beef, a ham, a strip steak, and bacon.  Dividing up the goods is always a huge question mark, but I’m pretty sure those lamb chops have my name on them.  And the bacon.

Mood Swings: In Like a Lion…

Well, we had our last Winter CSA pickup last week and I have mixed feelings about it.  On the one hand, I’m sad because no local veggies means no more farmer visits to look forward to.  Plus, you know, no local veggies. 

On the other hand, I’m kind of mad.  What do you mean I have to buy all my vegetables at the regular grocery store now?  I’ve been all smug and uppity all winter long and there’s, like, three more months until the Summer CSA starts.  Now what am I supposed to do?  What will I lord over my fellow shoppers?

That’s okay.  I guess the Farmer and I could use a little cooling-off period.  Meaning just me.  I’ll get to have a couple of flings with some vegetables I haven’t seen in a while, like fennel.  That’s right —fennel.  And peas.  Not in season, you say?  I laugh in the face of the regular growing season.  That’s what California is for.  And Peru.  And the freezer section.

So, take that, Farmer.  I don’t miss you.  Good riddance. 

Nobody talk to me.