FOOD ON THE FOOD

Jolly Good Broccoli

The Toddler needed a little extra incentive to eat his broccoli last night.  Husband, trying to improve upon his usual dinosaur analogy, encouraged him to pretend he was a giant eating his way through the forest.  The Preschooler, ever the helpful assistant, objected. 

“Giants don’t eat trees," he corrected.  "They eat Englishmen.”

Dinner Sucked Tonight

Too depressed to elaborate.  Just answer me this: what's the hot pepper that’s small, red, and looks like a witch’s crooked finger?  Is it cayenne?  (That would be weird because I like cayenne when it comes powdered in a jar.)  But this?  My god, the stench.  Combined with mussels?  Horrible.  Nauseating.  If only my brain could vomit the memory. 

Will I ever be able to trust the world again?

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.

Peach Blueberry Pie

This peach blueberry pie may be the best pie I’ve ever made! 

It’s shocking for two reasons.  One, because I’m out of practice making pies.  Two, because my oven decided to stop working midway through the baking time.  I didn’t even realize it was broken until hours later when I went to preheat the oven for dinner and it never got past 100°F. 

Suddenly, everything made sense.  How I kept having to add 10 minutes to the baking time over and over again, because the pie filling still wasn’t bubbling the way it usually does when it’s done.  How I kept checking to make sure that when I reduced the heat from 425°F to 375°F, I didn’t accidentally press 75°F.  Because it really didn’t feel too hot in there.  How the whole house didn’t smell like PIE!!!!, but merely pie.  And how I finally gave up and stuck it under the broiler to get the top nice and brown instead of a waxy shade of beige. 

Yes, any combination of these things should have set off warning bells, but no.  I was all, it’s been a while since I’ve made pie.  Maybe they don’t really smell that good?  Perhaps now that summer is waning, I’ve lost all ability to sense heat?  Anyway, I guess the secret to an awesome pie is to bake it fast and furious at the beginning and then long and sloooooow at the end.  You heard it here first, Chris Kimball.

The peaches and blueberries are from Carver Hill Orchard in Stow, where we went peach-picking on Saturday.  Unlike our cherry-picking extravaganza earlier in the summer, this expedition involved a ridiculous amount of whining and misbehavior from the kids.  So much as to render it almost not enjoyable at all.  But the payoff came in the form of pie.  Sweet, sweet solace. 

Peach Blueberry Pie

If anyone wants some, come to my house by noon tomorrow or it will be gone.

Crust
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
8-10 Tbsp. ice water (or more)

Filling
3 lb. fresh peaches (about 5 large or 7 small peaches)
1 cup blueberries
1/3 cup brown sugar
¼ cup white sugar, plus 1 Tbsp. to sprinkle on top
¼ cup flour
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. vanilla
¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1 egg, lightly beaten
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cut into cubes

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump a little over half of the dough mixture in the middle of one, and the rest in the middle of the other.  Flatten the mixture into disks about an inch thick, then wrap them up, and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  Set a large pot of water to boil.  Dunk the peaches in the boiling water for about 30 seconds, then submerge in ice water.  Peel off their velvet cloaks.  Cut into thin wedges, discarding the pits.  To the bowl of peaches, add the washed blueberries, brown sugar, white sugar, flour, lemon juice, vanilla, and nutmeg.  Mix it up and set aside.

Flour your counter and rolling pin well.  The dough shouldn’t stick at all.  Take the larger disk and roll it out about ¼-inch thick, about a foot in diameter.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  Transfer to a 9-inch pie dish by lifting the edge of the dough over the top of the rolling pin.  Gently lift and push until the dough is draped over the rolling pin (a bench scraper or even a spatula under the dough really helps).  Align over pie plate and gently unfurl.  Make sure it’s centered, then brush bottom of dough with beaten egg (this seems to help keep the crust from getting too soggy). 

Pour in the fruit.  Dot with cubes of butter.  Roll out second crust the same way, only slightly smaller.  Using a pastry wheel or sharp knife, cut thin strips for a lattice topping.  Arrange strips like so.  Fold over edges of bottom crust and crimp however you like.  Brush crust and lattice with beaten egg and sprinkle with sugar.  Place pie plate on baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes.  Reduce heat to 375°F and bake until bubbly and crust is richly caramelized, maybe 30-40 more minutes if your oven is functioning properly.  Keep an eye on the crust—if it starts to brown too much, cover with foil.

Let cool until warm.  Serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

Excuses, Excuses

The Preschooler has a funny way of coming up with excuses that make no sense when he doesn’t want to do something.  Husband would say he gets this from me, but that’s because Husband is a big liar who’s always spreading lies about me. 

Here’s a conversation I had with the Preschooler just 10 seconds ago:

Him: Can I have a snack?

Me: Sure.  I’ll get that while you get yourself some water.  Here’s a cup.

Him: But…

Me: But what?

Him: I have no pants on.

Me: You don’t need pants to get yourself some water.

Him: (reluctantly) Oh…okay.

The first in a long list of things one can someday hope to accomplish without pants.

And It Begins

The winter squash I mean.  At the farm today, we got the first of many to come, I’m sure.  These cool nights have arrived a little too soon for my taste.  I like to be under the down comforter at night, don’t get me wrong, but we technically still have over a month of actual summer left.  Let’s not be too hasty.  At this rate, it’ll be snowing by the end of September and we’ll be totally fucked if we decide to do this year’s Eat Local Challenge in October.  (October?  Really?  Thanks a lot, Jen Maiser.)

Anyway, speaking of fall and the elephant-sized pile of squash in the room, I have an article in the September/October issue of Yankee Magazine that’s out right now on butternut squash.  My article starts on page 92, so even if you don’t want to splurge for the soup recipe I was moaning about six months ago, you can at least flip to that page at the supermarket and say to no one in particular, “Hey, I know that idiot!” 

Maybe if I spent as much time sending out query letters as I do blogging, I’d have an actual freelance career. 

Nah.

My Kitchen

Some of you have kindly asked me to stop talking about my kitchen.  You will soon get your wish.  Right after I force you to look at pictures.  But first, lower your expectations right now.  Design*Sponge this is not.  I was just trying to make my dysfunctional kitchen slightly more appealing to the eye while on a tight budget.  Okay?  Are you ready?

Here’s what it used to look like. 

As you can see, the previous owners had a country kitchen thing going on, which really isn’t me.  But after stripping wallpaper off of every other wall in the house (and me being pregnant with the Preschooler at the time), we were too exhausted to do anything except plunk all of our stuff in there and start cooking.  Notice the lovely fruit border?  That image fueled me through the six hours it took me to strip it off.  (Curse newfangled adhesive technology.)  As you can see, I was also in the midst of ripping down the gingham shutters on the windows.  That was quite satisfying, actually.

Here’s what it looks like now.  And, swear to god, if you say it looked better before, we’re through.

 
The yellow paint is Broadway Lights by Benjamin Moore, which may be the first time I’ve ever diverged from my irrational obsession with paint colors named after food.  I was back to my usual tricks with the trim and cabinets, though (Vanilla Ice Cream, also by Benjamin Moore).  The paintings are by Chicago artist Mark Zapf. 

Now here’s the cooking part of the kitchen before painting: 

Notice how I didn’t really bother to tidy up too much?  I thought about not cleaning for the after picture, too, so we can compare apples to apples, but let’s not automatically assume I’m going to revert back to my old housekeeping ways.  Why be cynical?  People can change.

All of my cooking takes place on this beautiful strip of countertop you see here.  You may notice that it’s not a very large space for doing all my cooking.  This is why I fly into a rage when non-cooking-related items get placed on it.  Things like cell phones and wallets and keys and mail and hammers and weed-whacking equipment.  Put them Somewhere Else.

Here’s a close-up of what the cabinets looked like before, as you may recall:

Any better?

God, I hope so.  It seemed a little stark at first, but now I’m used to it.  What you’re looking at here is part of the “butler’s pantry” between the kitchen and the dining room.  Unfortunately, the previous owners ran off with the butler.  He would have come in handy. 

I just have to mention that the cabinet doors took two coats of primer and two coats of paint ON EACH SIDE.  That’s eight coats per door for you math geniuses.  And I only had room to paint them in batches of five or six at a time.  So I guess what I’m trying to say is—cut me some goddamned slack.

Oh, did I forget to show you my refrigerator strategically blocking the doorway?  Silly me.  Here it is:

See?  There are a good two and a half feet over there to shimmy your way in.  Good enough, I say. 

So there you have it.  Would I do it again?  Probably not.  Was it worth wasting my entire summer to get it done?  I guess it depends on how much you like summer.  Although I did have the foresight to pick the rainiest one in human history, so that’s something.  I will say that my kitchen is much cleaner now.  And even though I liked cooking in my kitchen back when it was ugly, I like cooking in it even more now!

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.

The Boycott is Over

It’s been 30 years at a minimum since I’ve willingly allowed a cherry tomato to pass my lips, so disgusted am I by their seedy interiors.  But these?  These little sungolds are like candy.  I can’t get enough.  Here I tossed them with crumbled queso fresco, fleur de sel, and fresh marjoram from out back.  No dressing required.  Perfection.

(Forgot to mention: This is my submission to Kalyn's Weekend Herb Blogging hosted by the lovely Marija at Palachinka.)

It’s Electric

Today, at Codman Farm, I had the intense displeasure of seeing the beef freezer completely empty.  WTF?  Why is everyone so interested in local beef all of a sudden?  (P.S. This is the last time I’m sharing my local sources on the interweb.)

My consolation prize was to stock up on bacon and eggs, which, I’ll admit, did console me.  Temporarily.  Until I was jolted back to discomfort by the realization that, in my dreamy state, I had just allowed the Toddler to be shocked by the electric fence surrounding the goats. 

Oh, shit!

Did you know that goat kids and human kids respond similarly to electric shocks?  They respond quickly and without objection.  And the remorse is sincere. 

Parents respond, too:

Me: What kind of a mother are you?

Me: There’s no sign.  Oh look, now I can see where it’s hooked up to the electricity.  Wow, I bet that really…hurt.

Me: Go touch the fence.

Me: Why?

Me: To find out how bad it was.

Me: I’m scared.

Me: Have you no maternal instinct?

Me: Look, I would gladly touch the fence if it was going to spare him pain, but I don’t really think me touching the fence after the fact is going to help anyone. 

Anyway, I didn’t touch the fence.  The Toddler, with the extra sympathy he received, was back to a somewhat subdued version of his normal self in under 60 seconds.  So now I’m wondering if it would be wrong to employ electric fence technology in our own home?  Like encasing the Preschooler in a cage of low voltage to keep the Toddler from beating the crap out of him every minute of every day?  Any thoughts?

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.

Potato Salad for the People

So, I hear that Chris Kimball, who presides over the Cook’s Illustrated/America’s Test Kitchen/Cook’s Country media empire, doesn’t like his recipes to be tampered with.  (Now, that’s a newsflash!  It’s like Nazi Germany in that test kitchen.)

The blogosphere is in a tizzy over the spanking Kimball’s PR rep gave Melissa at Alosha's Kitchen for posting an adaptation of a Cook’s Country potato salad recipe on her blog.  Which she had courteously credited.  You can get the short version of the story here, or the longer version here. 

I don’t want to take sides, but this is what I’ve gleaned from my blessedly brief foray into copyright law as it seems to be interpreted by our favorite bow-tied cook/publisher:

CI/ATK/CC Fair Use Policy

You can cook our recipes, but only if you’re going to do it right.  You can discuss the recipes, but not on the Internet.  Unless you have permission, which we probably won’t give you.  No modifications or improvisations of any kind are allowed.  We didn’t do all that work for nothing.  (Get your hand away from the spice cabinet—that’s not what the recipe says!)  Also, we did not approve the use of flash photography.  You may, however, draw a picture of your meal, as long as you’re one of our certified artists.  But not if you stink at drawing.  As for the finished dish, let us taste it first and then maybe you can eat it.  Maybe.

That seems like an awful lot of trouble for some potatoes in a little mayonnaise, but I guess running a perfection-based business is no small feat.  Which brings me to my reason for posting.  It must really suck when somebody beats you to perfection.  Especially someone of my questionable talent.  But I seem to have stumbled onto a potato salad that people just will not stop eating.  God, why won’t they stop?  Save some for me.

Really, it couldn’t be any simpler.  My dumb cat can make it.  It was tested maybe three times, without measuring spoons, by a panel of one (1.5, if you count Mr. Nathan).  Still, I’d be willing to submit it to the Cook’s Illustrated taste testers for critique.  They’re uncanny.  If you spit into one of their pies, they can totally tell which one.

Potato Salad for the People

Oh, come on, lighten up.  It’s potato salad, for crying out loud.

12 medium red-skinned potatoes from your farmer, scrubbed (maybe 2 lbs.?)
1 small red onion, large dice
2 Tbsp. chopped fresh dill
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard (or more; sometimes I use prepared horseradish)
1 cup or so of mayo (sometimes I sub in lowfat yogurt for part of this)
1 tsp. salt (heaping is best)
Lotsa black pepper (yes, lotsa is a standard unit of measurement in my kitchen)

Boil potatoes in their jackets in a pot of salted water, 20-25 minutes until easily pierced with knife but before they explode.  Drain and let cool.  Do not peel.

Take about half of the potatoes and mash them in a large bowl or pot.  Yes, mash them good, as if you’re Chris Kimball and the potatoes represent the very soul of cooking.  With the remaining potatoes, mash them ever so gently so that you end up with large chunks of potato that break along their own natural fault lines.  Add the onion, dill, mustard, and half of the mayo, and start mixing.  Add more mayo until you get the consistency that you, the people, are looking for.  I like it thick, so you can scoop it with an ice cream scoop and put it on a cone if you feel like it.  Just kidding, Chris Kimball (blowing kisses).  I’m never going to work in this town again, am I?  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Chill for several hours.  Share it with your friends.

(Don’t try to steal this, Chris Kimball.  It’s copyrighted.)

(I’m serious, I have my eye on you.)

The Kitchen, She is Done

Thank god.  Before-and-after pictures are coming up next week, but first I have to clean all this shit up and make it look presentable.  You know, crystal chandeliers and whatnot.

Do I like how it came out, you might ask?  As usual, the answer is more complicated than it needs to be.  It has to do with one of the reasons why it took me so long to finish in the first place.  I mean, besides my glacial painting pace.  Sometimes, I have trouble leaving well enough alone.

Once I go down the rabbit hole of home improvement, or any big project really, it’s hard to find my way back out again.  Because if I’m going through all the trouble and disruption of painting, anyway, I might as well rip out these ugly countertops, too.  Then, the stove could be centered in the spot where a vent should be.  And then maybe we could actually put in a vent so I don’t set off the fire alarm everyday just because I like a good sear on my meat. 

And then there’s the whole refrigerator situation.  How it just sits there in the middle of the room, blocking a doorway.  It’s convenient when you need something, true, to have it right there in the middle of everything.  But sometimes, I’d just really rather it be somewhere else.  But where?  I’d be in a perfectly good painting groove when I’d find myself just standing there, brush in hand, paint dribbling down my forearm, as I drew up blueprints in my head of what the kitchen should look like.  The next thing you know, an hour has disappeared.  The painting still isn’t done, the kids are up from their naps, and I’ve planned an addition to the house that will never happen.  $%*&@

At some point you just have to say "enough," so I set fire to my mental plans and gave myself a stern lecture. We all want things we can’t have.  Like a better personality, for example.  You just have to learn to work around them.  Paint the goddamned kitchen.  So I did.  It's just a little anticlimactic since the transformation happened so slowly, and many of the original problems haven't been solved.  But it’s fine, I guess.  Maybe I’ll be more excited when I find those "before" pictures. 

At least things can finally get back to normal around here.  Like thinking up something good to do with all these eggplants. 

Into the Wild

Last week, I went on a wild edibles walk at Blue Heron Organic Farm with local foraging expert Russ Cohen. 

I’ve been trying to go on one of his walks for years.  I’m one of those people who, if left to my own devices in the wild, would surely die of starvation within one week.  I assume that every berry is poisonous, every mushroom will make me vomit, and every three-leafed plant is poison ivy.  DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING in the woods.  You might die. 

It’s nice to know that, armed with a little bit of knowledge, you might not die.  For example, did you know that Queen Anne’s lace, before it flowers, has a wild carrot at its root?  That just about blew my mind.  A carrot! 

Of course, without the telltale flower, there’s about a zero percent chance of me ever identifying that plant.  I can’t even identify well-known cultivated plants that have their fruits in plain view, as evidenced by the fact that I had to practically beg the Farmer to put up signs near the PYO vegetables.  Otherwise, in my quest for peas, I might find myself wandering around in a haze amongst the Swiss chard with the bobolinks mocking me. 

Other edible things we (meaning Cohen and the other smart people on the walk) found were wild mustard, blueberries, huckleberries, Concord grapevines, wild husk tomatoes, lamb’s quarters, purslane, wood sorrel, autumn olive, sumac (the non-poisonous variety), an American chestnut tree, and wintergreen.  Wow!  I don’t know why the people at Blue Heron Farm bother to plant anything at all.

Everyone seemed most intrigued, however, by the mushrooms. 

Cohen had to field a lot of questions related to the degrees of toxicity of the mushrooms we encountered.  For example, after coming across the poisonous amanita, also known as the Death Cap, and discussing its toxic properties at length, Cohen was faced with queries like these:

Q: When you say deadly, what exactly do you mean?

A: Deadly.

Q: Like how deadly?  On a scale of 1 to 10.

A: 100% deadly.

Q: So, like, a 10?

A: You will die.

Q: On the spot, or later on in the day?

A: I think you’re missing the big picture.

Despite potential death lurking around every corner, and the mosquitoes chewing up my ankles, it was great fun.  It’ll be a while before I’m ready to fly on my own.  In the meantime, Cohen’s book is shaping up to be an interesting read.  For more information on his local foraging walks, go here.

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?