FOOD ON THE FOOD

Fun Guy

My mushroom garden is coming along.  Slowly.  In addition to the four shiitake logs from last year, I've inoculated three logs with oyster mushroom spawn and three more with maitake spawn (aka hen of the woods).  But then I ran out of logs.  Perhaps I was overly ambitious when I ordered 300 mushroom plugs.  Remind me not to buy my mushroom spawn on an empty stomach.

Since I still had 100 shiitake plugs left and I didn’t want to take down any trees unnecessarily, I’ve been trolling the mean streets of Waltham for additional logs.  I spotted some in the driveway of a house en route to the park.  One of the guys who lives there could often be seen making modifications to what looked to be a souped-up monster-truck-type vehicle.  Frequently, he could be found washing caked-on mud off of it after what I can only imagine was extreme off-roading.  He seemed like a nice enough guy, though, and who am I to judge other people’s hobbies.  I mean, I write stories about my food.  So, I decided to bite the bullet and knock on his door.

Monster Truck Dude answered.  I asked if he, perchance, had any plans for those logs.  He indicated they were slated for firewood.  I scowled as I looked over at the gigantic barricade of firewood he had already amassed between his house and his neighbor’s yard.  I mentioned my penchant for mushrooms and how those logs could probably grow some good ones.  Edible ones, I clarified.  He indicated that he liked mushrooms.  How many did I need?  I low-balled it at three.  Take four, he said, and you can bring mushrooms in exchange.  I explained that it takes a whole year for mushrooms to establish, but he said that was fine.  Then, I happily hauled four logs into my car and promised to return someday. 

Wow, it’s like this bartering thing actually works!  See, this is where having that extra boob comes in handy.  Perhaps this is the beginning of a high-risk, low yield mushroom CSA!  I imagine getting a permit for that is no problem at all!

Eggsistential Lunch

Here’s what the 4YO and I discussed over our egg salad today:

Him: Mommy, are you a grown-up?

Me: That’s a good question!!

Him: … (still waiting for the answer)

Me: Yes, I’m a grown-up.

Him: … (pondering this)

Me: Did you think I was a child?

Him: No.  I thought you were a teenager.

Hmmmmm.  I’m either very insulted or totally psyched!

Deliciduous Trees

Ever since I successfully identified a black walnut tree in the wild all by myself (which isn’t hard, it turns out, but this suburban girl demands kudos anyway), I’ve been studying up on nut trees in a crazed fashion.  Just ask Husband about my reading material during our Cape vacation: all nut-, berry-, and mushroom-related.  He fears for his life.

Anyway, I’ve been wondering about all these trees we have in our backyard and whether or not they’re anything good.  I mean, they’re trees so they’re automatically good regardless of whether or not they provide me with delicious nuts.  Calm down, Trees.  But what I mean to say is: in addition to oxygenating the air, furnishing a pleasant canopy of shade, and blocking out unattractive urban eyesores, wouldn’t they be even better if they provided me with delicious nuts? 

That’s where you come in.  Yes, you.  You get to help me identify my trees!  Won’t that be fun?  No?  Well, tough crap because I have all these tree pictures and nothing else prepared for today, so dig out your thinking caps and help me figure out what the hell these goddamned trees are.  There are only two for today.

Specimen #1:

Notice the unusual pattern of the bark.  So geometric.  The tree is so tall and shoulder-to-shoulder with maples and oaks competing for sunlight that I literally can’t even see the leaves.  I got out some binoculars to get a better (but still crappy) look, and I did find some fallen leaves that I think belong to the tree in question, so I’ve recreated the leaf pattern as best I could see it:

Alternate, pinnately compound, toothed leaflets, I believe.  The leaves still on the tree are green, by the way, not yellow.  Other potential clues: not a lot of vegetation growing around the trunk unlike the other nearby trees.  Also, high up on the trunk is this ominous-looking thing:

Any guesses as to what type of tree this could be?

Specimen #2:

This tree is still young and small, but, I think, promising.  Look at the leaf distribution.  Also alternate, toothed, and pinnately compound.  Leaflets are arranged in groups of five like fingers on a hand, except the larger trio of top leaves are joined together in the same spot and the two smaller leaves are joined lower on the stem in a separate spot, as if the leaf version of a thumb and pinky finger were growing out of its wrist.  (I would have made an awesome scientist, I just know it!)  Here’s the tiny trunk:

So, nature-loving people, what’s the verdict?  Will Husband be up to his nuts in nuts this fall?  If Specimen 1 is what I think it is, the good news will probably be flanked by bad news.  Perhaps the only thing I should count on come October is the usual ton of raking.

Don't Cry Over...

I’m on vacation at the moment, so I thought I’d leave you with a little something to do besides pine away for your favorite food blogger.  Okay, second favorite food blogger?  Third?

Anyway, you all know Molly Wizenberg, right?  The blogger behind Orangette, author of A Homemade Life, and Bon Appétit columnist.  And you know Matthew Amster-Burton, right?  The blogger behind Roots and Grubs and author of Hungry Monkey.  Well, they teamed up to do a food podcast called Spilled Milk and it’s pretty damned entertaining.  Like how I imagine a podcast co-starring yours truly would be if I had any social skills whatsoever.  I think you should have a listen.  Here’s their latest episode on sour cherries.  Or, if you prefer, the breakfast cereals of our youth.

See you next week!

Serving 1 to Life

I know I pissed some of you off with the tomato theft story.  With so many garden-oriented readers, I can’t help but think I half-hoped to stir up a little controversy with my presentation.  And you have a valid point.  Stealing is wrong, regardless of the scale, regardless of the circumstance. But let me give you the rest of the story, not to excuse it, but to put it in a larger context. 

The garden in question turned out to be in back of my older son’s elementary school.  That there was a garden back there was news to me.  No one had ever mentioned anything about a school garden before.  My son had never laid eyes on it.  The woman who had told me about the tomatoes was affiliated with the community farm through which we have a CSA share, but I didn’t know much more than that.  All I knew was there were unblighted tomatoes behind the school, possibly the only local tomatoes I would see all year, and I needed to figure out a way to get some.  And, yes, I realize that stealing from children only worsens my case for clemency, but let me finish.  Sheesh!

When I showed up at the building, boldly holding two pint containers in my hands, it was a week or so before school was starting.  Teachers were preparing for the new school year and so there was some activity inside the building.  I headed for the office to ask the school secretary about the garden.  She said, what garden?  I said, the garden in back of the school.  She said, we have a garden in back of the school?  I said, don’t you?  Nobody else in the office seemed to know.  This is when I started to doubt the veracity of the woman at the farm.  Where did she get this information?  I asked if I could go out back and look.  The secretary said, go ahead.  I asked if she wanted me to pick her a pint of tomatoes while I was back there.  She didn’t seem to care.

If you missed the tomato story, what happened next is here.  The plants were big and beautiful and yielded tons of ripe little sungolds.  Tons.  I took two pints and change, and barely made a dent.  It was clear that somebody was taking good care of that garden, but who?  Then, when the janitors started banging trashcans against the windows, I figured it was probably them.  I resolved to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible.  As soon as possible after I got those tomatoes into a salad.

Once school began, I started volunteering at the school library.  The library has a long bank of sunny windows in the back that happen to overlook the garden and its woody surroundings.  I asked the librarian about the garden and, as it happened, she knew the e-mail addresses of the two people who planted it.  I contacted them and one of them wrote back to say that the garden was part of a pilot program at the public schools designed to teach kids about where their food comes from and the growing cycle.  One of the grades had planted pumpkin seeds before summer vacation and would be harvesting them that fall.  She said they were looking to expand the garden and get more kids, and perhaps the parents, involved.  Can you guess who the person in charge of the garden was? 

The woman who told me about the tomatoes in the first place! 

Damnit!  I hadn’t been stealing after all!  She had practically given me her blessing. (sigh)

Well, that garden left such an indelible impression on me that I immediately volunteered to be the parent liaison.  Now I help Healthy Waltham, a city-run organization that aims to improve health and quality of life, in organizing parent volunteers to help maintain the garden over the summer (weeding, watering, and, yes, harvesting) so it’s in good shape for lessons in the fall.  They’re hoping that, with more parent involvement, the garden can grow, become more integrated in the curriculum, and serve as an example for other schools around the country. 

Nine families signed up to take care of the garden for a week this summer.  During our week, the kids and I watered the plants, weeded, and mulched the pumpkin patch with straw.  And by “the kids and I,” I mean me.  They sat under a shady tree and read books.  That’s fine, too.

I’m not sure the end always justifies the means, but, in this case, it didn’t turn out too badly.

Constructing Pavlova

So now that you know (or don’t know) the history of pavlova, let’s make a pavlova!

If your experience with meringue is mostly marked by indifference, this pavlova will change all that.  It’s not chalky and tasteless the way some structured meringues can be.  Long, slow baking forms a thin, crisp shell on the outside while the middle stays soft and marshmallowy—a billowy, free-form cloud in the palest, purest shade of pink, like brand-new pointe shoes.  That outer shell is fragile enough that if you pile your fruit too high, as I did, the middle collapses slightly.  I suspect that’s why the whipped cream was introduced in the first place.  To cover up the fissures and sinkholes that arise when one of your major ingredients is just air.  That’s my theory, anyway. 

But the combination of sweet meringue, not-to-sweet whipped cream, and sweet-tart berries, along with the contrasting textures of crisp and yielding is absolutely delightful.  Which is why I ate all of the leftovers at 11 p.m. that night.  You know, because they wouldn’t taste as fresh and wholesome the next day!  Best of all—and I hope you’re reading this, Mom—pavlovas are gluten-free.  So, if you’re allergic to wheat, then consider this a very worthy substitute for strawberry shortcake.

Pavlova

Save the unused egg yolks for lemon curd or pasta dough or whatever else you make that could benefit from some extra richness.

4 egg whites
Pinch salt
1 cup sugar, whizzed in a food processor (or super-fine sugar)
1½ tsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. vinegar
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp. sugar (optional)
Splash of vanilla
1 quart strawberries, raspberries, black raspberries, or other seasonal fruit

Preheat oven to 250°F.  Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and trace an 8-inch circle on it in pencil using a cake pan or bowl as a guide.  Turn the parchment paper over so you don’t get pencil on your meringue (but make sure you can still see the circle you just drew).

Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt in a large, clean bowl.  It’s very important that your bowl is grease-free and that you separated your eggs cleanly, with no broken yolks mixed in with the whites.  Any fat will interfere with the whipping process.  When soft peaks form, begin adding the sugar 1 tablespoonful at a time with the mixer running.  Continue beating on medium-high speed until stiff, glossy peaks form, about 5 minutes.  Rub some meringue on your fingers to make sure all the sugar has dissolved.  Lightly but thoroughly fold in the cornstarch and vinegar.  These ingredients are not optional.  They are necessary for that magical texture I described.

Gently mound the meringue in the center of the parchment and lightly spread it to fill the circle you traced.  With the back of a spoon, shape it so that it’s higher on the sides and dipped like a well in the middle.  Don’t fuss with it too much, though, or you’ll lose air.  It’s meant to look free-form.  Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes, until it’s just starting to take on some color and crack slightly (cracks are totally fine).  Then turn off the heat and let the meringue sit inside with the oven door ajar for 30 minutes.  Take out and let cool.

Assemble just before serving.  Whip the cream in a clean bowl with a splash of vanilla and perhaps a bit of sugar (though the meringue is sweet enough that you don’t need much) until soft peaks form.  Mound the cream in the well and top with seasonal fruit of your choosing. 

Local Ingredients:

Eggs: Chip-In Farm, Bedford, MA
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA
Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries: Various local farms via Verrill Farm, Concord, MA

Deconstructing Pavlova

I made a pavlova for the 4th of July because that’s the kind of American I am.  The kind that doesn’t let patriotism veto her dessert choices.  No one at the table was exactly sure what a pavlova was or where it came from, but we had fun speculating nonetheless.  Names have been omitted to protect the innocent:

What’s a pavlova anyway?  A cake?

No, isn’t it more like a free-form soufflé with whipped cream and fruit piled on top?

Somebody described it one time and it sounded like an omelet.

An omelet?  For dessert?  Yuck!

It’s not an omelet, it’s a meringue.  You don’t fall in love with a Russian ballerina, create a dessert in her honor, and then unveil…an omelet.

Could happen.  Men are retards.           (<--this wasn’t me, by the way)

I didn’t know it was named after a Russian ballerina...

Yeah, Anna Pavlova. 

She must have been pretty hot.

I thought it was named after a singer.

What singer?  Luciano Pavlova?

(Somebody starts singing O sole mio in fake Russian.)

No, you idiots, it was named after Pavlov’s dog.  Remember?  Somebody rings a bell and you immediately take a bite of pavlova. 

That’s not how the story goes. 

Who would name a dessert after a dog anyway?

I would if my dog could dance in pointe shoes!

Shhhhhhh.  The Russian spies don’t take kindly to people insulting their national heroes. 

So then pavlova is a Russian dessert?

No, Australian.

I’m so confused.

The guy who fell in love with Pavlova and invented the dessert was Australian.  Maybe.

Did he own a dog?

There was no dog!!! 

Wikipedia says it was invented in New Zealand, not Australia.

Whatever.  All I know is if pavlova was invented somewhere down under and they were hell-bent on naming it after a dancing animal, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be a dog.  It would be a kangaroo.

No, a wallaby!

And to think I was once a fact-checker!  Coming soon: a recipe.

Secret Garden

Here’s a story for you.  Last summer amid my health woes, my teenaged niece came to visit from Hawaii.  Her stay was pretty much the only ray of sunshine that whole summer.  She babysat the kids, helped out around the house, and generally entertained us with her perky self for two weeks.

While the summer as a whole is a big black hole in my memory, I remember lots of things about her visit: watching food TV and enjoying her wisecracks during that paper-thin window of time between when the kids went to bed and my own eyes involuntarily clamped shut.  Fishing at Spy Pond (mostly fishing lures out of trees at Spy Pond).  Me setting a good example for said niece by getting pulled over by the cops for a traffic violation. And then there was the tomato-picking.

You may recall last year’s widespread tomato blight.  Every farm in the area was hit and even people’s backyard plants were doomed to the same terrible fate.  I didn’t see a ripe local heirloom tomato all summer, which was very depressing indeed.  Until.  Somebody snuck me some classified information.  Apparently there was a stand of sungold cherry tomatoes on public property within the Waltham city limits that was entirely free of blight and ready to be harvested.  The woman who told me this said it so casually, I almost didn’t believe her.  Didn’t she realize this was THE BEST NEWS EVER? 

I didn’t ask any questions.  With no time to lose, I took another hit of my anti-nausea meds and pointed my niece and kids in the appropriate direction.  My niece, who spent most of her formative years on an organic garden bursting forth from fertile, volcanic island soil, patiently indulged me.  When we got to the building in question and walked around back, I didn’t see the garden anywhere.  I’d been tricked!  What kind of a person lies about tomatoes to a cancer patient?  As we turned around to trudge back, my niece noticed what looked to be a patch of kale.  Yes, that was definitely kale.  Well done, adolescent human!  What more dost thou youthful eyes behold? 

And there they were.  High up on a terrace of a south-facing slope were the tomato plants, golden orbs shining like treasure.  No wonder nobody had found them—they were growing ten feet above our heads.  You had to pass underneath several retaining walls, then walk up the far side of the hill to access them or even see them.  The garden was completely encircled by a sprawling edifice on one side and conservation land on the other, and, beyond that, train tracks, a cemetery, and the Charles River.  A more protected tomato fortress I cannot imagine.

I felt exhilarated—thrilled to encounter this pristine patch of perfect tomatoes, completely disease-free against all odds.  We got to work filling up two pint-sized containers with the taut, sun-burnished fruits, popping some into our mouths as we went.  Finally, the janitors in the building overlooking the garden started banging trashcans against the windows to put a stop to our small-scale looting.  It worked!  We scuttled away giggling, mouths full, tomato juice dribbling down our chins.

I bring this up for three reasons: 1) I miss my niece; 2) I’ve developed a relationship with this particular garden (a healthy one—more on this later); and 3) Sometimes beautiful little acts of disobedience are the best medicine. 

Cute Chicks

The 4YO’s preschool class recently raised some chicks!  One of his teachers obtained some fertilized eggs from Codman Farm in Lincoln and kept them in an incubator in the classroom.  On each egg she penciled an X on one side and an O on the other.  The eggs needed to be rotated several times per day (including nights and weekends), and the markings helped ensure that none of them got missed.  The class kept a calendar and the children counted down the days until they hatched. 

Several weeks later, two little chicks emerged.  (There were more than two eggs, but it’s true what they say about not counting your chickens before they hatch.)  Still, they had each other, and the smaller, balder one cuddled up underneath the bigger, fluffier one for warmth.  All the kids were crazy about the chicks, but especially the 4YO (I may have mentioned his bird fixation).  He staked out a special spot next to the cage during his afternoon rest time, often falling asleep from the warmth of the heat lamp and their soft peeping.  I tried not to be too disgusted when I found wood shavings from the cage all over his naptime blankets.  (How soon I forget about animal-induced filth now that we’ve been a cat-free household for a year.)

Needless to say, the 4YO got pretty attached to the chicks, especially the fluffy one, which he declared to be his favorite.  I tried to make an argument against favoring the pretty ones over the runty, less attractive ones, but I gave up.  Let’s face it, you like who you like.  (Whom you like?  Grammar, sometimes you cramp my style.) 

But soon the chicks had to be returned to the farm where they would live out their chicken lives as egg-layers.  We presume.  The chickens at Codman have a pretty sweet life with their mobile coops and grassy pasture.  Still, I knew it would be a bittersweet goodbye.   The 4YO seemed okay at separation time, but then he was quieter than usual on the ride back home.  While we were sitting at a traffic light, I heard a soft voice from the back:

Him: Mommy, I love that chick.

Me: I know, honey. 

He didn’t say anything else the whole way home. 

The next week, I brought him to Codman to check up on his chick.  At least I think it was his chick.  Who can tell?  I just picked the fluffiest, yellowest puffball and declared it a reunion!  The chick was now fully immersed with dozens of other preschool-aged chicks in their own little pen right next to the pen with the emo teenaged chicks and some crossover ducklings.  It was pretty loud in there.  The 4YO joined the ruckus, squawking away happily in the hen house.

Phew.  His first chick-related heartbreak averted!  But it surely won’t be his last.