My Bit of Earth

The Kitchen Reader: In Defense of Food

This month's Kitchen Reader book--chosen by Margaret of Tea and Scones--was In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto by Michael Pollan.  

I can't quite say this book was life changing for me--because the first time I read it I was already starting to generally eat more whole, local food--but it did give me a manifesto: Eat food.  Not too much.  Mostly plants.

There's a bit more to it than that, but not much.  Mainly it's about knowing the difference between "food" and "food-like substances".  

To give you an idea, probably my very favorite of his "tells" is "Don't eat anything that won't eventually rot."  It just seems like good sense, ya know?

Sweet Husband and I have gotten to where we even make a game of it sometimes.  As in,

      "Those Fruit Loops are so NOT food."

    "Oh yeah, well neither are your Mike'n'Ikes!"

But all kidding aside, the book makes a very good case for eating real food, and it does so in a way that's not more judgmental than it has to be.  For example, although Mr. Pollan frowns on high fructose corn syrup and the like, he's very realistic about it.  I get the idea that even he has a handful of Mike'n'Ikes every now and then--just not every day.

In short, if I could recommend only one book to everyone from atop my "food issues" soapbox, this would unquestionably be it.  You can see the rest of Mr. Pollan's "food rules" summarized here, but, really, just go read the book.

Team Mommy is Kind of Awesome

I'm trying to buck up and be a good soldier, but I've been so tired lately.  Like, can't form a coherent sentence at certain times of day tired.  (And--small rant--if anyone else says, "Just wait 'till that baby comes--then you'll really be tired!" I might cry on purpose just to make them feel properly ashamed of themselves.  It may be true, but it's not kind.)

However, one very nice thing about being pregnant is that, other mommies?  Well, they're kind of awesome.

Like Nice Cousin who mailed me a huge box of maternity clothes today.  I am working really hard to figure out what "stuff" we really need for the baby and what we can do without.  My little frugal, green soul just completely rankles at buying gizmos and gadgets that we'll only use for a month and then toss in the landfill.  

Same goes with maternity clothes.  It feels like my size is changing weekly, so it's hard to anticipate what to buy without being wasteful.  But woman cannot live in stretchy skirts alone, and--even using the rubber band trick--my jeans are a bit uncomfortable these days.  It was such a nice treat to come home to a box of cute pants (with stretchy waistbands--hallelujah!) and dresses and shirts and such--all used twice over already, as I understand it, so no guilt there.

And, while Nice Cousin's pass alongs have been the most immediately useful, there have been tons of other people offering baby gear too.  A stroller from Nice Sister-In-Law, some baby clothes from, oh, too many offers to keep track of even....

And that's not even getting into the words of wisdom.  Nice Co-Worker's Wife--who is both local and close to my level of earthy-crunchiness--put together the greatest list of tips about local classes that are good (pre-natal yoga?  I think yes!), baby stuff they loved, things they hated or didn't need, books that were useful....

Basically, it feels like those Verizon commercials, only ten times more handy--a huge network of ladies that all have my back.  Even through my sleepy haze, that is awesome indeed!

A Simple Pickling Rig

I ended up getting cucumber seeds this year from Mrs. Pendleton's personal stash.  I'm starting to suspect they were magic seeds, as they're producing like crazy.  And while a sliced cuc with cheese is a wonderful, cool snack, at some point a girl's just gotta start making pickles. 

In addition to the processed pickle recipe that I used last year, I'm experimenting with fermented pickles as well.  It takes less prep time and the results are supposed to be more crunchy.  

After trying an internet fermented pepper recipe that failed (it was an exercise in how many colors of mold can be grown in one jar), I decided to go buy a book in hopes that the recipes would be better tested.  On glowing recommendation from Marisa, I went with Put 'em Up!, which has been everything I hoped it would be.

In short, these pickles are soaking in a brine full of salt and other yummy spices.  The brine is just salty enough to kill any nasties, while still allowing lactic acid (which is naturally present on the pickles) to grow.  The lactic acid preserves the pickles and gives them their flavor.  The pint glass sitting on top, keeps the pickles fully submerged in the brine while they're "cooking".  And those little bubbles at the top of my jar?  That means the pickles are fermenting just as they should.

I also made another batch of pickled wax peppers from a recipe in the book, but I went with canned this time.  One moldy batch of peppers was enough for me for one week!

Observations, Curiosities, and a Question

1. In order to remain comfortable in my own skin, I typically have to exercise a degree of self-control about what goes into my mouth.  (We're not talking celery-for-lunch deprivation, more like picking the small doughnut over the gigantic one.)  It appears, however, that one of my magical pregnant super powers is the ability to gorge at will with no consequences.  

I'm under instructions (both from our midwife and my mother) to eat healthily--not really a chore at this time of year when produce is ample and delicious--and our midwife even told me I can pretty much eat all the cheese as I can stand.  (I've been waiting my whole life to hear those words!)  Within those guidelines, I've been eating as much as I want, whenever I want, yet the scale stays the same.

While it's a little disconcerting (pregnant people are eventually supposed to get fat, after all), it's also amusing in an Alanis Morisette, "Isn't It Ironic?" way.

2. I cannot stop accumulating yarn, even when I'm being good--my reputation as an adopter of abandoned fiber has grown too large.  Last weekend?  A skien of chocolaty-brown Lamb's Pride pressed into my hands by a weaver who was tired of it.  Wednesday?  Six-hundred-and-some yards of creamy, chunky wool left on my desk by a co-worker.  

While it's such a strain to adopt so much new yarn (*cough, cough--sarcasm*), I'll just have to deal with it all somehow....

3. Macy the Duck cracks me up.  Of all my ducks, she's the one that most still seems to think of me as "mama".  Whenever I come into the yard she quacks loudly in greeting and trails along behind me like she did when she was small.  But she won't come close enough to let me pet or touch her.  She'll come just outside of arms reach and look up at me expectantly, but if I reach out she runs away.  She obviously thinks I'm somebody she likes, but even the best bits of kitchen scraps won't entice her to come nearer to me. 

I'm starting to feel like I need a duck-y psychologist to explain what this behavior means.

4. The pregnancy superstitions people are sharing with me are also cracking me up.  I feel like I can't share most of them here (because, although they're, um...interesting, many are sincere and well-intentioned), but when laughing about it all with Nice Mom the other day she passed on another one that I can talk about.  

Apparently, when she was pregnant with me, her grandmother very seriously impressed on her that she had to be careful not to be scared by anything or I would be born with an ugly birthmark in the shape of the thing that scared her.  As it was storming when we were having the conversation, Nice Mom joked that I should run outside so that the Peapod could be born with Harry-Potter-esque lightening bolt.

5.  It's getting to be about the time of year when I consider booking a little Fall getaway to our favorite little cabin in the woods.  I love going, but I wish it was just a little closer.  Does anyone happen to know of a nice, secluded little cabin that's within a few hours of Kansas City?  One with pretty old quilts and views like this?  Anyone?

 

 

Bibs from Scraps

A little Sunday afternoon sewing project.  

The pattern is "The Best Bib" from JCasa *handmade.  I thought it might be a little fiddly to attach the straps, but the whole thing was actually very easy.  

And between using up scraps of fabric for the outside and recruiting some structurally sound, but not necessarily pretty, old dishtowels as "batting"--other than buying the pattern--these were freebies.  (I'm doing penance for the insane yarn splurge.)

My Tomatoes Have Maturity Issues

I'm a bit worried about the tomato crop this year.  Here it is--July 20th--and this little roma is the first respectable tomato our garden has produced.

The plants look fine--a few wilty leaves here and there, but nothing that screams "disease".  And they're falling over with tomatoes.  But they're all green, green, green.

The only thing that's keeping me from scouring Rodale's and the internet for a diagnosis is the fact that everyone around me seems to be experiencing the same thing.  Friends who garden are just getting their first little cherry tomatoes, and judging from the state of the farmer's market the pro's aren't doing much better.

On the upside, I discovered the first squash bug eggs on the pumpkins this afternoon.  I jumped up and down on them until all that was left was goo, which was very satisfying.

Also, Sweet Husband found four pounds of cucumbers hiding in the cuke vines yesterday afternoon when he was mowing.  These were quickly transformed into seven pints of pickles--very good for nibbling on while contemplating how to help my tomatoes grow up.

I'll Just Be Here Knitting

Believe it or not, sometimes I know myself.  And I've known, pretty much since I learned to knit, that the second I knew we were having a small one, I would go into a manic knitting frenzy.  

I don't think it's all that unreasonable.  After all, the kid has to have clothing, right?  Particularly with a January/February baby--the little bugger could freeze to death without the proper sweaters, caps, and booties--this is not a joking matter!  

And--because I sometimes know myself--I have actually prepared a bit over the years.  I've tucked away a bonnet here, made a little sweater there, so as not to have to fit all of my knitting into just nine months.  But even with my little stash as a bulwark against child neglect charges--between myself and the steady stream of friends and family who have gotten themselves "in a family way" these days--I'm still going a little crazy on the knitting.  To knit, of course, one must have yarn and....

 

....well, I could keep dancing around this and trying to sound better all day, but the upshot is I bought a lot of yarn last week!  (That post about having enough?  Sometimes I don't know myself very well.) 

Despite the haphazard-looking-ness of this pile, I'm actually pretty well organized.  Thanks to the awesomeness that is Ravelry, I know, for example, that there are 36 different kinds of yarn in my stash and that 23 of them actually have projects to go with.  Further, I've started a scrap blanket for those wee leftover bits that are too small to put to another good purpose.

Whether or not 23 projects will get done in the next six months (or even in the next two years) is perhaps a question better left unasked.

And Then There Were Six

Mr. Norah went to her new home last weekend.  Loading her up and transporting her was a little stressful for the both of us.  She didn't want to be caught, so a long chase around the yard ensued.  Once she was caught she was completely shell shocked to be riding in the car.  (In a dog crate, for those of you picturing me riding down the highway with a chicken on my lap!)

But once we got to the farm, I didn't feel so bad for her.  Absolute heaven.  Chickens, horses, buffalo, fields as far as the eye could see....I probably would have moved in if they would have let me, but I could tell from the way Nice Co-Worker's brother expertly lifted Norah out of the crate--as opposed to the half hour of chasing it took me to get her into it--that I had no useful skills to offer them!  

When I left Norah was still trying to get her bearings, but she was starting to cluck and even crow a little.  On Monday morning, Nice Co-Worker let me know that she (and it appears both the name and gender have stuck, even at her new home) was making friends and taking part in the flock just fine.

And now we're down to six again.  It seems we just can't keep up that "lucky" seven for long.  Depending on how we cope with the Peapod's first few months, and depending on how our girls do over the winter, we'll probably get a few more chicks next year or the year after.  I would like to try another Wyandotte (like little Fiona) and another Australorp (like Norah, who was incredibly friendly), or maybe a little Mille Fleur bantam, just because their fuzzy feet make me laugh.

Can We Chat About This Strawberry Salad Again?

[Brief digression:  Thanks so much for all the wonderful thoughts yesterday!  It's so nice to feel all the good wishes comin' in from all over--yay!  And now on to some yummy salad!]

A few months ago, I briefly mentioned that we'd served this guy up for a dinner party.  But it really deserves a little more fanfare than that.

It's official name (courtesy of Jamie Oliver) is Strawberry Salad with Speck and Halloumi.  We actually haven't been able to find halloumi cheese locally, so we use something called "bread cheese".  (You could really substitute just about any mildly flavored cheese and get the same idea though.)  Also, you must have sweet strawberries.  The ones in this particular salad were about a day from going bad, which made them perfect.  

Other than briefly frying the cheese to give it a crunchy exterior, this is no-heat-throw-it-together-in-five-minutes food.  We often just mix it up together on one big plate, scoot together 'round the table, and tuck into it.

Growing Something New

And not a tomato....we're growing a tiny human!

The Peapod--as he or she shall be known in utero, at least--is set to arrive sometime near the end of January.  So far, everything is well.

The day we found out was very exciting, of course, but then there was a definite moment where Sweet Husband and I looked at each other and both were thinking, "What the hell do we do now?"  

So, after a brief celebration at our favorite dinner spot, I started knitting--cause let's face it, this kid will not lack for knitted goods!  Completely frivolous knitting--teensy booties out of pure angora--but aren't they sweet? 

And then I got on a jag and knitted this too:

Only slightly more practical, but...eh!

....And then I was puny and sleepy for a month, and did not do much of anything useful.  But thankfully, I've been feeling better lately, and hearing the small one's heartbeat--which we did for the first time this afternoon--was most helpful.

Basil, Peppers, Onions, Sage, Carrots, Sunflowers...What's Missing Here?

I'll tell you what's missing--tomatoes.

We have, something like, 40 tomato plants in our backyard right now.  Many of them have tomatoes on them, but they're not ripening as fast as I'd like.  One started to turn red last week, so I watched it closely for the perfect time to pick it.  But the chicks were watching it closely too.  In an unguarded moment, someone (I believe the culprit to be Tori, although I cannot convict her beyond a reasonable doubt) picked one little peck out of the back of it, leading the whole tomato to begin to rot.  

But goodness do we have peppers!  One little wax pepper plant is going so crazy that I've started trying to make pepperoncinis on the kitchen counter tops.  And our little basil plants have been prolific as well--several jars of pesto have made it into the freezer for next winter's consumption.

Additionally, it seems I have created my own breed of Sunflower.  Our last summer at the old house (two years ago) we had three kinds of Sunflower growing all at once.  I saved seeds from all of them, and planted some this year.  From the size of the head, I don't think this one has any "Russian Mammoth" in it, but I believe the stripy colors are the result of some interbreeding between my little volunteers and my "Cinnamon" variety.

 Last, but not least, we got some carrots this year.  Please don't laugh--for I know that they are puny and mishappen--but this may be our best carrot harvest ever.  And, small as they are, they made delightful carrot pickles.  (I used Marisa's small batch pickling brine rather than processing them.)

The 26-Hour Baby Shrug

I have a thing where I have to knit stuff for babies.  I do limit it to people I know--well, sort-of, I guess--but, really pretty much all friends who have babies end up with something knitted, whether they want it or not!

But last summer, I somehow missed my Nice Boss's little lady, who did not receive a Meryl-knitted item to welcome her into the world.

Actually, in my defense, I did make her a sweater.  It was the one that got ruined with the rusty blocking pins, remember?  I kept meaning to remake it, but somehow--press-of-work, end-of-summer lethargy--it just never got done.  And, silly as it seems, it's been rankling me a little bit.  Like all was not right with the world somehow.

So, I decided that first birthday presents are just as good as birth presents, and set out to make this little shrug.

Now, I knew this would go pretty quickly.  It's not very big after all, and cotton is reasonably chunky.  But I never imagined just how quickly.  Like, as in, I cast-on at nine at night on a Monday and was casting-off by eleven the next night.  Granted there was a car ride in there, but there was also an oral argument and the ensuing prep, which does cut into the knitting time.  All in all, I'd say it was, maybe, eight hours of actual knitting...maybe? 

It makes me sad that I put it off for so long.  If I had know making the world right again could be done so quickly I would have done it much sooner!

Norah's Death Sentence is Commuted to Life in Rooster Heaven

A transcript of the conversation I had with Norah on Monday afternoon while sitting on the back porch reading:

    Norah: Er-er-er-er-ooooooo

    Me: (shocked) Norah Jones you be quiet!  No more making that noise you hear me!

    Norah: Er-er-er-er-ooooooo

    Me: I'm not kidding--stop that!

    Norah: Er-er-er-er-ooooooo

    Me: Good lord, chicken--hush!

Sweet Husband had been saying all week that he'd been hearing her crow sometimes, but I refused to believe him.  And just at that moment--hearing Norah's obvious crows from his spot in the living room--he tapped on the back window, looked at Norah, and made a sad face.  Truly, she must have crowed ten times, so loud and proud that there could be no mistake about it....

So now we know.  Norah is a rooster.

By Monday night, I had just about steeled myself to Norah's fate.  I had researched the proper age at which to butcher her (between 12 and 20 weeks), figured out the best method, and even watched a few YouTube demonstration videos.  I had also decided that it had to be done in our backyard, because I didn't want to scare or stress Norah out by transporting her somewhere else.  Then we'd have a big feast with good friends, goodies from the garden, and the tastiest roasted chicken I could manage.  The only decision left was whether to call a more experienced friend for assistance or try to go it alone.

Throughout this planning, I was ruthlessly pushing Norah's more charming characteristics out of my mind.  I tried to focus only on the fact that she's had a wonderful life, and even berated myself for my hypocrisy in feeling bad about what had to be done.  (I eat chicken quite often, after all.  Probably even sweet, personable little chickens.  Mostly without feeling too badly about it.)

Despite my best efforts otherwise, the vision of her prancing up to greet me every day when I come home from work was pulling at my heart quite a bit.  And don't get me started on the pictures of her as a little chick!  She's just so darned endearing.  I've been reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle this week, and somewhere near the beginning the author mentions buying some baby animals for meat "and having the good sense not to name them".  FAIL.

But then, Tuesday afternoon, Nice Co-Worker came into my office after lunch.  She had spent the weekend at her parents farm in the country, and had related the tale of my illegal urban rooster.  Apparently, they have a big flock of chickens and have a job opening for an enterprising young rooster--they have very sweetly offered to give Norah a new home.  

So, not only is Norah not getting killed and roasted, she's getting a house in the country and a harem of hens--essentially, rooster heaven.  It's a happy ending for both of us! 

Ella the Duck Learns Something New

 

See that duck on the far left there?  That is Miss Ella Fitzgerald and--although very sweet tempered and endearing--she is a bit slower than her sisters.

For several weeks now, going out to put the chick and ducks to bed would have merely involved closing the door--everyone else goes in the coop automatically at night now--but for Sweet Ella.  Ella could not walk up the ramp into the coop, so instead of going to bed with her sisters, she would sit outside alone and often distraught.  Sweet Husband (who takes the ducky night shift, in exchange for me handling the mornings) would have to pick her up and lift her inside.

Until last week.  Determined that Ella should not be "left behind", Sweet Husband slowly started making her walk up just a little bit of the ramp each night.  Then one night she did it all by herself!  Yay Ella!

Our 4th of July

We blew things up.  (Yes, that is Sweet Sister with a blow torch.  What, doesn't everyone use a blowtorch to light fireworks?)

We drank fruity drinks from pineapples and napped and played in the pool.  (Evidentially, Nice Cousin specializes in artistic, served-in-a-pineapple concoctions.  How did I not know this before?)

We were cheerleaders.  (OK, I was a cheerleader.  Sweet Husband and Nice-Sister-In-Law actually ran in the local "Firecracker" 5K, which was considerably more taxing than clapping and yelling for them as they whizzed by.  They are the rock stars to my groupie.)

A Tough Game of Fetch

"Honey, why is there blood all over the porch?" said Sweet Husband, in greeting this evening.

"Huh?"  I looked up from my book.  "Oh that's not blood that just...wow, that is blood, isn't it?"

I'm working on teaching Moe to play fetch with less activity on my part.  Yes, it's lazy, but--as he gets to play more fetch when I can sit on the porch reading a book with a fan blowing while we do it--he doesn't seem to care.  The rule is that in order for the ball to get re-thrown, Moe must put it in my hand (not on the floor or my lap) with no tugging when I try to take it from him.  When played thusly, I can keep up a rousing game of fetch without looking up from my book.

We were doing just that when Sweet Husband came home and noticed the blood.  An inspection revealed that Moe had torn his pad just a bit in his (removed) dew claw area.  And did he whine or do anything to let me know he was in pain?  Of course not!  That might have ended the fetch game, after all!

He was quite disgruntled as we bandaged him up, but I explained that, tough as he may be about pain, I couldn't allow him to bleed on the house anymore.