Truly Madly Spring

Let the games begin! What a beautiful day. It was just too gorgeous to be inside so I took a break from the keyboard and attacked the garden in an attempt to get the onions in. The Field Supervisor was on the job taking stock of my spacing. I think it's time to build a dibbler. It would really ease the process.

As it was I only managed to plant the shallots and red onions before total exhaustion took over. I've had some medical challenges this year and I'm not quite up to snuff in the stamina department. I've yet to get the Spanish onions and scallions in the ground. But in the process I dug up these two quite robust shallots (in foreground) which gave off a very oniony aroma. I suppose you could say it's the first harvest of the season.

Along with these two little carrots and a scallion that were hiding in the soil too.

Crop rotation is on the agenda this season in order to get the most bang for my soil buck. Carleen Madigan suggests planting onions after tomatoes and that's exactly what I am doing.

San Marzano Heirlooms

Last summer my very sweet elderly Italian neighbor gave me some of his heirloom San Marzano paste tomatoes. My neighbor speaks limited English, so I don't always understand everything he shares with me, but our common love of growing vegetables puts us in daily discourse, comparing recipes and trading the fruits of the earth. He was very clear with me that if you plan to save the seeds of tomatoes, you must always pick the fruits that sit lowest on the vine.

I saved some of the seeds and just planted a couple, it seems only a week or two ago. Sure enough, the robust San Marzano was the very first seedling to pop its head above the soil. I expect great things from this little guy this summer.

San Marzano Heirlooms are prized by those in the old-country as the superior paste tomato of Napoli, Italy. They produce such an awesome tomato sauce you will wonder how you ever lived without them. Lower in acidity too. Goodbye Romas.

Seed Potatoes Have Arrived

This season I ordered Blue Russian, Purple Caribe, All Red, Red Pontiac, Norland, Yukon Gold and Burbank Russet. These, in addition to my seed potatoes from last year's crop and the TSP that are trying their best to hang on. One day I plan to have enough land to plant wagons full.

Aren't those purple shoots just gorgeous?  Absolutely regal. Should anyone be this excited about seed potatoes? I'm already looking forward to the fall harvest. It's like digging for buried treasure.

Freshening Your Experience

Nothing says spring to me like a new pair of gardening gloves. I picked up this "washable" leather pair yesterday for the bargain price of $9.99. They'll last me one season at best. I'm rough on gardening gloves. Seldom does a pair see two seasons. So I look forward to this purchase each spring as a sort of freshening of my experience.

It's an approach I've taken to any loss in life. Be it the demise of a pair of loved gardening gloves to the loss of projects, people, possessions or perceived purpose. With every loss comes the chance to freshen your experience. To live in the winter of "I don't know" for a while. Then to make bold new choices. Take daring new risks. Embark on wild new roads. This life is ours after all, isn't it? Reaching inside to unearth your deepest, most authentic self is the work. The renewal of spring provides a marked opportunity to do so.

The barren trees are now full of chirping red-winged blackbirds who are singing about the new nests they will build.

Buds that promise pink lilac blossoms are bursting forth from bare branches and neighborhood cats again stroll the warm brick paths that wind through gardens that soon will be lush with life. 

      

With so much turmoil in the world, how fortunate we are to be right here, right now, with the immeasurable possibilities that lie ahead.

Where The Wild Things Are

Sometimes you just need to be with wild things.

I headed out to my cousin's farm yesterday for some serious face time with the bison and wild boar. 

D.O.G. kept me company.

The Bison come right to him. He's of the earth. There's an understanding.

My cousin raises bison, wild boar and free range grass-fed beef. You know, the kind that's actually got Omega 3s in it. 

If you eat meat, as I do, free range and grass-fed is a healthier choice than beef raised in feedlots. It's a no-brainer that corn-fed cattle with acid stomach can't be a good thing, for the animal, or the consumer. 

Happily, everything on my cuz's farm is all natural, no antibiotics and free range. These bison travel all over the vast acreage at will.

In the past, his bison meat primarily went to customers on the nearby reserve, but today 50% of his business comes from city dwellers who drive up to buy direct from his farm shop. Farm to table. No middle man. People are increasingly concerned about their food sources and sales reflect that.

Bison meat is lower in fat and cholesterol and higher in protein. It's also hypo-allergenic. Roasted bison has 60% more calcium, 500% more iron and 350% more zinc than roasted skinless chicken breast. The bison burgers we ate for dinner were delicious. Filling, but without that heavy, bloated feeling you get after a greasy beef burger.

I heard there'd been trouble over at the wild boar enclosure. So I checked into their digs before dinner.

There was a lot of the regulation rooting around.

But this alpha sow had been up to no good.

She's the likely candidate responsible for the infanticide of a litter of four piglets in the last month. Wild boars have a gnarly look about them, but their piglets are just adorable. The piglets have similar markings to chipmunks. Unfortunately maternal infanticide is an issue with wild boar in captivity. They need a larger enclosure or separation during farrowing or the alpha females will kill off the other females' offspring.

In the wild, new mothers can try to escape to protect their young from the marauding alpha females, but not so in captivity if the enclosures are not large enough. It was too late to save the young mother's babies this time, but changes are being made. It's always a dance of logistics. Coyotes can take them all if there is no fencing.

Meantime this miserable old girl who has been terrorizing the others is headed for the butcher. Isn't it often the case, that leaders who kill off their own tribe to hold onto power often end up on the slab themselves.

Wordless Wednesday

Memories of last summer

When Goals Collide

The Field Supervisor (pictured below) has been staging an intervention, and it's gotten really ugly. Property damage has occurred. The Field Supervisor wants me to stop working. To move away from the keyboard and reconnect with things that are more grounded and meaningful to her: the garden, playing ball, social interaction. The intervention began slowly at first: blocking the monitor, stretching across the keyboard, verbal reprimands, but things quickly progressed into a destructive assault aimed at disabling equipment altogether. If I wouldn't willingly leave the office, I would be forced to. Note the unsightly tin foil on the far right of the photo. It is covering up wires to a speaker and a graphics tablet. This is to discourage the razor sharp teeth of the Field Supervisor who has already severed the cables of a zip drive, a USB and two firewire devices, all while staring directly at me with a ferocity of malfeasance I have never witnessed before. This is new behavior. The act of one very frustrated feline.

I admit I tend to be a compulsive worker at times. It takes a while to get the creative engine running, but once it's gathered a head of steam, I hammer all the way to the station. I'm loath to leave the chair. The Field Supervisor is correct of course. We better flourish when there is balance in all things. I do know this. I wrote about it in my book The Emotional House. A balanced life is a happier life. Yet there are times when concentrated effort is valuable too. The muse can be a tough taskmaster.

Once the weather turns warmer the call of the soil will take over, which will make the Field Supervisor much happier. My patio always becomes my outdoor office. I drag the whiteboard, bulletin board and the laptop outside. Laptops are such a godsend. Freedom. Any time you hit a roadblock you can do a little weeding and in no time find yourself right back on track again.

I was hoping to get a jump-start on the spring seedlings for the garden, but that goal has been delayed due to the compulsive working. Today I'm finally harvesting all the delicate salad greens that have been thriving under the grow lights to make room.

Next on the list is plotting out a plan for the vegetable beds. I've been inspired by so many other bloggers who have been posting their plans online. What a wonderful asset the online gardening/farming and sustainable/frugal living community is.

August in February

It's that time of the season when I just long for a verdant garden to putter in. The garden plays such a large role in my writing life. Digging in the dirt is how I unearth story. In the planting months I dig, rake, hoe and mow, racing intermittently to the page to jot down a plot point or to my dry erase board to scribble quick beats. The heavy lifting of getting it all into script form comes later in the garret.

But the winter months are not a complete loss. There's always the potential of making a stew from goodies that have been developing in the story cold cellar. Things have been percolating lately bringing some interesting past and present experiences together for a future story. It's a blend of dried up events, things canned up inside, ones growing under false light and fresh ideas from organic sources. A bit of a ratatouille so to speak. Story is like that, a gathering of experiences and observations that come together for a rich meal.

The makings of Ratatouille.

From under the grow lights... fresh homegrown parsley.

From the cold cellar... August's garden garlic, canned tomatoes, onions, lots of dried basil and thyme.

A sprig of fresh rosemary from a small bush I received as a gift. What a great Christmas gift, huh? (Note the field supervisor inspecting quality of said bush.)

From the winter CSA... organic zucchini, eggplant, peppers.

Guilty pleasures, Fleur de Sel (French salt), Italian Serego Alighier Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

Saute vegetables individually in olive oil. Onions, Peppers, Zucchini, Eggplant. Remove to a bowl after each vegetable is sauteed. Combine together in a hot pan again at end, add tomatoes, herbs and garlic, cook covered on medium heat for 20 minutes. Uncover, reduce fluid. Add a splash of white wine for a deeper flavor (or keep it virgin if you want a fresh taste). Flourish with salt and fresh parsley before serving.

Glacier Warning

I've seen Deer Crossing warnings, even Moose warnings, but never a Glacier warning. Apparently they do exist. Thanks to blogger Frugal Kiwi, we have a photo. Beware of falling glacier whilst swimming. Frugal Kiwi is one of nine blogs up for a Homie as the Best Green Home Blog of 2011.

A Way To Garden, written by corporate dropout, Margaret Roach, is another. Margaret was a major editorial and publishing player at Martha Stewart Omnimedia when she decided to leave behind a successful career to garden. Her memoir about the experience, "And I Shall Have Some Peace Here," is releasing in a couple of weeks. Check out her blog and the others at the Homie link to see who you'll vote for.

Of special mention: Margaret's January 30th post is a call to action for people to write the White House about the new USDA decision to rubber stamp genetically engineered alfalfa. She even provides links and phone numbers.

My Cup Runneth Over

I bake all my own bread. Have for years. Enjoy it immensely. Usually I use yeast, but occasionally I switch over to leaven, until I can't take it anymore. I don't know about anyone else, but I find maintaining a starter to be exhausting. Last night I fed my sour dough starter and left it on a sideboard. This morning a huge pool of starter spread across the wood. Totally my fault. Too small a bowl. I couldn't be bothered to clean out the larger bowl that had the remains of another starter in it. It's a real mother of a thing keeping a starter. (Bakers will get that joke. And doubtless, it's been told a million times.)

The bread made from leaven is so much tastier than that made from yeast in my opinion. So when you feel like getting your hands into some baking for a while, this is the way to go. Or, if you need to bake bread everyday for your large crowd.

Here is the result of a loaf made with this starter. It's Chad Robertson's Country Bread recipe from his book, Tartine Bread, a book I got for Christmas this year. The way the recipe is written, it is clear that Robertson's purpose is to train bakers to think about baking using ratios. It's not the easiest thing to follow. I find myself rereading the paragraphs over and over looking for where I left off, and where to pick up the next step. The cause may be the book design itself. Nonetheless, if you persevere, you will get an exceptional loaf well worth the effort.

New Year's Resolutions

I know I'm late to blog about this, but I was dug into the writing garret, so, having emerged finally... New Year's Resolutions. I made a ton this year, and I look forward to every single one. Here's six of mine. I hope you all made resolutions that included fun, not just punishments aimed at being a better you.

• Eat only farm fresh eggs purchased directly from a farm I know. (A weekly drive to the country, hooray!)
• Make cheese... again. Branch out to include hard cheeses this time. (A challenge I look forward to.)
• Tap a Sugar Maple and make syrup. (I can't wait for this one.)
• Cross country ski... again.  (It's been decades. But Sara Polley's film Away From Her reminded me of how ethereal the experience was. Shush, shush, chirp, chirp.)
• Build a cob oven. (I hope I can summon the forces with muscles to join me.)
• Ice skate... again. (Also decades, and I've already tried it. Treacherous. But... check.)

I'm Against Plastic

Everyone who knows me is aware that I have been in a war against plastics for decades. I don't like to wear it, store my food in it, and especially consume it. Yet it is a war that I will never win as a consumer. That's why I have been researching ways to raise fiber crops and am trying to learn how to spin fiber, weave and knit. It's a way to take charge of what I wear and live with.

My mother's knitting needles await

Currently all my rugs, linens and clothes are wool, cotton or silk, but it is getting increasingly hard to find. Especially now that manufacturers are making synthetic cottons and passing them off as natural.

Everything, including jeans, has plastic in it these days. Those "stretch jeans" are full of plastic. If we can put nicotine and birth control patches on our skin and absorb the medicinal compounds therein, what makes us think we are not absorbing the contaminants in plastic garments as well? I'm just saying.

Offgassing. This is a word I hadn't even heard of years ago. Now it is a normal part of my everyday speech.

We now run water through PVC piping. Kettles and coffee makers are plastic. Our rain barrels and composters are plastic. I regret using plastic sheeting for my hoop houses. (I intend to construct a glass greenhouse as soon as possible. But glass is difficult to find in the ubiquitous consumer grade greenhouse kits.) Everything is poly-something or other. I'll likely have to have a conservatory built.

Screenwriter Buck Henry's prophetic word "plastics," which he predicted as the industry of the future, in the 1967 film The Graduate, meant perhaps more than even he dreamed. From the cars we drive to the computer I am typing on now, plastics have wound their way into every aspect of our lives... including the food chain. Chewing gum for instance. Tell your kids not to swallow it!  Synthetics like polyvinyl acetate are used today for gum base; a component used in wood glue. Gum base is also made from polyethylene, the plastic used in shopping bags; and butadiene-styrene rubber, which is used in car tires.

Last night my cousin had an unfortunate plastic encounter. She was chewing gum that got caught in her throat. She ended up with a tracheotomy.  "Plastics!!!"

Locavore No More

P.E.I. oysters have been my downfall at trying to eat locally. I've been on an oyster jag lately. Buying them in bulk and secretly shucking them with wild abandonment when no one's around. (When you're alone, there's no need to share; such despicable behavior!) The only problem with shucking your own oysters is that it is virtually impossible to resist devouring them the instant they are freed from their razor-sharp shells. I shuck and wolf, shuck and wolf, shuck and wolf. Screaming with delight at each mouthful. It's gluttonous behavior.

But I swear I can smell the very air of P.E.I. with each delicious morsel. And that is half of the draw. Perhaps it's a longing for the cool spring season and sea that has brought this on. The indoor garden has not satiated this longing. (Note the potatoes finally rearing their heads in that bag of soil.)

The salty flavor of the oyster's liquor reminds me of the red roads, Cavendish Beach dunes and the white lighthouses of Prince Edward Island. A truly magical island off the east coast of Canada.

When I was just out of my teens, my brother and I drove across eight states and provinces to visit a relative who had bought a home in the tiny village of Bedeque. Once there, we signed on to pick oysters for some much-needed cash. We lasted about two hours. It was pouring rain, cold, miserable and the oyster beds in the frigid Atlantic waters had already been picked over. We were paid $7 for 2 pecks. I recall us looking at each other and wondering just how much a peck was, until a large crate was set in front us. We left with a mere $15 between us, and I stayed away from oysters for many years after that.

Until 1986, when at a reception for the Dora Mavor Moore Awards (Canada's version of the Tonys) my interest was revived. I had produced a couple of plays that were nominated and felt quite righteous in my entitlement to graze at the buffet of the catered event. William Lord, then Theatre Officer for the Ontario Arts Council, accompanied me as we shamelessly plundered the very neglected oyster bar for the better part of twenty minutes. We gorged ourselves silly. You can eat a lot of oysters in twenty minutes, believe you me, and we both kept exclaiming that this was utterly criminal behavior. Criminal, criminal, criminal! Yet no one stopped us, nor seemed at all interested in the oyster table as we continued on. I guess oysters still bring out the food-felon in me. It's hard to be a locavore.

17 Acres and a Good Barn

I am finally resurfacing after several weeks in the writing garret. Another deadline met and now I lift my head from the page to see that the earth has continued to spin on its axis without my help, thank you very much.

I love a deadline, as most writers do. It's difficult to impose one on one's self but when it is imposed on you it is a motivational joy. I have always been fascinated by other writers' processes.  For me, it's a fairly simple one. Once you get beyond the gnashing of teeth and obsessive cooking, the cleaning phase begins. This is always the sign that the writing will soon commence. I must have a spotless environment (a clean slate so to speak) before I begin. When the household is tiptop from attic to basement with neat piles of clean laundry at the ready I can sit down, fire up Movie Magic Screenwriter, and begin.

Of course then all hell breaks loose. For weeks dishes and papers pile up. Wastebaskets go untended. Clothes accumulate everywhere (sometimes you have to kick your way into the bedroom.) Engagements are canceled, invitations declined and I become downright unsociable. I cannot interrupt the momentum for fear of threatening completion of the work. I am also unable to sleep. Tortured by storyline and the babbling characters that insist I jot down their seemingly vital dialogue at 4:15 in the morning or lose it altogether. But it's my process, and in the end, a new creation is born.

So now I take my brief postpartum break and return my attention to other issues. Like... seventeen acres and a good barn. This is what my aunt (a former farmer and farmwife) tells me I require for my hobby farm dream. If you plan on keeping animals, you need pasture. That's the long and the short of it. Seventeen acres is what she recommends for my modest vision which is beginning to grow daily, to now include sheep, milk and fiber goats, chickens, a Dexter cow or two, and the latest... teacup pigs. I must have two of those now that I've discovered that they exist. At least I haven't branched out to camels like The Inadvertent Farmer. I draw the line at camels... although... Alpaca... hm.

So I hit the MLS again today, paging through listings only to discover that what I need is a little out of reach financially. But isn't that always the way. The life you strive for always has some reach to it; else you are not stretching for greater things. John F. Kennedy said, "We chose to go to the moon in this decade and do other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard." I love that sentiment. It always inspires me to push onward.

The blogosphere continues to be an encouragement as well. There are people out there living in yurts! Happily, I might add. I do need a few more creature comforts than yurt life offers. Access to DSL for one, so I can continue on professionally, but thinking outside of the box isn't a bad thing.  Is it?

And so, it is back to cooking before I tackle the next draft. Since I strive to add a photo to every blog post here is the preparation stage for David Tanis' Saffron Carrots recipe, which I made last night.

Very tasty. Carrots and garlic from the garden. Butter, saffron threads, zest of lemon, salt and pepper and water.  Quick to make, too. I ate a full serving of cooked carrots, which is rare. I prefer my carrots raw.

Thanks David.  Page 27 of his wonderful cookbook, A Platter of Figs, which I recently bought along with his other cookbook, Heart of the Artichoke. Yup, Amazon got me with the old buy-two-for-the-discount-price thingy.  Anyway, one of the great things about his cookbooks, besides the marvelous photos, are the little stories that accompany each. Now that's a cookbook that really works for me.

Bird feeder visitors

I don't think this fella was after the birdseed, however.

Icicle Pickles

Every family has their Christmas traditions and icicle pickles are one of ours. These pickles just taste like Christmas to me. My Great Grandmother made them every year and my mother continued the tradition and it is still is being passed down through the generations.

Once you commit to them, the house fills up with the heavy smell of boiling vinegar for days. But at the end you have crunchy tart/sweet delicious Christmas pickles. It's a marathon though... 

Here's the recipe exactly as given to me.

Icicle Pickles

12 Quarts small cucumbers

2 ½ Quarts white vinegar (10 cups) 

16 Cups white sugar 

1 Tbsp celery salt

1 Tsp cassia buds 

alum

Day 1-4 

Make a brine by adding 2 ½ cups salt to 6 Qt water. 

The brine should be strong enough to float an egg; if not add more salt.

Clean and quarter cucumbers and put them in the brine. (or slice thinner if cucs are larger) 

Stir once a day for 4 days.

Day 5 

Drain off the brine. 

Fill with boiling water enough to cover the cucs.

Measure the alum, in your hand, about the size of an egg.

(This is old farm people measurement technique.)

Add alum to the water.

Day 6

Drain again.

Combine white vinegar, white sugar, celery salt, cassia buds 

Bring to a boiling point to make a syrup.  Pour syrup over the cucs.

Day 7–8–9

Drain syrup off and bring it back to a boiling point.

Pour syrup back over the cucs again.

Day 10

Sterilize your bottles, lids, seals.

Drain syrup off and put cucs in bottle.

Bring syrup back to a boiling point.

Add syrup to bottles and seal.

The Art of Giving

This has been a delightfully stress-free pre-Christmas chiefly because I got all of my shopping finished and gifts wrapped weeks ago.... and everything is already paid for. I made a vow to stick to a budget and reined myself in repeatedly. How much you spend is not an indication of the depth of your love. I explained this to my niece who called to say she'd gotten me something but it "wasn't enough" and she needed to know what else I wanted. The truth is, all I really want for Christmas is some delicious turkey with my family and some laughs. That's all I ever really want. Well, that and pie.

I grew up with a large extended family that gathered every Christmas day at my grandparents' home for two hearty meals. A massive, festive buffet for lunch and a huge feast for dinner, complete with pies, cookies, traditional Christmas pudding and Christmas crackers. The house was teaming with relatives from midday to midnight. Teaming! My mother's four brothers and sister, and all of their various and sundry offspring and dates. Everyone brought their particular skills to the party. Aunt Myrna was known for her exceptional gravy. Great Grandma for her turkey basting and stuffing. A cheesy cauliflower dish was another aunt's domain and an uncle was renown for his carving abilities. Traditions were cemented around these skills. In-between meals we played board games. The line of tables were cleared and immediately dressed with Dominos, Sorry, Checkers and more. The boys were wild, playing crokinole and air hockey. The men retreated to an upstairs bedroom for football. There was nary an argument. Never. Not one ever. Only peals of laughter throughout the house. The same held for Thanksgiving. So it has always been a curiosity to me when watching Christmas and Thanksgiving movies where discord is depicted as the prevailing atmosphere. I can't imagine why. It's totally unnecessary.

Today everyone seems stressed about money but also about what the giftee wants. Lists of gimmes are provided via email. I don't remember us putting in an order for our gift when we were children. But then, our parents dashed the Santa myth when we were mere tots. We were told that Santa was a symbol of the spirit of Christmas, not a bona-fide being. Christmas orders were just not done. I still find them tacky. 

I try my best to avoid the gimme list, and find that choosing a gift is the easiest thing in the world if you cultivate the skill of placing your feet in another person's shoes. Paying attention to the things people care about is the key. What do they talk about? What do they love? What do they lament? What do they struggle with?

I use three basic criteria to choose the perfect gift: need, passion or wounds. What do they need in a practical sense that will improve their lives? What are their passions? What are their psychic wounds? Buying gifts that enable an unfulfilled burning desire or an untapped talent always has an impact. The recipient feels "seen." It's surprising how effective that can be in bringing people closer to you.

An associate of mine has a mother who spends extravagantly on all of her adult children every year, but never gives anything of use or value. I heard one of her children once say in frustration, "But I don't wear things like that. I told you I really needed a warm jacket." The mother replied, "Oh, that's not any fun."

The mother's gift giving isn't about her children at all. It's all about her shopping pleasure and finding unique items that thrill her. She never fails to disappoint every Christmas.

I think seeing who people are is really at the heart of giving. The executive producer of a TV show I was working on had written a movie thirty years prior and lamented the fact that the studio had never given him a movie poster. For him, it was the crowning achievement of his career but that one omission bothered him. It took me two solid months, but I finally hunted down a poster in a vintage movie poster outlet and had it framed for him for Christmas. I've never been so tightly hugged by a boss before. The real joy was seeing the light in his eyes. Of course, then we celebrated with cookies and eggnog.

Putting the pantry to work

It's such a pleasure to dig into the pantry in December and unearth the gorgeous summer fruits you put up. It's like you are right back in the garden again, picking ripe berries off the bush. Black current jam and rhubarb and black raspberries will grace our table today.

First of all, two big thumbs up for the biscuit recipe in Alice Waters book, "In The Green Kitchen." Page 33 of her book. What light, fluffy, crispy-on-the-outside, tender-on-the-inside biscuits they are!

I made the sweet cream variety and we enjoyed them for breakfast with Devon cream (my absolute favorite thing in the world and likely responsible for the high cholesterol) and some super yummy black current jam from the garden, canned in July.

Today I'm also making a rhubarb and black raspberry pie from frozen fruits harvested in late fall.

The bottom of the freezer is still packed with rhubarb, shredded zucchini, black raspberries, elderberries and home made pesto cubes waiting to be put to use. It's such an embarrassment of riches. True wealth.

Meanwhile, on the stove... the white beans that soaked overnight begin their transformation. Fresh thyme, sage, rosemary and garlic from the garden (and still flourishing inside the hoop houses!) bring a deep, hearty flavor to the sauce. The aroma fills the house. Homey. Warming. The fresh sage smells like Christmas. Recipe on page 65 of Alice Waters book.

It's really a wonderful side dish that will be perfect for dinner and there was plenty enough to share a large mason jar full with a dear neighbor who is a shut-in. Sharing it is as good as eating it.