Thursday, February 25, 2010

Portland, OR

Sometimes, life just seems to work out: when we least expect it, opportunities and roads and sometimes even bridges fall from the outer sphere of our lives and make themselves right at home, where they hadn't been before. Especially, especially, when life seems to be drifting into tedium and lack brightness or edge; those are the moments right before the storm, if we keep a lookout.

You see, it seems to often take us leaving our surroundings and our frustrations before we realize and finally see what had been right there in front of us the whole time, which we had not, in our oblivion, been able to decipher before. But then, it's a Pow and a Slam (think: old Batman tv shows) and all of a sudden, WE KNOW. We know the things we did not know just a few moments before. We can see clearly in front of our selves, just as though we finally got around to renewing our contacts prescription and oh yeah! this is what seeing is really like.

For me, I keep forgetting and then remembering that I have to travel and Keep Moving in order to find or recall all or most of the things which are significant or momentous. This week, for instance, I'm traveling to Portland, OR to visit some wonderful friends nestled in the outer inner skirts of a city I've of recently found myself pining for. It doesn't help that my wise old uncle suggested to me that I should find love and stay here, when I had always mostly thought that the East coast was where I would be 'expected' to stay.

But really, who is the one expecting? Is it I, who is expecting that others have something they expect to say? Or is it others, who expect me to figure it out on my own.

Somehow, I feel that assuming is not the way to figure it out.

Christening

First of all, let's get one thing straight, before I actually get to the post I was planning on posting last week: This post is late. But really what I wanted to say

is following:

Currently, I live in the South. Not the Deep South (does anyone who lives there actually call it that? Deep Southerners?), but the medium South, where you can find biscuits easier than you can find homemade pasta and you can be sure that a country music star will not be left with an empty venue, ever.

Also, because we are in the South, we don't usually have to deal with snow storms. Actually, that is only true for the eastern and central part of the state--Western North Carolina still has snow, and ice, and storms. Those of us in the east, we are not familiar with things such as snow mobiles and plows attached to the front of the truck. We know how to run to the grocery store and stock up on bread, milk, and junk food; we know how to stay home and watch movies until we explode.

On that note, last weekend my sister and I decided to go to Myrtle Beach, SC. There was a marathon going on there, and we had a friend to cheer on. Plus, who would say no to a weekend trip to the beach, out of state?

As we all know, in the last week 49 states received some sort of winter weather. SC, my dear friends, was not exempt. As we were driving down 95, getting close to the destination of our choice, we spotted those small, tiny flakes known as snow. They would get 'heavy' for a while, and then peter out. Then, just like hair-washing, the cycle would repeat itself.

As we were getting closer to the beach, we finally arrived at My destination: the Lodge outlet store. Because in addition to cheering on my sister's friend, I was also going to undertake the important and daunting task of Purchasing My First Cast Iron. When I walked into the store, I felt something like joy, which many get when around babies or cute petite animals. There was cookware, everywhere! All kinds of little doo's and thingy's to keep anyone busy in front of their heat source of choice.

After much deliberation, I finally settled on a 5 qt dutch oven, and an 8" skillet. The lid fits both perfectly and their heaviness is comforting in the hand. Best of all, they were 'seconds', which although pretty much impossible for an indestructible substance such as iron, equates to a lower price at the register.

Now, all I have to do is christen them, and my journey will begin.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Maryland

Last weekend, my aunt and uncle stopped in. They had just been visiting my grandparents, where they were doing things such as taxes, making pizza, and ordering feasts. 

It is important to note that my grandparents have spent almost all of their married lives in the DC metropolitan area. Which of course means one thing:

They love crabs.

Any homegrown boy or girl from the Bay area would feel the same. After all, what's not to love about steamed crabs crusted with Old Bay, salt, and the seasonings of the sea?

Nothing!

And how then should I feel: as a goodish, elder-respecting, born-in-the-District, Maryland-loving, free-wheeling eater?

Exactly the same way.
I love crabs. Very, very much. So much that when I turned 21, all I wanted was just to eat crabs and drink the beer I was finally entitled to. And although I didn't have a chance to do these things exactly on my birthday, I was surprised with a brown, greasy bag and a 6 pack during a visit to my grandparents soon after. Thanks, dad! I had no idea you were going to find a crab-guy when you left abruptly; I just thought you were going out for a walk.

I repeated this ritual on my 23 birthday: good friends who were (and some still are) volunteering with me at Camphill Soltane noshed on crabs, beer, hushpuppies, and laughter. We happened to be in Chincoteague Island vacationing with the lovely men and women with whom we lived. Afterwords, we went next door for a fresh, homemade ice cream cone and I got two--it was my birthday after all!


This past weekend didn't disappoint, either. My uncle brought three crabs in a cooler, covered with fresh snow (a la the 'snowmagggedon'  in the Washingon area) the 300+ miles to the Raleigh area, where my family lives. I was touched that he remembered us; that he didn't just share with us the feast--she-crab soup, chowder, steamed crabs, fries, crabcakes, among other things--that took place at my grandparents house in Md. Instead, he brought us a taste of the delicious salty, soily crabs which we have been reared to love.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Julia, Julia, Julia!

Ever since discovering Julia Child, I've had something of a fascination with one thing:

Poached eggs.

I mean, how is it possible, to boil an egg, without the protective cover of a shell? Doesn't the egg just turn into egg-water, like rosary water but with more protein? How is it possible to make something solid, which is only half so, and delicate as a newborn at that?

So, I finally decided to try it. I regularly make a scene in whatever kitchen I am current inhabiting, be it my parents', grandparents', friends', or one in this community where I used to live and volunteer. With that, what would make more sense then making one away from home, where everyone stands around and watches?

Yeah. I couldn't do it either.

Now, with the delicate cooking of a raw egg, one of the most important things (or to clarify, the only thing you really need, above all else) is an egg. And not just a drug-store egg; a fresh, I know-where-to-find-another egg. These days, it's either really easy to answer that call, or it isn't. Personally, I don't know anyone in the current perifory of my house who has chicken squatters. Luckily, this place does, in addition to great pottery. And as read, I recently did some traveling. So, what would make more sense then coming home not only with a new outlook, a happy heart, a sandwich, but also some eggs? Nothing, I know.

With my fresh eggs in luggage, and the inspiration of several food blog entries of some talented and interesting folks, I set to work. I used my love to simmer one inch of water. READ: cast iron skillet. I broke the egg into a small, glass pyrex dish, and waited. Soon, I saw the small bubbles at the bottom of the earthy pan, just as I had been instructed. Then, steam. Finally, small bubbles on the surface.

Taking my knife, I stirred the water to create a whirlpool, as others had instructed. Then, holding my luck in my hand and the pyrex in the other, I slipped the egg into the pan. Waiting a second, and then stirring the water slowly, hoping for the best effect, I waited. It turns out, I didn't need to stir the water once the egg was submerged; instead of solidifying the egg, the stirring only released a lace-like stream of whites into the water. Still, I was hopeful.

After a minute or two, I scooped the egg out, with a slotted spoon.

And then, I ate it, with seedy toast.

It was perfect. Oooey, gooey, yolk, surrounded by a solid, tender, white.

The next time I made it, however, I didn't use the cast-iron skillet. Also, I didn't wait for the water to be hot enough. So what did I make?

Egg-water.

.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

colds, homemade

In days of past, people put up all kinds of fruits and vegetables and remedies for one reason: to fill a need not yet foreseen but which, in due time, will exist.

Apples can be stored in the cellar, and must be separated from the onions or they will start to taste the same. Tomatoes are juiced, canned, cooked down into sauce, reduced further into paste, and perhaps frozen. Onions and garlic are kept out of the sun, yet handy for all the warmness they bring to winter's fury. Fruit is frozen or put up in cans, juiced or covered with sugar alcohol and intended as a cordial.

I knew yesterday morning that I was going to wake up sick when the night before I felt a little discomfort in the back of my throat. When I woke up, the one thing I wanted to complement my sister's strawberry waffles  was my mother's blackberry cordial.

For me, berry cordials are deliciously good at two basic things: relieving a scratchy throat and giving one the excuse to slowly sip liquor from morning to night.

My mother, although not the feisty young woman she was in college, is quite adventurous. She'll find a recipe for almost anything, and will not let an overabundance of yield damper her interest in finding a new way to prepare everything from the garden. One year, for example, we had so many onions that they fit side-to-side all around the balcony of our porch, with more in waiting. My mother is the one to call when the zucchini are coming out of your ears and you need something to do with them. She's great at finding obscure, interesting, and mostly delicious recipes to use almost anything.

And now, this same woman took the berry harvest from the farm where my sister worked, and made cordial. Lots of it; in whiskey jars, canning jars, even small lady-figurine limoncello jars I bought in Sorrento

It could be said that most parents think ahead, and stock their pantries diligently. But most of the time, those medicine cabinets are full of over-the-counter syrups and gelled capsules, medicine cups and extra tissues.

My mom was just doing what she could do, as she always does, with anything which can be saved. Ounces of leftovers do not make it past her watchful eye; surely you'll find them in the fridge, waiting. She likes sweet things, and made them, for fun, and keeps. Best of all, she made them to kick us back in gear, and able to enjoy all the rest of treats she will be found making.

Friday, January 29, 2010

A sign

Last week, I did some traveling.

As a rule, I would like to believe that I support my friends; that I would do whatever I can when they ask me for something. That when they ask me to be present at a meeting, or a seminar, I would attend and agree to their request without having to think about it.

But then, when push comes to shove, and the facebook messages start piling up, what really happens?

I wait. I deliberate. I try to figure out ways of being that good friend, but not being there, in a vulnerable position where others are able to ask questions of me--especially about my life Now.

But in the end, all that took was a deadline. Being told that I had to give a definite answer by a certain date, and feeling that if my presence was enough to warrant a strict deadline, there was no way I could avoid it and still save face.

So I informed my friend, on the deadline, that I was going.

And now, of course, I'm so thankful for that. Attending allowed me to support a great, wonderful, energetic young woman and provided for me the opportunity to connect to all those lovely people who, it turns out, I was more than willing to talk about my 'Now' with. Saying 'yes' to my friend's request gave me the chance to remember how much I have shared in the past with so many people, and how great it is to hear kind words straight out of the mouths of friends, who happen to be standing exactly two feet away from me.

And when I got home, after exuberant travels, what did I find? Nothing except for the Food section of the News and Observer, exactly in the path of my walk. And do you know what was so great about it? That all I found was one page, of nothing but recipes, food questions, and advice about cooking.  Which, I may add, I wouldn't have found if I hadn't traveled away from home, come home and spent time thinking about the future, and then deciding a walk might help me to see things clearer.

And it did.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Bread of Life

Pan de Vida? Have you had it? Do you know where I can get some? Because my bread-baking skills need something of an attitude adjustment.

Today, was a normal-ish day. I had a phone interview for this Creamery. It's a funny thing about that creamery--the wife of the man whose family has passed down the ownership of the farm for over 100 years, this woman, she happens to have the same name as I do. With the same spelling and everything. How would that be, to go to work:  "Hello Clare," Clare replied to Clare's early morning greeting, shared while milking twin cows or stirring the same pot of curds. Just another day.

I guess I should have preceded my anecdote with another one about my morning. I had a bright idea to make bread today. We ran out of the store-bought seedy multigrain bread that I like and I wasn't at all excited about more plain store-bought wheat bread with no seeds or nothin'! So I found a recipe, took out our R2D2 lookalike bread maker, and hit the grocery stores with my open wallet and reusable bag, although in hindsight two bags would have really hit the mark. I bought three kinds of flour, sunflower seeds, celery for great soup my sister made for dinner (I will only buy celery if it was someone else's idea!) and after my 12 pack of seltzer leaking all over me in the parking lot, after which I got my money back and a free 12-pack, I hankered home to start my bread-making bravado. It was great until I spilled yeast everywhere and had to start over. Then, after my phone call, in a bit of foolishness, I forgot to put in the rubber stopper. As far as I knew, everything was getting stuck in the bottom of the mixer, and not going into my bread! Lo and behold, I appropriately then forgot to jerry-rig the counter (necessary because the bread maker gets a little carried away while it's kneading) and well, it fell on the floor and made a huge noise. My bread dough popped out and now the bread machine does not fit happily together anymore. However, I finally had an opportunity to put the stopper back in!

So, since I broke the machine, I had to do it myself. Who would have ever seen that coming?

I must say, although the top is a little concave (weighed down by sunflower seeds which do not adhere easily, as thought) the bread is good.

In honor of my noble experience today, tomorrow I plan on making Dark Rye bread, from scratch.

Friday, January 8, 2010

my piece will never look like your piece...

To be in college, one needs to know something, or at least know that they would like to one day learn something. When you receive that padded envelope in the mail (do they still do that nowadays?) you are not automatically transfused with an abundance of knowledge about science or English or most importantly to the adults of the house, Your Future Job. You are just another person, moving along in the swarm of persons looking here and there for something, something, to find attachment with. And of all those who do not receive a padded envelope, or decide that at least for the moment, an envelope at all is what they currently want, I cannot speak. I cannot forget or politely pass them (you?) over, either.

For I could have been you, and you could have been me. The paths that we take are nothing less of extraordinary. How did I discover that I like what. I. like? How did you somehow come into yourself, as particular and unique as you are, without some detailed plan or synthesis? When life seems not to be detailed, but just a bumbling of moments and people and STUFF.

For most questions, I do not have the answer. I do know a few things, though, of perhaps nominal importance. Like how funny it is to not like beer and then all of a sudden, like it. Life is often like that: something comes around and it isn't at all what we think we like, and then all of a sudden, we can't live without it! (for long periods of time perhaps). And about the way seltzer water always makes me feel like I'm European--it's nothing short of amazing. Food comes from so many different places and soils and yards and tables and factories--and yet all of those places have their own story. Over the course of our lives, we develop a liking or repertoire of 'food likes' from so many different places, and more often than not, those 'likes' are very different from the person next to us.

Sometimes it's just amazing to me.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Cookies to write home about

When I was in college, I loved receiving packages. I loved checking my mail, opening the small box in a sea of other small boxes, hoping for a yellow card with my name handwritten upon it.

One particular day, during my freshmen year, I received a great care package from a very sweet aunt of mine. She included all kinds of sweets and cookies and candies. I loved  and couldn't believe that she was so thoughtful to send me a package. I even cut out her address from the package, perhaps either to send another package, or just to be occasionally reminded of her goodness, when coming across it in my travails.

It was the same too, but perhaps more intense, when I worked as a camp counselor during the summers in college. After dinner everyone would gather outside in the gravel by the flagpole and wait, wait, wait! The popular campers were almost always to receive at least one postcard, very often twice or three times a day. The smiles on their faces were huge!

Although I wouldn't say that I was jealous of them (if I don't say it does it still count?) sometimes I just hoped and hoped that those packages were for me. And sometimes, SOMETIMES, they were. 

Perhaps that is where I've developed my love of sending packages. I can easily spend a whole day just planning the package of a package, let alone baking or writing or shopping (sometimes). I LOVE to send packages. I love to send homemade packages, especially when they will be a surprise for the recipients.

Last night, I baked cookies for just such a package. I made little sugar cookie gingerbread men, and finger painted them with a green Werder Bremen jersey (if you close your left eye and cross your fingers..).  I made German flags with cheez-wiz gold, and very dark greyish black. They were extra sweet (I had to sample at least one!) and hopefully their fragility will last in the post.

In all, they were great fun to make. And I hope that when the young man who receives the package opens them up, they'll make him smile, too.

If all fails, the soccer coated chocolate balls should be enough for at least a few moments of sugar-high giddiness.