Spring break projects

A week at the farm and man, we made a lot of stuff. Messes, mostly, but some edibles, some drinkables, some flammables and stinkables (I'm looking at you, Phrodaux's kimchi).

How can people eat something that smells like a dead body???

Also, discoveries were made. Exhibit A: Mo discovers DEER. Exhibit B: Phrodaux & FQ discover that unlike the late great Odin and the currently great Anubis, Mo cares not one bit about pleasing us, and not much about food. The call of "Treat" would send Nubie sprinting a mile over hot coals. Mo just keeps pursuing creatures he will never ever catch, while all the humans in range run after him, yelling, calling, occasionally falling. Good times, in a low-rent circus kind of way. We may need the military school equivalent of puppy class.

Another discovery, a much more pleasant one. The cookbook Jerusalem by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi is mind-blowingly amazing. The recipes seem complex but are completely manageable, even in my packed to the brim/no counter space farm kitchen. The seafood stew even looked like the picture (go get the book & compare!). Oops, we forgot the Pernod at home and had to use Absinthe. So, great stew AND green fairy dreams.

Fennel + clams, mussels, halibut, shrimp, mmmmm.

The spice cookies were a breeze, and contained all possible good flavors: spices, chocolate, currants, lemon, crystallized ginger.

Best of all, though, was the chocolate krantz cake. Yes, it takes two days and the recipe covers four pages (2 of them photographs of the whole assembly procedure). No, I have no photos - too caught up in the epic process of this thing. But go to Google and search for images of jerusalem cookbook chocolate krantz cake. Yes yes yes it looks like that and it is the best thing I've baked in a long time.

I'm sure there were non-food projects, hmm. Oh, how about this one:

Ugly pink light fixture that makes everything look drab OUT, new schmancy one from Schoolhouse Electric in. We love that place for a thousand reasons: products, aesthetics, nice people, gorgeous old building, fantastic coffee stand. But most of all, we know a secret that they apparently do not yet know. They sometimes put items out on the floor marked Not For Sale. Pish posh, Phrodaux & the Fairy Queen know that eventually they will sell these items, to us. First case in point: Perfect cabinet for our gorgeous bathroom (the after post).

Second case in point: Phrodaux's speed bag, which I keep calling the boxing thing. The guest bedroom is getting a weird vibe, but whatever. You can still come stay with us. And if you feel aggressive, well, there you go. The thing about those boxing gloves...I gave those to Phrodaux for xmas, because I KNEW (he knew, we all knew, but Schoolhouse Electric didn't yet know) that the speed bag would soon be for sale. Oh, when will they listen to us? That bright red mid-century modern credenza thing? MINE. I see your NOT FOR SALE tag and say to you: Read the blog, silly. I know how this turns out.

Ahem. This is way too long and I haven't gotten to the gin yet, or the precarious transport of a 30' pine log through brushy terrain via one ancient riding mower, two trailers, two humans, and sheer cussedness. Or the Buena Vista ferry or the daffodil festival or the new raised beds or the brontosaurus. We pack it in, people. AND nap everyday.

Back to "work" tomorrow, sigh. But more plans are afoot. Check back for news of a pinball machine, a steel bottle tree, and what we eventually put in those new raised beds. Thoughts? Nominations? How patient do you feel, because I am thinking asparagus.

Spring comes to the farm

The story of how we found the farm is a long and circuitous one, possibly requiring a flow chart and definitely requiring a post of its own. This story starts with when we saw it for the first time. It was early January, the recovery weekend between time in Mexico (where we talked of nothing but the mysterious, unseen property) and going back to work. It was not raining.

We followed google directions and drove and drove and drove, up and down and round and round. Then suddenly, there we were, the house from the picture, on its little rise, with gigantic oaks looming behind it. We were early, so drove the loop while waiting for our contacts to arrive. That makes us all sound like CIA operatives but really it's just that the connections are part of the complicated story that belongs in another post.

Eventually we came back, met up with L & C, took the tour, found our heads not just exploding but expanding with possibility and potential and risk and longing.

We came back several times in January and February. Not once was it raining. The next time we brought Builder D of dragon fame, to help us figure out if the house was a tearer-downer or a fixer-upper (option b, duh). The creek was still churning and the oaks were still casting long shadows.

The next time we brought M and a picnic, enjoyed out in the meadow in the cold February sun. Bulbs were coming up but they were not foremost on our minds. Really, I think we were saying to our friends, to our dogs, to ourselves:  Is this right? Can you see us here? Can you see you, with us, here?

Some time in late February, we met with the sellers, all five of them. We enjoyed coffee and pastry (they brought some, we brought some) outside in the cool sunshine next to the snow drops. (It did not rain) Terms were discussed. Numbers were floated. Fears (ours) were released and all the way home we tried to talk ourselves out of this very large step: second house, debt, etc. etc. etc.

Calmer heads prevailed (ours, friends' - especially Fab Twin M, whose "Hi HOMEOWNERS voice mail left our first weekend in residence I resave every month). We own the farm. It is our land of dreamy dreams, our safe place and retreat. Our life goal now is to get there, full time. Self-sufficiency commune is the phrase we've been using.

But I have lost my thread. SPRING. The thing is, after that late February meeting to negotiate the tedious process of purchase, we DID NOT GO THERE AGAIN until Memorial Day. March, April, May: it was all contract/lawyer/title company/panic attacks. We missed spring. We had no idea.

This weekend, Spring arrived. She might as well have sent an engraved announcement or paid a sky writer. It's not just the daffodils, though they are a huge part of it. We've planted 300+ every fall, in addition to all the ones planted by Mrs. EF in the 50 years she lived there.

 

It's also the rain (I believe Phrodaux has mentioned, NEVER say "Can it rain any harder?" because the answer is ALWAYS yes, yes it can) and the water everywhere.

Basketball soccer is best played in 3 inches of standing water!

It's the way our gentle wading/swimming creek becomes a ferocious torrent.

It's the new growth on everything: roses, currants, peach tree, moss. 

It's frog songs (we think the lyrics are will you be my girlfriend) and salamander love.

But most of all it is something that cannot be photographed. It is a Saturday night, at the end of a two-week run of nasty flu at our house(s) and the end of a long, cold, irritating winter. It is stepping outside to check the slow-roasted salmon on chickpeas and mustard greens, smoking away on the grill, and realizing many things at once:
1. Better. I am BETTER.
2. It is 8:30 at night and still 60 degrees.
3. It's a warm wind blowing around. I quit hunching against the cold and stand up straight.
4. Spring came to the farm, and we were there to see it.

Cooking adventures, valentine's edition

Welcome back.

(you should be playing music in the background, maybe some smooth jazz, or nerdcore, you choose)

In this edition of "Phrodaux and the Fairy Queen's adventures in foods" we bring you this weekend's adventures (well, a weekend)... pickled lemons, both the quick version, and the version that will either be really yummy in 5 weeks, or maybe make us wish we had another bathroom and wonder when was the last time we ate corn (that would be late last summer).

(and why is it still an entire ear?)

There was also pita bread and harissa to be made. And oatmeal bread and hummus and faux mole (not faux like Krab with a "K", wouldn't it taste like faux chicken or rat? but the Mexican chocolate/many many spice sauce).

We were down at the farm this last weekend (again, a weekend, as this post has sat and cured like oh so much lemon pickle/potential lower intestine cleanser)... the weather... the weather... (you should read that in the voice of Brando from "Apocalypse Now.")

We've learned never, ever, to say "it can't possibly rain any harder", well, yah, it was raining (to be honest, I've seen it rain harder), but the wind. This was after "the snow."

Very large "branches" of oaks came down. When I say "branches" it is in quotes as those "branches" were ~15 inches in diameter and ~40 feet long. As in other "branch" falls (tree size branches), the gods of the trees and little green houses have been smiling on us. They tend to fall in such a way that they just miss the house. A previous fall fell just around the corner of the house, a big branch on either side, and the only damage was a 10 ft long/4 inch in diameter one that pierced the gutter. Considering that it could have easily pierced the roof, chalk up as "win."

This time they missed the house and the only damage was to an old barb wire fence, and as luck would have it, it landed on a portion that had already been damaged, so a splice was there already that just needed to be respliceded.

Food, that was what this was about, right, shiny object, hey look a duck...

Food.

(secret, it is not better than frying)

Last summer (mostly FQ, but as the little girl says "and Ah he-elped")  it was overcoming the fear of botulism canning. These days, FQ makes yoghurt every week, we make our own granola. This summer we are going to pickle (please, no Portlandia jokes).

There is some theme here, it may be "make ducks while the weather sucks", or something about straw, or it may be It's Phrodaux has the attention span of... I don't know, maybe a duck?

Food.

Pickled lemons, here is the jist of the recipe off the top of my head for the long game version.

Jar with lid- big enough to hold all of this stuff, though if like me, not as big as you think, size doesn't matter, it is what you do with it, at least that is what I've been told. Should be clean, once clean don't play with it too much (still talking about the jar, you may be a bad person)


6 lemons.
6 more lemons (for juice) but later.

can substitute 12 lemons, but you need to hold back half for juice.

6 tablespoons of Salt.
red chile
2 twigs of rosemary (if outside of Liberia, Myanmar, or USA! USA! USA! use 3.2 twigs)

Cut the 6 non-juice lemons or the 1/2 of 12 lemons down the middle, longitudinally almost all the way through, about 3/4 inch (2 cm-ish) before all the way through. Cut so it is an X, if you did cut all the way through (don't) you would quarter the lemon suitable for garnishing a nice glass of ice tea or a lobster, but you didn't cut all the way, so nuts to the ice tea and lobster.

Take the lemons (or lemon, if doing this one at a time, which makes sense unless you are the multi-armed Hindu goddess Kali, but then if you were the multi-armed Hindu goddess Kali, you would likely have better things to do than make lemon pickle and read the random crap that Phrodaux writes, being a goddess and all) and "stuff" with 1 tablespoon of salt in the "x" (stuff it, stuff it like you mean it, dirty, dirty girl/boy/Hindu goddess).

 

( This would be about the time that you discover all the little cuts and scrapes on your hand.)

Cram those into the clean jar that you finished playing with. Cram them. Cram them in the jar. Don't smoosh, just pack them in. Close the jar and put someplace dark and cool, like Ray Charles.

(this is an action shot of lemons in a jar, please contain your excitement, whoop.)

 

Go do something useful for at least a week.

But you say "Phrodaux, what should I do that is useful for an entire week". To which I respond. A) I said at least a week, you should pay more attention, B) maybe take attention classes or C) clown school.

Now you are back at least a week later. Covered in shame and clown makeup.

Add the rosemary and the red chile to the jar (after removing the lid).

Now you can smoosh, smoosh them all down so they are tightly packed. Get as much juice as you can out of lemons, I used a beer bottle, but then I use a beer bottle for most things. The difference was that this one was clean(ish). Smoosh like you've never smoosheded before.

{FQ sidebar: For once the beer bottle was MY idea.}

Add the juice of the newly purchased because the ones you bought two weeks ago are now more fuzzy avocado looking things than lemon, lemons. Try to get all the lemons/chile/metric rosemary down under the liquid. Add a thin layer of olive oil to cover the liquid (this keeps the evil spirits and mimes away).

Then put the jar back with Ray Charles for at least 4 weeks.

 

(this is pre-Ray Charles)

Back to clown school for some sort of advance clown school degree, maybe deeper explorations of quantum tunnelling involving banana cream pie. Or you can watch the entire run of "B.J. and the Bear", there were like 3 seasons, 48 episodes, about an hour each, so you have time...

(nothin' says lovin', like a chimp in a diaper)

There you go. At least 4 weeks later (at least, please, longer the better I'ms told) you either have yummy, yummy lemon pickles that go great with fish or hummus (Fairy Queen is noodling with the idea of a savoury sorbet), or a jar of weird goo and horrible memories of clown school and a monkey. Either way, you win.

...unless you're the guy who changes the monkey's corn filled diaper.