Comfort & Joy

Last weekend, I made my very first loaf of real bread. Oh, sure, I'd made quick breads--banana, zucchini, etc.--but never anything requiring yeast.  I decided to try the no-knead bread from the New York Times, which is perfect for the lazy. It requires only flour, salt, yeast, water, and about 20 hours rising time, in a room that was at least 70 degrees F. This presented the only obstacle: our 1927 farmhouse does not have central heat, is not well-insulated, and is rather drafty. We use the woodstve in the fireplace and lots of down comforters to stay warm. There are small space-heater-like units in the wall of each room, but none of these is capable of getting and keeping the room at a balmy 70--except for the one in the bathroom.

Cat and dough enjoying the warmth

Yes, I know: food in the bathroom. Ewwww. But, I reasoned, it's in a bowl covered with plastic wrap, and I'll put it up on top of the hideous, laminate cabinet (bathroom was sadly "renovated" in the late 70s/early 80s--all 20s charm is gone, gone, gone). With the door firmly closed, it was possible to keep the windowless bathroom warm enough for the yeast to do its thing. My bread got a little more than 18 hours rising time, because I got confused calculating times and started the bread at 9 AM, which gave me a choice of getting up at 3 AM, or letting the bread rise for a few extra hours--you can guess which I chose. The extra time didn't hurt it at all, and it baked up beautifully in my cast iron Dutch oven. I was so proud and excited you'd think I'd discovered penicillin. The bread was enjoyed with soup, and the remnant used to make the "Pumpkin Stuffed with Everything Good" on Christmas Eve.

Tuesday, date of the Winter Solstice and lunar eclipse, was our first wedding anniversary. The rainy weather on the west coast made it impossible to see the eclipse, which was huge disappointment, and a family illness put a bit of a damper on anniversary festivities. We decided to wait and celebrate on the 22nd, when the loved one was out of danger. My dear husband bought me books because, as he noted (to my amazement), the traditional gift for a first anniversary is paper.  I, jumping inadvertently ahead to the traditional fifth anniversary wood gift, got him a wooden cutting board made by the farmer from whom we buy our vegetable out of wood from a white oak on his farm. We had dinner at the wonderful Bistro Maison, a marvelous French restaurant. The rain stopped long enough for us to walk there and back--a great way to justify the calories consumed in the baked Alaska we had for dessert.

As I've noted previously, Christmas is not my favorite time of year and I try to ignore it as much as possible. My grinchy-ness was alleviated somewhat this year by a number of examples, some local, some far away, of generous and unselfish giving that offset the annoying orgy of consumerism I associate with the holiday. I made it through five hours(!) of Christmas music on Christmas Eve before I snapped and started throwing things. And on Xmas day, though I lost my ambition to make the full turkey/dressing/cranberry sauce dinner I'd planned, I did manage to roast a turkey breast and make a ginger-pear upside-down cake while recruiting my ever-indulgent husband to make the sauce, mashed potatoes and green beans with almonds.

We even had a minor Christmas miracle: two members of the household managed to catch fire Xmas day, and neither of them was the accident-prone moi! My husband was sitting on the hearth in front of the fire, watching a basketball game online, and I was in the kitchen peeling pears. Suddenly, I heard him shout "Fuck!" and I ran to see what was wrong. A couple of sparks from the crackling fire had landed on his fleece pullover which, being basically plastic, promptly began to melt onto his skin. I helpfully observed, "Oh, you're on fire," as he wrangled his way out of the smoldering, smelly mess.

Later, we were sitting at the table, candles lit, when our long-haired cat Baxter (pictured above) decided to saunter across the table to see if any stray turkey might come his way. Sadly, his magnificent fluffy tail brushed against a candle, causing a shower of sparks and the ever-so-appetizing smell of burnt hair. Kitty was luckily unharmed, although he kept looking at his tail and trying to figure out if it was the source of the extremely unpleasant odor.  As my husband said, it's not a successful party until someone catches fire. And so another Christmas is survived--this time with the comfort and joy of a partner who is understanding of my neuroses about the season and who will turn off the music when I just can't bear another note.

Bah, humbug

Just enough room for kitty to rest his head. Apple is so thoughtful.

Today I bought my very first pair of long underwear. I've had thermal long-sleeved tees before, but never a real set of long johns, for very good reason: I've never needed them. If it was that cold outside, them obviously the right thing for me to do was to stay indoors where it's cozy and warm.

So why now? Because I need to walk every day, and I won't be able to force myself to get up and do it if I'm going to be cold and miserable. Yes, it's true, I'll admit it: exercise makes me feel better--not just physically, but mentally. Happy, every know-it-all doctor I've ever had? You were right. God, I hate saying those words.

Since the rainy season started a month ago, my walks have been few and far between, and I definitely feel the worse for it. Here's hoping the thermal undies can help me overcome my reluctance to leave a warm bed to walk on a cold, dark morning.

So, only three weeks until the horror known as Christmas is behind us for another year. I don't know about you, but I can't wait. I despise the Christmas music everywhere, the orgy of consumerism, the waste, the forced cheer. Now, I'll admit that I don't have warm, fuzzy memories of wonderful childhood Christmases--the one that stands out most is the time my grandfather, drunk by noon on Xmas day, ran over a dog on the way to the big family dinner and didn't even slow down--and perhaps that colors my feelings for the season.

To the extent I can, I ignore it. I don't decorate at all, and I only buy gifts for the children in my life. It helps enormously that we don't have a TV and I only listen to public radio, so I'm not overwhelmed with commercials. I stay away from stores as much as possible, and give thanks that I live in a town without a shopping mall.

I made slice-and-bake cookies for the first time in years this weekend. I grew up on Pillsbury slice-n-bake cookies, the only kind my grandmother ever made. The ones shown above did not come from one of the dough boy's neat round tubes, however. They are maple-pecan sandies, and they're an odd shape because I couldn't get the log of dough very round. The recipe calls for them to be dipped in melted bittersweet chocolate, but I can't decide whether to do this or not. They're really good plain. Probably should test a few more before I make up my mind.

In Memoriam

Boys' Night Out at Ayers Rock with Jenny by N. J. Irza

Thanksgiving was long my favorite holiday. This probably has something to do with the fact that I stopped spending it with my family when I was in college, always electing thereafter to be with friends on that day.  More importantly, it lacked the pressure, consumerism, and expectations that haunted Christmas and turned me into a grinch at an early age. Thanksgiving was about gratitude and good food and friends, all things I could support wholeheartedly. 

Bird, by N. J. Irza

One friend I shared Thanksgivings with was Nick Irza. He and his partner, Jim, were my gay godfathers, and Nick in particular became the father I never had, and I was his princess. Nick was an artist--these are his paintings here.  After Jim passed away, we became especially close, and spent most holidays together. He was a wonderful cook, and I had inherited lots of china, silver, and crystal. We made a great entertaining team. On Saturday, November 22, 2006, Nick and I were decorating the Thanksgiving altar at the Episcopal Cathedral. In addition to being a member of the congregation, Nick was an amazing florist. He was feeling unwell and sat down to supervise while I did something simple like put chrysanthemums in brass urns. Suddenly, he said, "I think I'm having a heart attack." 

Spirit Cats, the first painting Nick did after his partner's death

I looked around and he was white as a sheet, he head gleaming with perspiration. I called 911, and foudn the sexton to tell him what was going on. He called the priest and brought in reinforcements from the altar guild to finish the altar. I followed Nick's ambulance to the hospital and let the medical staff think I was his daughter so I could stay with him. Nick was uninsured, and we were not the medical staff's highest priority.  By the time we saw a resident, lividity was setting in. By the time the cardiologist arrived, I knew from the look on her face that he was going to die. They took him to surgery, but were unable to repair his ruptured aorta. He never woke up. 

Persephone Moon

His funeral was held in the Episcopal Cathedral we'd been decorating on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. He and I had planned to spend the holiday at my house with two other friends. Nick was to cook the turkey, while I made the jalapeno cornbread dressing, praline sweet potatoes, and pecan pie. I was too devastated to face the traditional meal. I made pasta and got extremely drunk, then lay in the back seat of the car giving incoherent directions while the friends who'd joined me for dinner drove around my neighborhood to look at the elaborate Xmas lights.

Matthew, a sketch in pencil of one of Nick's 12 cats

Thanksgiving was kind of ruined for me for several years. It wasn't until I moved to Oregon that I made a turkey with all the trimmings again. The holiday is still bittersweet, because it's forever linked to a devastating loss. But I have much to be grateful for, not the least of which is that I had Nick in my life, and that I am still surrounded every day my his beautiful paintings. Artists have the only kind of immortality I can believe in, a legacy of work that lives on and tells the world who they were. Nick left some magnificent creations that will bring joy for generations. I also have a living, breathing reminder of him: one of his cats, a black female named Nikita in his honor. 

Phoenix Pear

I will spend this Thanksgiving with my husband and a friend who is coming to stay with us. This friend also knew and loved Nick, came to the hospital to sit with me while he was in surgery, and went with me to his house afterwards to feed his cats and parrots and to honor Nick's final request that I get rid of his porn before any lawyers, executors, or family arrived. 

May you spend this holiday with people you care about, and may you be thankful for their presence in your life. Happy Thanksgiving.

When you get lemons, make lemon bars

It was a lovely, productive weekend here in the Valley.  I remembered to start my paperwhites, so perhaps they will be blooming in time for the solstice next month. I love their scent, and the bright white blooms in the midst of winter. I was excited to find a tip to keep them from getting too tall and falling over: water them with gin. Not pure gin, but about 7 parts water to 1 part gin (or vodka or other liquor you have on hand). I'll be using gin because, in a foolish, foolish attempt at economy, I tried a less expensive brand and it was ghastly. Never economize on liquor, darlings. It's always a mistake.  

The pumpkin in the background is in the oven right now, after being stuffed with everything good--in this case, rice, bacon, aged white cheddar, some blanched winter greens, a few black trumpet mushrooms, lots of garlic, and scallions. 

When baked in the pumpkin with a bit of cream for an hour and a half, it produces a sort of risotto. When you mix in the pumpkin flesh, it makes a great meal in a bowl.Another benefit? No pots or pans to wash. And plenty of leftovers for lunch tomorrow. My kind of meal.

There were a couple of errands I'd needed to do for a few weeks--dropping off items at a consignment shop and at Goodwill after the lastest round of closet purging. The way I dress has changed dramatically since I moved to Oregon and started working for a small, home-based business instead of for a university library. Unless I'm at a book fair, I only see my four colleagues at work, and we all wear the usual Oregon uniform of jeans with tees, fleece, sweaters, or hoodies. When I was a child, I loved reading biographies, especially those of women. There were few of these to choose from in the 60s, so I read several bios of Dolley Madison, First Lady, famed hostess, and the woman who introduced ice cream to the U.S. I always remembered Dolley's Quaker mother rebuking her for her interest in fashion: "If thou art clean and warm, that is enough." Add "and dry" to that and you have the Oregon dress code.  So off go the skirts, heels, and cashmere overcoat I haven't worn in two years. May someone else find them useful. 

The most exciting event of the weekend was the arrival of the first Meyer lemons of the season at the local market. These are my favorite citrus fruits--tangy and tart, but not sour. They're wonderful for baking and, of course, for one of my favorite cocktails, the Lemon Drop. No sugar needed for the latter, just vodka and lemon juice, as God intended. 

I used this week's lemons to make one of my favorite desserts, lemon bars. It's amazing what one can do with just a half pound of butter, almost a pound of sugar, half a dozen eggs, some flour, and half a dozen lemons.

I got to use one of my most beloved kitchen tools, the Microplane zester. Truly, this thing changed my life. 

I get my eggs from a local farmer. Her chickens are laying fewer as the days get shorter and colder, so a half dozen in one go was quite the extravagance, but oh-so worth it. 

My hands were sore from juicing and zesting, but the final product eased the pain. Kitty cookie jar approves. 

They're not really lemon bars until they're dusted with powdered sugar. Only problem? You have to wait for them to cool. 

But then, suddenly, they're ready. And they're amazing. So rich. Tart and tangy, not too sweet. Perfect.

Sun and Shadow

It was delightful to wake up this morning to sunshine, especially when the forecast called for rain. I hate getting up in the dark, so I was happy to say goodbye to daylight savings time. This morning I went for a walk--the first time in a couple of weeks I've been able to do so in the early morning. I've missed it. Afternoon walks after work can be nice, too--I look forward to getting out after sitting at a computer all day--but the mornings are so quiet and peaceful, and really set a tone for the rest of the day. 

An unexpectedly sunny weekend day also meant an opportunity for gardening. I cut back the dying peony foliage and fertilized the plants, transplanted the hyssop to a better location, pulled weeds, cleaned up dead plants, harvested compost for the bulbs and roses, and mulched the back beds with leaves.  It was a perfect day to be outside.

The afternoon was taken up with baking cookies, doing laundry, and searching the house for my purse, which I can't find anywhere. All I can figure out is that I must have left it in my car when I got home for the farmers' market on Saturday, and that someone took it from the unlocked car. At least it had no cash in it, so it's just the inconvenience of canceling my debit card, three credit cards, and replacing my driver's license (the picture sucked anyway) and library card. No point getting upset about it--it's just stuff. I'm just glad there was no cash in it (I was looking for the purse to put a significant-for-me amount of cash into it when I realized it was gone) and that the car was unlocked so I didn't have a broken car window, too. 

While looking for my purse, I went through closets and found some things to take to the consignment shop and some others to donate to Goodwill. I realized for the first time that another purse I had once loved--and that I had spent far too much money for several years ago--had been in the suitcase that I lost at O'Hare airport last March. If I didn't even realize it was gone, I must not have needed it in the first place. I find myself caring less and less about possessions and wanting to pare down more and more as I get older. I'm horrified to look back and think about how much money I wasted on things I didn't need. 

The Planting of the Bulbs

Misty morning

The autumn rains have arrived, just at the same time as the spring bulbs I'd ordered. Friday was our one sunny, gorgeous day this week--all of which I spent at work. I was thrilled to wake up this morning to find it merely foggy, not raining. I've been missing my morning walks, so I got up and headed off for a tramp through the neighborhood. The leaves were lovely, the jack-o-lanterns were out in force, and the kitties were relishing the lack of rain as much as I was.

Cat on a Subaru. Pretty much sums up my neighborhood.

After a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs with leftover salmon cakes and a croissant, I headed out to the garden to plant bulbs. I go crazy ordering bulbs every year--I can't help myself. There is no such thing as too many daffodils, a strong contender for my favorite flower. When I was growing up in South Carolina, they were sometimes in bloom for my late February birthday. Later, when I was grown up and had moved away, Mama sent me a pot of daffodils for my birthday every year until she died.  I always thought they looked like ballerinas in yellow tutus and green tights.

Pretty overhead . . .

and underfoot.

So anyway, I had ordered a grab bag of 25 daffodil bulbs to be put in the beds out back for cutting flowers, three heirloom Rose of May daffs for the white garden, 50 blue and white anemones to go around the fountain, some winter aconit out front for a mid-winter splash of yellow, 10 dark, dark purple heirloom crocus bulbs, and 25 bluebells and 25 snowdrops for the shade garden. The heirloom red and white flame tulip bulbs are cooling in the fridge for another couple of weeks, since our winters usually don't get quite cold enough for them.

First, there were two blueberry bushes that had to be transplanted to a sunnier spot. Then, the gargantuan cosmos--seriously, these things were taller than I am--had to be chopped out of the bed they had commandeered, and the always opportunistic mint brutally ripped out where it isn't wanted. Then compost had to be worked into the soil, and only then could bulbs be planted.

It took more than four hours, but I got them all in. Then a hot shower and 800 mg. of ibuprofen before putting together a big pot of chili to simmer for dinner. It's a recipe from a friend who grow up in Texas, and the spices and peppers did magical things with simple beef, tomatoes, and onions. Shout-out to SFL for the best chili I've ever had!  With some homemade cornbread (look Ma, no Jiffy mix!), it made the perfect Halloween supper.  Darling husband was in charge of handing out candy to the Trick-or-Treaters, whom he also entertained with his Elmo and Grover had puppets (he has the voices down).

My husband's dream is to own his own vineyard and winery, and he's often asked me what my dream is. I've never had an answer, until today. My dream is to create a beautiful garden. Not a fancy formal garden, but a simple cottage garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, herbs, and some fruits and veggies.  Not a very exciting dream, but my own, and one I can chase after forever.

Happy Halloween!!

Domestic Blitz

I have been in a fit of domesticity this past week or so. Last weekend was a gorgeous, perfect Indian Summer weekend--probably the last sunny weekend we'll see for months. So what better time to spend three hours cleaning my kitchen? What can I say, the urge struck to go through cabinets, pick out items to donate or recycle, and to clean everything thoroughly. No doubt my fabulous new cleaning gloves--a gift from a friend who knows me well--were part of the inspiration:

I rounded up sufficient items in the cabinets, along with a desk, an A/C window unit we've never used, a box of tile, some shutters that had been languishing in my basement, and a few miscellaneous tools, to put together a nice donation for the local Habitat for Humanity ReStore.  It felt great to get rid of things we don't use and to organize the remaining items. I did make some time to spend outside, walking through the neighborhood, reading in the garden, and picking some flowers. The cosmos that ate my garden continue to bloom profusely, and they make lovely, long-lasting cut flowers.

It was a tough week at work, so I tried to rally the troops with some no-bake cookies, a combo of butter, sugar, cocoa, vanilla, peanut butter and rolled oats that comes out somewhere between cookie and candy. When in doubt, make cookies, I say. My husband has been putting in insane hours at the winery for the grape harvest, and at last all the fruit is in. There's still plenty of work to be done, but getting the fruit in before the rains started was everyone's #1 concern. Big sighs of relief all round. We actually got to go out for a drink Friday night--first time since early September--and he was off this weekend, and thus available to be put to work around the house. I have a bad back (no, really!) and he does the heavy housework like floors and the garden tasks like mowing (did I mention I'm also allergic to cut grass? It's true!).

Partly because I'm tired of paying the ridiculous prices for cleaning products, and partly because I'm concerned about chemicals in common household cleaners, I've begun to make my own. Laundry detergent, all purpose spray cleaner, and furniture polish were whipped up within minutes at very little cost. Better Basics for the Home and the Care2 website offer much assistance and easy recipes. I used my fabulous formulas to clean the bathroom and polish furniture this weekend, while adding to my "good Oregonian" bona fides by making granola and yogurt for my favorite daily breakfast.

 
I also did some canning. The autumn rains arrived in force this weekend, and it was clear the rest of my tomatoes were not going to ripen. My grandmother used to make this green tomato relish I adored, but I didn't have the recipe. Internet to the rescue--I googled about until I found something that sounded very similar to what Mama used to make. I chopped up the tomatoes (50 or so, mostly very small) along with green peppers from my CSA, red bell peppers, some not-hot Pacific Northwest jalapenos, and some onions in the food processor, producing a mush that looked like this:

Thanks to Cuisinart, it was much faster and easier than in Mama's day. I remember she and our maid, Jay-Ola, would set up an old wooden kitchen table in the yard and attach a metal meat grinder to the edge with a vise grip. Then they would feed in the vegetables, taking turns cranking out a similar mush into an enameled washtub. My way lacked the atmosphere, but was much easier on the arms. The veggies are tossed with pickling salt (yes, it is different--I had to look it up) and left to stand for a few hours, then cooked in boiling vinegar with spices before being put into glass canning jars and sealed in a water bath.

The end product at least looks like Mama's, but I'm sure it will lack that "je ne sais quoi." Is any attempt to recreate the beloved foods of childhood ever entirely successful? Maybe we just remember things in a rosier light (though really, that 's not usually one of my failings) or maybe the difference in ingredients or methods is just enough to make things taste not quite the same. I know Mama would have been horrified at the idea of me canning, sure I would injure myself. Okay, so I splashed a little boiling vinegar on my hands when I was putting in the tomato mix. It's fine. I won't be scarred for life, Mama.

Now, if only I could find  clever use for a tree full of unripe figs . . .