mmmm mama

Sweet Cider

2011-10-14T23:04:00.003-04:00

If it would only stop raining, we'd be having a gorgeous autumn. I miss the smells of dry leaves and woodsmoke that usually weave their way into every strand of hair this time of year. We haven't yet made it to our favorite orchard (Ritter's Cider Mill), but I did have the opportunity to actually work behind-the-scenes pressing organic apples at Bauman's earlier this fall.

Lovely organic apples were ground, pressed, bottled, capped and labeled by hand, and sent off to quench the thirst of children and adults alike at the third annual Apple Festival at the Rodale Institute. There might not be woodsmoke in the air, but there is enough sweet, crisp apple cider flowing in these parts to make us all woozy with the essence of autumn.
For how many years has humanity celebrated the harvest? Releasing that last torrent of wild energy before bedding down for the winter. Rituals of plenty, gratitude, and mischief. I once showed Rowan the pentagram in the center of an apple and he asked if that's where stars are born--inside of apples. I hope his future science teachers will forgive me, but I couldn't help myself. I said "yes."

A chorus of swallows

2011-09-25T17:08:00.007-04:00

There is a huge pine tree in our neighbors' yard. Both the current owners and the former owner have talked about cutting it down. But its toes are tickled by sweet lilies of the valley in the late spring and all summer long (if you look closely) you can see dozens of hummingbirds alighting on the thinnest of branches.

As autumn brushes our skin and raises the hairs on our arms, there is a new daily happening around the gentle giant. The sun hangs ripe and low and guilds the trees, the grass, and our hair with gold leaf. A chorus of bird song erupts from the top of the dark pine. The raucous, ecstatic laughter emerges from what seems like total silence--as if Mother Nature tapped her baton , raised her arms, and let loose the orchestra with a forte arrangement. Chattering and giggling layered over broad, operatic vocalizations. The concerto lasts for about 10 minutes and then ends as abruptly as it all began. Then the birds depart in pairs and triplets, and in solitary flight. Swallows. Hundreds of swallows pouring from the pine and cartwheeling across the sky.

I'm reminded of the dance of the bees, giving directions to a good cache of nectar. Are they working out their migration schedule? Talking up the all-inclusive bug bar at the Sandals for Swallows South? Or might they simply be singing a singular farwell to their summer home? Welcoming the autumn equinox and the opportunity for us all to turn within--to consider our trajectories for the coming year. Thank you, dear swallows, whatever the reason. Your nightly chorus reminds me to stretch my voice and sing with wild abandon and the pleasure of speaking with love and joy in my heart.

Why do you think the sparrows sing?

Jumpstart

2011-09-03T17:00:00.003-04:00

I apparently took the summer off from the blog-o-sphere and I think I needed it. Sorry for the lack of warning! To jumpstart my rusty self, I'm finally getting around to a little bloggy game in which I was tagged about a month ago. Here it goes...

What do you think of when you the hear the word tag?
Playing hours of flashlight tag with my best childhood friend and all her neighbors on the shores of Lake Ariel. Nothing like playing outside after dark!

Do you think you're hot?
I am in fact sweating right now, so, yes!

Upload a picture or wallpaper that you're using at the moment.

When was the last time you ate chicken?
It has actually be quite a while. I'm thinking July?

The song(s) you listened to recently.
Singing in My Sleep, Semisonic
Moves Like Jagger, Maroon 5
Camel Walk, Southern Culture on the Skids
If I Die Young, The Band Perry

What were you thinking as you were doing this?
That I should really be doing work!

Do you have nicknames? What are they?
Honey, Mommy, Pumpkin

Absence and Fondness

2011-06-29T22:07:00.010-04:00

Hello, stranger. It has been a while. Don't you look incredibly striking today!

So many adventures, so little time to write. (That is Mr. I. M. Vainrooster from Klein Farms, our favorite dairy.) I do wonder how long a blog can languish before no on reads it any longer. Like the proverbial tree falling in the woods......Helloooo? Anybody reading this but me, myself and I? Life has been rolling by, much of it experienced out of doors. In the street...

in the river...

by the lake...

It is rare for the little bear to take a nap these days and there are times when he seems ages older than 4-1/2. It is unnerving sometimes to think he is only a pre-schooler. It will be another year yet before he goes to Kindergarden--he'll be one of the eldest in his class.

Yet as often as he shocks and thrills me with his wise insight and mature vocabulary, he is still such a young child. Half-way between baby and boy. Anyone who has been patient enough to have read my blog for long, will certainly remember that my little Peter Pan has struggled with that "in between" for a while now. Balancing the raw needs of the still new and still wild creature with the blossoming emotional sagacity and independent intelligence of a developing human unfurling himself.

What curiousities, wonders, treasures are nestled inside this little man? Sharp edges and sparkley bits, soft-as-down tenderness and sticky gooeyness, stinky cheese and sweet-as-strawberry jam....

...all the gorgeous, terrifying and exhilerating things that boys are made of.

What have you been pondering on these days?

Fear and lemons

2011-05-07T17:00:00.020-04:00

When does it start exactly--your fearless child starts seeing spooks in the dark and eyes under the bed and creepy things in the closet? Like shyness or embarrassment, fear sneaks up on your when you're least expecting it. Things that were once fun and exciting suddenly strike terror into your little darkling child's heart. And there is often little rhyme or reason to what inspires the fear.

My mother was concerned the art we chose to hang in his room would be "way too scary," but he loves it and finds something new going on in the scene nearly every week.

And while he adores fairly dark movies like Labyrinth, Pirates of the Carribean, and Jim Henson's The Storyteller, he was terrified by a seemingly innocuous picture book retelling of little red riding hood entitled Little Red Cowboy Hat.

His imagination is like wandering through a wild wood--full of shadow and light. The question is how to nuture the infinite possibilities of that mind without letting all the boogeymen slip in? Apparently there are rules to follow. Like a red cotton ribbon can actually keep the scaries from sneaking out of the closet when it is draped over both door handles. Who knew?

Since it seems we’ve had 40 days and 40 nights of rain already this spring and endless grey, foggy days, I decided to welcome in the sunshine to clear away the cobwebs with a scrumptious lemon meringue pie.

Instead of the bordering-on-jello lemon filling thickened with liberal amounts of corn starch, I did a smooth and juicy lemon curd. This really is how all lemon meringues should be. The little bear ate a huge slice and asked for seconds. It went so fast, in fact, I didn’t get any pictures of the lovely lemon curd center.

Lucious Lemon Meringue Pie (adapted from the Joy of Baking)

1 disk of your favorite pie crust (I do an all butter version)

Lemon Curd:
3 large eggs
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (2-3 lemons)
3/4 cup sugar
4 tablespoons unsalted butter (room temp)
1 tablespoons lemon zest

Meringue:
4 large eggs whites
1/2 cup plus 2 tabelspoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Roll out your pie crust and line your pie plate with the dough trimming and crimping the sides. Line the pie shell with aluminum foil and fill to top with pie weights or dried beans. Bake for 25 or 30 minutes until the crust is dry and lightly golden brown.

While the crust is baking, make the lemon curd. Place a stainless steel bowl over a saucepan of simmering water. Whisk together the eggs, sugar and lemon juice. Cook, whisking constantly until the mixture becomes light, thick, and frothly (about 10 minutes). Remove from the heat, cut the butter into chunks, and whisk inot the mixture until it has melted. Add the lemon zest, immediately pour the curd into the baked crust, and smooth the top.

Reduce the oven temp to 350 degrees F and bake the tart for 10 minutes until the curd is firm but still wobbly in the center.

Meanwhile, in a very clean bowl of your electric mixer, with the whisk attachment, beat the egg whites until foamy. Add the cream of tartar and continue beating until soft peaks are formed. Gradually add the sugar and continue to whip until stiff peaks form.

Starting at the outside edge of the tart, dollop the meringue over the entire surface of the hot lemon curd. Make sure the meringue comes right up to the curst and there are no gaps between the crust and the lemon curd. With your spoon, gently press down on the meringue to get rid of air pockets and smooth the meringue over the curd. Swirl the meringue and make some decorative peaks. Return to the oven and bake for about 10-15 minutes until the meringue has lightly browned.

Remove from the oven and cool completely on a rack before devouring. Serves 6-8.

Mapletime

2011-04-15T23:54:00.005-04:00

It took us forever to get ourselves to Journey's End Farm this year, but we made it. They were boiling late into the night which was a new experience for us. Usually we manage to get there during the daylight hours when we can wander around the sugarbush, chase the chickens and watch the fragrant steam rise from the roof of the sugar shack. Instead, we were wrapped in the dark warmth--dry, smokey and sticky sweet. They're all wood powered and the family has been making syrup since 1934.

Oh, yes, that is a maple candy frog. Kristin, the owner, makes sure to have quite a few of those on hand for our little bear. They are his favorites! When we climbed back into our car, Rowan was out in about 3.3 seconds (probably a sugar-induced coma from the six maple candies his father kept handing out), but the smell of maple steam and wood smoke was woven in my hair and followed us all the way home.

New Old Stuff

2011-03-26T21:24:00.019-04:00

Everything old really is new again. As a child of the late 70's/early 80's, I spent an inordinate amout of time listening to records. There are times when I wonder why my mother keeps so much old stuff. But this time, when she presented the Little Bear and I with a box full of my old albums, I was tickled. Peter and the Wolf, Urban Chipmunk, Peter Pan, On Top of Spaghetti, The Magic Garden, Puff the Magic Dragon, Free to Be You and Me. The list goes on and on. The Little Bear has been having a great time singing, dancing and partying hard to all the kids classics I knew and loved.

Of course, the kids classics aren't the only hits he loves. In fact, his taste in music is just as ecelctic as his mom and dad's. Topping the list are:

We Will Rock You, Queen

Thriller, Michael Jackson

Low, Flo Rider

Bad Romance, Lady Gaga

You Spin Me Round, Dead or Alive

Hey Soul Sister, Train

Magic Dance, David Bowie

Thank God I'm a Country Boy, John Denver

Ghostbusters, Ray Parker

Firework, Katy Perry

anything by Harry Belafonte

He actually asked if he could be Harry Belafonte for Halloween this year. I'm not quite sure how we'll pull that one off without having him wear a sign, or carry a bunch of bananas, but we'll see what we can do. Of course, as soon as I located a number of adorable calypso-type button up shirts online (apparently called a gauyabera shirt), he told me he wanted to be Peter Pan. So I'm thinking we'll wait until at least September before I go any buy anything for Halloween.

The Mama Bear also landed a number of lovely new-old things (much to the Papa Bear's chagrin). An enchanting unicorn mug one of our librarians had since college (she's a few years removed from college now!)...

Two silver butter spats with incredible detail. This one has the welcoming pineapple...

And two new kitchen chairs. These are used primarily for standing upon either when I need to reach something on an upper cabinet or when the Little Bear helps me cook, bake or do dishes--something he's been asking to take part in recently. Our former chairs, though high-quality and antique were just not up to the job and I feared for our safety. These oldies are much sturdier...

Speaking of baking...we whipped up a few loaves of Irish soda bread earlier this month for St. Paddy's Day and I must admit I've found myself day-dreaming of them almost every day this past week. Time to make a few more loaves to celebrate winters end me thinks. If you'd like to join me in a warm slice slathered with sweet cream butter and accompanied by a mug of strong black tea, here is the recipe I always use.

Irish American Soda Bread (adapted from the Joy of Cooking)

Apparently, "real" Irish soda bread contains neither raisins nor egg, sugar nor butter. Sites that promote traditional soda bread suggest our version should be called a cake, but I don't think "cake" really captures this barely sweet quick bread either. Whatever you call it, this raisin studded loaf is best served warm or, better yet, toasted.

1-2/3 cups flour

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup raisins

1 large egg

2/3 cup buttermilk

4 tablespoons warm melted unsalted butter

Preheat oven to 375-degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Whisk together in a large bowl the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Stir in the raisins. In another bowl whisk together the egg, buttermilk and butter. Add the liquids to the dry and stir just until the ingredients are moistened. The batter will be thick but sticky. Form into a round mound and place on the baking sheet. Slash the top with a large "x" about 1/2 inch deep and bake until golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean (for about 25 to 30 minutes). Let cook on rack before slicing. Scarf!

p.s. I don't know what is up with the crazy formatting, but I will attempt to fix it as soon as Blogger lets me!

Honey house

2011-03-19T23:08:00.006-04:00

I believe we've seen the very last substantial snow storm of the season. And, luckily, it was snowman snow. All winter we've been awaiting the snowman snow. We've had loads of ice-snow and plenty of cotton snow, but I feared spring would come before we were able to build that man of snow. The corn-cob pipe has been waiting since fall. Finally....

He only lasted about three days.

From snow to spring. And this spring, we're leaping head first into beekeeping. Papa Bear is the action sort, and Mama Bear is the planning sort. So, betwixt the two of us, (and with a healthy dose of bickering) we manage to get things done and done well. Lets hope this holds true for welcoming bees into our backyard. While I lectured on getting books, signing up for workshops and finding a mentor, the husband was online ordering two packages of bees and printing out plans for building a top bar hive.

We also took the Little Bear to a bee workshop for kiddos. He LOVED it.

To celebrate our impending adventure, and to quiet the daydreams of mass quanitites of golden honey, we indulged in a sweet treat straight from the expert: Winnie-the-Pooh. We considered the recipe for Marmalade on a Honeycomb, but settled on Apricot Honey Muffins instead. They're not overly sweet and are an incredible breakfast or afternoon tea.

Apricot Honey Muffins (adapted from The Winnie-the-Pooh Cookbook)

1 stick (1/2 cup) butter at room temperature
1/4 cup dark honey
2/3 cup canned apricots, mashed
1 large egg
1 tablespoon apricot juice
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
2-1/2 teaspoon baking powder
coarse turbino sugar

Preheat oven to 375-degrees-F. Grease muffin pan or line with paper liners. Cream the butter with the honey and add the mashed apricot pulp. Beat in the egg and the apricot juice. In another bowl, combine the flour, salt and baking powder. Fold into the web mixture. Fill the muffin pan, top with a sprinkling of coarse turbino sugar and bake 30-35 minutes. Serve warm with sweet cream butter and drizzed with honey.

Zen Tacky

2011-03-09T01:40:00.005-05:00

So I've been trying to keep up with an increase in hours at my part-time job and additional freelance projects coming down the pike. While also making time for valuable play with the little bear. (No, no, cleaning has not been on the feasible "to do" list for a while now.) All this means I've been neglecting my lovely blog. I promise a substantial post or two in the coming weeks. Until then, I leave you with a few Zen shots. (Wish I felt as calm and collected as these photos!)

Oh, and I've fallen madly in love: Taza stoneground Mexicano chocolate. It is sweet, bitter and just a little gritty. Kind of like the texture of icing when you don't cream the butter and sugar enough. I know it is a huge no-no, but I adore a good gritty icing now and again. There is something satisfying about feeling the sugar crystals exploding between your teeth. Does that make my tacky?

Winter Harvest

2011-02-13T21:41:00.007-05:00

Question: What lives in winter, dies in summer and grows with it's roots up?

Summer and autumn are the king and queen of the harvest--it seems everything rounds and ripens, eventually birthing delights as far as the eye can see. Even in spring we await with bated breath and sharp, glinting knife the first bitter dandelion greens, sour rhubarb stalks, dinosaur-like fiddlehead fronds, or tender asparagus shoots. But Mother Winter is not nearly as baren as we often imagine. She graces us with her own unique beauty.

Harvesting ice . . .

Star projects . . .

Wicked winter gardens . . .

And though we're still tucked under a thick, white blanket, the sap will be rising soon. Probably the most scrumpteous of wild Winter's gifts. And it couldn't come soon enough. We poured the final drops of last year's smoky amber liquid onto a big bowl of snow and it disappeared quicker than Frosty in July.

Answer: Icicles

Fortifying

2011-01-28T22:54:00.011-05:00

for*ti*fy ~ verb
1. to furnish with a means of resisting force or standing strain or wear
2. to make strong; impart strength or vigor to

A very good friend of mine (and her husband) introduced me to the lovely art of "fortifying." It usually involves lots of pillows, blankets, soft clothes (often pajamas), comfort foods, and gently doing something that quiets the mind, energizes the soul, and lulls the hum around you. Sometimes, it involves outdoor fun, too. But of a very particular sort. We've been doing a lot of fortifying around here lately--leaning into the hush that comes with the thick quilt of snow tucking us into our home.

Quite play...

Tea and cookies by candlelight...

Astronomy ice...

Sharp blades...

A cup of cacoa comfort...

How do you fortify?

Harbinger of spring? Already?

2010-12-28T17:03:00.021-05:00

We celebrate gratitude and thankfulness during these winter holidays and there really is so much for which to be thankful. But have you ever felt that strange rustling scurry in your stomach? A fullness in your chest that speaks of something not yet fulfilled. Something waiting to be done. An insistent whisper in your ear that your whole self requires, actually needs something. The feeling is akin to the craving for cheeseburgers I felt when I was heavy with child, but on a larger, more diluted scale.

I've yet to figure out exactly what my body is telling me I need to do, but there are certain things that sing to the demands. Things that seem to harmonize with the whisper and turn it into a pleasant, aching hum. I recently interviewed an incredible woman--Kristin Kimball. Her and her husband run Essex Farm near Lake Champlain in New York state, and she recently released her first book, The Dirty Life. Hers is a story of transformation from city girl to farmer (a title she has certainly earned and would never wear lightly), and it has been trial by mud, horse, plow and blood. Kristin is a writer by trade and by nature so her prose is beautifully detailed, and she delves just as deeply and intimately into the hardships as well as the joys of becoming a farmer. Her words made my belly flutter with equal parts yearning and terror.

I don't know what it is about the work of growing food for at lest self-sufficiency, and at most, for others, that I envy.

But I can barely keep up with my 50 square feet of garden in my postage stamp backyard! I break out in stress sweats just anticipating paying our household bills (all of which we're usually able to make without an issue). And this fall past I managed to let an entire bushel basket of gorgeous peppers rot on my kitchen floor. Hardly farmer material.

Maybe it is the dead of winter coming on that has kindled the urgent need to dig, to struggle, to throw myself into a physically exhausting enterprise.

Maybe I've been doing just a little too much sitting what with the writing and editing work. Whatever it is, it is driving me. Now if only it will last through this year's gardening season, we'll be in good shape!

November triangle

2010-12-03T23:01:00.010-05:00

One year we had a little slip of paper in our photo album between the shots of Halloween costumes and Christmas trees that read, "What happened to November?" Yes, we had managed to lose all the pictures we had taken for an entire month (and we had digital cameras, too). Looks like November is still our very own Bermuda triangle. But we're still here. And we've had a lovely month!

Building rocket ships...

Hanging around with good friends...

Being thankful (with our Tree of Gratitude)...

...and getting ready to battle the holiday crowds...

How about you?

Rhythm and Ritual

2010-10-27T01:18:00.006-04:00

There is a necessary rhythm to the day when you work from home. A general frame on which you rely to keep from going completely insane. And the rhythm is usually grounded in ritual. Waking, eating, playing, working, house-working, baking, inside time, outside time, naptime, craft time. All these things have a place within the day and if you get the balance right you really can do most of them well. But when the balance is off...well, let's just say there are days when I swear if I look in the mirror I'll see Medusa staring back at me with snake-hair standing on end, lips parted in a horrified scream and eyes wild like a cornered animal.

Yes. That's the look. I've been avoiding mirrors for a good couple of months now.

The trouble is, I have no idea what has thrown my rhythm into such disarray. Everything is difficult, everything is a fight, everything takes so much more time and effort than it should. And here I sit feeling as if nothing is being done well. Boo-hoo. I do wonder if the planets are doing some weird dance up in the dark beyond causing my aura to spin westward. Um, yeah. Or maybe it is just the winds of change kicking up dust. When you feel like you're banging your head against a wall, take a step back and look for the door.

Unlike Alice, I'm trying to take my very good advice. So I'm baking bread again--a ritual that ground to a halt when we hit 90-degrees-F in May (just a taste of the neverending summer this year).

The little bear and I are going on a daily learning adventure (he correctly identified two wild and edible plants on our last walk).

And my dear husband is renovating our third bedroom into a proper office space (as it had been taken over by the cats and was pretty much a useless space depite the desk, computer and bookshelves contained within).

Yes, I do think autumn has brought more than just the scent of leaves and crackling fires on the breeze. It is anticipation. Something is coming.....

Vampire Weekend

2010-10-13T22:20:00.008-04:00

Happy Birthday my little blue-eyed monster....

Inspiration for the cake and recipe from Amanda over at I Am Baker.

Elves -v- Gnomes

2010-10-10T09:22:00.006-04:00

"What is the difference between an elf and a gnome anyway," I questioned.

"Mommy, gnomes have tall pointy hats and elves have short pointy hats."

Pause.

"If you see an elf, you should run for it."

"Why is that, honey?"

"Because if you can catch him and put him in a fish tank (without water) and put in a little TV and a chair, that's good luck, you know."

"Oh. That's good to know. I'll be sure to remember that."

Sir Brussel Sprout

2010-10-04T20:03:00.006-04:00

Sir Brussel Sprout bids you welcome to his humble yet tasty kingdom...

The winds have changed and we're well into fall. Finally. This did seem like the year of endless summer. Fine title for a catchy tune, but apple cider runs in my veins and crisp campfire nights in my heart. And it's time to put the garden to sleep.

We, obviousy, planted waaaay too many peppers this year as we have two full-to-the-brim bushel baskets of anchos, green bells, black bells, Italian longs, and habaneros. This after eating them fairly constantly throughout the season.

And our UGO (unidentified growing object) squash has not only survived year two, but thrived. A vining beauty appeared quite suddenly out of the compost pile last year and charmed us with its luciously sweet and buttery flesh. Since we were unable to determine it's lineage (other than the obvious fact it hales from hearty stock) we saved the seeds. We'll be planting it in our garden every year.

Now if only I could find Sir Brussel Sprout. I'm sure I left him around here somewhere...

Old Fashioned Fun, part 2

2010-09-17T14:39:00.008-04:00

Let me first admit something that may or may not make you gasp. I don't really like amusement parks. They're incredibly expensive and loud and full of flashing and buzzing and...simply put, they are overstimulating and overrated. That's not to say I don't love riding amusement rides, but if I had a couple hudred dollars to spend, going to the amusement park wouldn't even make the top 50.

Enter Knobels. Snuggled into the Pennsylvania forest deep in farm country, this historic amusement park began as probably one of the first agritourism farms in the world. At the turn of the 20th century owner Henry Knobel ran "tally-ho" hayrides taking visitors around his farm by horse. When he offered the the opportunity to water, feed and brush the horses that pulled the wagons, the eager tourists lined up and shelled out a whoping $0.25 each for the "honor." Smart man.

A little hokey, and little pokey and a lot wonderful, Knobels is my kind of amusement park. Admission is free and you can either buy ticket booklets or a wristband for the rides. We spent less all day than we would have spent on just admission at most parks and all of us had a ball.

Flying....

Riding...

Flying some more...

Getting our feet massaged...

Etc. etc. etc....

The best parts were the unexpected treasures. Like the puppet show that appeared like magic in a stone tower we passed three or four times thinking it was simply decorative. Or the working smithy where burley fellows with bald heads and long beards sweated and clanged making name-plate horseshoes for the kids. What a strange and wonderful day.

Old Fashioned Fun, part 1

2010-09-16T22:25:00.005-04:00

A month of old fashioned fun has kept me from the blog-o-sphere. Totally worth it. In early August we took in the Goschenhoppen Festival. A celebration of Pennsylvania Dutch (aka German) life in the 18th and 19th centuries--the preservation of folk culture and skills nearly lost to our "modern" society.

Things like how to slaughter and butcher a hog...

How to create a lucious breakfast treat out of bits and pieces. Yes, I mean scrapple...

Saurkraut making...

Firing a musket...

Thatching a roof with nothing but straw (no rope, no nails, and certainly no glue!)...

The jug of apple cider vinegar from my last post, mother and all, was on display as well. New vinegar made from the old. A suitable metaphor for the entire Festival where trades and recipes are passed from one volunteer generation to the next.

Oh, mother!

2010-08-15T14:24:00.006-04:00

Take a guess at the contents of this jar and win your very own pair of homemade woolen mittens to keep you cozy this winter. The first commenter to get it right wins! (P.S. To win, make sure there is a way for me to contact you by email whether you leave it in your comment or have some method of contact on your blog.)

Comments Closed! The lovely woolen mittens will be going to the closest answer as no one got it completely right. The mystery liquid is mother of apple cider vinegar! And the winner is...

David n Kara who said:
"looks like an old jar of apple cider"

Mangia

2010-08-13T19:21:00.015-04:00

How many times have you avoided making a dish because it had a bad rep for being difficult? Or because you didn't have the recommended equipment? You just might be missing out on gastronomic heaven. One of my most favorite foods of all time is the infamously temperamental cheese souffle (which, by the way, is incredibly easy to make) so I should know better than to dismiss a recipe outright. Nevertheless, last year was the first time I've ever made pesto from scratch. Why I thought it required chef-status to make, I don't know. Such simplicity, such deliciousness!

So we planted six, yes six, basil plants this year with big plans. Big Basil-y, Garlic-y, Nutty, Cheese-y Pesto Plans. No, no, I don't own a food processor. Never have. And earlier this year I shattered the glass pitcher of our blender. No, no, we haven't replaced it yet. And, oh yes, our basil plants have all thrived.

Trust the internet, the cookbooks or the television and you'd think making pesto without either of these supposed requisite items impossible. So what's a girl to do? Take a page from an Italian grandmother's cookbook: Get out some hand-powered kitchen tools and elbow grease. It's vintage pesto!

The results? I added a side of pan-roasted Brussels sprouts (in bacon grease of course) and the 4-year-old declared, "Mommy, you make a mean dinner." Sounds like success to me.

Vintage Pesto
No special requirements for this recipe, just a sturdy cutting board and sharp knife. A hand-crank nut grinder comes in handy to kick-start the nuts, but you don't need it. Because the ingredients haven't been emulsified by power blades, the texture and taste are more distinct, brighter, and richer. Totally worth the little bit of extra time it takes to do it by hand.

3 cloves garlic
3 loose cups basil leaves (just the leaves)
1/8 cup roasted almonds (or walnuts or pine nuts)
1/2 cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese (or Parmesan)
3-4 tablespoons olive oil

Finely chop the garlic. Take the basil in batches and finely chop in with the garlic. Add the roasted almonds and finely chop to combine. Chop in the grated cheese and press the mixture into a small bowl. Cover with the olive oil. Stir to thoroughly combine just before use.

Amongst the 'toes

2010-08-05T21:29:00.013-04:00

We've found all sorts of things in the garden since we've moved into our house. Shards of this, pieces of that, small toy cars and marbles . But what should be staring up at me from the depths of the potato patch this afternoon?

One might expect a three-inch person when they pull out a mandrake root, but a potato? I've heard of potatoes producing a rare seed or two, but children? And why do you suppose this strange little fellow is frowing? I guess this will remain one of the mysteries of the soil. Another mystery of the soil....mushrooms.

Springing from what appears to be naught and disappearing just as quickly.

I once read an article that hypothesized Mother Nature might just be a giant mushroom with mycelia reaching into every cell of every living thing. There are mushroom that stretch thousands of acres--one in Washington and one in Oregon have already been discovered. Or listen to mycologist Paul Stamets sometime. What is it about science that as it gets more detailed and complex begins to look like magic?

Whether science, magic or both, mushrooms make a great excuse for taking a walk through the woods with my favorite little man.

And as much as he enjoyed spotting mushrooms, it was the salamanders that enthralled him.

Final count: Seventeen mushrooms, seven salamanders, one tired little boy and one incredibly contented mama.

After the rain

2010-07-28T21:49:00.010-04:00

Monday may have been the first time this summer that the rain actually managed to break through the humidity. After months of temperatures in the 90's and 100's, we entered a blissful week of mild 70's. You could almost hear the garden sighing. And I know I heard the little bear sighing. Well, more like giggling.

We discovered this little guy sipping droplets from our maple tree. Hopefully he wasn't nibbling on the bark between sips. Anyone know what kind of caterpillar this might be?

I don't know what it is about trees after the rain, but they always take on an otherworldly aura. It is when they are damp and smell of the wild forest that I swear they just might move at any moment. Lifting up their white soil-smeared roots and wandering peacefully around the yard.

Just the right kind of moment for a spontaneous batch of Elf Soup. Recipe courtesy of the little bear. First you stir the broth...

Then you add some oregano...

Then you dump in some olive oil. Just a little.

The end.

Summer of Lakes

2010-07-20T22:35:00.007-04:00

We've been spending an excessive amount of time in and around a number of lakes this year. The heat seems to drive us to the water. And water around here means mountain lakes. There is something kitchy about mountain lakes. Reminds me of Dirty Dancing and the family retreats of the 1960s. And retreat as a family we have. I wonder if the time isn't ripe for a family camp renaissance.

Mauch Chunk Lake...

Gouldsboro Lake...

Lake Ariel...

Volunteers welcome

2010-06-10T23:54:00.003-04:00

I’m a sucker for volunteers. A warm-hearted gardener, welcoming everyone who appears friendly no matter they’re growing exactly where they shouldn’t be. I just don’t have the guts to rip a thriving plant from the ground and toss it nonchalantly on the compost heap. These are the survivors, the fighters, the ornery ones who have managed to appear often in spite of all our efforts otherwise.

Plus, I’m the curious sort. What could it be? I hear myself thinking. Of course, some things are obvious, like the potatoes that spring up all over the garden every year. We always manage to miss a spud or two during harvest. But this squash? I’m intrigued. Last year our volunteer compost squash was the most delectable I’ve ever tasted. We still haven’t identified its heritage, but we did save some seed so we could plant it with intention this year.

Or the tomato in my corn patch, or the pretty flower in the bed by the front porch. . .

I have no idea what this is, but I’m sure it is some sort of tenacious weed that will come back year after year all over my yard. But, just look at those scalloped leaves and that dainty yellow flower. Gorgeous! (In the spirit of full disclosure, I did tear this one out before it went completely to seed.)

So my garden is a little wild, a little messy, bordering on chaos. But it feeds me…in more ways than one. How does your garden feed you?

Come visit me Over the Fence for more growing, eating and weeding the organic way!

Wild leeks...and I'm not talking plumbing

2010-05-24T21:55:00.003-04:00

The wild leeks are spreading their pungent toes across the woodland floor all over Pennsylvania right now. Although they’re currently carpeting the nearby state park, I’ve decided not to risk jail time or exorbitant fines in pursuit of the slightly garlicky alliums. Luckily, my father-in-law has a secret patch.

Its "a don’t ask, don’t tell" kind of arrangement. My husband goes to visit and comes home with brown bags full of green leaves and white bulbs. It always takes much longer to clean them than I expect, but once I taste their sharp, sweet goodness, I instantly remember why it really is worth the effort. Plus, I’m pretty much an utter failure at growing onions, so collecting this onion-like creature helps me feel a little better about that black spot on my otherwise green-thumb...

Come see me Over the Fence to read the rest of the post and get a tasty recipe for Wild Leek and Sausage Soup!

Generation Rhubarb

2010-05-10T20:45:00.002-04:00

Every year since my husband and I moved into our home, my parents have brought us cuttings and clippings and diggings from their yard. Many of which they received, rhizome-by-rhizome, stem-by-stem, and seed-by-seed from my grandparents, who received them in the same fashion from their parents. We have second generation vincas, sweet woodruff, foxgloves, lilies-of-the-valley, and black-eyed-Susans. We have third generation lilacs, chives, and giant dill. But, the rhubarb?

Our rhubarb has roots that extend back at least four generations, maybe more . . .

Want to read more? I'm posting a bit over at Organic Gardening magazine's blog. Come visit me Over the Fence!

When in nature...

2010-04-18T15:59:00.002-04:00

As many of my regular readers are aware, I've breastfed my little bear well into pre-school-hood. We've had a lovely nursing relationship, not without bumps, but as much as I worried he wouldn't take to the breast, he absolutely adores them.

We've wound down nursing sessions to only naptime. He had nary a problem giving up his early morning "snack." Although this also meant that instead of latching on at 5:30 am and drifting back to blissful slumber until 8:00 am or so, he's now wide awake at 6:30 am (sign, groan, yawn). But, naptime he's holding onto a little while longer.

Despite an overwhelming amount of support from my family when the little bear was first born, as we sailed past one....then two....then three (gasp!), the support has turned into obvious silence and occassional suggestions that it really might be "time." Past time, in fact.

And as much as I have loved breastfeeding my child, I will admit, I'm ready for the nursing relationship to come to a natural end. But, as parents (and especially as mothers) we tend to put our own wants and needs aside for the sake of our children. And he just doesn't seem to be on the same page as I.

Then, the other day we were enjoying the lovely spring weather, and the little bear said something that made me really reflect on breastfeeding and societal "norms." The sun was sparkling golden through the branches of our maple, the grass was whispering the warm breeze and the birds were trilling a happy tune. And it was nap time. We had a blanket laid on the grass and a tee-pee of branches and an old sheet for playing and I asked the little bear if he wanted to take a nap outside.

His eyes lit up and he shook his head enthusiastically. Then he said, "Can I have ba-ba's too?" (His slang for nursing.) My knee jerk answer was "No, honey. Let's go inside and take a nap if you want to nurse." My heart sank before the words were completely out of my mouth. As did his sweet little face.

"But, why mommy?" he said. And I had no answer. At least no answer I was proud to share. Why, really? Other people think it's weird for a three-year-old to still be nursing? I was horrified at how I had allowed what other people might think to affect how I was mothering my child. And, boy, was I sad when I thought about the fact that it really was the disapproval of my immediate family that had me acting ashamed of breastfeeding my pre-schooler.

How had this happened? How had I lost the bold and proud attitude that I was doing what was right and best for my child, and that I would do so no matter what anyone thought? And what kind of message was I sending to my little bear?

I tried to back-pedal and tell him we could certainly stay outside if he wanted, but he was already onto the next thought and headed happily inside. I, on the other hand, am still wrestling with what happened. I always pictured myself as that mother who nurses her child whenever and wherever he/she needs. (And when I say "needs," I don't just mean for nutritional purposes.) Of course, I guess I never pictured myself nursing a three-year-old either.

A recent BabyCenter newsletter just tackled the "blankie" issue, concluding that three- and four-year-olds often still need their blankie or stuffie for emotional comfort and that parent's shouldn't concern themselves with trying to take them away just yet. My question is what if your child's "blankie" is actually your breast? Why is a child's attachment to an inanimate object okay, but a child's attachment to the very source of physical, emotional and spiritual nourishment taboo?

My heart is still hollow when I think about it. Maybe it is time to give up on child-led weaning and do what I've seen so many animal mamas do. Or, stop agonizing and just let our nursing relationship run it's course with confidence and pride.

Asparagus dreams

2010-03-30T22:39:00.004-04:00

Why is it, whenever I set a goal I manage to get worse at completing a task? As soon as I made a goal to write every week....well....a month goes by and nary a post! Rebelious nature? Ha, that's funny! Maybe the pressure creates a vaccum of ideas. Kind of like when someone tells you not to think of a pink elephant. Saw him, didn't you? Oh, who knows. Whatever the reason, I've decided to refrain from goals related to blog-land and have re-entered the fray with a new approach. Instead of a goal to diligantly write every week, I'm giving myself permission to dream freely at least once a week. If it leads to a blog post, yay. If not, yay. Yeah, I'm one of those people who set the bedroom alarm clock ten minutes faster than "real" time so I'm less likely to be late for things.

In other news, March as been a strange and wonderful creature this year. From snow and the first bulbs just pushing their heads through the soil...

...to all-out 70-degree-F temperatures and the wanton explosion of bud, flower and tendril (definitely need to take more pictures of this). And back to snow, sleet and hurricane-like winds again. We're riding the waves of this strange spring. Outside from sun-up to sun-down when we can...

...and finding good rainy-day activities when all we want to do it run outside and drink in the sun again.

And, as much as I'm feeling the urge to eat obscene amounts of asparagus, we are still too early for the local varieties here in the northeast. Even the grocery store is still carrying the Mexican-grown stalks, although I have a hard time believing there aren't farmers somewhere in the United States of American harvesting asparagus right this very second.

Instead, we're enjoying some lighter fare withough the customary spring staples. Mounds of asparagus and rhubarb recipes will follow when the time is right. Until then...

Citrus-scented Peanut Noodles

So I started out intending to make the Aromatic Noodles with Lime-Peanut Sauce in Ellie Krieger's The Food You Crave. But, I didn't have limes and I didn't have broccoli and I didn't have snow or sugar snap peas. Um...so, basically, I really made this one up as I went along. But, the key element is the sauce. Hell, you could pour the stuff on an old shoe and I'd probably devour it!

12 oz (1 box) soba or lo mein noodles (or whatever pasta you have around)
2 cups frozen edamame (soybeans)--make sure they are already shelled
2 large carrots, julienned
1/2 cup creamy natural peanut butter
1/4 cup soy sauce (I use tamari--doesn't seem as "salty")
1/4 cup water (I just used the pasta water from cooking the noodles)
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon fresh orange juice
3/4-inch piece of ginger, finely grated
2 tablespoons firmly packed dark brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
2 teaspoons black sesame seeds
1 teaspoon white sesame seeds

Cook the pasta according to package directions. Drain and rinse under cold running water. While the pasta is cooking, steam the edamames and julienne carrots. Just 1-1/2 to 2 minutes in a covered dish in the microwave (with a little water) cooks both the edamames and the carrots just right. Make the sauce by whisking the peanut butter, soy sauce, vinegar, lemon and orange juices, ginger, brown sugar and red pepper flakes in a small bowl until smooth. (Ellie recommends making the sauce in a food processor or blender, but since we don't own a food processor and our blender is broken, good old elbow grease worked just fine.) Pour the noodles into a large serving bowl, top with the veggies and pour over the sauce. Toss to coat and sprinkle with sesame seeds. Consume with much gusto!

Ordinary Chaos

2010-02-27T12:52:00.009-05:00

Life is messy, mucky, full of juice and sticky sweetness, dog hair and mud. If you're living it right, that is. For someone with a tendency toward cleanliness, order, and the illusive "perfection," the dichotomy can be unsettling and confusing at times, to say the least.

My loving mother recently gave me a book meant to help one clearing one's clutter with Feng Shui. I flew through the book and immediately dove into shoveling out our bedroom which had been buried under I don't know how many feet of boxes and bags and piles. (We had been using it as the "place where visitors don't go" and dumping the random bits and bobs we swept up during cleaning storms behind the closed door.) I proudly dropped six trash bags full of clothing, shoes, bags and other assorted items at the Salvation Army. Then I got to the chapter on poop. Yes, poop. (Some rant about intestinal clutter, etc., etc.) It was then I realized (with incredibly centering laughter) that we (meaning I) take ourselves too seriously and, man, do we (meaning I) over analyze too much.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my refreshingly clean bedroom and still believe there is nothing as satisfying as a newly clean bathroom (or intestinal track, I suppose), but I know I need to keep perspective or else drive myself mad. So, there are crumbs on my kitchen floor (a lot of them), dog hair on my bedspread, toys on the dining room table, and a pile of laundry on the living room chair (clean at least).

To prevent a quick descent into total chaos I hold myself to the same rule we've imposed on the little bear...Put away what you're done with before getting something else out. Though it has not affect on the dust, it does keep the hounds at bay. What? You don't have mysterious dogs that accompany your clutter?

Well, nevermind that...hounds or no hounds, I think I've found some sort of balance between the sparkling and bejeweled cleaning lady in my head (think a combination of Kim Woodburn from How Clean is Your House and Vanessa Branch the Orbit gum girl) and the habit for all our human constructs to continually strive to return their natural state. Realizing the clutter and dust is just the earth's way of reclaiming her materials gives me just the right amount of perspective regarding the whole neat and clean "thing." As for why the cleaning lady in my head is a bleach-blond Brit...I'm going to leave that one to the professional over analyzers of the world.

In the meantime, here is some sticky, messy goodness in which to drown the cleaning lady in your head...

Overnight Cinnamon Rolls
(based on a recipe by Alton Brown)

You may think (like I did) why bother with all this effort, but these are so worth it. The soft-fluffy dough is like a still-sleepwarm pillow on a cold winter morning. Just be sure you have a large mug of strong coffee or a tall glass of ice-cold milk nearby to keep your taste buds from fainting outright.

Dough:
4 large egg yolks
1 large whole egg
1/4 cup white sugar
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
6 ounces buttermilk (or 6 oz whole milk with splash of vinegar)
4 to 5 cups flour, plus additional for dusting
1 package instant quick-rise dry yeast (I like Hodgeson Mill)
1-1/4 teaspoons fine sea salt
Vegetable oil

Filling:
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Pinch sea salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

Icing:
2-1/2 ounces cream cheese, softened
3 tablespoons milk
2 cups powdered sugar

In a small bowl whisk approximately 2 cups of the flour along with the yeast and salt. In a large mixing bowl whisk the egg yolks, whole egg, sugar, butter, and buttermilk. Add the dry ingredients to the wet and whisk until moistened and combined. Add another 2 cups of the flour and mix with stiff wooden spoon until combined. Dump onto a floured board and knead for approximate 8-10 minutes adding additional flour as needed to prevent sticking to the board or your hands. The dough should feel soft and moist but not sticky and should be smooth and elastic to the touch. Lightly oil a large bowl, transfer the dough to the bowl, and lightly oil the top of the dough. Cover and let double in volume, 1-1/2 to 2 hours.

While your dough is rising, combine the brown sugar, cinnamon and salt in a medium bowl. Mix until well incorporated. Set aside until ready to use.

Butter a 9 by 13-inch glass baking dish. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured board and gently shape it into an 18- x 12-inch rectangle with your hands with the long side nearest you. Brush the dough with the 2 tablespoons of melted butter, leaving 1/2-inch border along the one of the long edges. Sprinkle the filling mixture over the dough, leaving a 3/4-inch border along the same long edge, and gently press the filling into the dough. Beginning with the filling-covered long-edge, roll the dough into a tight cylinder. Firmly pinch the seam to seal and roll the cylinder seam side down. Very gently squeeze the cylinder to create even thickness. Using a serrated knife, slice the cylinder into 2-inch rolls (giving you approximately 12 rolls). Arrange rolls cut side down in the baking dish, cover tightly with plastic wrap, and store in the refrigerator overnight or up to 16 hours.

Remove the rolls from the refrigerator and place in a cold oven. Fill a shallow pan 2/3-full of boiling water and set on the rack below the rolls. Close the oven door and let the rolls rise until they look slightly puffy which should take approximately 30 minutes. Remove the rolls and the shallow pan of water from the oven and preheat to 350 degrees F.

When the oven is ready, place the rolls on the middle rack and bake until golden brown, approximately 30 - 40 minutes.

When the rolls are baked, let them cool while you start the icing. Whisk the cream cheese in a bowl creamy and add the milk. Whisk until combined. Sift in the powdered sugar, and whisk until smooth. Spread over the rolls and serve immediately.

I heart snow (sometimes)

2010-02-13T17:50:00.009-05:00

Winter is not my favorite season. It always seems like it takes so much work to get outside. And before you know it, everyone is ready to come in again. Just the thought makes me want to crawl back under the wool blanket and take a nap. Or at least grab a hot cocoa and a good book and snuggle in for a couple of hours.

Yep. That's about how I feel when I think about the process of "getting ready."

The problem is, I actually enjoy being out in the biting winter air--especially on one of those particularly sharp, sunny days. So I try to side with my heart most days and rouse my grouchy, hibernating brain into action. I don't know if its the rosey cheeks, tingling skin or shot of vitamin D that does it, but all the grumbling pays off with sparkling eyes, laughter that bubbles easily to the surface, and an extra boost of energy.

Here are some of the ways we've been enjoying our snow days....How about you?

***

Winter Wild Thing...

Maple snow...

Old Time Ice House...

Old timers harvesting ice...

Calm (and cold) waters...

Skating, fishing, cocoa-ing...

At day's end...

Music for the soul

2010-02-02T22:07:00.005-05:00

My mother always told me I'd regret not learning an instrument when I grew up. But I found more joy listening than practicing when I was young, and live music wasn't something that was really a part of our family. What I mean is no one in my family played.

There is something about "everyday" music that seeps through the skin and into the soul. It bypasses all boundaries and assumptions.

Crooked Still at the Mauck Chunk Opera House

I might not play either, but I intend to make sure the little bear experiences the closest thing to everyday music. So we go to concerts, open mic nights, music in the park. And he soaks it all in. Maybe he'll play one day, maybe he won't. But, I hope he'll always carry music in his soul.

There is something a friend sent to me the other day I know I'll carry in my soul...

The Holly and the Oak

2009-12-29T22:35:00.008-05:00

The winter winds find me distracted and turning ever inward. And as the holidays snuck up from behind, I realized I was in desperate need of connecting. Not as in Facebook or holiday cards, but as in honest-to-goodness, face-to-face, heart-to-heart connecting.

Luckily, our solstice and Christmas holidays were filled with the warmth and light of family and friends. We gave less of our pockets this year, but more of ourselves. And as the sun rose again after the longest night, my thoughts started turning to the rewards of living with less. How out of necessity, stumbling in the dark, we manage to stub our toes on treasures we never knew were there.

Treasures are not only often hard to see but, unfortunately, fleeting. Ardie Rodale, matriach of the Rodale family, Rodale, Inc. and the Rodale Institute passed away just days before the solstice. As the dark overcame the light, she made her journey into the great unknown. She touched so many people in her lifetime, her firey spirit continues to glow within the heart of each of those souls.

It is easy to saint in our memories those who have passed. I'm sure Ardie was at times falable, grumpy, petty, scared, and otherwise just as human as I. And, though I spent a scant amount of time with her, Ardath Rodale managed to speak to my heart with her unguarded thoughts on life. Her simple, uncensored and incredibly positive words always felt real--bare and so honest as though they came from someone both naive and wise. May we all be so lucky to hold naivety and wisdom in equal parts.

The papa bear is terribly talented at finding trees with old bird nests nestled within their branches. This year will make the third nest that has graced our Yule tree in the eight years we've been married. May this home within our home bring us good luck for the year to come. And may the ceaseless turning of the wheel bring inspiration to us all. My new year's resolution: Keep my soul open to the path that feels right--whatever that may be.

A Gratitude Tree

2009-11-24T00:35:00.005-05:00

After reading the lovely Erin's post on making a Gratitude Tree with her little one, we just had to join in and create our very own version.

Rowan's short of patience when it comes to coloring, so he called out things or people for which he was thankful and mama wrote them on the leaves.

Here's the list as created by my little man (in rough chronological order):

Thanksgiving lunch (he's a total foodie)
Elvis (our dog)
Jasper (our cat)
My baby
My Meme blanket
Woolie (a lambskin he's had since birth)
Family
Bumblebee helmut (Transformers)
Woody hat (cowboy hat)
Good friends
Guns (um, yes, he said guns!)
Leaf jumping

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Share some gratitude with the ones you love (and even the ones you don't).

Light and shadow

2009-11-10T22:13:00.009-05:00

For some reason I thought all children were scared of the dark on some level. So you an imagine it has caught me off guard that Rowan is so comfortable in the darkness. Every evening around 7:30pm or so, he asked to go outside. We howl at the moon (if she's out), play "movie theater", row our boogie board "boat" through the ocean of leaves with our baseball bat "oars", crazy walk, sprint around the garden, look for clues to a mystery, and any number of other ridiculous and fantastical activities. Rowan always leads the play session.

In honor of the lengthening nights and my little bear's energetic enthusiasm for outdoor twilight play, I read The Night is Like an Animal by Candace Whitman and Darkness Slipped In by Ella Burfoot to the preschoolers for storytime at the library. The stories are always followed by a craft and I wracked by brain to think of something three- to five-year-olds could make that would be more than just a one-off coloring project.

And then I remembered going to the theater when I was a young girl and seeing a shadow puppet rendition of traditional fairytales. They thrilled me like no other theater had. Something about the shadows and the movements and the necessity of our own imaginations to translate the dialog into expressions entranced me. The fairytales were originals--unedited, uncensored and violent. I loved them. Thinking back, I almost wonder if that's not where my love for fairytales really began. Not by reading them (gasp!), but by experiencing them in that strange shadow world.

So, we made shadow puppets. There were simple cuts outs for the children, and a more complicated version I made the night before of Three Billy Goats Gruff complete with a cereal box set on which the kids could try their own puppets.

They were entranced. Especially my darkling child. He can light up the whole house with his smile, but beware a storm brewing behind those blue eyes. I wouldn't have him any other way.

"Where there is much light, the shadow is deep."
~ Goethe

Click here for the Three Billy Goats Gruff template we used.

Sweet Samhain

2009-11-01T00:28:00.002-04:00

Autumn energy

2009-10-24T20:44:00.007-04:00

Fall is my favorite time of year. I can't help but take in as much of the crisp air, golden light and that unique scent of the declining year. You can almost feel the outdoors winding down.

We pulled the last bits of the harvest from the garden...

...and reveled in the final snatches of warmth--storing them on our bones to keep us warm through the winter.

We celebrated a birthday...

...and looked closely as some of the things in our little world that have begun to feel familiar only to find lots of unfamiliar things.

And after days of weather that nearly chilled us all to the bone, we had a warm and wet reprieve...

Note: He did start out with galoshes and an umbrella. By the end of this escapade, he was sitting in the puddles.

Of course, we've also had temper tantrums galore, 20 adults and 10 children in our too small home (including an experiement in doing a pinata inside amongst all said folk), five articles for Mother Earth News, and job interviews at least once a week for the hubby. Now the household is recovering from a case of the sniffles.

I would have posted some pumpkin pics, but the little bear has decided he is NOT interested in going to the pumpkin patch this year. Sigh. Maybe we should take to carving turnips. T'would be more historically accurate and wouldn't require dragging a very large three-year-old through a field kicking and screaming.

In the meantime, the countdown to All Hallow's Eve is underway and we've been waffling on whether or not to take our precocious (but temperamental as of late) little man to see Where the Wild Things Are movie. I've heard amazing things about it, but my parents managed to see it first (I suspect because they didn't trust our instincts on this one) and were "appalled" at how emotionally violent it was. Would love to get any blogmama opinions on this one.

Until next time....

Growing pains

2009-09-19T00:50:00.000-04:00

My little man is heading toward three years old next month and is having serious growing pains. Despite being completely potty trained since February, he has decided he wants to wear diapers again. When we talk about his birthday party, he tells us he doesn't want to grow up. When someone mentions what a big boy he is, he says he wants to stay little forever. When did my son turn into Peter Pan? I thought this was't supposed to happen until his was a bit older.

I have to admit I'm stumped as to exactly how to respond. Consider it a phase and let him play baby? I'm hestitant. He was almost completely weaned at two years old when I was laid off from my full-time job. Let's just say he is still nursing late at night and at naptime almost a year later.

My mild-mannered, polite, and pleasant little boy has also gotten terribly grumpy, contradictory, inconsolable, mercurial and stressed out. Are these the "terrible twos" and how long are they supposed to last? I don't know if I'll still be standing when it's all said and done. Hell, I don't know if the house will still be standing when it's all said and done.

In sweeter news, there is at least one thing that has brought a big smile to my honeybear's face. A serendipitous dessert that disappeared in two days--a record for us, I believe.

What we're calling Black Forest Pear Tart is the perfect way to use up those almost-too-far-gone pears. It has the silkiest milk-less "custard" that slurps up the succulent fruit juices as the tart bakes, infusing the whole mess with the scent of sweet pear. For a cobbled-together recipe, it caught us completely off guard with it's wicked deliciousness.

Black Forest Pear Tart

1 all-butter crust (see Getting Crafty post from January)
5 bosc pears
1 cup blackberries
2/3 cup sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon almond extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Roll out your crust and lay into tart or pie plate, trimming any overhang and crimping the edge. Slice the pears and arrange in the bottom of the crust. Scatter the blackberries atop the pears. Mix the sugar, lemon juice, eggs and almond extract in a small bowl with a wisk to combine. Pour evenly over the fruit and pop in the oven for 50-60 minutes until the "custard" is set, the fruit is tender and the crust is golden brown. Let cool on a rack (if you can resist). Cut and serve when the tart still has a breath of the oven on it--a touch warm.

Snaps

2009-09-16T00:39:00.001-04:00

Three apples up on top...

Sort of...

Making music...

Looking goblinish in his "Davie Bowie" mask....

Bareback...

Skivvy swimming...

Rockin'...

Pot luck

2009-08-18T00:25:00.009-04:00

End of summer potluck at Eckerton Hill Farm....

I wish I had taken more pictures of the gorgeous and wickedly delicious food. Alas, I got carried away visiting.

So good to catch up with old friends and make a few news ones.

And so good to see Rowan running wild through the fields with a herd of other children.

Corn moon

2009-08-05T23:07:00.010-04:00

After weeks of saying I was going to get some putting up taken care of, the day finally cooperated. In fact, the whole family had a great day at home, productively puttering. It must have been the corn moon working it's celebratory, harvest magic.

The papa got the reel mower out and quietly did lawn laps, Rowan entertained himself (for the most part), and the mama managed to actually get some large enough chunks of calm time to process and can.

This year we planted Chiogga beets instead of the standard blood red beauties. I do so love the labyrinthine pattern and they are so darn sweet when roasted. The jury is still out on how they stand up to pickling. They were much less messy, but there is something to say about the red-bordering-on-purple color of the standard pickled beet. I have to admit, I kind of miss it. These are attractive in their own right, but a little dull.

What turned out to be anything but dull was the wickedly delicious blueberry rhubarb jam. Let me start by telling you, I adore blueberries. Blueberry pie, blueberry crepes, blueberry muffins, blueberry pancakes. My mother knows better than to ask me to help pick either at her patch or any of the other "secret" woodland spots she frequents. I can spend all day picking and end up with a scant bucket of take-home harvest. One for me, one for the bucket...two for me, one for the bucket...three for me, one for the bucket. You get the picture.

What I don't like, have never liked, and swore would never like is blueberry jam. It's too sweet, too flat, too ugh. It always tastes like it's missing something. Like some ephemeral blueberry essence somehow escapes in the canning process never to return again.

But add a little rhubarb and whoa! That tart fiend inexorable linked with the strawberry gives the blueberry its groove back.

The best part about blueberries is, like under ripe apples, they act as the gelling agent. No pectin required. The naturally-thickened jam is tender, but certainly won't go running off your toast. This new-found collaboration may actually surpass raspberry-currant on my favorite jams list. (Yes, I have a favorite jams list. And am prone to buying ridiculous amounts of weird and wonderful preserves despite making my own each year.) I'm officially in love.

Blueberry Rhubarb Jam

8 cups blueberries
4 cups rhubarb, chopped into blueberry-sized pieces
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 cup water
4 cups sugar

In a large saucepan, combine blueberries, rhubarb, lemon zest, lemon juice, and water. Bring to a boil, stirring frequently, reduce heat and simmer gently for 10 minutes. Stir in sugar. Increase heat to high and boil vigorously about 10-15 minutes until jam begins to set (thickens and gets shiny), stirring frequently. Remove from heat, skim off foam and stir for 3 - 5 minutes to suspend fruit evenly throughout jam. Fill sterilized jars and seal.

Makes about 4 pint jars or 8 half pint jars.

Busy little bees

2009-07-21T00:43:00.003-04:00

Who knew one could be so busy without a full-time job? Not I. We have been here, there, and everywhere the last month or so and I've let my devoted reading of all the lovely blogs out there languish. I've also been doing some writing for Mother Earth News magazine and have been so excited to have a few deadlines, I've let quite a few things slip. (Eh...blog, housecleaning, bill-paying...nothing of real importance.)

While I've been off galavanting, I received a "One Lovely Blog Award" from Docwitch over at Dark Side of the Broom. I then, of course, felt oh-so-guilty for slacking off, I had to get back on the horse as such and write something....hell, anything. So in the spirit of catching up, here is a quick photo montage of late June adventures. (July photos to follow when I retrieve my camera from my parents' camper later this week.)

Birthwisdom

2009-06-14T22:14:00.005-04:00

The amazingly talented midwife who delivered my son was recently banned from the largest hospital in our area. In short, she supported the wishes of a mother of of 9 in making her own informed and educated choice during the birth of her 10th child. The ban has eliminated a wise and valuable resource for birthing mothers in the region.

In her honor, I'm posting the story of my first birth experience...

Rowan was due to arrive on our five-year wedding anniversary—October 6, 2006. I had experienced a blissful pregnancy (after the initial morning sickness, which was more all-day sickness, things could not have been better) and felt like the fertility goddess that I was! A few weeks before my due date my midwive, Laurice, suggested I start visualizing how I’d like the birth to progress. Every night I imagined calmly leaving the house, laboring on the birth ball, walking the halls, soaking in the whirlpool for pain management, and eventually welcoming a lovely child into this world. Of course, I knew birth is unpredicatable, but it couldn’t hurt to labor with intention.

Appointments with Laurice in those weeks preceding the birth experience were comforting, energizing, and exciting. Growing closer and closer to the moment when this little life would be carried in my arms rather than in my womb was bittersweet. And knowing I would have a woman with such beautiful energy, capable and loving hands, and firey spirit laboring with me was a touchstone.

On Wednesday the 4th, I was 3-1/2 centimeters dilated and Laurice said she thought I would probably go before the weekend was out. I was sure I would go into labor on my due date. Not only did the date have personal meaning, but the full moon was on the rise that night, too. I took the day off of work and spent my time centering and enjoying the autumn weather. Mike and I walked down by the river in the Lehigh Gorge and took is slow, just waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happened.

I thought, maybe, I was feeling little flutters of contractions. But, then again, it might have been gas. And so we waited. The 6th came and went, as did the 7th and the 8th. I walked, I rode the swing in the park, I had sex, I ate lobster francaise (perported to send women directly into labor), I nearly bathed myself in clary sage oil. I still suspected I was feeling small and very irregular contractions, but I couldn’t be sure. My mother told me I’d be sure when I felt a real contraction. Of course, she was right.

The following Wednesday October 12th, Laurice said the baby was very low and we should see some regular contractions soon. She was right, too. At 3:30pm that day we were able to start timing the light contractions. By 7:00pm, I knew I was having contractions! We continued to time the waves, but they never lasted very long. At 8:30pm, I went to the bathroom to relieve myself and yelled to my husband Mike that we should probably go to the hospital since I felt like pushing while sitting on the toilet.

We finally made it to Sacred Heart Hospital around 9:50pm. It was a busy night. Although we had hoped to have the whirlpool suite, it was already occupied. The nurses told us there were already five women in labor. As it turned out, the suite would have been wasted on us anyway. By 10:50, I was eight centimeters dilated and Laurice ruptured my waters. By 11:30pm I was in active labor.

There is very little I remember clearly about the birth. I remember riding the waves of contractions up and down. I remember being so focused in I couldn’t tell you what the room or the nurses looked like. I remember feeling most comfortable on my hands and knees. I remember my husband’s strong hands anchoring me to the earth while the rest of me floated somewhere in the ocean of birth. I remember the overwhelming feeling my clothes and the sheets had against my skin and insisting both go away and stay away. I remember believing in my heart of hearts that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t birth this baby . I remember locking eyes with Laurice and not letting them go and I remember her saying, “Yes you can. Now push!”

He slid warmly from my body at 12:08am October 13, 2006. Laurice untangled his arm and his cord from around his neck and told me to reach down and get my baby. I pulled him onto my belly and had my first clear thought in hours, “He is so much bigger than I imagined he would be.” And that he was. Rowan Michael Evans was nine pounds, one ounce and 21-1/2 inches long. I had been at the hospital for just over two hours and had given birth to a beautiful baby boy without pain medicine, without an episiotomy, and without tearing at all. Mike cut the cord and stayed skin-to-skin with Rowan while they weighed and measured him just out of my reach. A half hour after he was born, Rowan was suckling contentedly at my breast, I was surrounded by my mother, my father, my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, my sister and my brother-in-law, and I couldn’t imagine what life was like before that moment.

The birth may not have looked like what I had envisioned all those nights leading up to the event, but the key elements were there. The things that mattered happened just as I had hoped. It was a rite of passage for mama, papa, and baby, and we had a wise and wonderful guide.

You can read more about the specific incident that caused the ban and the continuing saga at Knitted in the Womb.

Marvelous mint ice cream

2009-05-23T20:47:00.006-04:00

I am not an ice cream fan. As far a desserts go, it's okay, but I can take it or leave it. And, usually, when I take it, I can't eat much. A little goes a long way to not just filling my belly, but making me feel like I'm going to burst. Anything larger than a kiddie cone and I know why I don't eat ice cream that often. My lovely husband, on the other hand, could happily plow through and entire 1/2 gallon on his own if it weren't for his herculean self-restraint. Rowan is following in his father's footprints on this one.

When the papa says he's making ice cream, I usually stay out of it. This time, I stuck my nose in and am I glad I did. Mint chocolate chip was on the schedule and the papa wanted to run to the store to buy mint extract (yuck!) and green food coloring (what?!). Luckily, I planted a nice big patch of spearmint this year (despite all the warnings that it will take over the entire yard within seconds of hitting the soil). I convinced him it was much easier to toss in a few sprigs of the fresh stuff than run to the grocer. As for the chocolate chips...why put them in the ice cream when you can sprinkle as many as you want on top (then I don't have to dig around the tastless little nuggets in my little dish--does anyone else think chocolate chips lose all their flavor when they're in ice cream or is that just me?).

I figured I'd have my requisite little scoop when it was done cooling and churning and freezing, and the boys could finish off the batch. But, when that first spoonful hit my tongue, it was nothing short of love at first bite. Not only did I eat more than half of the first batch, I requested another batch and made a chocolate cake just to act as the perfect pillow on which to transport the light and minty ice-cream-of-the-gods to my trembling tastebuds!

The best part is the recipe couldn't be simpler. Although the local ice cream parlor is only 2 blocks away and the ice cream truck drives by every Thursday at 5:30pm, I suspect we will be eating this homemade minty concoction most weeks this summer instead.

Spearmint Ice Cream
(adapted from a recipe by Alton Brown)

2 cups half-and-half
1 cup cream
just under 1 cup sugar
3-4 sprigs of fresh spearmint washed

Combine all the ingredients in a saucepan over medium heat. (Just toss the spearmint in whole as you will fish it out before churning.) Stirring occasionally, bring the mixture up to 170 degrees F. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Fish out the spearmint sprigs and toss them in the compost or the trash. Pour the mixture into a lidded container and refridgerate over night or at least for a few hours. Churn per the instructions on your ice cream maker and harden in the freezer for 1 hour before serving.

ABCs of Happiness

2009-05-12T15:41:00.008-04:00

I was tagged by Cave Mama to do a twenty-two tiny pieces of me post, but I couldn't resist the ABCs of Happiness list I've seen elsewhere in blog-land. And, since I don't want to overwhelm you lovely readers with too many of these thingies, I'm fulfilling my tag requirement creatively. Enjoy!

Asparagus
Bread (both baking and eating)
Calamari
Daydreaming
Evening light
Fire
Giggling
Holding Hands
Ink
Jam-making
Kite-flying
Lilies-of-the-valley
Moon watching
Naps
Owls
Pickles (of the full-sour sort)
Quilts
Rhubarb strawberry pie
Spearmint icecream (homemade)
Tire swings
Ukulele (watching Rowan play We Will Rock You on it, more specifically)
Violets
Waves
eXploring
Yogurt with honey
Zabayon

Happy Mama's Day

2009-05-12T14:58:00.003-04:00

And many thanks to sunnymama for featuring this lovely video on her blog!

Strawberries

2009-05-04T22:34:00.004-04:00

"He smells like strawberries. Do you think that's bad?" ~Papa

He's bathed and brushed and yet the scent of strawberries rises from his skin. Sure, he ate a whole bowl full for breakfast, but it's bedtime. How could he still smell like strawberries?

I'd worry, but I'm too delighted by this metaphor materializing in real life.

Salamander Hunting

2009-05-02T21:49:00.011-04:00

We honored May Day a little late this year with a hunt for the elusive fire lizard. Rowan had yet to see the bright orange salamanders common to our area, and we awoke to a crisp spring morning, the air wet with new rain and a mist hanging close to the ground. I thought, for sure, it was too chilly for the little amphibians, but Papa insisted we should be able to find a few. He was right...

Papa's eagle eye discovered a total of four little lizards sunning themselves along the path through the wood. Rowan was tickled to discover a new creature so dazzlingly bright and charmingly adorable and surprisingly dry (he thought they would feel slimy). Born of fire, according to legend, but usually found in the damp wetness of spring and summer, the salamander is a bit of a contradiction and a perfect familiar for a Beltane celebration.

We thought we might catch the elves riding their trusty salamanders, but Rowan tells me they must have been napping. We knocked on a stump or two, but no one answered.

Rowan did manage to squeeze in some fishing (that would be dipping a stick in and out of the water) and sailing (using a fallen tree as a pirate ship) before we headed home for lunch.

After lunch we harvested the first juicy tart rhubarb stems of the season and make them into a pie. Check back and I'll be sure to post some photos and a recipe.

Hares, Hairs, and Mr. McGregor's Garden

2009-04-28T21:05:00.007-04:00

Easter came and went a few weeks ago, but I've yet to put my decorations away. I consider that more than enough of a loophole to actually write a little bit about such ancient history as "a few weeks ago." The holidays are getting a little more challenging for our little non-religious family. We're quietly finding the best way to answer questions like, "What is Easter, mama?" when we're not necessarily celebrating the same things as 80% of America. So, we explain (in as few words as possible since he is only 2-1/2) both the Christian story and traditions of our extended families as well as what might be considered the Pagan stories and traditions that the papa and I have found feel right for us. Both have their roots in the same themes--birth, renewal, the spark of life growing, budding and flowering--so it has been much easier than I think I anticipated.

Rowan's spring renewal came in the form of his very first haircut. We took him to the local salon where all the ladies doted on him. I know, I know, I surely could have given him his first cut myself since, as far as hair goes, he didn't have much. Well, lots on the top, not much on the sides. Basically he needed some shaping.

But, his first cut was already promised out. Four days after Rowan was supposed to arrive, I found myself itching to do something to keep my mind off new and strange ways to encourage labor naturally. So down to the salon I went for a quick trim and some conversation. The women giggled about how the salon had everything necessary should I go into labor then and there and I pledged my little one would have his or her first haircut at Soapothecary. And so he did. This is his I-got-my-hair-cut dance.

The best part about this spring is that Rowan has his very own garden. We went to the greenhouse and he picked out rosemary, violets, pansies, and a dahlia. He's so entirely excited to have his own little piece of ground (not to mention his own garden bag including gloves, tools and a "mystery" bottle--translation: misting bottle). I'm sure he's not the only 2-1/2 year old who knows what compost is and actually calls dirt soil, but I'm just amazed at what he picks up from us without prompt.

He's also a huge fan of The Tale of Peter Rabbit and insists that all gardens belong to Mr. McGregor. In fact, if you ask nicely, he would be happy to recite the entire story of Peter as well as that of Benjamin Bunny. But only if you ask nicely.

Mosaic

2009-04-23T23:30:00.002-04:00

Above is my flickr mosaic for the questions listed below. Inspired by rants and dreamy musings. Since I'm a sucker for these sorts of things by email, it only follows that I'd also enjoy the blog-o-sphere version of the getting-to-know-you-but-not-really games. For those interested in my actual answers as well as the strange assortment of photos that came up in a flickr search, I've included them in parans after the questions....

Flickr mosaic game
a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into a mosaic maker.

1. Your blog name? (mmmm mama)
2. What is your favourite food? (home-baked bread)
3. Where were you born? (Kingston)
4. What is your favourite color? (peacock blue)
5. Who is your celebrity crush? (Johnny Depp)
6. Favourite drink? (apple cider)
7. Dream vacation? (mountain lake)
8. Favourite dessert? (creme brule)
9. What you want to be when you grow up? (herbalist)
10. What do you love most in life? (Rowan)
11. One Word to describe you. (hidden)
12. Favourite novel? (Watership Down)

North Wind

2009-04-21T23:51:00.004-04:00

An owl sits beside my chair and whispers in my ear
Who-who could that be knock, knock, knocking
Who-who could that be here

It’s nothing but the North Wind blowing, blowing at the pane
Blowing cinders down the flue, tugging at the vane

Come out, come out, come out and play
He howls at the door
I’ll lash you with a lock of hair and beat you ‘til your sore

Come in, come in, come in and play
I answer to the door
You bluster, blare and bellow but you’re wind and nothing more

Family movie night

2009-04-04T21:58:00.000-04:00

As much as I had visions of raising my children without television, we are a family that loves our movies. I can hear my mother's tisking tongue and see her wagging finger in my mind when I think of how many movies Rowan has seen in his short two and a half years of life. He was sleeping in my arms at our local drive-in his first summer, nursing and dreaming while my husband and I enjoyed the season's blockbusters. Maybe his love of movies happend by osmosis. I've been reading a series of theortical/spiritual books that suggest what a mother thinks while she's nursing has an affect on the life of the child. Yikes! Whatever the reason, Rowan absolutely adores a good film.

We took him to see Monsters vs Aliens in 3D on opening night. (That's Rowan's "date" Ava on the left looking at the camera and Rowan on the right enthralled by the screen. We double family dated with some close friends who have a 4-year-old and a 1-year-old.) On all counts, it was a great movie and everyone thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

Then, of course, I had to keep thinking about the damned movie. It was so made for parents my age. Anyone who grew up watching the GenX classics featuring motley outcasts who save the world/get the girl/get the guy/make the team/etc., etc., etc., will appreciate the underlying symbolism and messaging. From cookie-cutter references (the suburban hometown party, the evil alien destroying his own world to create one populated entirely by clones of himself) to mindless government gags, it's like one big inside joke created by a bunch of powerful geeks. Despite the big wigs not marketing it as a "strong girl" movie, the protagonist is definitely Ginormica and the storyline centers around her literal and metaphorical metamorphasis from shallow girl "living the dream life" to confident freak finding her way in a world that finds her simultaneously amazing and revolting. Sounds about right to me.

I'd like to see it again when I'm not balancing a rootbeer float with one hand, pushing Annie's cheddar bunnies and Twizzlers on the 1-year-old to keep him quiet with the other hand, and keeping an eye on Rowan's reaction to the 3D.

This weekend we accidentally rented a dubbed Chinese Disney flick called The Magic Gourd. But the psychological seisures I gave myself after thinking too hard about this one is a whoooole nother ball of yarn. Let's just say it veered into musings on how The Magic Gourd would be a great example of how one might make a film for children about a boy's battle with schizophrenia. Oy vey! Where do I get these things?

Nine Seeds

2009-03-22T23:14:00.000-04:00

My first encounter with Vandana Shiva was in a prickly senior-level women's studies class in college. On our reading list, Ecofeminism by Shiva and Maria Mies. I didn't like it. The amount of metaphor was unbearable at the time. It crashed around the data in the book, drowning any hope of a really solid argument, I thought, in a sea of "female hormones."

I've grown to better understand the value of methaphor. And temper my hair-trigger judgement with a willingness to hold that with which I disagree in the same hands I hold that with which I do agree. Turning things around and appreciating how they hum to me. Or don't.

And I've run into other facets of Vandana Shiva over the years, finding clear and true notes in her writing and speaking that ring in accordance with my heart. Her work at Navdanya is both an expression of the failings of our global food system and the hope that can still be found in our land, our seeds, and our farmers. It was a treat and a pleasure to meet her in person at a small gathering at the Rodale Institute last week.

I think it's time a reread Ecofeminism. I have a feeling I might come away with a very different message than I did those many years ago.

Think

2009-03-10T23:22:00.000-04:00

"Mama, you scared the Think right out of me."

"I scared the what out of you?"

"I was thinking and you scared it right out of me! Now I can't remember!"

"Don't worry, honey. We'll get your Think back as soon as we get in the car."

***

"Is your Think back yet."

"Yes, mama. Thank you."

Teaberry

2009-02-25T22:48:00.000-05:00

When we first moved into our house three years ago, one of our neighbors reminisced about the teaberry she used to collect en masse in the forest just up the hill outside of town. Teaberry, also known as wintergreen, is native to Pennsylvania and is a popular ice cream flavor that, I belive, you can only find in this keystone state of ours. (It also happens to be one of my favorites--in the top four along with vanilla, coffee and rum raisin.) Pennsylvania is also the birthplace of teaberry gum which, like violet candy, can be an acquired taste.

Little did we know that after three years of trecking back and forth just where the neighbor indicated, that we would suddenly discover a patch of teaberry carpeting the floor of the wood. What a tasty surprise!

We came wholely unprepared for wildcrafting, so we just took a sample and committed to memory the location(s) of the larger villages of the creeping evergreen.

This was also the maiden voyage of my first crotcheted hat. Since I could not for the life of me figure out any of the crotcheted hat instructions on paper or online, I made it up. It's a little short and it certainly "breathes" (ie. has a pretty loose knit), but I really like the shape.

I can almost believe there are little pointed ears hiding under that blue yarn.

i heart...

2009-02-11T22:44:00.000-05:00

Sleepy dog face (photo courtesy my lovely husband).

Hot Faux-fee (coffee subsitute made with all milk like hot cocoa...Mmmm!).

Blanket forts ('nuff said).

Lily of the valley soap by Kappus (a breath of spring in the dead of winter and the only brand I've found that actually smells like it's namesake).

"F" is for frugal

2009-02-04T22:48:00.000-05:00

I recently wrote to some friends that I am both a feminist and a domestic goddess, and that I don't consider myself an oxymoron. Rowan agrees. To make room for his dinosaur magnets, he amazingly moved my "righteous babe" into a position of feminine power. Yes, Rowan, "F" is for female, ferocious and frugal.

And what is more frugal than a warm bread pudding studded with plump, sweet currants and glittering with coarse sugar? It seems, since I've been making bread regularly (well, at least once a week), that there is always a stray crust or leftover heal gone dry. Last week I made biscuits to go with a big pot of pea soup from my mother-in-law, and doubled the batch. Usually, they would have been devoured in short order (drizzled with honey for breakfast), but we had a busy weekend out and about and Rowan has discovered the delicious simplicity of the egg, requesting them "dippy" just about every morning.

What to do with a stack of bicuits just this side of hockey puck and four dry heals of bread? Bread pudding of course. And you wouldn't believe how wickedly buttery bread pudding can be until you make it with biscuits.

In what food category would I file bread pudding? You name it, so it be. Breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch, afternoon tea, desert, midnight comfort. I wouldn't go so far as to suggest you eat it as a main course for dinner, but I could envision a version of bread pudding that would leave that stuffy old side of stuffing with his tie askew and his hair rumpled. Hmmm....Do I smell a new Thanksgiving tradition?

(Interested in the bread pudding recipe? Leave me a comment and I'll email it to you. Warning: the measurements are inexact, but the finished product is addicting.)

The letter "F" also stands for fast and I've discovered a new favorite go-to cake recipe that stands up to being fiddled with (I can never leave well enough alone). Based on the Lightning Cake recipe from the Joy of Cooking, it is quick, easy, and deliciously dense. Apparently it's a German Blintztorte. I almost love saying "blintztorte" as much as I love eating this lovely cake. I probably should have saved it for Valentine's day, but who knew it would turn out so pink? Not I.

Almond Raspberry Blintztorte

2 cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
16 tablespoons (2 sticks) unsalted butter
2 cups sugar
6 large eggs
1-2 teaspoons almond extract
1-1/2 cups frozen raspberries

Butter and flour a bundt pan. Pre-heat oven to 350-degrees F.

Whisk the flour, baking powder and salt together in a small bowl. Beat your butter until creamy then gradually add your sugar and beat on high until lightening in color and fluffy in texture. Beat in eggs one at a time and then add the almond extract. Stir the flour mixture in until smooth then gently fold the raspberries in just until evenly dispersed.

Spoon batter into your bundt pan, smoothing out the top, and bake for 35-45 minutes--until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean. Let cool on a rack for 10 minutes before unmolding. Dust with powdered sugar for a less-sweet version or drench with your favorite glaze or icing.

Serves 8-10

getting crafty

2009-01-15T22:18:00.000-05:00

There are so many amazing women online who I swear knit in their sleep and can homeschool their nine children while simultaneously kneading a loaf of whole wheat bread, planting their three-acre garden and writing/photographing a book to be released this year. It's enough to make one go white as a sheet and decide to never ever get out of bed.

Really, I am in awe of the amazing, creative, inspiring work being done by mamas and other artists everywhere. What an ecclectic bunch humanity is. (Oh, the grammar!) So rather than succumbing to enui in the face of such shining examples of true beauty, I will, instead, throw my hands in the air and honor the few lovely things I do manage to accomplish despite rarely getting out of my pajama's these days.

One
I'm discovering through mostly trial and error what level of complexity a two-year-old will tolerate in a craft project.

Thumbs down: Making an alphabet paper chain. Twenty-six piece of paper to be cut, labeled and taped? What was I thinking?

Thumbs up: Making birdseed treats with overripe fruit. A total homerun.

Two
I'm also learning my personal crafting limitations. This is, apparently, an ongoing lesson as I have amassed quite a collection of half-done, quarter-done and even not-yet-started projects. Including, but not limited to, three or four cross-stitch patterns; fabric, buttons and thread for two art smocks I designed in my head; all the bits and pieces for a doll, a beany frog and some little felt monsters; feathers and beads for a butterfly mobile. Ugh!

So what exactly have I learned you ask? Um...to not just cut my losses when things are starting to go sour, but to salvage the work I've done so far. My latest scarf attempt is now a cozy ear-warming headband. (Modeled after a bunch I was admiring on Etsy.)

Three
Kitchen projects have turned out to be the sweet spot, literally, for both Rowan and Mama. They don't require too much time and there's always something new to measure, mix, taste or rub all over one's face. Perfecto!

This sweet-tart apple-berry pie was born of the dregs of a few of our fruity supplies and turned out to be quite a success. The last, almost-too-soft apples from the bushel we bought in December and the berry-licious crumbs from a freezer bag of raspberries and blackberries. I threw in a few blueberries, too, to make sure the pie was plump.

Despite all the warnings about tough dough, I always make an all-butter crust. It makes such a difference when it comes to flavor and I actually like the texture better than most crusts that rely on shortening.

Time to dust off that rolling pin and get baking. There are no hard and fast rules with this recipe. Change up the fruit, use a store-bought crust, add more or less sugar. Just be sure to share it with someone you love.

Rowan's Apple-Berry Pie

4-6 cups apples
1-2 cups mixed frozen berries
squeeze lemon juice
1/2 cup sugar
2-4 tablespoons flour
pinch fresh-grated nutmeg
pinch of salt
2 all-butter crusts
2 tablespoons milk
Coarse sugar

Pre-heat oven to 425 degrees F. Peel and slice apples. Toss in bowl with lemon juice as you slice to prevent browning. (Note: I actually don't mind brown apples in a pie, but I do like the little bit of sour sunshine the lemon adds to the fruit!). Add berries and sugar to the apples, and sprinkle with flour (more for juicy apples, less for dry apples), nutmeg, and salt. Toss with your hands until well combined.

Roll out one crust and lay into pie plate. Cover with plastic wrap and place in the fridge. Roll out the second crust. Grab first crust in plate from the fridge and fill with fruit. Cover with second crust, trim and crimp the edges, and cut one large and two small slits in the top. Brush with milk and sprinkle coarse sugar.

Bake for 30 minutes and then reduce temperature to 350 degrees F. Bake for another 15-30 minutes until the fruit is tender and the crust is dark golden brown.

All Butter Crust (adapted from Joy of Cooking)

2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2 sticks (1 cup) cold unsalted butter
1/3 cup + 1-3 tablespoons ice water

Combine and mix flour, sugar and salt in a bowl. Break butter into chunks and cut into the flour mixture until it resembles mostly corn meal with some pea-sized pieces, too. Drizzle 1/3 cut + 1 tablespoon ice water and mix. If the dough sticks together when you press it against the side of the bowl, you're done. If not, add 1-2 additional tablespoons ice water until you can easily form your dough into a ball. Divid the dough in half, press each into a flat, round disk. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.

Winter

2009-01-08T23:10:00.001-05:00

So much goodness has taken place in the last month. Our winter solstice was spent feasting and quietly getting ready to be immersed in family for Christmas. We played in the snow and lit our bayberry candle to keep vigil through the longest night.

Then Saint Rowan arrived...

Rowan found his infant Santa outfit when I cleaned out his closet. While I lovingly folded each little sweater and pair of tiny pants too small for his quickly growing frame, he demanded to wear his "Santa suit" despite it being suited for a 3-6 month-old. With a "Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of juice" (apparently Santa has some pirate in his ancestry) he marched downstairs and told me to sit on his lap.

The remaining holi-days were filled to the brim with family warmth. Cookie baking at Meme and Grampy's house...

Hanging with Great-grampa Evans. The youngest first son of the first son of the first son with the eldest...

Papa acting holi-silly...

Then all was quiet again. Rowan enjoyed some of his new games and we settled into the pace of a new year that will hopefully pass a little slower. I won't hold my breath for that one.

I've got a new year's gift for you all next entry--a tasty recipe and a simple project to share with the munchkins in your life--so stop back soon.

Yule-tidings

2008-12-19T21:50:00.000-05:00

Rowan's finally at the age where the holidays really start to get fun. He's starstruck by Santa rather than terrified like last year and he has very specific gift requests so "Santa" is sure to hit a homerun this year. Granted, he has less patience for cookie-baking and it's a little harder to keep track of at the tree farm, but I'll never know exactly what the tree will look like from day to day (he's moved every single ornament within his reach at least three times in the week since we put it up!).

This weekend is our big Yule feast and it looks like its going to be a snowy one. Our first big storm hit today although I didn't have a chance to take any photos. Since getting our family dog, Elvis, it's a little much to juggle Rowan, dog-on-leash and a camera when we head outside. Not to mention the layers of clothing and other keeping-warm items. I've taken to bribing Rowan with hot cocoa and the dog with liver treats to get them back in the house after a long walk-about and play in the yard.

Speaking of bribing, Rowan locked me out of the house the other day. There I am, on the front porch in my socks and short-sleeves, covered in flour from bread-baking telling the neighbor where to find the old dresser we're passing on when I hear the "click" of our deadbolt behind me. When I peek in the front window, I'm met with an impish grin.

"Open the door for mama, honey!" I plead. "No, go away!" he giggled. The backdoor? I, of course, locked it behind me after bringing the dog in last. How thoughtful of me. How did I finally get in the house, you ask? I promised him gummy bears. That did the trick.

Let this be a lesson to all mamas: Keep a house key in your pocket (along with a tissue, a wipey, a diaper, a crayon, some lavendar oil and a scrap of paper) at all times.

Playing Catch-up

2008-11-26T23:07:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is Rowan's third Thanksgiving and it's about time I catch up with my three or four readers here. Since the Mmmm Mama blog has been languishing for the last two months, we've been enjoying every spare autumn moment. So much so that we never finished cleaning out our garden nor got our garlic in the ground for next year. And I certainly won't bore you with how messy the house looks. Oh well. What are the holidays for if not cleaning?

We're going to make a trip to Ritter's Cider Mill with Meme and Grampy an annual event from now on. In fact, we were going to have Rowan's birthday party there, but figured we'd save it until he's a little older and can invite a few of his friends to go with him.

Mmmm....picking apples!

There is nothing like fresh-squeezed, unpasturized apple cider from Ritter's.

Meme taught Rowan the real meaning of HAYrides and Grampy "benefited" from the lesson!

Is there anything we wouldn't do for our litle ones? From left to right, that's Meme, Grampy and Mama. Papa is taking the picture. You can't see if face, but Rowan was laughing hysterically! Totally worth it!

And then is was time for All Hallow's Eve. The carving of the gourd was a teeny bit more controlled this year as compared to last, but unique none-the-less.

Whoa Daddy, what is that stuff?!

Rowan knighted our pumpkin "Aberdeen" this year. We don't know why.

Since Rowan already considered himself a pirate, we thought we'd simply bring the delusion to life and dress him as the Dread Pirate Rowan for trick-or-treating. He looks somber here, but he had a ball raiding the neighbors' houses for candy.

Until next time....I'll try not to stay away so long.

Snuggily Two's

2008-10-25T00:51:00.000-04:00

I don't know much about the Terrible Two's, but I know a ton about the Snuggily Two's. Papa and I are drinking in as much of this as possible while it lasts. We both know it won't be long until our hugs and kisses will embarrass the poor boy. Until then....snuggle on!

I have to admit, these pictures are from earlier in October. I've been out of the loop a bit with my blog working like a mad woman on a huge fundraising event in NYC for the Rodale Institute (the non-profit for which I slave). The event was titled "Ripe for Revolution," but I'm feeling overripe these days. Squishy, soggy and covered in fruit flies! It is only the smile of a certain little bear that makes my heart soar and my supermama powers get all zingy and electrified. Really...how could anyone resist....

Here he is as "Incredi-Boy" in the park.

I'm afraid my lovely little son is addicted to "MOVIES!" (in caps to represent how loudly he requests one). With his personality and charisma, I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up as a movie star himself....or a producer. Who knows. Until then, he's going to have to deal with the TV(and movie)-time limits the mama and the papa (well, mostly the mama) impose. Although, it really is hard to resist those big blue eyes.

Two today

2008-10-13T23:57:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday my darling little bear.....

Putting up

2008-10-06T23:15:00.001-04:00

I've been meaning to get this particular entry up for weeks now. We've picked, preserved, stewed, frozen and pickled some more over the last month. We're very far from ever putting up enough to tide us over until spring, but there is something comforting about having so much garden goodness glistening in jars and bags. There is something about the ritual that brings the summer to a sweet close and welcomes the fall in all it's warm (inside) and spicy crispness (outside).

Dad Evan's dill pickle recipe.

Elderberry currant apple preserves.
(I've missed the annual jelly-making activities at my mother's house the last few years. This year, she brought the whole process to mine. Berries picked by my father, juiced by my mother, and preserved by me.)

Tomatoes, garlic, leeks, basil, rosemary, and oregano
just waiting to be turned into sauce and jarred up.

This truly is my favorite time of year. The month of our marriage...the month of our first born. Today, in fact, is our anniversary and next week is the litte bear's second birthday. So much seems to begin in October, I can't help but celebrate. Autumn blessings to you all!

Treasure

2008-09-30T22:54:00.001-04:00

So Rowan thinks he's a pirate. I'm not sure where the obsession originated, but we've managed to unintentionally encourage it. Okay, so it's been somewhat intentional. It's just incredibly adorable to hear him say, "Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of juice!" Or tell the old ladies in the gift shop down the shore to "Walk the plank!"

As a result, he's been searching high and low for "pirate booty" (his exact words--where does he get this stuff?). You never know what might be considered treasure these days. Some of his favorites include an egg-like stone, a collection of snail shells and a bluejay feather. The bluejay feather was his first gift from the sky. Found on a quiet walk through the woods with mama a few weeks ago. Papa has a talent for attracting feather gifts as well, so I'm not surprised my eagle-eyed son has begun to express the same.

I also suspect one of the new earings my mother gave me may have been pirated, but I have yet to discover where it's been buried.

Seaside, book II

2008-09-14T21:46:00.001-04:00

Despite Rowan's beach bum temperament, Mama's delicate skin and aversion to sunburn and sweat meant many hours spent enjoying each other's company away from the sand and sea. In fact, we all found a lovely bit of solace tucked under the dappled shade and hidden in the damp mossy crevises of Brookgreen Gardens.

When what should we hear as we come out from under a canopy of old oaks but Rowan's excited voice saying, "Look. Giant ba-ba's!"

And, of course, there were rides. Papa might be highly allergic to the teacups, but they were by-far Rowan's favorites.

Seaside, book I

2008-09-10T23:21:00.000-04:00

Sunset Beach, NC. August 16-25, 2008: We were invited to spend a week with friends at the beach this summer. Three families, three kids (1-3) and one in the oven. We rented a house half a block from the beach on a quiet island just off the coast. It was lovely!

I say our house was only half a block from the beach, but I neglect to mention the boardwalk that is nearly three blocks long from the beach access to the actual beach. I still hold that this gorgeous path among the dunes doesn't count due entirely to the enjoyment we all had padding back and forth on it's well-worn wood.

A lesson in ocean etiquette from mamma. That hat didn't stay on long. In fact, within the first 15 minutes in the water Rowan was laying down and putting his head under. Turns out he's a natural beach bum!

Low tide revealed a small sand bar just a few yards out. The waves tumbled on the rise and created a calm wading pool just perfect for Rowan and Mama to play.

Like father, like son...they have the exact same stride!

Bedside

2008-09-06T23:05:00.001-04:00

There is a white wraught iron, glass-topped table on my side of the bed. It's old, with sharp corners and glass chipped from years on my parent's back porch. It used to sit in our living room until the little bear found his way into this world. As heavy things and sharp things, things too big and things too small all made their way into the attic, I couldn't bear to see this one item stored away. Here are some fragments that I currently keep on my bedside table...

The scent of cinnamon, strong and heady, from a lovely cinnamon wood canister. About $17.68. "Wonder Lands" by Bryna Untemeyer. "Jesus and the Lost Goddess" by Timothy Freke, Peter Gandy. "In Defense of Food" by Michael Pollan. "Twilight" by Stephanie Meyer. One diaper, size four. Sesame Street towel from 1978. Small basket with four jars of scented oils (orange, pine, lavendar, fresh linen).

Yes...I promise pictures very, very soon.

Falling off the wagon

2008-08-12T22:05:00.000-04:00

I may be hanging from one finger, legs dangling, off the side of the blog wagon. I had the same problem with the five million diaries I tried to keep when I was growing up. Oh, I always had the best of intentions. And it went well for a while. Then life got in the way.

Not only did a start a blog this summer, but I also planned to crochet six scarves (winter holiday gifts), sew two art smocks for Rowan, and finally get to ripping out the jungle of weeds threatening to take over our front porch. Um...what was I thinking? I think I'm a domestic goddess stuck in a working mother's body!

So, let me lighten my load and remind myself this is not a chore. Nor is it a burden. I will blog when I can and leave the rest to fate.

July and August have been full, full, full. We spent a long weekend at the lake with Meme and Grampy and went boating with Pop-pop and Grandma. Fished, foraged for blueberries, roasted marshmallows, the usual. Next week we're off to the very southern coastal waters of North Carolina for a week with a few other families. I won't promise I'll write soon, but I'll try. I'm sure I'll have tons of great pics from the beach. In the meantime, here are some shots from the lake....

A Mama Moment

2008-07-29T22:53:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking alot about "little" moments lately. Those sweet sips of pure enjoyment when you feel completely centered. I wrote a little bit about touchstones last month, and those are sometimes made up of little moments. But, sometimes, little moments don’t have big meaning. Sometimes, they just allow you to be absolutely truly you for a little moment in time. How comforting.

For some reason, I’m always caught off guard by the little moments, which, I suppose, says something sad about how I usually function. I think I’m in good company, though. There are few who have the awareness or the freedom to live within those little moments more often than not. And so, I take especial pleasure when they sneak up on me.

Tonight Rowan and I escaped to his nursery an hour before bedtime. The trip was inspired by three temper tantrums in a row. I opted for the lamp, left the overhead light off, and put one of my old 35’s on the record player. We read along (Lady and the Tramp—he’s currently obsessed with the movie), danced (The Owl and the Pussycat), giggled (Puff the Magic Dragon), and acted silly (Micky Mouse’s Farmyard).

We read Kiss Goodnight and then tip-toed downstairs to say goodnight to Papa. Hmmm…that may have been a mistake since another temper tantrum ensued. So, Mama sat in the rocking chair and Rowan lay prone on the floor while I read a collection of classic songs and nursery rhymes. Eventually, I felt a hand on my knee and heard a little voice say, “Up, Mama.” We snuggled and read two more nursery rhymes before bed (Three Little Kittens and Row, Row, Row Your Boat).

Rowan has been so good with bedtime lately. I got a big bear hug and then he lay down quietly in his crib. He asked for the “moon song” and Mama sang him to sleep.

As I closed his door behind me, I indulged a wicked, satisfied smile. Ah…a little moment of contentment and it was good.

Tag...you're it!

2008-07-01T23:24:00.000-04:00

So, I've been tagged by my friend Alison. (We met in Bradley classes and, happily, have kept in touch ever since.) Since I'm a sucker for these things when they come through email, it only follows that I wouldn't be able to resist the blog-o-sphere version either. Everything you wanted to know about me in 6 questions:

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Graduating from Susquehanna University and looking for a job after a semester abroad and a month of independent travel. Despite being terribly homesick, adjusting to life back in the States was more difficult than I ever expected.

Five items on my "to do" list:
1. Pay the bills
2. Email assorted friends
3. Clean the bathroom
4. Pick peas
5. Make art smock for Rowan

Snacks I enjoy:
Yogurt
Toast with jam
Guacamole
Annie's Cheddar Bunnies

What would you do if you were a billionaire?
Stay home and give Rowan a sibling!

Places I would live:
Maine
Lake Ariel, PA
Ireland

Jobs I have had:
assorted waitress jobs
babysitter
editor

Bloggers I am tagging:
Jennifer (Tales from the To-Be-Read Pile)
Jackie (Onward)

{The rules of the game: Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.}

Mmmm pizza

2008-06-28T23:12:00.000-04:00

Rowan has "gym" class every Saturday, after which we usually run some errands and head home. Today we stopped for real Mexican at La Placita on 12th and Turner in Allentown--two corn tortillas dipped in chili-spiked pork fat, warmed on the grill and stuffed with crispy-juicy-spicy chicken. Flecked with cilantro and soft onions, they are divine. The dried beef version rocked my tummy, too. We had a sloppy-yummy side of refried beans sprinkled liberally with queso fresco, too, but they were too hard to eat in the car, so they await us in the fridge.

Then, a trip to Klein’s dairy for raw milk and the best ricotta cheese I’ve ever tasted. According to Lane, most ricotta is made from the whey left over from making mozzarella. They, instead, start with fresh, whole milk. It makes all the difference. It is not just an ingredient, but should really be eaten on its own, or simply dressed with a few drops of rich, golden honey.

Homemade pizza on the grill for dinner paid homage to the gorgeous dairy products. Extra thin crust that snaps when you bite it, too.

Our peas are coming in like gangbusters despite the wicked heat.

All this excitement followed by a nap in the tunnel.

Touchstones

2008-06-26T22:40:00.000-04:00

There are certain people, memories, situations that remind you to step outside of whatever is dragging you down and remember who you are at your center, what is important, and why you really are happy. They can be friends, strangers, a passing moment, spiritual words, a glint of sunlight, smells, sounds…anything. What they have in common is the ability to stop you in your tracks and bring perfect clarity. I like to call them touchstones. Thank you, my collection of touchstones.

So, a few of the blogs I read have been doing this “what I’m loving right now” entry. Figured I’d throw on my lamb outfit and follow along. I was tempted to do a "what I'm hating right now" just to be difficult, but I'm in too good a mood. Here’s what I’m loving right now…

1. Chantaine Royal Fig Deluxe Preserves

2. Cool mornings down by the river

3. Cherries

4. Indian paintbrushes

5. Froggy rain gear

Kitchen djini

2008-06-17T23:14:00.000-04:00

Rowan found a djini in the kitchen.

We uncovered a battered tin-topped table in the basement when we moved into our house. My mother and I "rescued" it from the trash pile to which it was bound and gave it a proper amateur refinish, leaving the character and charm of the dents and dings and intact. It now resides in our kitchen and functions as additional counter space when I bake.

As I washed the dishes the other day, Rowan discovered the stem end of our hand mixer beater fit perfectly in one of the unique holes in the wood. He persistently attempted to use the beater as a key to the accidental keyhole. Every so often he peered into the hole with one eye. All these machinations were punctuated by occasional demands spoken with authority and gusto (into the hole, of course). I can't tell you exactly what he was saying, for he was speaking in a tongue known only to children, djinis and other magical creatures. I did catch the word "out" a few times and asked him what he was doing. He, again, spoke a long string of works with conviction and wide-eyed seriousness, directed at me this time in answer to my query.

Apparently there was djini living in the table and he was trying to let him out. I can't say whether or not he succeeded. But, every so often, when I stroll through the kitchen, there is a beater sticking out of that hole in the table.

Maybe the djini was after the late-night oatmeal pecan cookies mama baked. I'm not sure what possessed me to begin not one, but two baking projects at 10:30pm last Thursday.

The warm rhubarb bars and aforementioned cookies were cooling on racks at 1:30am Friday and mama tumbled into bed at 1:35am. I'm sorry to say the rhubarb bars weren't worth the trouble. (All the beautiful rhubarb, ruined!) But the oatmeal cookies were. If you're ever feeling peckish late at night, or trying to lure a djini from under a tin table, these will do the trick...

Brown Sugar Oatmeal Cookies (adapted from the Joy of Cooking)

1-3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 pound unsalted butter (2 sticks)
1-3/4 cup dark brown sugar
2 large eggs
2-1/2 teaspoons vanilla
3-1/2 cups oatmeal
1 cup crushed pecans

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line cookie sheets with parchment paper. Whisk first six ingredients in large bowl. In stand mixer, beat on medium until well blended the butter, brown sugar, eggs and vanilla. Stir the flour mixture into the butter mixture just until combined. Gently stir in the crushed pecans and oatmeal. Drop heaping tablespoons of cookie dough onto lined sheets (about 3 incheds apart) and bake until golden brown and just set. The Joy of Cooking says 6-9 minutes, but mine always take 9-12 minutes. Remove when cookies look ready (and smell heavenly) and let cool on sheet for 5 minutes. Tranfer to wire racks or consume immediately. I can never seem to wait for that first taste, but these cookies are much better fully cooled and lined up beside a big mug of coffee.

Papa Bear

2008-06-17T00:35:00.000-04:00

Daddyhood....the first moments remembered. Comparing "paws," telling tales, taking care of the mama bear. Watching your husband grow into a wise father is one of the greatest blessing and I am thankful. Happy Father's Day...to all the papa bears out there.

Eat food, mostly plants, not too much

2008-06-12T22:59:00.000-04:00

Yes, I'm reading Michael Pollen’s In Defense of Food (just like everyone else and their brother). My opinion so far? It's repetitive and full of common sense "revelations" I'm pretty sure I didn't need Mr. Pollen to explain. I haven't quite figured what all the fuss is about, but, then again, I'm only 1/2 way through. His message is a good one, though, for folks that haven't thought much about what passes their lips. But, I have to wonder, are those the folks reading Pollen’s manifesto? The more information out there the better, I suppose...so sing on Michael....you are the sweetheart of the choir. One question: Where can I get a refrigerator with an extra-large crisper drawer?

I managed to steal away some private gardening time yesterday. The sun was warm (but not searing), the breeze was a cool whisper, and the boys were at the lake soaking away their daycare germs and workday worries. It felt good to do some good work. Look...I have proof...

Hot orange juice

2008-06-10T22:43:00.000-04:00

The heat is overwhelming on the East coast and its only mid-June. There are a few reasons I live in Northeast Pennsylvania and one of them is the supposed absence of endless, sticky days, when the sun is like hot orange juice that has begun to dry on your skin and the earth feels like she's holding her breath. I'm wilting, like our vegetable plants we've yet to get in the garden. Rowan is cranky. Mama's cranky. Papa's cranky. Luckily, we've managed to squeeze a few moments of laughter out of these drenching days...usually before 10am or after 4pm. I'm a firm believer in siestas, in general, and when the sun hits its peak, I would opt for a nice long nap in a breezy, shady corner of the yard. When I say nap, I do mean more of a rest. I’m not usually much of a napper, but a moment in which I can appreciate the intricate details of a spent seed pod from our maple tree or the serpentine movement of ladybug larvae is always welcome. Today I spent the minutes between 11:33 and 12:16 memorizing the crests and valleys of Rowan’s sleeping toddler face.

We didn't make it to the lake today, but we did spend both Saturday and Sunday afternoon submerged. By Sunday, Rowan was putting his face in the water himself. He also picked up two adorable mermaids—young, French, raven-haired sirens who were smitten with his approach (that would be to get real close and stare). I’d guess the elder at 6 years of age and the younger at 3 or 4. He, of course, preferred the older woman. Until Mama found a snail…then the girls were quickly forgotten. I can’t imagine that will last long.

Reports were calling for apocalyptic thunder, lightning, high winds and hail around dinner time, so we cooked in tonight. Our rosemary chicken which sounded so refreshing on the grill, roasted in the oven at 375 degrees F after a nice sear stove-top. I wouldn't be surprised if our kitchen reached just about that temperature by the time we sat down to dine. Mama wanted lemon-scented barley, but Rowan demanded "noo-noos" so whole wheat rotini it was. Papa topped it with a quick homemade tomato sauce that included lots of fresh herbs. Rowan’s review: “Mmmm….nummy noo-noos.” Also heard at the dinner table this evening, “BOCCLI! BOCCLI!” This from the broccoli monster that visited despite the heat...

We listened to the thunder rolling in the distance when we toured the garden after dinner, but we’ve yet to witness lightening, rain or hail, thank goodness. The temperature has dropped to a comfortable 74 degrees F, though, and a full breeze is tickling the curtains. I think it’s time to enjoy said breeze from my bed. Shade and sweet water…..

Tuesdays with Mama

2008-06-03T23:05:00.000-04:00

Tuesdays I work from home. That means I work into the wee hours Monday night and into the wee hours Tuesday night so I can spend my Tues-day with the little bear. We try to make the most of it....gardening, baking, swinging, exploring. This is Rowan's garden. He digs, he buries, he moves dirt from here to there.

Today he discovered the wonders of thyme. We watered the thyme. We smelled the thyme. "Mmmm," he said. So we tasted the thyme. He asked for seconds and devoured the wooly stem promptly.

We also made sun tea. Green sun tea at Papa's request. After three glasses, he confessed he had a milkshake and cheeseburger on his way home from work. Luckily, the tea was a tasty penance.

We wrapped up a thoroughly delicous day with breakmaking--no-knead style. I'm proud to admit I haven't purchased a loaf of bread since December '07. Rowan prefers it raw and requests for "dough" are ceaseless.

beginnings...

2008-06-02T23:33:00.000-04:00

Motherhood brought with it so many overwhelming emotions that words seemed so inadequate. I haven't yet been able to write about the experience of pregnancy, birth and baby-raising although I think and dream an awful lot of poetry. Rowan is 19 months old already and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to properly express the wildly chaotic, deeply centering, full-tilt juiciness that is mama-hood. In the meantime, here are some simple words on nursing. In memory of those moments of which he's taking less and less...

I drink my mama's milk.
It's warm and sweet and good.
I snuggle in and latch right on.
There is no better food.
I pat her chest so soft and look into her eyes.
I know that I am loved with mama's milk inside.