Garden of Summer-past

Goodbye garden. Hello garden-blogging fail.



I'm equal parts thrilled and cringing that October is almost here.

This is my very favorite time of year. Running through crunchy leaves, sipping spiced cider, listening to my chickens sing as they scratch up the last of Summer's bugs, tidying up the garden in perfect hazy afternoon light, hearing combines chewing through the fields surrounding us, constantly sampling bits of whatever is going on or coming off our overworked dehydrator, tripping over the produce that spills out of our entryway and into our home... The whole season is one great big sensory experience, and I love it.

Cringing because, well, these glorious weeks are so fleeting.

And here it is, yes, almost October.


{not snow - cattail seeds}

And I have failed to blog about... anything and everything. But the garden? I barely mentioned it three times. That makes me cringe too. Seedlings in eggshells, harvesting peas, and voluptuous eggplants. That was it.

I did the writing in my head.

Here are handful of abbreviated posts that never made it to press:

1. I neglected far too much of our garden the previous year. The perfect solution to that is obviously to add another fifty square feet and five NDSU home garden variety trials. The observing, learning, comparing, tasting, and ownership the kids had of their trials was a beautiful thing. I wholeheartedly recommend this program to my North Dakota friends!

2. Our pole bean tee-pee was magnificent. I've never grown pole beans before. I underestimated them. It was shocking how the tee-pee went from bare to covered to unrecognizable (in a matter of fourteen days) as the beans went beyond crazy. The cats loved that thing, far too much. They even left offerings exactly in the middle of it. So weird.





3. The younger boy planted sixteen watermelon plants. See variety trials above. See oppressed overworked dehydrator above.



4. Apples! Finally these trees produced enough to justify using the word harvest. And harvest we did. We waited four and a half years for this.


{maybe that one had a bug?}

5. I cannot imagine fall without winter squash. A whole long shelf full. Every one of my seeds rotted in the ground this Spring, and I was irrationally upset about it. Yeah, I know I can get winter squash at the grocery store or the Farmer's Market. It just isn't the same. Then I found a volunteer something among the sunflowers that looked suspiciously gourd-like. Sweet happy day when I realized it was, in fact, winter squash. God does answer insignificant little prayers.

My broccoli thief

Sometimes I actually have my ducks in a row and start preparing our meals with plenty of time to spare. Sometimes I forget the little Bean is resourceful and can get almost anything she wants off the counter.

I had reason to believe a handful of broccoli had been stolen.

There is only one tiny person in this house who will steal broccoli.

Could.

Not.

Find.

Her.



She's a smart little cookie.



After she ran back to the kitchen for another handful, she hid on the other side of the bed.



As you may remember, there is a real trend going on here. Do I think of it as getting no respect, or having way too much help?





I do feed her. I swear I do.



The girl takes her own clothes off too.

I give up.

English Muffins that pass the test

The first time I made english muffins from scratch, a little person here cried when I served him one. They were the wrong shape. They weren't perfectly round.

Living so far to the wild side of things, like I do, I thought I'd risk it again. Heaven help me.



I'm not a food blogger. Sometimes I like to pretend I am.

I have this handicap that prevents me from being able to follow recipes precisely. Yes, even when baking. That alone should be enough to keep me from putting this stuff online.



I make nearly all our bread myself. I haven't yet mastered tortillas or, obviously, english muffins. During one of our blizzards this winter, I ran out of flour. The last storm? The one before? I can't remember.

What I do remember is that it wasn't a very good thing. I also remember that it was the direct result of me being frustrated with someone, and in my anger neglecting to write flour on my grocery list when I should have.



Being human knocked me flat on my butt once again. Just like it always does. What a curse.

Thankfully, I find forgiveness each time, even if I don't find that extra package of flour that should be in my cupboard.



When the recipe says to "roll out to 1/2" thick" does anyone actually measure that?

No? Good. I didn't think so either.

Check out my super-fancy biscuit cutter! Multi-purpose tools are my friend.



Last time I skipped the part where the biscuits muffins are supposed to rise. I didn't think it was necessary. Anyone who has cooked pitas on a skillet knows how these yeasty types of things rise right up when they get hot.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm not always right.

This time I decided to let them rise for half an hour.



And then I forgot about them for two hours.

When they finally caught my eye again, I was severely tempted to toss one of those squishy little discs up to see if it would stick to the ceiling. Kids, don't try this at home.

Ahem.



Look! I put them on the pan!

It was too hot!

Ack! They cooked too fast!



Apparently I need a larger biscuit cutter than a drinking glass, they turned out a little small. But the bigger failure which made my heart beat faster? They're not absolutely wonderfully perfectly round. I briefly wondered if I should have thrown them all at the ceiling earlier and just walked away.

I split one and it was kind of doughy in the middle. I figured this wasn't a problem because they're meant to be toasted.



Toasted, and smothered in local honey... Now this is what I'm talking about!



But the real test... the kid?

"Mommy, they're so good I'm going to eat ten every day! Every day!"

The recipe I sort of followed is HERE.

Ripe tomatoes

When it looks like this outside, that's when I know. It's that time of year. That beautiful time of year when my tomatoes have finally ripened.


{home sweet home}

Not all of them, though. Most of the Long Keepers will hang around in our basement until February. It's my revenge on a frigid prairie winter. One of those things that doesn't matter too much, but it makes me feel better anyway.

I did what I had to do. I picked them green.

When we lived 120 miles north of here, I grew the most beautiful red tomatoes every year. But now, practically in a whole gardening sub-zone warmer, I can hardly grow more than a handful of red tomatoes. But really, I've come to expect nothing less from my mysterious sunken swamp of a garden. It holds many secrets. How, exactly, to grow red tomatoes is one of them.

So I picked buckets and baskets and bags of green tomatoes.

But now!



Some of these are an heirloom variety Large Red Cherry Tomatoes, and some are my precious Principe Borghese, the tomato that lives to be dried. Once again, I was really impressed with myself, because after they came into the house I had no idea which was which. Yay me.

One basket went to the basement and one got stuck in the entryway.

Our sneaky little Bean grabbed the best one she could find and squished it into my shoe.



When you're in a really big hurry to get out of the house, it's fabulous to stick your socked foot into squishy wet seedy tomato pulp.

Fabulous.



Anyway, I did what every good gardener would do. I dumped them all together (but not the squished shoe tomato).


{I was working with some horrific light here, so give me a break}

Truly, no photograph can do these gorgeous little gems justice. You'll just have to trust me.



And they really do turn blazing bright red while they dry.

Playing with my food

My kitchen reeks of basil. After being immersed in it for a few days, I'm convinced that it starts to smell rather like skunk after awhile. Or perhaps my nose is just overwhelmed and confused after our weekend excitement.

At any rate, lots and lots of fresh basil is a very good thing.



Oh, yeah. And sweet red pepper too. Did I mention the red pepper?

Red peppers make me exceedingly happy and awfully grumpy too. I can't grow a red pepper to save my life. Frost arrives way too early in my mysterious sunken swamp of a garden for any green pepper aspiring to turn red. But there are worse problems to have in life, so I just admit defeat and buy them at the store. You know, like normal people do.

But you can't buy basil that looks this good at the store.



I slapped some mayonnaise on a flour tortilla, and sprinkled it with cayenne pepper. Dangerous, I know. I like to be reckless with my food.



Then I pushed some basil leaves into the mayo. Squish. Squish. Squish. I got so excited I nearly dropped my camera.



Next I topped my artwork with slices of smoked turkey and the glorious red pepper.



I'm not done playing with my food until I've rolled it up and stuck a knife in it a few times. And then I hauled it off across the room looking for different light.



And you see what happens?



A basil thief!



When she's not busy knocking chairs over, sneaking things out of the locked cupboards, or climbing onto the counters... she steals my basil.

You Capture - "In the kitchen"

I kept thinking the You Capture theme this week was "In the chicken". Kitchen, chicken, kitchen, chicken... perfectly reasonable, right? I entertained the thought of being completely annoying and just running with it, but I had technical difficulties.

I can't find my axe.

It could have been very educational. Do you have any idea where a boy chicken's testicles are located? Hmmmm?

The sun came out

So tell me, what could be more fun than a big (relatively speaking) bowl full of frozen blueberries, Owl City's Ocean Eyes cranked way up on a laptop that has awfully crummy (seriously, but it's all we have) speakers, a mom (I do feel like claiming the title today, thank you) itching to use her really freaking cool new lens, and some awesome (finally) light?

Yes, light.

As in, the perpetual blanket of clouds that has dampened our spirits for weeks now, lifted. And the sun did shine. And there was much rejoicing. And the blueberries were juicy and sweet.


I'll tell you what's more fun.

At that moment? Not a thing in the world!


And I totally blame my missed focus on most of the photos that I took, on the fact that I was laughing. Laughing so hard.

I will not post those photos. I will only post the good ones. That way I can fool you all into thinking I'm a really great photographer.

Because I'm tricky like that.

(cough)

Excuse me.


This kid cracks me up. (Yes, he also tries to floss with his silverware.)

This is my contemplative son who once told me, "A octopus has a lots of armpits".

He speaks the truth.

If you ask him his name?

"This is lizard."

Okay, not always the truth.


Darn it, the bowl went empty.

So we re-filled it.


Three times.

Knoepfle soup - Part III

Just in case you missed all the fun, here are the links to Part I and Part II.

I'm well aware of the fact that I never finished my knoepfle soup post. The final photo of the soup in a bowl was horrible. It lacked color, contrast, texture, was boring, and did not look appetizing at all.

It was entirely unacceptable.

You try! Just try to take an exciting picture of soup. It isn't easy, I'll tell you that much.

So I did what I do best. I procrastinated.

The soup, on the other hand, was quite good. I ate it for breakfast that whole week.

The last few days eternal week has been cloudy, windy, and cold. Good soup days. One of them was a good day to try again. As luck would have it I still had a rooster in the freezer, and something special in mind to make that photo work.

We left off at the point where we were ready to make the knoepfle dough.


You've braved The Nest Queen (who at the time I started writing this post was not a dedicated setter, but only the grumpy guard of all freshly laid eggs) and returned to the kitchen victorious with your two fresh eggs.

We have something like this assembled.


This is the easy part, just throw it all in the stand mixer and flip the switch.

Well, I mean we crack the eggs first. Obviously we don't want the shells.

Once upon a time I dumped a whole bunch of hot steaming potatoes into that stand mixer bowl, added some cream and butter and got ready to flip the switch on the power strip that it is plugged into. Thankfully I noticed that one of the boys had left the mixer on a high setting. (My boys sometimes sit on the counter to help me cook, also the reason the mixer is plugged into a power strip.) I looked over at my husband and laughed as I said, "Could you imagine if I hadn't seen that and actually turned it on" as I reached back and flipped the darn switch on.

RRRRRRRRrrrrrrr... Mashed potatoes everywhere. Including the ceiling.

I screamed. My husband just shook his head and walked away.

In my defense, I was pregnant with the Bean at the time, and as you ladies know that tends to affect every single part of your body. Including your brain.

I (usually) love my beautiful blood-red stand mixer to the same degree as I hate my yucky carpet. Very, very much. It's been worth every penny I spent on it.

Okay, next dump the dough which we worked so hard to make into a pile of flour and make a nice big mess. Flatten the dough somewhat and cut it into strips with your handy kitchen shears.

There, you see the lack of color? Like a sad, gloomy day? It only gets worse.


Awhile back I said some rather unkind things about my Pampered Chef cookware. I'm not sorry for that. But to be fair, I do want to say I love my Pampered Chef kitchen shears. I got it nearly twelve years ago, I use it many times every day, and it's still as good as new.

But like I said, that was twelve years ago and I have not a clue if they still make them as great now. Don't run out and buy one and then blame me if it rusts apart after a week. Not that it will. I'm just saying.

And, yes, that is Sunny all cut up in the background of that photo. He smelled amazing, and tasted even better.

Now add two quarts of milk to our broth and cooked potato concoction. Whole milk is best. It makes the soup nice and thick.


Bring it back to simmering, gently, you don't want to burn it on the bottom. It takes awhile to heat up that much milk.

The kitchen shears does a great job of snipping those long pieces of dough into bite-sized pieces, and into the soup they go, followed by a chopped up Sunny.

And the trick up my sleeve for the hopeful salvation of the soup bowl photo?

Fresh parsley. My parsley seedling, which I judged had grown just big enough to endure the loss of three of it's five leaves, came to the rescue.

Thank you little parsley seedling, please don't be angry. Be strong. Keep growing so we can continue this relationship throughout the summer.


Well, that's not going to win any food-porn awards, but it's sure an improvement.

If you're feeling inspired to entertain yourself with a day-long soup project in your own kitchen, and just in case you don't have a frozen rooster named Sunny, or Mr. Fatty, or Pretty Boy in your freezer... I was kind enough to include the recipe, which I sort of followed.

Click on it for a version large enough to read. Remember that I doubled mine because I had a whole annoying rooster.

The revenge of José

Since some of you have an emotional investment in José Jalapeño, I thought it would be considerate of me to finish his story. You'll thank me later, perhaps.

(You can read about him here. Also click here, to see his adorable baby pictures.)

José had been looking terribly delicious lately. My oldest boy wanted the honor of picking him. Really, I wanted to pick him, but you know how it goes when you're a mom.


He did a great job.

With José in hand, we realized just how small he was.

No problem, my youngest boy wanted to wield the kitchen shear too. I can't blame him. This was a ton of fun (keep in mind that we don't have a television).

With two hands on the weapon, a three-year-old boy's assault on the jalapeño plant began.

He aimed for the largest one,


and missed.

The tiniest one was set free instead and went bouncing across the room.

The child was determined. It appeared that he didn't even notice his first victim and pressed on towards his goal. It took a few minutes, but he finally returned victorious to the kitchen.

They smelled as amazing as they looked (the jalapeños, not my boys).


I chopped them up, thinking I would need to remember that my hands would be like fire to any mucous membrane for the rest of the day. Specifically, I wondered how I would safely change the baby's diaper.

But there it was, ready for the broiler.


Don't look at my ugly plate, I have much more handsome ones but they can't go in the oven. Well, actually they could, but it might be exciting in a bad sort of way.

Into the broiler it went.

And then? I don't even want to say it, but you know it's true.

I touched my eye.

My left eye. The one I need to make an appointment for because I think my tear duct is blocked. For real.

I didn't realize it for a few microseconds, of course. I grabbed my eye and quite honestly don't remember what I said, but my husband stood there staring at me like I was an alien. I quickly turned the broiler off because gosh darn it I am not going to ruin these chips! And went racing for the bathroom sink and ran lots of cold water into my poor eye that cannot wet itself.

It was like strolling down memory lane, except in a very painful way. Don't worry, you're coming with.

The last time I had ice-cold water running over my eyes, it was in my previous life in the exciting world of biotech.

I had isopropyl alcohol that contained human brain DNA splash all over my face. It was in my eyes, up my nose and in my mouth. It's true, people, I swear. The doctor at the walk-in-clinic told me I won his strange and unusual case for the day, hands down. And believe me, his day was nowhere near over.

Those of you who don't know me in real life, I truly am a walking disaster-waiting-to-happen. I don't want to believe in the theory of parallel universes. I can only imagine the kind of destruction I may have caused by now, although the theory fascinates me to no end.

After José had his way with me, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my eye didn't hurt. It was just nice and warm, in a numb kind of way.

I went back and got the broiler going.


You know what, honestly? Totally worth all the drama.

Amazing.

I grew a jalapeño (a bunch of them actually), in my house, during our frozen winter, and I ate it. I did share with my husband which might even be a bigger miracle.

Truly, I am a rebel if there ever was one.


But after what I went through to do it, I really turned the event into an indulgence. Now that was pure perfection.