nutcracker sweets

7 Good Things for the Holidays:

1. Bahlsen's Contessa cookies. Candied orange, ginger spice, almond perfume, chocolate. With a cup of cinnamon-orange Christmas tea, late winter afternoon perfection.

2. Free (if you bring your own skates) ice skating to Glenn Miller swing at the seasonal ice rink in Bryant Park.

3. June Taylor's English Christmas cake. Bring me this luscious brandied fruitcake for Hanukkah, along with a tea table in front of a fireplace so as to enjoy it in the appropriate setting. And perhaps a maid wearing this to serve it.

4. Latkes, latkes, latkes. With sour cream and applesauce, borscht and rye bread and raisin pumpernickel from Orwasser's to make them a meal.

5. Roast chestnuts on the street. Hot-pretzel vendors used to add these to their wares in the winter, sending a distinctive smoky-sweet aroma into the chilly air. You paid a couple of bucks and you got a little paper bag shoveled full of warm roasted chestnuts, their skins half peeled back so you could get into the hot, mealy-sweet nuts without having to take off your gloves. In Bologna, it was common to find little old men roasting chestnuts over drums of coals in any public square during December. Lately, though, they've been all but replaced by those noxious sugary nuts. We're going to look hard on our way to the Bergdorf's windows, though.

6. Clementines.

7. Snow.

post-pie posting

Some pie queen I am, going AWOL right in the midst of prime pie season. Well, I hope you all enjoyed your desserts nonetheless, and no one resorted to those nasty crumbly frozen shells.

K. and I left NYC behind and jetblued it down to Florida for t-day with her many relatives. Luckily my suitcase was searched on the way back, not on the way down, since what would TSA have made of the open container of Flying Pigs Farm rendered leaf lard I was carrying, not to mention the bag of cranberries, the packets of Knox gelatin, the two foil-wrapped cranberry breads and the 5 lbs of New York State Northern Spy and Winesap apples from NettieOchs Orchards. Yes, I was on apple-pie duty, and I brought my own lard and apples, plus fresh cranberries and unflavored gelatin for the very tasty and PQ-traditional cranberry-walnut pie.

Florida was warm and humid and full of Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees. Driving home with the pie and turkey leftovers sliding around in the back of the car, the neighborhood was already in full plastic-snowman display, complete with flying Santas, inflatable chimneys, and yes, those nodding-head reindeer. It was still a little weird to hear "Winter Wonderland" piped out onto the sidewalk as ladies in sparkly flip-flops and skinny-strap tank tops walked by with their fluffy little bug-eyed dogs. On Saturday, since the Zora Neale Hurston museum was closed, we took a canoe down the spring-fed Wikiva river, to wave at the swimming turtles and a great blue heron.

***
And to Crate & Barrel, this season's Unclear on the Concept/Capitalist Chutzpah Award, for this fine item, a Christmas-tree ornament in the shape of...a dreidel! In the catalog, it's pictured alongside a handful of six-pointed star ornaments, also in blue and silver, which look awfully like Stars of David. Both of which, last time I checked, were, you know, pretty Jewy. You can't blame C & B for trying to make a buck off assimiliation, but somehow, I don't think this is the way towards mixed-marriage harmony in decorating.

***
Everything Bee Movie says about bees is wrong. Especially the part about the pollen guns! Romance and Cigarettes, however, is hot.

Vegetables aren't free

It's weird to be living back inside. On one hand, a big clawfoot bathtub instead of a single grubby shower shared with 40+ people (and the occasional raccoon): very good! On the other: vegetables cost money! No more ripe figs and avocados straight off the trees, or big boxes of organic Early Girl tomatoes and fancy fingerling potatoes begging to be eaten up. It was sad to go to the Grand Army Plaza farmers market--a place I've always liked--and fight the crowds for carrots and brussels sprouts. The produce had no soul, somehow, even though I did come home with some pretty good apples and my new favorite squash, the sunshine kambocha, which really does taste like chicken--or at least the tasty drippings that puddle around a chicken while it's roasting in the oven. And speaking of something in the oven, Flying Pigs Farm is still selling their fabulous lard at the market, $6 for 8 oz., and mighty tasty pie crust it made. Check out their amazingly good sausage, too, while you're there.

I know I was terribly remiss in blogging about the farm, so here's a little taste of tent living, and the reasons behind it, written for this otherwise
annoyingly smug publication.

What else is up? Taste of the season: organic pumpkin ice cream (served in biodegradable paper cups!) at Boerum Hill's new Blue Marble ice cream shop, where they even have organic sprinkles on your organic cone. Someone out in the blogosphere compared them to ball bearings, though (the sprinkles, not the ice cream), so watch your fillings.

October Morn

It's a beautiful autumn morning in Portland, and I'm in the happy, artsy ladyland known as Alberta. Very exciting to be surrounded by golden autumn leaves again, with a nip in the air and yes, accordian music drifting down the street. Accordians are very popular in Portland, it seems, along with Stumptown coffee and groovy woolly hats. Off to Tin Shed (breakfast) or Random Order (coffee and big pies!) and more, in the company of Emma the bat-eared dog.

More soon about graduation (yes, I am the proud recipient of a Certificate in Ecological Horticulture, thank you very much) and the crazy, completely unexpected and amazing surprise birthday party, aka Operation 40 Candles. And that, thanks to K's unflagging persistence in the face of the many flakezoids of Craigslist, we now have a place to hang our hats, just a hop, skip, and a jump from Al di la and Brooklyn Fish Camp.

Ridin' that train

Oh, I'm sleepy! To no one's surprise, the train up to Portland is running an hour or so behind schedule, so I'm camped out in the waiting room of the Emeryville station, a large ,clean but dull place. During the daytime there's a nice little Peet's coffee station, but in the evening, it's nothing but rows of grey molded chairs and across the room, a bunch of vending machines. I'm crouched in a corner next to the industrial-sized fan that I've unplugged so as to power up my laptop. For a little while there was a random wireless connection floating around, but just as I was about to check my pal Shuna's blog for all her good Portland recommendations and musings, the connection got sucked back into the ether. So I'll have to wait. Don't think trains can have the wi-fi, though.

I am D-O-N-E, done, with all this travel and stumping around in the cruel shoes all over the city to get from here to there, dragging my life in suitcases around with me. It's time to settle back down in a real house of my/our own. I want an address, my own coffee cup, my own bag of decaf on the shelf. I've woken up on a lot of other people's couches and guest beds over this last six months, and I'm really done with this peripatetic life. The most rooted I've felt was that 2 weeks where I was house-sitting on Olive St, with the record player and the purring kitties, the apple tree, the quilts, the familiar books and my own civilized dinner parties, with cloth napkins and roast chicken and cake plates. Apple gingerbread , lard-crust apple pie, mmm.

Pig salad! That was the best thing I had today. It came from San Francisco's South Park Café: Frisee lathered up in a pungent mustard-and-horseradish dressing, layered with sliced apples, and then tossed with crunchy-chewy deliciouso pork chunks. If carnitas ever craved a salad, this would be it.

Other good things: banana-chocolate-chip and pear-and-fig muffins from the bakery-café behind Liberty Café, in Bernal Heights. And a bite off Jen's orange-spice Dove dark chocolate bar, pretty darn good, in that cinnamon-spicy-orangey way, like Jacques Torres' Wicked Hot Chocolate with a shot of Grand Marnier.

Ah, le train est arrive! Off to ride the rails...

In search of Laurie Colwin's Corn Relish Recipe

Ok, faithful readers, I need your help! I know someone out there has Laurie Colwin's books, Home Cooking and More Home Cooking. Could someone, anyone, post or email me the recipe for the Blue Ribbon Corn Relish? Here on the farm with corn and peppers, longing to preserve, but I don't have my books with me. Many thanks, and I'll even send you a jar if you want one....

Chard Lovin' Mama

A new blog, from a real farm wife. Chard Girl is the nom de blog of Julia of Mariquita Farms, a fantastic organic farm in Watsonville. They have a website (see the links list at right) and a CSA under the moniker Two Small Farms.

Right now, she's talking elderberry pie, made by chef James Ormsby, late of Bruno's, PlumpJack, and numerous other very good places. I've picked wild mushrooms with him, and eaten his incredible backyard spit-roasted pork, and I can attest that anything he cooks is something you'll be very happy to put in your mouth. So I'm considering that elderberry pie, since we've got piles of shiny eggplant-purple elderberries ripe for the asking here. And I am on 'snack duty' for the garden crew these week...

Elsewhere in the farm-to-table adventures, my little kitchen-garden plot yielded half a dozen very groovy Suyo Long cucumbers, now languishing as four jars of bread-and-butter pickles (two of the cukes were too huge to pickle; the cooks made them into something vaguely Chinese for breakfast instead.) Very, very simple, and people who like this kind of pickle really love these, especially with a burger or a grilled cheese sandwich. If you're not getting all locavore-ish by using your own garden cukes, nice little Kirby (also called pickling) cukes are your best option, since they don't have the wet seedy middles of your average cuke. This recipe came from a back issue of Simple Cooking, John Thorne's excellent food newsletter.

Bread & Butter Pickles

[makes 4 pint jars]

6 cups pickling (Kirby) cucumbers, sliced
1 red onion, peeled
1 green pepper
1/4 cup fine sea salt

2 cups dark brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon tumeric
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 tablespoon whole mustard seed
1/2 teaspoon celery seed (optional)
1 teaspoon ground hot red chile pepper
2 or 3 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups cider vinegar

4 pint-sized glass canning jars, with two-part tops (rings and lids)

Wash the cucumbers but do not peel. Cut off the ends, and then slice cukes into thick slices. Peel the onion and chop into bite-sized chunks. Seed, core, and shred the green pepper. Toss all these with the salt in a nonreactive bowl (glass, enamel, ceramic, stainless steel, NOT aluminum), cover, and let stand 3 hours.

Meanwhile, put 4 pint canning jars (without rings or lids) into a large, deep pot. Fill with water to cover by at least an inch or so. Bring pot to a boil and let simmer for 10-15 minutes to sterilize the jars. Turn off the heat, drop in metal rings and leave jars in the hot water while you prepare the pickles.

Drain cukes thoroughly in a colander, rinsing well with cold water, and set aside. Put all the syrup ingredients to a large pot, bring to a boil, and cook, boiling, for 5 minutes. Then mix in the pickle ingredients. Bring the syrup back up to just below a boil, stirring occasionally.

Pack into the pint preserving jars, leaving 1/4-inch of space at the top of the jar. Wipe jar rim with a paper towel dipped in hot water. Using tongs, dip each flat lid into the hot water from the jars’ boiling. Then place lid over jar and screw on metal ring until it is finger-tight.

Replace sealed jars in pot of hot water (you may need to bail out some excess water from the pot.) Bring pot back to a boil and process jars for an additional 10 minutes. This is not a crucial step but helps ensure a good seal.

After processing, remove jars from hot water with tongs and set on a towel or cooling rack. Do not move until completely cooled. When jar is cool, test seal by pressing down on the middle of the lid. If it pops up and down, it didn’t seal properly; it’s safe to eat but must be stored in the fridge like an opened jar. Jars that have sealed can be kept in a cool dry place for up to a year. Pickles are best if you let the jars sit for a few days before eating.

Cause that's how we roll

It's just me and Oscar the dog, housesitting this weekend--aka sleeping and showering INSIDE, doing laundry without the long walk with a duffle on my back, watering the tomatoes, drinking pink wine left over from the wedding, teaching Lanette to knit, and wallowing in farm vegetables, which are in high summer abundance right now--peppers, zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes and tomatillos, potatoes, basil, beans and more. Much canning to be done--dill beans, corn relish, bread and butter pickles from the cukes growing my little kitchen garden patch, plum jam, pear butter...

But this morning I'm on the biscuit production line for brunch with Catherine and her visiting Dallas family. Making a really fluffy biscuit is life-long quest of mine, so wish me visitation from the Southern biscuit angels. Thinking of making half plain, half pepped up with grated cheese and minced rosemary, a particularly felictous combination.


Music to Roll By:

"Hollywood", Collective Soul
"Rehab", Amy Winehouse
"Don't You Fall", Be Good Tanyas

Wedding Bread

Christina and Sally got married! At long (12+ years) last, these two hotties have finally tied the knot in public, with white roses, Bellinis, and Billy Idol's "White Wedding" as the recessional..

It was a lovely, lovely Northern California day under the oak trees in San Rafael, clear and sunny with a long, long view over the undulating lion-colored hills. Everyone dressed up and drank champagne dolloped with honey and peach puree, the peaches picked by PQ herself the day before on the farm. Lots of organic farm produce made it up to the wedding, for platters of roasted summer squash, baby potatoes, cippoline onions, carrots, and red peppers, and crudites of cucumbers, green beans, broccoli, and even more peppers and carrots. There were beautiful dips galore made by Susie and Heather, and ravishing plates of leg of lamb. Being on the veggie bean-mush farm diet has turned me into a raging carnivore--how much of that lamb I packed away all on my very own, I wouldn't like to say. Shar made the special love-juju hummingbird cupcakes and peaches-and-cream cake, Sally's old pals Tess, Reggie, and Carol dressed up in sequins and lip-synched and danced for Christina, and both the Lucys (ages 4 and 10) had a bang-up time.

Love was in the air, and if only K. had been there, all would have been perfect. But she's on her way to California soon--just a week! And she'll be here, ready to be wined and dined and relaxed among the redwoods, far from the chiggers and poison ivy. And I'll be off the farm, which, lovely as it is, one really needs to get a break from every so often, back into the land of non-shared everything and soft clean inside beds.

Part of their ceremony was a ritual sharing of bread and honey. The honey came from a black-lava beach where they did their own private wedding ceremony last year; the bread I was honored to make that morning. So we call it a

Sweet Wedding Moon Bread for a Feast of Love

1 cube fresh yeast, or 1 packet dried (fresh is nicer, if you can find it in the refrigerated section of your market--it's often on a little shelf near the butter and yogurt)
1 1/2 cups tepid water
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup olive oil or soft butter
2 cups unbleached white bread flour (with more as needed to make a soft dough)
1 tbsp salt
2 1/2 cups whole wheat bread flour
Add-ins:
chopped pecans, diced dried figs, golden raisins, pumpkin seeds

1. Dissolve yeast in tepid water, and let stand 5 minutes.
2. Stir in honey, olive oil, and 2 cups white flour. Sprinkle on salt and whole wheat flour.
3. Stir in additional white flour to make a soft dough. Knead well for 10-12 minutes, until smooth and springy.
4. Let rise to double in bulk. Punch down, knead briefly, and pat into a flat rectangle. Sprinkle on nuts and dried fruit, folding the dough over and kneading gently to incorporate. Shape as desired. I made this into a flat oval, then made diagonal cuts in the middle of each side to make a fougasse shape. But you could also make a regular loaf, or a foccacia-type flatbread.
5. Let rise 30-40 minutes.
6 Bake at 400F until nice and golden brown. Let cool to warmish, then eat with butter and honey.

Farm Fashion, Part 1

Friday was Farm in a Skirt Day, no exceptions, and everyone did it, even the farmboys from Texas and Arkansas. On Wednesday, a couple of the guys hit the thrift stores, and by Thursday breakfast a row of skirts was hanging from the ceiling with a note, "Skirts $4, boys take priority." I didn't have a regular skirt that I wanted to get farm-dirty, so instead I dug out this sparkly hippie caftan, property of the late PQ grand-mere. Note the belt, holding both my pruning shears and harvest knife, and yes, capri pants underneath, so I could tuck the ground-sweeping skirt up into my belt without wowing my fellow farmies with the sight of my undies.

Putting everyone in a skirt made the day just terribly festive, somehow. And nearly all the dudes commented on how free they felt. Okay, actually they talked about their balls, but we're about the pies here.

And yes, as mentioned earlier, apricot galettes were made in the up-garden chalet kitchen. Quite simple, really--2 1/2 cups flour, a tablespoon of sugar, a tsp of salt, 2 sticks (8 oz) butter, ice water with a splash of cider vinegar, mixed and cut in and tossed together the usual way. Then up the ladder to pick a bowl of sun-freckled little apriums, pitted and tossed with sugar, a little cornstarch, a pinch of nutmeg and allspice. I remembered too late that you have to roll out the dough and put it onto the baking pan before you start piling in the fruit. Thus getting the fruit-heavy, tippy thing off the counter without tearing wasn't easy, requiring an offset spatula and some muttered pirate-worthy language.

So roll your dough into a rough circle, slap it onto a baking sheet, then pile up your nicely sugared fruit. Lap the edges of the dough up over the filling, leaving an open space in the middle to show off the color. Bake at 375 or 400 degrees until the fruit is softened and giving up juice and the pastry is deep golden. Let cool as long you can stand; it's best warm rather than boiling hot.

Friday is Galette Day

It's a perfect beach day in Santa Cruz. Maybe you can imagine me there, laying on the warm sand with the sparkly blue water and sea gulls edging up the sand to eye my lunch. Or put me next to a swimming hole surrounded by shady redwoods, or under a tree anywhere, watching the fine clouds etch lace over the high blue.

Whatever you do, don't put me where I have to be, sitting next to a concrete pillar in an atrium adjacent to the library, typing away. For well-paying work, so I shan't complain, although that sunshine does look mighty pretty, and there's a moonlight hike I'm going to be skipping too, for the sake of a job to do. But at some point tomorrow, the Green Zebra tomatoes and sweet Thai basil will get planted in my freshly-dug bed in the kitchen garden--a rough little plot behind the kitchen where we can have our own private plots. I didn't even mind heaving a wheelbarrow full of compost all the way from 'compost row' this morning--not usually my favorite job, but it's amazing what a little private ownership can do to one's incentive. Living here has made me appreciate many things, and having my own space is one of them.

The 'up', or Chadwick, garden, where I'm working for the next six weeks, is a maze of fruit trees and organic roses, with beds of lettuce, onions, and many many peppers squeezed in higgledy-piggledy wherever there's room. Passing the heavy-bearing aprium trees every morning on my way to the greenhouses, I resolved to use the little farm kitchen for a spot of galette-making come Friday. And it worked: during our two-hour break from noon to 2pm, I whipped up a batch of dough, picked a bowl of not-quite-ripe but tasty fruit, assembled two galettes and got them in and out of the oven. They were gone too quickly for photos, but recipe to follow...

pies for a birthday

When the fruit is ripe

I will bake you pies all year long,

apple



strawberry


peach


and



lemon meringue


Happy birthday, K.

On the Farm

All last year, I used to log onto the "daily farm photo" over on Farm Girl Fare and feel wistful. Now every morning I'm walking through a new day on the farm--fog over the ocean, sun on the strawberries, spider webs strung through the kiwis. This is the sign leading to the back farm entrance as well as to a university housing complex known as The Village. But I love this sign; it always makes me think that the road will lead to a Bruegel scene with haystacks, thatched roofs,and women with little caps and long aprons.



This is part of the main field, where I'll be learning irrigation for the next 3 weeks. Lots of greens growing here, plus flowers, beets, carrots, cauliflower, and garlic.


The plum orchard, with a huge fruit set that we've been diligently thinning.

And did I mention that the farm's open to the public daily from 8am to 6pm? Or that we'll holding a fund-raising strawberry shortcake festival, made with organic berries harvested right here, on Wednesday, May 23rd, from 3 to 6pm? I'll be the one in the pink hat and pink-striped apron, handing out bowls of cream and strawberries.

Happy Mother Earth Day

The ingredients for Saturday's dinner, foraged from the garden and farm. The last of the spring rhubarb and a few broccoli leaves from last winter's bolted plants, three small artichokes and a handful of purple-stalked asparagus from the perennial beds, plus new spinach and a head of red-leaf lettuce. And for dessert, sun-warmed berries from the strawberry patch.

You Are Horribly, Horribly Old

What I wouldn't do to swap my 39-year-old smarts for the knees (and backs) of my 23-year-old fellow farmers... Weeding baby onions and planting long, long rows of peppers in the sweltering sun yesterday, I felt beyond creaky.

But the best moment was lying down in one of the just hip-wide furrows of earth between the rows. Cradled in the clods, I did feel nutured by the earth. Or maybe it was just the joy of being stretched out instead of folded up.

Later, there was an impromptu dance party in the farm center, with everyone rocking out to "Come on Eileen" and "Just Like Heaven" and I realized I was the only person there who had personally danced to that stuff when it was actually on the radio, in my assymetrical haircut and silver shoes. And then I pulled a muscle in my hip and have been limping around the farm all this morning, feeling even more old and gimpy, if that were even possible. Or worse, like the fake-young man at the beginning of Death in Venice, the one foreshadowing von Aschenbach's eventual transformation and downfall.

Making fresh cornmeal waffles helped, but still...I need to find a way to reconcile my brain and body with the 20-something crew around me.

Carrot Salad for a Heat Wave

Sitting in the excruciating hip Ritual Roasters on Valencia and 22nd Sts right now, drinking an iced decaf americano (first proof of hipness: no decaf drip. Clearly, in this setting, decaf is as uncool as your mom's 5 lb can of Folger's) to chill out during this unexpected but blissful Bay Area heat wave. At the counter, displayed under a sign reading "Because you're not the selfish bitch everyone thinks you are," are little red gift cards emblazoned with chipper slogans like "You're an asshole without coffee." On the sound system is a violin-drenched Canto-pop remix of the James Bond theme. It hurts a little, really.

But then again, really good coffee, couches, wireless and all the soul patches you'd ever want to see! After a late night and early morning making lemon-poppyseed muffins (white flour! no quinoa! naughty, naughty!) and farm-produce frittata (spinach, arugula, tarragon, spring onions, and mint, all picked fresh by moi, sauteed with local eggs from Everett Farms), followed by homemade whole-wheat pita (really fun to make, and they actually puffed into useable pockets) with hummus, falafel, carrot-mint salad, more spinach, and peanut butter cookies both straight up and vegan, I got the heck outta Dodge and came up to to a happy, sun-drenched Cinco de Mayo San Francisco. Every tattooed girl and boy and all their dogs were celebrating by drinking Tecate and eating chips in Dolores Park; Lanette and I hit the worth-the-hype Bi-Rite Ice Creamery for mint-chip and butter-pecan scoops first, then joined the throngs basking on the grass for mimosas with her pals.

I had good intentions for boosting my farm fashion quota with cute and useful t-shirts and overalls from Buffalo Exchange and Thriftown. Which means, of course, that I am going back to tentland with a fabulous rhinestone-studded 50s party dress, bought at a Valencia Street fence sale for $5.

Of course, I had to make big bowls of mango salsa and guacamole, my favorite California foods, to go with the mojitos at Shar and Jackie's. These are so easy that they hardly garner actual recipes. Mango or avocado, lime juice, salt, red onion, cilantro, minced jalapeno, mixed up together to taste. Don't skimp on either the lime or the salt.

What you do need to make, however, is that carrot-mint salad, a made-up dish that was the hit of the plant-sale picnic, at least in my mind. Sort of vaguely Moroccan, and much better than that boring carrot-raisin salad that everyone makes. Because the flavors are concentrated, this works best as an addition to a sandwich or as one of several dishes, rather than as a stand-alone itme. The mint is really wonderful, and adds a nice zing that balances the carrot sweetness. No measurements, since it's dependent on the number of carrots you have and how much salad you want. The mint shouldn't overwhelm; you just want lots of nice green flecks among the orange.

Carrot Mint Salad

carrots, peeled and grated
mint, stemmed and finely chopped
a couple glugs of olive oil
a good squeeze of fresh lemon juice
a splash of mild vinegar, like apple cider or rice
salt and coarsely ground black pepper

Mix all ingredients up; the dressing should lightly coat the carrots without sopping. Taste and adjust. Chill if not eating right away.

How can you keep them down on the farm?

Much bustle here on the farm today, as we get ready for the big fund-raising plant sale this weekend, at the Barn just past the main entrance to UC Santa Cruz. After making many, many wheelbarrow trips back and forth from greenhouse to truck, I drifted off down the slope with a bucket to thin the extra fruit off the apple trees. A wet and meditative job, deciding which of the five or six baby apples in a given cluster will live to become fodder for this fall's pies, and which ones will hit the bucket, destined for compost.

My plant sale job, you may be SHOCKED to learn, is cooking breakfast and lunch for my fellow farmies (yes, we're called that for real--they've even made a great army-green t-shirt with F*A*R*M*Y across the front) as they work the sale. So I'll be on duty from 5:30am (to get breakfast toted down by 7am) to about 2pm, and then....up to the city!!!

I actually didn't get into San Francisco during the couple of days between arriving on the west coast and heading down to tentland, so I'm very, very excited. And even more excited to sleep inside where it's warm, and have a bath! And eat MEAT, instead of kale n' beans n' beets. And maybe even a hot tub at Osento, and ice cream from the new Bi-Rite Ice Creamery. Two days of city glam, without farm boots or flannel! Except, of course, my fabulous psychedelic-pink flannel pajamas, courtesy of Queen Christina.

a poem for a huge pink moon

The stars will come out over and over
the hyacinths rise like flames
from the windswept turf down the middle of upper Broadway
where the desolate take the sun
the days will run together and stream into years
as the rivers freeze and burn
and I ask myself and you, which of our visions will claim us
which will we claim
how will we go on living
how will we touch, what will we know
what will we say to each other.

- Adrienne Rich, Dream of a Common Language

Last week, I asked for poetry, and Jen happily complied (see the comments below for 3 swell poems). But this one turned up in an email from my old college pal Christine, currently living in London with her husband and son.

The First Rule of Pie Club...

is, bring your own butter. Living with 45+ people, butter goes fast, and by Sunday night, there's not a whit of dairy in fridge, nary even a drop of Almond Breeze for morning coffee.

Besides the butter (which we brought in from Trader Joe's), Sunday's teaching pies were almost all home-grown. If we'd had the time, we could have ground the flour from wheat grown here last summer. The rhubarb was pulled from an overgrown patch down near the quince trees, while the strawberries came from the sweet and juicy rows next to the garlic and leeks. With a paper bag full of rhubarb, I kept foraging, slicing a few late-season purple asparagus, nipping off a couple of baby violette artichokes, and pulling up some thumb-sized purple potatoes that had volunteered in a spare uncleared bed. Everything was purple!

Anne had never made pie before, but before the end of the night, she'd been anointed a true Pie Princess, for fearlessness in the face of lattice. The diehards who stuck around til 11pm were rewarded with hot-from-the-oven strawberry-rhubarb pie. Another pie was surreptitously brought out at breakfast, mmmm. A proposal for an every-other-Sunday night pie club has been bandied about, with plans for Meyer lemon tart next up.

but this one is just right....

Many things are in abundant supply here on the farm: quail; pocket gophers; gopher snakes to eat the gophers; and of course, the aforementioned kale, now making an appearance at every meal, even breakfast! But glamour, alas, is not one of these things. Not until this morning, however, when former apprentices Daryl, Matthew, and Doron showed up to make our breakfast much more fabulous than usual.

You'd be surprised how much more alluring oatmeal can be when it's spooned into a waiting bowl just for you by a guy in a red feather boa, mardi gras beads, and a kimono jacket. The oatmeal was divided into 3 vats, descriptively labeled "Lumpy", "Smooth but Runny", and "Mortar". Chopped kiwis (from the farm-yes, they grow here, on long vines), walnuts, raisins, and brown sugar were on offer, and even if you'd never had an opinion about oatmeal before, the outfits and ceremony cheered everyone up. And at dinner, there was tempeh mole, tortillas and hot sauce, yellow rice, sauteed kale, even warm vegan chocolate cake.

But what I want even more than lumpy oatmeal and chocolate cake is poetry. Send me your favorite poems! Especially if there's some kind of nature component. Ok, to be honest, a real bed is what I want most, but showering in the outdoor solar shower this afternoon, with the blue sky and green leaves visible above the hot shower spray almost made up for 2 weeks of damp and chilly sleeping on the ground.