nana's hands

I don't remember my great grandmother's face nearly so much as her hands. I remember thinking they weren't much bigger than mine, but severely arthritic and bent. Somehow voluptuously so, with how her enormous knuckles joined by slim digits formed two hourglass shapes on each finger and one more on her thumbs. She passed away when I was in second grade, so my memory of nana is fading, not unlike looking at an old picture of her. One part is clear: her bony little fingers poking the surface of some focaccia over and over and over......

Nana's mother brought her to San Francisco from Genoa just after the turn of the century. Landing in the City at that time must have been a sight to behold. Her mother had helped bring babies into this world, no doubt having tough little hands full of tender loving. My nana learned through these hands, then taught her children, and so forth. Focaccia was but one of the foods handed down, but it holds the distinction as the only one I remember seeing nana make. Years later, seeing my grandma make focaccia reminded me how she poked the dough the same way and and how her mother must have taught her. I'd also notice how grandma's hands looked just like hers. Would I inherit these bony looking hands? I used to wonder.

Six years ago, my grandmother was not doing good. Being carried around everywhere by her husband was wearing on them both and she wasn't going to be around much longer. I had come for a visit to cook her some lunch and hopefully pick her brain about some recipes I could write down. I can't remember what I made, but afterwards I recall being on the back porch with afternoon light roasting me and just barely touching her, she was so thin. I asked her about crab cioppino and got a nice outline that was easy to transcribe. I asked about minestrone and got a similar rough outline. I looked at her gnarled fingers and then I asked about bread.
"It's easy."
"Yeah, like nana's focaccia?"
"Easy."
"So, how about ingredients grandma?"
"Eh, flour, water.........bread is easy dear, don't worry."
I looked down at my notebook

flour
water

"You'll figure it out."

I don't think nana or grandma used sourdough for their leavening. No matter, because somewhere back in that line of knowledge, someone did, and someone else converted over to dried yeast. Besides, grandma's recipe said flour, water.
And so that, is where I start.

hilgard branch rolls (high sierra sourdough loop part 3)

So, it's now been over a month since this trip ended, but I just had to finish it up so bear with me.......

Before leaving Lake Italy and starting our trip downstream toward Bear Creek via the Hilgard Branch, I mixed up another dough to ferment in the pack. I tossed in the remainder of my dried herbs, so in essence I made the same dough as the day before, but carried it with slightly different intentions. Rolls this time, with a bit of grated cheese on top, and flipped once in the pan to brown both sides. I just love herbed rolls and was dreaming of a fish or three to go with them.

Our path skirted many beautiful wet meadow-ettes and I had my first real encounter with a wild sierra onion. My BIL dug one up for show and tell. Tough to remove and hardy as hell, like everything else up here, it was purple stemmed and rather fragrant. Mmmmm onion. Next time a few of these might find their way onto a pizza.

Winding our way through the forest and brief meadow encounters, we finally hit the last big meadow before joining the JMT. Looking for a well worn campsite was not tough. Despite the low traffic volume of this trail, years of repetitive use steered us toward a clutch of trees not too far from the creek.

The first cast into the creek brought in the first minnow of the evening. A beautiful little Golden it was but too small for eating standards. Hooked through only the outer lip, it was easy to release without harm. We worked the creek up and down for the few hundred yards lined by meadow. A few more hook ups resulted in more tiny fish. More than content to eat what was on the menu, we rambled back to camp. Not exactly triumphant, but happy to confirm the presence of the mythical golden minnow.

The sun was setting, beginning to make everything glow with warm colored alpine light. Even the piles of crap all over the meadow began to like nice with the sun glinting on them. Camp was eager to get eating so we concentrated on the task at hand, looking up now and then to get another glimpse of the mountains all around us. Not sure if I was sighting Hilgard Mountain or Mount Hilgard, I worked on the rolls as a compliment to tonight's final feast of the trip.

Getting absolutely feasted upon by mosquitos (they were actually trying my cuticles and fingertips!) we stayed as covered as possible. Happy to spend another night out in the majestic Sierras, we endured. It reminded me of a Northwest Indian tribe folk story about how mosquitos came to being. A monster was eating people. When someone figured out a way to trick the monster and toss him into a fire with the hopes of killing him, the ashes from his body floated up into the air and became mosquitos. Well, that must have been one huge monster because the mosquitos here were out of control. It was truly time for the mosquito netting.

The herbed rolls ended up as compliment to a delicious meal by my SIL. Curried chicken and black lentils with toasted cashews and coconut served on a bed of rice with some dahl. Wow. The herbed rolls were good but should have been flattened in retrospect; trail naan. Next time I guess. I cracked open a bottle of hooch to celebrate our having a good time and the tasty food we all packed.

The next day we hiked the rest of the way out, heading North, then East, while thunderheads started booming above. Just a few thumps and a flash or two nearby, we saw a line marching toward the crest off to our North. Good thing we'd be back at the car tonight. With a hot meal and a cold beer ahead, we marched on and with the kindness of a stranger, scored a free ride for the last two miles to the car.


We spent the next night in Reedley, home of my in laws and an enormous amount of fresh produce. With golden ketchup being a big hit last year, we made sure to come home with a few golden romas. Well, more like several hundred, as it seems that a 5-gallon bucket fits quite a few. Looking forward to some canning adventures, I got to work beginning with an ingredient list.



Turns out that five gallons makes a hell of a lot of tomato sauce. Doubling a ketchup recipe was all I could manage without thinking it was way too much, so I tried my hand at a golden hot sauce. The ketchup is a tad on the runny side, but continued thickening of the tomato sauce would have further caramelized the sugar in the recipe and made it too dark. Oh well, turns out the golden ketchup isn't a hit with the elder monkey this year. I like it though, and a few jars will make nice presents. I think the hot sauce came out nice too, so overall I'm pleased with the results. Even if I'm the only one eating it on my corndog.

Hope you enjoyed this years backpacking adventure! I sure did. With any luck, I'll squeeze in two next year.......

local hop harvest

Here we are in the last week of August and the hops are looking good. I had started to tentatively pick a few, but being a newbie at this sort of thing, I wasn't exactly sure how to dry them and preserve their dank smelly goodness. I had plans for a "wet hopped" beer, but the overall haul would warrant some preservation. I needed guidance, someone to talk to about their experiences. I had dehydrated a sandwich bags worth and was itching to show them to someone else and find out what I need to know. I hatched a plan to bring them down to the Oak Barrel and rap with their attentive and informative staff. The monkeys and I were nearing our final lock down of the ranch before loading into the car when a hop angel came to our door.

"Hey, you the green thumb out front?"
"Uhhhh, I don't know about green, but, yeah, I'm an amateur gardener."
"Those are Cascade Hops, aren't they?"
"Yep, stretching over the garden, and Northern Brewer climbing the house."
"Well, I drive by all the time and finally decided to knock on your door to find out who's behind it and tell you they look great."
"Really? They do? Sweet! Uhhhh, wow, thanks!" then realizing that the information source I've been needing had arrived, "hey, can we head out front and I ask you some questions?"

The hop angel Jesse was more than kind with dispensing the knowledge I needed. I asked him a bunch of stuff and came away with some key info. First: start picking them, now. Second: dry them over a few days time where air circulates, and keep them in the shade. Second and a half: any bugginess or leaf mildew problem I see is within the range of normal for around here. Third: use them now, then in the spring trade rhizomes with others and help bring the knowledge of cultivating hops to the world.

That all sounded good. It was just what I needed to hear. I did a little happy dance and sent him home with a blueberry hefeweizen as a wet token of my appreciation. Then I started picking and drying.

The next day I was brewing up a batch of something big, red, extra malty, and ready to absorb a lot of hop character. I'm familiar with the taste of Cascade hops (think Sierra Nevada Pale Ale), so I wanted to use exclusively Northern Brewer for my first "all homegrown hops" brew. This way, I'd start acquainting myself with their flavor profile. All in the name of science of course.

With the wort chilling, waiting to come down to yeast pitching temps, I went out and harvested yet more hops. You see, I won't be the only one using my hops this week. I'm working on an art project that will use local produce from the city limits of Oakland, Berkeley and San Francisco. It turns out that the crazy twisted mess of hops in my yard are a wanted flavor. For the next exhibition, representing part of the beverage category, will be some beer by a local brewery. This will be "localized" even further by being dry hopped with a taste of oaktown. My little hip-hop neighborhood part. I am soooo excited to be part of this project and can't wait to see what the professionals can do with this years happy ending story from my garden.

So this past Thursday night, with 5 ounces of nefarious looking, homegrown dank green smelling hops, I went and paid a visit to the brewery. We bellied up to the bar and began talking to the bartender and asking for the brewer since we had some hops to drop off. He said we were expected and asked to see the hops. Pulling them from my bag, a distinctive aroma not unlike weed wafted up and around. As the two, nearly full gallon bags hit the bar, heads snapped up and started wondering about the produce being handed over. Now, feeling like some local street dealer (this is the corner of Haight and Masonic after all) and nervous as hell about handing over part of my first crop of hops (are they strong enough, too buggy, the right varieties) I had a few gulps of what sudsy goodness they have to offer and promptly settled down. After a tour downstairs to see where everything but the drinking happens, we came back up to have some delicious grub and another pint. Ending with a Dark Star Mild, I was feeling like I was somewhere in the drums/space combo before the start of the next set.

So, I'll know what the hops taste like in a little under two weeks. I'll be helping serve the beer at the art exhibit, and if this sounds like something you are interested in, check out the link above and make a point to drop on by.

Hope to see you there!

lake italy pizza (high sierra sourdough loop part 2)

There is something very soothing about making dough up in the thin mountain air. Kneading, pulling, folding and breathing slowly and deeply all the while. Up here the cadence really fits the view.
Glacial.
Yeah, its gotta be the view.

Then again maybe it was starting off the day by catching my first fish of the trip, then losing it trying to take a picture.
My first pure Golden! What a beautiful fish, I gotta get a picture!
Then reaching for the camera, the fish starts flipping about and is gone........Nothing like a good hearty laugh at yourself before that morning cup of joe.

This is the view looking down at the ingredients and supplies. Plain indeed as far a scenery, but you know, mise en place counts for something at 10,800+ and it is imperative we start at the beginning. From left to right, starting at the top I have: active starter in my 2 quart plastic dough can, BFM olive oil resting on a bagged mix of 3 parts bread flour to 1 part whole wheat, my water bottle, and the screw-on top for my dough can. Then in the non-stick we have a container of salt, one with a mix of dried garden herbs, and a borrowed wooden spoon.

After putting a cup or so of water in with the starter I added a few handfuls of flour and mixed it with the wooden spoon until it started clumping up. I flopped this out onto the pan and kneaded it for about five minutes while enjoying the morning sun on my mosquito bitten face. I covered the pan, then let the dough rest while I went and pumped some water for our accent of the pass. Coming back to the dough I added a few teaspoons of salt and about a tablespoon of herbs and then continued kneading for another 2-3 minutes. I oiled up the dough can and placed my herbed lump in.

Well above Upper Mills creek lake I had a peek at the dough while grabbing some more jerky from my pack. It was looking good and smelling even better. Had there been more humidity in the air I might have noticed the salivating. We were nearing 12,000 feet and I had just finished a dumb traverse. I was too high up a talus slope and needed to drop a bit to meet the "trail." Some day-hikers coming down from the pass indicated that it was easy, just make sure to "stay in the gut and head right up" which sounded easy enough. I wound back down to the bottom of the canyon and plotted my course.

The bouldering in the bottom of the route to the pass was straight forward. From pebbles to house size blocks, it was a doable maze indeed; pretty straight, with occasional jogs to the sides to avoid climbing something on all fours. At what seemed like the last flat area before a final pitch to the pass, we took another breather. Another check of the dough confirmed it's happiness. It was poofy and in need of a beating down. Based on this, I was guessing it must have been around 70-ish in my pack. Combined with the lower barometric pressure at this altitude not pushing down as much, the dough was rising even faster than it would at home. I was overcome with joy and the prospect of fluffy pizza dough tonight. I wanted a high altitude portrait.

With everyone caught up and resting it was time to assess our final climb for the day. I took my first real look at what lay ahead. I remember thinking those guys also said it wasn't too bad going up the final bit, that it even had a nice marked path, and the other side of the pass was easy! Like, cheaaaww! Pfffst! Right!




You have got to be fucking kidding! kept running through my mind as we stared up. Then two brave souls forged ahead as I stood and stared some more. After a few minutes they yelled that there were some cairns and a worn trail. They even said it wasn't too steep. I took another look and stared again in disbelief. I fished out my camera and took this picture to look at again later. Like maybe when I wasn't contemplating my sanity. You know what? You see that little black speck in the middle? It is not a hunk of basalt in an otherwise granitic landscape, no way. Nor is it a blackened tree trunk somehow way above timberline. Nope. It is a person, of sound mind and body heading uphill. Taking another look now it still looks daunting. However, should you go this way yourself, in August or later when the snow is all gone, and you have any experience going cross-country at such altitudes, you do indeed have a tame final bit on the North side of Gabbot pass.

The top was very flat and spilled over to the South in the beginnings of a green carpet set amongst stones. This soft green mat seemed to run at least halfway downslope in the direction we were going and my heart went a flutter. We easily had over a mile and a half to go to camp but it looked like we'd be there within the hour. Going a bit fast for my wobbly legs and big pack I only nearly ate it once. Well, okay maybe twice but tht's why they make walking sticks right?

Safely on the level near the East end of Lake Italy we set up camp. I checked the dough one more time and gave it another punch, then started working on the toppings. Using my backpackers cheese grater I shredded some dry jack. We boiled some water and I rehydrated some peppers, onions, mushrooms and tomatoes that I dried for the trip. Remembering we didn't use all of our pesto tube from two nights ago, my SIL offered the rest. The pizza was starting to sound, well, Italian at the very least. Salt encrusted and getting chewed on by a few mosquitos, I started constructing our first of two pizzas.

I didn't expect it to last long so I got a pre-baked picture right before tossing it in the "oven." The first one was a touch soft on the top but considering the location, this is easily forgiven. I have used this set up several times now and am most pleased with the results. I liken the results to: at home this pizza would be considered not crispy enough, but out here, it tastes like the best pizza ever.

Want some?

It was getting dark by the time number two was done. It came out more fully baked. My BIL got out the high country version of the ove glove and started cutting. Finishing off the last pieces coincided with the mosquitos calming down and the bats coming out. It was time for bed. It was also time for some tunes as I had a horrible Christopher Cross song in my head, doing that endless annoying loop thing since coming down from the pass. I had purchased my first iPod thingy before the trip and right now I felt like the smartest man alive to have it with me.

Climbing into my bag I funked out for a while with 8-string master guitarist Charlie Hunter now in my head. Somewhere in the smooth jazzy sounds I could make out squeeky little clicks and ticks of the bats flitting about only inches above my tent. It sounded like I was listening to music on vinyl instead of pure digital. I had another good hearty laugh, turned off the tunes and promptly fell asleep.

A few audible rock falls and subsequent sliding talus sounds during the night called me from a deep slumber. Looking out I realized I was deep in the moon shadow of one mountain, while looking out on the moonlit peaks all around. I looked around for the pass the dough came over and then drifted back out, happy I came along for the ride.

high sierra sourdough loop (part 1)

"The sourdough is the true adventurer.........I'm just along for the ride." - MW
August 12th, 2008 (Gabbot pass area at approximately 11,957 feet)

One of my sourdough starters was looking forward to a high country adventure.
One where the altitude would make it easier work.
One where the doubt of backcountry pizza being in the realm of possibility would be erased for some.
One where my butt would work overtime traversing steep terrain with a live dough in my pack to prove this point.

This year, the "ferry service" from the trailhead camping consists of a 16 foot bass boat that could fit 5 besides the pilot, plus backpacks. For ten bucks you get the seeming luxury of cutting off a few trail miles. This being a drought year it means you start by driving all the way down to damn near the bottom of the dam. After parking your car in what might be 40 feet of water some years, you drag your bag over to a small listing "dock" tied to some big rocks on the shore and get in line. The boat pulls up and instead of thinking ferry, I was thinking trolling. The body count ahead of us and some quick math determined it would only be another hour and a half until it was our turn. When that finally comes you toss your stuff in and then bounce your way across the lake some 3-ish miles. This year being special and all, since the lake is soooooo low (drought year remember) you get dumped off nearly a mile earlier than expected. After a warm and sandy slog we arrived at where Mono creek "spills" into the lake. After only 3 hours we came to the beginning of our hike.

After re-considering the sign we saw back at VVR (Don't complain about the level of the lake if you still water your lawn) we grabbed a snack and headed off East. Soon we were greeted by Volcanic Nob and signs of glaciation on the peaks around us. The canyon walls pulled in closer and rose a bit. The home made jerkey, dried figs and cherries were hitting the spot as we joined the PCT/JMT and made our first switchbacks of the trip. Greeted by our first pack train of the trip, I was suddenly hyper-aware of all the shit on the trail. Longing to get off after only a hundred yards of my heightened awareness to biting horse flies and such, my pace quickened and the next big valley to our South came into view: Second Recess. We were nearing our camp for the first night and I felt myself rejoicing with the idea of symbiosis; the sourdough starter needs me as I knead it. We agreed to share dinner duties so tonight someone else would cook for us all. I would cook on night three, meaning tomorrow the starter would get its first meal in a few days.

The following morning we broke camp. I fed the beast in my pack and then crossed Mono creek. With no water worthy shoes, I used a semi-treacherous log bridge, only to find we had to cross Mills creek to get back to the trail we needed to be on. With my right foot nicely moistened with clear cold creek water, I found the most obvious foot trail around and made my way uphill with the rest of our group. In less than 20 minutes the trail leveled out and began following a beautiful trout filled stream. Well, I imagined it being full with big old hogs, but spotted only minnows in the shallows. Could they be the state fish? We trekked on and I dreamt out loud of pan fried fish. My SIL and I began talking dinner hopes and the trail began to dissappear.

After bushwacking and bouldering, countless snags on small aspen and gooseberry bushes and much self-doubt, we determined that the faint use trails we were pursuing were either made by mountian legends or complete idiots. Being idiots ourselves, we sided with the latter group. After gaining a few hundred feet more than seemed necessary for where we needed to go, eventually we sat down for a snack and looked at the boulder field ahead. Mmmm, mmmm eating crow at 10,000+ sure is good! Determining (hoping, pretending even) that the worst was behind us for the day, we pushed on.

Arriving at our camp with the sun getting low, we set up quickly and scrubbed our dirty faces. The high peaks defining the pass and our path of travel was clear and high to the Southeast. Campers near us reported catching numerous "little guys" but having fun. I checked the starter. It was bubbly and hoochy smelling. I thought about making dough and letting it ferment overnight. Then I remembered that we covered only about four miles in twice as many hours for the day and so I lay down to catch a few meteorites before nodding off. The moon was in waxing gibbous mode so it made for poor conditions, but three good streakers revealed their paths before the chill got to me.

As I climbed into my itty-bitty tent and my head hit my "pillow" it dawned on me: we'll be having pizza at Lake Italy!
(in part 2 that is)

trail food

Preparing and planning for food on a backpacking trip can be a daunting task, requiring more thought about your diet than you maybe believed possible. Especially since it is after all, vacation. When the initial task of menu planning is complete, you still have a few major obstacles. First, you have to want to carry it. Second, you have to overcome the preservation aspects of no refrigeration and minimal packaging. Third, if you are anywhere near the bear superhighway, space is at a premium, as it has to fit in the can. For me, this adds up to making at least one old standby I've loved my entire life. Maybe you know the one. It's that salty, beefy, last forever at ambient temps, source of partially dehydrated protein: jerky.

This years batch came out good. The rump roast was double David'd; raised and sliced just perfect. (Thanks dudes!)
Of course, I couldn't stop there. I ran an experiment with a pound of tuna and a full chicken breast that I treated in the same manner. It failed to make the picture because I smoked it the next day (sorry) but was bomb enough for mention. The process goes as such:
Marinate overnight in a brine/soy sauce combo that is jazzed up with fresh fruit, onions and garlic.
Smoke with some peach wood for a few hours. 'Bout 225 is nice.
Put on the dehydrator for a few more hours. Few like anywhere between 2-6 hours depending on, well, everything.
Cool back to ambient room temps, weigh out, bag up for the trip, and write who's is who's.

Remember: the process is not complete until you bring it somewhere. Here perhaps:

Next up, I'll give you a trip report including but not limited to the effects on hiking distances caused by folks in so-cal's real need for somewhat renewable electricity and perceived need for a green lawn, a so called second recess, a few mythical golden minnows, a pizza at lake Italy, hard cider at 9000+ feet, and crap all over a botanical wonderland.

And yes, really. Just you wait.

smokeapalooza 2008

Kinda like that, but not. Perhaps the event was more like a smokathon. Anyway, the idea is that some endurance in withstanding smokey air was involved, but instead of fundraising, I blew some cash. Then I stayed home, raided the freezer for more food, cracked open a beer, and went out back and choked on smoldering embers for a long time.

A few weeks ago I fired up the bbq and did up anything I could. I figure if I'm going to commit some kind of carbon footprint no-no, then I should be more efficient and cook a bunch at once. Pork shoulder, beef bottom round, and some salmon fillets made it onto the grill. It was a huge load of food that I finally, just today, polished off the remaining leftovers. (Well, kind of, I put two of the fillets into the freezer.) I guess it's been a long couple of weeks steeped in wood smoked foodie goodness.

The pork shoulder was cooked too hot and didn't develop that fall-apart succulence I was looking for. No prob. Just "cook it again in something else" I always say. A trip to the chest freezer yielded roasted chile verde sauce. So, smoked pork with sautéed onion and mushroom enchiladas, topped with a verde sauce just screamed to be made. Served with desert pebble beans cooked with onion, garlic and a twig of epazote. Fresh white corn from Efren, likely picked that morning, and smeared in more butter than I care to admit, rounded the dish out. It was pure satisfaction and felt like the flavors were old school.

The smoked salmon from the smoke-fest had been nibbled away at for at least a week when I finally decided to make quiche. It was in the true spirit of the dish. I had no main course for dinner that night, but eggs, milk, cheese, big flavorful meat, and a want to practice making whole wheat pastry crusts were present in the house. It resulted in this. The salmon hunks sank a bit, but the crust was my flakiest to date. Overall, I think mom would have been proud, and for the most part, the family ate it. Well, the little one ate the filling and the big one ate the crust. If only I'd known ahead of time and just given them these respective portions.

The beef bottom round stayed almost entirely intact for darn near two weeks before I did something with it. I kept thinking of how cured meats hang around a deli for a few weeks and extended this to mean I had plenty of time to come up with a plan. It suffered the same initial toughness that the pork did and needed some more slow cooking "treatment." I began with sautéing a few poblano peppers, a bell, and the largest jalapeño you ever did see along with a hugenormous yellow onion. I cut the beef into disks of a sort, then hacked these in half and threw them into the pepper and onion combo. In the spirit of using leftovers I poured a home-canned jar of seasoned tomato sauce over the whole mess, and then cooked it for about two hours more on low heat. For the last half hour I uncovered it to thicken it some. Meanwhile a bag of masa from a few months back had been defrosting. I slapped some gobs of it around in my palms and laid this on top of the sauce and meaty goodness. I then put this in the oven for about 40 minutes.

It was like a smoke-bomb tamale pie. The high pepper count and tomato tang gave it one rocking jolt of flavor. The smoke from the meat stood up against it all and announced the dishes origins. I ate it for four days straight, but you know what? Right about now I could go for some more.

Well, this Sunday promises to be another smoke filled day. Once again, I'm preparing food for an upcoming backpacking trip that I volunteered to make some jerkey for. Since my experiment last year worked out so well, I'll be looking to duplicate it to some degree. I've got the peach wood and rump roast lined up, and the rest of the marinade in the works.

Now, if I only had a respirator........

trade?

I don't know what I'm gonna do at today's market. I guess I'll have to spend some paper bills since I'm all out of money.

Last week I had the time and foresight to bake up some money and run the muffin money experiment again. With gas prices though the roof, and the economy hurting nearly everyone's pocketbook, I wanted to see if I could get by using just dough. This time I stuffed the wallet with two kinds: fluffy all white, and blue cornmeal bliss. About every other week, for over a year and a half now, I've showed up with some muffins, but more like 6-10 of them that I give to a few folks, or maybe trade a bit here and there. Last week though, with stuffed wallet, I rolled up to the market on my bike as usual, then unloaded before I got mugged by someone looking to take my hard griddled cash. Because, by stuffed, I mean somewhere around 30.

Good thing I brought so much because I gave away at least 8-10 of them before I got any shopping done. I needed tofu and cheese or there would be mutiny at home. I wanted some nice heirlooms for the salad greens we started harvesting, and I wanted another squash variety besides the patty pans in my yard. The torpedo onions are just downright fun, and as far as I'm concerned one of the best deals. I learned this year, if you let them get all sprouty on the kitchen counter, just chuck 'em outside and bury them a bit. Next thing you know you have your own growing outside your window. It's like buying veggies that will never spoil.

Well, gotta keep it short and ride over to the ATM on the way to the market this week!

(Hmmmm, in case the funds are low, maybe I should take a minute to feed the sourdough, so I'm not totally broke at the end of the week.........)

blog eat blog world

Right now, I'm blushing, so thank you Mimi and Kat for causing this current affliction.

Luckily I have a beard and it will go unnoticed by the general public, but my kids know something's up. I went on and explained to them that I feel very happy when my friends in the blogosphere reach out and give me a cyber-hug. I told them how it makes me feel reassured (okay, I might have said "get the warm-fuzzies") when someone tells me that they appreciate me for just who I yam. For me, this jives right in with one of my lifelong lessons; meaning it's time to step up and say thanks.

Thank you dear readers, whoever you may be. I deeply appreciate that you take the time to drop by and have a peek. It encourages me to keep it up. I started this blog nearly two years ago to document the food that was occasionally good, the family life that is always getting better, and to force myself to sit down and write a little something. You see, I've never considered myself a good writer and so I've never taken the time to practice. Deep down, I'm probably one of those people who doesn't consider doing something unless I suspect I'll be good at. Maybe you are this way too. Well, so, with writing this means that way back in High School when a particular english teacher flat out told me that my writing was horrible, I believed her. So why ever practice? Well, it turns out that it is immensely gratifying. Even if you suck.

I can't wait to sit down and write most of the time, but with two kids at my feet it can be impossible to get around to downloading the noise in my head, let alone go ahead and hand the awards that my friends here have bestowed upon me, on to others. And honestly, I haven't been reading more than about 5 entries a week, so I wouldn't know where to start. Often, anything blog related has to wait, and lately this has seemed to be on the order of a week. My ideas stew, getting overcooked (as one might suspect if you tried to really cook a stew for 7 days or longer), leaving me with mushy, bland, oh man we should really experiment with a different voice, kind of post. Or so it can feel. Other times, an idea hits me and it gets uncorked within an hour, usually late at night when I should really be sleeping. But the effect is the same, being that a feeling, recipe, observation, or maybe all three get preserved for a later day and shared with whoever wants to drop by and check it out.

So, thank you, you. Please keep dropping by. If you get the chance and have a moment, say hi. It might take me a week to respond sometimes, but usually I get back to a comment eventually. If you go so far as to give me an award or something, I'll just have to maybe go out and get myself a beer as a little congratulations........(please?)

TTFN!

preserve-a-holic

Ever gone and picked your own fruit at the farm? It can be an immensely rewarding experience. You see where the food comes from, get a discount per pound, and pick fruit riper than you will find anywhere.

Our first u-pick of the year was cherries. For me, cherries are one of those fruits that I just can't help myself with. Heaven with a pit. I can easily eat a pound a day without too much intestinal distress. Luckily the season is short or someday I'd go bankrupt because of this behavior, that I am sure of. However, this shortness of availability got us thinking about doing some preservation this year. So we started by hitting a farm in Brentwood where you go pick-'em yourself. There were 5 pickers and we hit 13 pounds in no time.

Our allotment was gorged on during the ride home and what was left we washed, pitted and began drying. Beginning with at least 1/400th of a ton, the resulting bag was puny and a bit depressing to behold. Hmmm, maybe next time we'll buy the dried cherries. Don't get me wrong, these are the tastiest dried cherries I think I've ever had, but the time involved in producing them is maddening. How much you ask? Go ahead and give it a try!

But there is a bright side. One of those hair-brained ideas hit me and it worked out for the better. You see, last year I ran a few brewing experiments with fruit in a porter. Blackberry and peach it was. Both turned out nice, but the blackberry was the winner. This year I thought hey, I can do a porter with cherries! Only, because I wasn't sure whether to do it with dried or wet cherries, I just had to get scientific about it, and do both. Mmmmm, beer and science. No wait, cherries, beer and science. Now we're talking! Man, I love experimenting with brewing alcohol! So when a batch of high gravity porter that was already under experimentation finished fermenting, I pulled some out of the big carboy and put a few gallons on fresh pitted cherries, and another gallon on dried pitted cherries. After a few weeks with the fruit re-fermenting, the whole lot was bottled and ready for conditioning.

When we finally sampled the porter it was a hit. Nice and roasty, malty indeed, belgian yeasty, and really dark. Then we tried the cherry versions........
Wow!
Kazam!
Why the hell aren't more people doing Belgian style cherry porters?
Beats me. I guess I'll be pondering that one as I empty each bottle.

The cherries added a nice red hue to an already almost black beer. It made me think trappist. The flavor is subtle, but there. It helps knowing what it is though. I think the dried version has a touch more fruit in the nose. This picture sucks, so please trust me, this was one pretty beer. And I tell you (h)what: this beer is good!

Oh, and did I ever mention I used to want to be a monk?

With all the cherry success, we moved onto blueberries. We didn't pick any though. Wanted to but didn't research a place. We didn't dry any, but many fresh handfuls and loads of jam came from the bounty. Then a friend, intuiting our need to pick berries told us about a place to pick your own olallieberries. Or as I like to spell them Ol'-la-la-berries.

We ventured down the San Mateo County coast to a farm on top of a bluff next to the beach. Acres and acres of berries awaited us. Like the cherries, if you picked ten pounds or more, the bulk rate was 2 bucks a pound. Good thing, because we brought willing fingers and hungry mouths. We even managed to not get eaten alive by all the spiders that were protecting the vines. Perhaps the froggy boots scared the helpful vine dwellers away. (I need to get me a pair of those.) The sun broke, we filled our box nearly half way and then made our way back to the scales. We hit near 12 pounds and called it a day.

Back at the monkey ranch we enlisted the help of the big momma jam queen. She busted out two batches, a pie, and had some left over to give a few away. In the name of science I had to try an olallieberry next to a blackberry. We have some blackberries out back so I went and collected a few from the rampant growth on our shed. Side by side, the raspberry component of the ol' la-la berry was very noticeable. I smiled thinking of how the jamming and baking occurred within twelve hours of the berries being picked, so to say we preserved our fruit at the peak of ripeness would be rather accurate. It was, however, bedtime when the pie was coming out of the oven. Since ol' la-la berry flavored napalm inside an all butter crust, right before hitting the sheets ain't our idea of a night cap, the pie sat out on the counter for a long cooling rest.

The next morning the pie stared up at me, looking all delicious. I got out a few bowls and started to savor the moment, thinking that this will be a highlight to remember, one representing a moment that will likely never be forgotten. One that you truly love being a parent for.
"Hey kids, guess what?"
"Are we going to the zoo daddy?"
"Well, no, uh......even better. I hope." (I murmur)
"We're going to Disneyland?"
"No, we're not going anywhere sweetie. I'm talking about breakfast. You see, this morning we are going to have pie for breakfast!"
"Pie?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because Mommy made one last night, and it's not gonna get any better. That, and it's filled with fresh fruit that is good for you. In fact, it has berries that you picked in it!"
I look down at the monkeys and see dual looks of bewilderment. The older, her face a bit contorted with trying to think exactly what she is doing this very moment to deserve this occasion and therefore how she can possibly duplicate it in the future, while the younger is more primal, thinking with his belly and pointing to his chair, saying "ha-da, ha-da!" in anticipation of a bite of the pie on the counter that he can surely smell a thousand times better than I can.
I serve up and we scarf down.
This pie was killer.
Thank you honey. (Big momma jam queen.)
Did I say I wanted to be a monk once? Because, I have the best wife ever, so like, no way.

Preservation aside, this was at least inspired by it in a round about way. The day after the picked and purchased berry rush, I just had to make something with the remaining quark I had. Thinking of the blackberries in the yard I got down to work. The recipe was identical to a previous effort, except for the fruit. These were no farm berries, but with regard to ripe fruit and freshness preserved, I didn't have to drive anywhere, which is always good. At most, within 10 minutes these berries were mixed in the pan and being slid into an oven. Ol' la-la berries may be simply divine and preserved in jam to enjoy later, but blackberries are growing wild nearly everywhere and are free.

It's summer and the fruit is popping! Get out there and preserve something!

bittersweet tart

Ahhhhhh.........this bittersweet thing we call life. How do you deal with it sometimes?

Like today, let's have a little look see into the life of a Monkey Wrangler, on what is turning into one of those classic days in the stay at home repertoire to remember for a long time........

Big girl was watching an early morning program and was being unresponsive to me asking her something. Meanwhile, little dude was downstairs mangling something of hers, making enough noise to make it obvious. When I threatened Big girl that I'd turn off the TV if I didn't get a response, it was met with an unresponse. I turned it off and suggested we do something else. There was absolutely no protest and she stayed put staring off into who knows what. Within about 43 seconds, she was up and walking about the house and starting to grunt and whine a bit. Within another minute she was saying "Daddy.............I don't want to throw up!" over and over, while pacing figure eights around the two tables downstairs again and again. "Daddy, now I have to go poop!" she mutters and I think, oh crap, here we go..........

We make it upstairs and I assist her. As well as hold her hair out of the bowl she is clutching on her lap, should she need to hurl. The little bro' unit comes crawling in, then gets into a squat position and stands up. He takes a few steps at us near the toilet. Usually big sis' would be having a major conniption fit about him being anywhere near the bathroom while she's in it. Today though, nothing. She stares through him. He is like a fly in the room. Besides our being in the bathroom under such conditions, I know she's sick when she pays no mind to what her brother is about to get into and/or destroy of hers.

Ahhhh, the bittersweetness of parenting. I'm holding onto one kid who is shivering uncontrollably and dry heaving while the other is showing his newfound skill and making day two of being an upright homo sapien. I laugh at myself for a second, being in the midst of all this.
Then it hits me.
Shit.
This is only Monday.

Well, at least yesterday I got something done. I got to use some lemon quark in a new way for me, in a dessert I've been imagining for well over a year now. And I had the immense fortune that it incorporated a few of Carl's peaches. Making it was bittersweet though. The peaches were the rarest I'll have this year, for on Saturday the 5th when I saw Carl and he had a few peaches, he said "yeah, these are the only ones for the year..........today." I gasped, I was so excited. I bought half a dozen. (I would have bought more, but I wanted others to have a chance at the few boxes he had.) Then I came home and nearly cried thinking of the bittersweetness of it all. How these would be my only fresh peach this year from my favorite king of peaches.

Then again, if that is one of my big worries for the year, then I surely have it really, really good. Dry heaves, shivers, giggling while walking and all.

But, like, jeez, I do wish it were Tuesday already..........if you are having a similar day, make yourself one of these:

BITTERSWEET PEACH AND CHEESE TART

1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 stick of damn good butter
1/4 cup powdered sugar

1/2 pint lemon quark
2 large eggs
3 of the rarest peaches you can find, preferably one you will not have for at least another year. This is essential.

cut the butter into the flour after you have mixed the sugar into it. like, duh. pat this into a 9x9 pan or something oval and smallish. bake it at 350 for about ten minutes. when this is just showing a hint of golden, pull it out and cool for a bit. meanwhile, put the leftover 4th of July booze down and crack a few eggs into a bowl. slop in the quark and mix thoroughly. skin your peaches and cut into slices. if they are clingstone, place the pit in your mouth and suck the stubborn, hard to get stuff off. do not put this part with the slices. pour the egg and quark mixture over the crusty thing and place slices of peaches all over the top. put it into the oven, still at 350 for another 25 of so minutes. well, maybe 18, maybe 33, who knows, learn to pay attention........eat the whole thing yourself and try not to cry.