Of Ticks and Radishes

What a strange day it was!

I found a tick burrowing into the skin of my neck. Horrid little creatures. Have you ever noticed how, after having an encounter with a tick, spider or mosquito, we imagine every little twitch and itch must be another creepy crawly thing on us? Alas.

I also got a thistle sticker in one finger and slammed another finger in the door. These three things made me think it was going to be a bad day, but I was wrong. For the sun came out, I got to work in the garden a while and picked some radishes and salad greens.

Radish tops are lovely things, pretty as the bright radish root itself. It has always felt like a waste to me to throw those tops away, so I looked around for ideas. I tried roasting them like you would kale for chips. Total disappointment. Don't bother. The flavor is good, but the texture is just..... not.

Then I saw a recipe for radish top soup. Hmmm. I changed it up a bit, using what I had on hand, and bless my britches, it was good! Be advised that if potato soup makes you fart like a steer, this will too.



Radish Top Soup

4 good sized potatoes, peeled and diced.
About 4 cups of loosely packed radish tops, trimmed of the tough middle rib.
1 leek, well washed and sliced thin.
2 ribs of celery, with the leaves, diced.
About 4 cups of good chicken stock, homemade is best. 😉
1/2 cup of half and half or heavy cream.
Salt and pepper.
Two tablespoons or so of butter.
Chenin blanc to taste.

Melt the butter in a large saucepan. Add the leeks and celery and saute until translucent, while sipping some of that Chenin blanc. Add the potatoes and radish tops and saute until the tops start to soften. Sip some more. Add the chicken stock and simmer for about 30-40 minutes, until the potatoes are soft soft soft. 30-40 minutes should be ample time to finish your first glass of Chenin blanc.

Puree the cooked potatoes and radish tops in a blender or using your stick blender (my method). Return to the saucepan and bring back to a good simmer on low heat. This should only take about 5 sips. Stir in the half and half or cream, add salt and pepper to taste, garnish with a few thin slices of radish and serve with more Chenin blanc and some good bread.

Well, OK. You got me. I actually made my soup with Guinness to taste, but still......

I served this with grilled chicken drumsticks, a salad fresh from the garden and yesterday's sourdough bread. Strawberries for dessert and life is good.


Garden of Discrimination

I worked a while in my happy little garden.

Seeds are germinating, the transplanted tomatoes and peppers, etc., are settled in happily. Among these are three artichoke plants I am excited about having. I love artichokes!

I planted them in a bed of good soil, deeply dug and well drained. I formed a little well in the bed so that water will stay in the bed to soak in, instead of running off. I pulled weeds that were already showing up in there.

One of those weeds was a thistle. We have a lot of thistles around; they are a ubiquitous weed here. The irony struck me that I was battling thistles I didn't want in a bed of thistles I did want. Thistle discrimination is what that is. Right?


Help Me, Rhonda!

OK, so I went a little bonkers in the garden and am sure I overplanted it. If half of what I planted actually grows, it will be a jungle out there.

If anyone out there has a tip for how to just frickin' chill when you're deciding what to plant, I'd love to hear it. It doesn't help that I love vegetables and fresh foods and it's spring! Spring time makes me hungry for bright, fresh foods, green things, sunshine, tank tops and long, quiet evenings outdoors.

I look forward to the waxing warmth and coming summer every year. And every year, I look forward to the cool, crisp autumn with its beautiful change of color and light. Then I look forward to the first snowfall. This past winter, I sure was looking forward to the LAST snowfall!

The change of seasons, the seasons of life, growing babies, new adventures... each thing is a wonder to behold and I love seeing it all unfold.

Last night, Sweet Hubs and I were sitting on the porch looking down at the lake and I saw something I couldn't identify swimming out there. So I got the binoculars and had a look: it was a pair of Canada geese with their gosling. To quote my friend Alita, Oh My Giddy Aunt! That little fuzzball was swimming around with all the joy and abandon of childhood, mumsy and pops keeping a close eye for predators, and I was charmed right down to the marrow. Then Sweet Hubs pointed out another family of geese, and this one had five goslings paddling their little flat feet around that bay, little dabs of fuzzy yellow on the green-blue water. Naturally, I just melted into a puddle of goo at that point. Is there something out there that is cuter than a fluffy gosling or duckling?

It's easy to see that some of the deer are pregnant, the way their midsections are bulging unevenly, one side pushed out forward, the other side back and that sort of thing. Even after their fawns are born, we won't see them for a while. Mommas keep them carefully hidden for a good while. If you happen to stumble upon one, curled into a dappled red ball, the adorableness of it is almost painful.

I'm sitting here, drinking sweet, creamy coffee and watching the day wake up. My house is a mess, thanks to time spent in the garden instead of doing my indoor chores, and I have a long list of to-dos. That's a good feeling, because at the end of the day I know I'll be able to stand back and see what I accomplished. The pleasure of a visible result for your labors is one of my favorites.

But it's spring, and I really want to be outside.

Foraging and Other Dirty Stories

It's morel season in this part of the world and this was my first year scrounging around for the little yummy mushrooms. 

A nice, quiet walk on my own property, Sweet Hubs watching our four-legged furry babies, since the dogs kinda take all the peace out of it for me, and looking around for fungus. Aren't they a beautiful thing? I've found enough to have them with dinner several nights now. Morels are very expensive to buy. Finding some on my own patch of ground relieves me of the desire to buy some, just so I can experiment with how to cook them. Foraging is the most frugal kind of living of all, right? Oh, and just to be clear: yes we are hunters, and apparently gatherers, but I didn't collect the snail there to eat that, too. 


My darling Sweet Hubs has been working on a garden patch for me. He built the fence, put together the raised beds, and now all he needs to do is finish a gate since a fence is pointless with a giant hole in it, right?

Is there a more beautiful place in the world to garden than this? Wild berry bushes on the right side there, a view of the lake beyond and a screen of trees around me make this a favorite place. I will probably want to put a little bench near there so I can just sit and look. Happy, happy sigh.


I planted the seeds yesterday and my nails are stained that happy garden-dirt kind of stain. There is a bit of a mud hole right at my feet when I stand at this vantage point and our clay soil sticks to my shoes like crazy. It's dirty work, but that's a big part of the fun. 

Kudos to my Sweet Hubs, too, for his tact. He is a far more experienced gardener than I, but he is letting me try this on my own. He is sweetly answering my questions and giving advice when I ask for it, but he is letting my do it myself. I know that is difficult to watch a greenhorn try something and you see them making mistakes (which I am sure I am!), and letting them learn for themselves. How I love that man!

So my boots are all muddy and my nails are stained. I have sticks and things in my hair from pushing through trees to get at the mushrooms. Sweet Hubs pulled a tick from my hair before the little monster bored into my skin. It's a dirty, sweet life.

Mom

She doesn't know that it's Mother's Day. She still remembers that she has children, but doesn't always remember how many. She never remembers how old we are.

She loved the yellow roses, but she doesn't recall that she got them. Even when she sees them there in their vase, they mean nothing. When I call her, she won't be able to carry on a sensible conversation, but I'll call anyway. It doesn't mean anything to her, so I'll call for me. And I'll hang up feeling worse, but I'll call anyway.

There are thousands upon thousands of people like me in the country: people whose mother is still living, but who no longer have the mother they once had.

Who was the mother I once had?

She was complicated. She was strong willed, stubborn, creative and intelligent. She kept her feelings closely guarded and didn't generally allow people to get too close. She had her sister and her mother, all of them having gone through the war together, and so she never felt the need for any friends. She was both thrifty and extravagant. She was both selfish and generous. She was honest, and yet she was manipulative. In other words, she was just like all people: full of contradictions.

Mom taught me how to cook, sew, can and bake. She taught her children to not be wasteful, to try new foods with an open mind and be grateful for all that we had. And yet, she is one of the pickiest eaters I've ever met. We were allowed to walk in after school and tell Mom we were hungry, but say "I'm starving" and you'd get a lecture about what real starving was.

She left religion up to Dad. She also left breakfast up to Dad. She could pull off a Thanksgiving dinner for 40 people and no one brought anything, but she made the worst cookies. She was the tenderest nurse if one of us were sick, but I can not recall my Mom ever telling me "good job" or "I'm proud of you". Mom taught me how to look for the intent behind the actions, rather than having to hear the words. She taught me to do things for my own sense of accomplishment, rather than for the praise of others.

She was a formidable woman, who kept a sense of balance in her life that was worthy of a high-wire act. She was the strong one, the wise one, the one who wasn't nervous or full of anxiety. She was the best cook, the best seamstress, funny, witty, wise and bratty, too. She was an indoor girl of the first order. Going for a walk or tending a garden held no interest for her at all. But she loved to dance. She still loves to dance, come to think of it.


She insisted on excellent table manners, but she would sometimes tell a dirty joke. She never wore makeup but dressed to the nines for a dinner date. She had amazing legs (still does for an 87 year old woman) and exquisite nails, and hated the cowlicks in her hair.

In these late years, she focuses a lot on saying that she was a good mother. She has also said that her children think she was not a good mother. Is that dementia talking, or does she question her own parenting so much that it even affects her dementia? None of her children, to my knowledge, has ever said she was not a good mother. She was a good mother! She was not like any of my friends' mothers, that's for sure. Even with all the many years of hindsight, I still don't know if Mom intended to teach the lessons we learned, or if she was working out her own demons. She was complicated. She was profoundly affected by the traumas of her life, but buried those things and got her balance back. Somehow.

My Mom.

This and That

Have you ever noticed that, no matter how long the coffee has been done perking, when you pull the pot out to pour a cup, more coffee is going to drip onto the burner?

I bought a trio of these big beach-ball looking things that look like they have eyes, to hang on the porch. They were supposed to deter the deranged robin who was repeatedly attacking our windows until he was bleeding and puking all over the glass. The robin didn't mind the eyes one little bit. This morning, a hummingbird was sitting ON the ball. Bird deterrent, my ass. The only solution we found was to roll down the security shutters until this crazed bird got over his insanity. You would not believe the mess he made, though. Bird pooh all over the railings, the porches, the furniture out there.... sheesh.

The grocery store in Sandpoint, Idaho where I frequently shop has a lovely produce department with lots of organic and standard fruits and veggies to choose from. Last night, I opened up the fridge to decide what to make for dinner and was reminded again of how blessed I am. We have an array of good food options in this country, affordable and readily available. I bought broccoli, a beautiful eggplant, Belgian endive, carrots, apples, pears, mushrooms, onions, shallots, limes, tomatoes, kale and chard. I meant to pick up some beets, but forgot those. Between their produce department and my freezer full of game meat, I can come up with something good for dinner pretty much every night. Last night, it was eggplant parmigiana by a fire outside and a nice glass of Riesling to go with it. Life is good.

Why is it that the more revolting a dog food smells to me, the better the dogs like it?

My last post was about the wonderful miracle that kefir has worked in my life. I did want to mention that it appears to be something that I will need to continue to do as a regular part of my diet. I don't think it works to just drink some kefir, add those good microorganisms to your gut and be done. If I skip kefir for several days, I can tell that I have done that and my tummy starts bothering me again.

Sweet Hubs and I went to a local greenhouse/nursery and I fell headfirst into my spring fever. Flowers! Herbs! Veggies!!! This is especially silly because the garden patch isn't ready for planting yet, and it's still too early for a lot of things here. That didn't stop me, though. The nice folks who own the nursery were there and we had a brief chat. How fun would it be to have a job in a greenhouse? Except for the rogue mice who break in and nibble off the sprouting seedlings. I am excited for planting time; packets of seed are waiting for their new homes. Beets! Beans! Lettuce! Chard! Kale!And so much more. It's going to be a fun summer. I love being able to eat as seasonally as possible and you sure don't get any more local.

Rooster Cogburn has learned to love chasing a ball almost as much as Chloe loves it. He has a wonderful habit of bringing the tennis ball to the water trough, dropping it in there while he gets a drink, and then bringing this sopping wet, slobbery, slimy, filthy tennis ball to me. From behind. And pushing it on my butt to get my attention.

Which it does.






Happy Happy Pee Pee Dance

I mentioned in a previous post about my gratitude to my sweet friend Michelle for encouraging me to try kefir for my digestive issues. She had mentioned it a few times over the years, but being a doubting Thomasina like I am, I didn't really give it a lot of thought. Then Michelle twisted my arm up behind my back (a move she learned from her law-enforcement hubs) and told me to stop resisting.

OK, she didn't. But no one can resist Michelle for very long and I was getting desperate, so I tried it.

I ordered milk kefir grains from Amazon. There are a bunch of places to buy them.

The grains arrived in a little foil pouch, very quickly and with a complete instruction sheet. "OK," I tell myself, "Here goes nothing."

It took a couple of weeks for my kefir grains to revitalize, partly due to the fact that it was February and colder than a well-digger's patootie here, but I did finally get the thick, tangy, cultured milk product I was supposed to.

I've mixed it with strawberries and honey and vanilla. I've done a secondary culture on it with citrus peel. I've turned it into ranch dressing, kefir cheese and a coffee slush. No matter what I do to it, my taste buds don't appreciate kefir one bit. But my guts LOVE this stuff. As in L. O. V. E. it. Kefir still makes my tummy a little gurgly, but it isn't the oh-no-where-is-the-bathroom kind of gurgly. I honestly have not felt so good in my belly in twenty years.

So I called my brother. Mom is in a care home with dementia, and she has had IBS issues for as long as I can remember. You can imagine that this is an unfortunate combination for her and her caregivers. Brother started Mom on kefir (she probably makes the same face drinking it that I do). He called me the other day to tell me that the improvement in Mom's ... uh.... "bathroom habits" has been dramatic. No more accidents!!! I almost cried. No, really. I almost cried. Of course, I texted sweet Michelle and told her about it.

I told my friend Holly. I told my sister. I told the lady at the grocery store and I've talked to the dogs about it. I might get a kefir tattoo and change my name to "I ate a salad and lived". Holly said she is trying cultured foods and her tummy is happier. Sister is planning to tell some friends of hers who have issues with such things. The lady at the store got a worried look on her face and backed away rather quickly, but the dogs wagged their tails.

To my friend, The Patron Saint of Happy Tummies, I send effusive thanks and all my love. To the kind folks who mailed me this magical little lump of probiotics, I hope you are blessed for all time with good health and enormous wealth at selling this product. To everyone else in the world, even if you don't have any gut issues at all, please do add cultured foods to your diet today. Read about the microbiome of your gut and how it affects your overall health. I'm adding kombucha to my diet now and I hope to try my hand at lacto-fermenting some veggies, if I ever get my garden going.

It took some heavy-duty convincing to get me to try it. Now I can't stop slapping my head for not trying it sooner. Go kefir!


Doggie Bluffing

You may recall my having mentioned Chloe, our beloved rescue dog who is some sort of Cattle Dog, Aussie-Coyote-something mix. She identifies as a Cattle Dog.

Sweet Hubs and I argue cheerfully over whether she loves cows or hates them, because she barks and whines and carries on like an wild thing whenever she sees cows out the window from her spot in the back seat of the truck. As a side note, there is a gigantic black cow (probably fiberglass) as a sign of some sort north of Salt Lake City. It was always a highlight of the trip if we were driving past that during daylight hours, because Chloe went berserk and made us laugh. Ruptured our eardrums with her excited high-pitched barking, but it was fun.

She knows to watch in certain areas when we are driving to town, because cattle may be close enough to the road to get excited about. As another side note, she is noticeably more excited about black cows than brown ones. I'm curious about that. If we are driving in unfamiliar territory, she watches open fields much more closely than forests. She's pretty smart.

Chloe has learned what "the other side" or "over here" means. If she is watching for cows out the starboard side, "over here" will bring her instantly to port. Like I say. She's pretty smart.

So we were driving to Missoula some weeks back, and there are quite a few herds of cattle sprinkled about between home and the city. Chloe was on high alert the whole time and having a grand time, barking her fool head off like the cows care what she has to say. Let me say right here that I do get tired of this game, as she barks at whatever level of decibels it is that makes your ears ring, and I get weary of the constant whining and huffing she does until she gets close enough to one to bark at it.

We're driving along beside a long field, lousy with cattle, and Chloe is just having a grand time barking, whining and whooping, but they're all a ways back from the road. Up ahead, I noticed a few cows standing right next to the road, crowded against the fence and well within good smelling distance for Chloe. I said, "Roll the window down just a bit for Chloe and let her smell them."

Sweet Hubs pushes the button to let the window down a bit, Chloe sticks her head out the crack and SHUTS UP.

Not a whimper, not a huff. No sound at all.

For all these years, and all these many miles, this whole entire time, she's been bluffing!!!

Chloe doesn't realize that she has now shown me her Achilles's Heel. Hushing her never worked because she was just too wound up and in the moment to hush. Now all we have to do when we can't stand her bravado anymore is roll down the window.

Silence.


Spring, Snow, Fermentation and Knives

I haven't posted in a while, have I?

Not that I wouldn't love to give you a valid excuse, but I don't have one. The snow is pretty much gone, finally, so I've been doing more outside stuff than I did through the winter. But that isn't really my excuse. I suppose that I just wasn't thinking of anything good to post.

So I'll throw some random musings out there.

A young couple who is very dear to our hearts had their first baby on Good Friday. He's a whopping baby at almost nine pounds and a beautiful blessing. It's interesting to me how so many women, even old ones like me, can instantly bring to mind their own first days as a new momma: everything from the happy confusion of those days to that warm, clean, kind of earthy smell of a brand new baby. The way it feels to hold their little round head in one hand and the tiny bump of a rump in the other and gaze in wonder at this miracle of God and the possibilities ahead. Something pleasant grabs at my heart whenever I think about it. My own first baby's birthday is in two days. He'll be 29. I still remember how it felt to hold him in my arms the first time.

A few weeks ago, the turkeys around here were just bonkers. The toms and jakes strutted, displayed and gobbled constantly. Just like domestic turkeys, any time they heard a loud noise (such as sweet hubs' drill) they would gobble at it. They also chased the hens around, while the hens appeared to try to ignore them.

That all changed a few days ago. Now the hens are more skittish and secretive. They have dispersed into smaller groups or singles and more of the toms are just being macho instead of horny. Yes, I think our neighborhood girls have their nest sites picked out and will soon be brooding. Spring!

A giant shout out to my darlin' friend in Arizona, MM. She has been encouraging me to try kefir (cultured at home for maximum good stuff) for my gut issues.

Oh my holy smoking cookies! OK. Yeah. I hate it. Seriously. Every time I drink it, I feel like a rat has been sleeping in my mouth. I don't care for the taste, even though I do like yogurt and pickles and sauerkraut and such. But you know what? It works!

Kefir has made a dramatic improvement in the way my guts feel. It still makes me very gurgly for several hours after drinking it, but that seems to be going away over time. Mostly, the constant feeling of having a weight in my belly, like I'd swallowed a brick, is pretty much gone.

And the other day, I had a small salad!!! Did you hear me? Raw lettuce! And I didn't spend the rest of the evening in The Throne Room. Whoo hoo, wootie woot woot!

I'm still tentative and timid about what I can eat, but I may yet get to a point of not worrying about it. Imagine that. So all my love, admiration and thanks to my precious MM. She is ALL that and a bag of chips!

Sweet Hubs and I walked around, somewhat aimlessly, trying to decide where, exactly, we are going to put the garden. This is not our first rodeo, of course. What usually happens is: we talk for weeks and then Sweet Hubs wakes up one Saturday morning and puts the garden whereever the mood strikes him, regardless of what he had previously decided. That works for me. He does this while I'm still in my jammies, so clearly I have nothing to complain about.

What will we plant? No idea. I'm sure tomatoes, potatoes, green chilis and jalapenos. I am hoping for lots of kale, chard, beets, herbs and maybe beans and peas. Wait. What? Peas? I don't even like peas. Maybe they're better from the garden, just like everything else is.

Last. Knives.

Yes, I have reached a milestone in my life. I now have two scars to prove that I should not be chopping veggies without my glasses on.

The first time, I was cutting up oyster mushrooms for risotto, using my big chef's knife and I cut my middle finger because it was closer to the edge of the mushroom pile than I thought.

The second time, I was cutting up oyster mushrooms for risotto, using my big chef's knife and I cut my middle finger because it was closer to the edge of the mushroom pile than I thought.

I guess I'm going to have to get one of those old-lady-chains to hang my glasses from, so they can be on my person all day.


Shakers, Makers, Fakers and Finding Contentment

I read somewhere that a tenet of Shaker religion is to do each thing you put your hand to as well and as perfectly as possible, as in hands to work and hearts to God.

I like that philosophy.

I like it because it says some important things that could serve us all very well, aside from religious ideas and ideals.

Most of the deeply dissatisfied people I have known in my life were dissatisfied mainly because they were forever looking for fulfillment in the thing they had not yet experienced/accomplished/bought/found.

It doesn't have to be that way. Fulfillment can be found in performing the simplest tasks as well as they can be done. You've experienced it, I know you have. The way it feels to sit in the car you so carefully detailed? The absolutely perfectly chewy chocolate chip cookie you just made? A painting, a poem, a pizza...anything that you carefully craft to make it the best version it can be.

There's more to it than the finished product, though. If you can begin the task with presence of mind and fullness of heart, then the process itself becomes a meditative, fulfilling, rewarding and powerful place. Your world centers again, Priorities right themselves, peace comes over you and you can invest yourself fully in the moment and what you are bringing to the work in your hands.

Please do try it. Put down your phone, turn off your television and throw yourself fully into the next task you take on.

Keep a vision of what you want to accomplish in your mind, and pay complete attention to each step as you go along. You can find a state of mindfulness in your daily chores that can enhance your sense of well-being and remind you that each small thing is an important part of a whole.

You may find that you have a new appreciation for everything in your life, when you have learned to completely notice the work you are doing. You will look at the products you buy in a new way. You will look at the people around you in a new way, too. You may find that you have newfound respect for the workers around you who make the world groove along and barely get a notice.

Obviously, we don't any of us time to do every single task with careful, slow attention to perfection. We live in a slap-dash, get-it-done world and time is money. The kids are hungry. I have a million things to do today. I get it. It is very rewarding to take an occasional stab at Shaker philosophy, though. It's good for us to slow down and uni-task. Even if you struggle to pay complete attention to one, single-minded task, please do try to exercise that ability. It is worth it to experience a simple, human and profoundly satisfying state of contented devotion to the task at hand. Fake it at first, if you have to and find your way into your own heart.

Wine and Customer Service

You may recall that I posted one of my folksy reviews of a favorite wine, Latah Creek's Maywine
some while back.

Saturday, I had the thrilling opportunity to visit Latah Creek Winery's tasting room, and OH! What fun! It was my first visit to a tasting room, and I had expectations, but I was wrong. So let's have a little compare-and-contrast talk about wine...and customer service.

When my youngest son and his darling were here last summer, we stopped in a cute little wine bar in Sandpoint, Idaho. The lady who waited on us was clearly rather disdainful of people who were so ignorant about wines. i.e. US. My son asked a question about the difference between two wines with similar names and her answer was icy with distaste. Well, pardon the heck right out of me. We did not stay for more wine, or food, or anything else. We didn't buy anything from the gift area, we just finished what we had ordered and spent our fun money elsewhere.

The place in Sandpoint was not a tasting room. It was a wine bar. I had never been to a tasting room, and I expected it would probably be even stuffier than the wine bar was. Who would take wine more seriously than the people who work so hard to make it?

The experience in the tasting room at Latah Creek was entirely different. When Sweet Hubs candidly said that he prefers wines that could be confused with Kool-Aid, the staff didn't even arch an eyebrow. We had fun sampling our picks from the tasting list. We chatted happily with the two women who were helping us. We explained that we were not only looking for wines that WE like, we are also stocking a variety of choices for our guests.

They were friendly, professional, informative when asked a question without appearing to be superior to a couple of rednecks like us.

And we went home with 12 bottles of Latah Creek wines plus a few trifles thrown in for fun.

Every wine I tasted was delicious and of course, some suited me more than others did. Being more of a cook that a wine aficianado, I found myself mentally pairing different wines with things I might make for dinner. Mike's Reserve Red would be wonderful with my elk stew and some rustic bread. :-)
Sweet Hubs' favorite was their Muscat Canelli, and I can imagine serving this with some smoked trout (freshly caught, of course!) and mushroom rice pilaf.

So to make it short: the experience in Sandpoint was no fun, mildly insulting (if I cared about her opinion, that is) and off-putting enough to make me take my dollars somewhere else. The "quick trip" in Spokane Valley to Latah Creek's tasting room, where I intended only to pick up a couple of bottles, yielded a case of wine and a loyal customer.

If you owned those two businesses, which would you rather hear?

Mushroom Rice Pilaf

Mushrooms and rice make for beautiful bedfellows.

In my last post, I gushed about a brand of Basmati rice that really made my skirt fly up. It was perfect as just plain rice with butter, salt and pepper. I also used it to make a homemade version of the kind of pilaf you might have seen in a boxed mix, with a cable car logo? This is much, much better. Trust me.

I started with a few basic ingredients: Lundberg's California Basmati rice, of course.
Some vermicelli, or other small-diameter pasta. A shallot. A clove of garlic. One celery heart. Salt, parsley and a pinch of oregano. An assortment of fresh mushrooms (I used cremini, oyster and shitake mushrooms, but you do what you think is best), butter and a carton of this stuff:



If you've ever tried making a homemade version of the boxed San Francisco treat kind of stuff, you may have noticed that it's difficult to get the rice and the pasta to the right level of doneness in one pan. There's a trick to this.

Are you ready?

Brace yourself.

Soak the rice in hot water for half an hour. This is my opportunity to tell you something that might scare you. Having worked in a plumbing supply story for 7 years, Please, don't use hot water straight from your tap for this step. Heat some cold water in the microwave or on the stove. The stuff that can be in your water heater doesn't belong in your rice.

End of soapbox moment.

Now, remember, I cook by the seat of my pants, so this recipe isn't exactly EXACT in its measurements. So, to feed the two of us with some planned leftovers for my lunches, I put 2 cups of rice in a fine sieve, and put that in a large bowl. Then I added 4 cups of hot water and let it soak while I went on to other things.

Prep the mushrooms and things. Mince the garlic and the shallot. Brush and chop the mushrooms; chop them as fine as you like. You want big chunks of meaty mushrooms? Don't chop so much. I had about a 1-1/4 cups of chopped mushrooms. I minced the celery heart, leaves and all, very finely, since I dislike celery unless it is part of a symphony and not a solo act.

In a large, deep skillet, I melted about a tablespoon of butter and sauteed my minced shallot until it was translucent. Then I threw in the minced garlic and sauteed that together until it smelled fabulous. I sprinkled in about 1/2 a teaspoon of dried oregano (a little less, really: just about as much as you can pinch with your thumb, index and middle fingers) plus a good cupped-palmful of parsley and tossed that in to toast it somewhat. Add the celery and cook that for a minute or so. Add another tablespoon of butter and when it melts, add the mushrooms.

Saute all of those together until the mushrooms have some browned, meaty-looking edges. While the mushrooms are cooking, if it's been half an hour or so, drain and rinse the rice. Rinse it until the water runs pretty much clear, and then shake that sieve until there's hardly any water dripping at all. Then take all that out mushroom magic of the pan and set it aside. Heat the pan again, adding another 2 tablespoons of butter (Oh, stop! We're not even up to half a stick, yet!) (Oh, fine. Use coconut oil if you want.) when it's hot, add 1/2 cup of pasta to toast it, and add the rice to toast that. If you used something like angel hair and want to break into short pieces, by all means, do so before you toast it.

When the rice and pasta are fragrant and nutty, add your mushroom mixture back to the pan, and add 3-1/2 cups of the mushroom broth above, or chicken stock, or water, or a combination of the three, or even one of those with a little white wine. Go wild. Have fun.

Have another 1/2 cup or so of your liquid ready, in case you need more liquid to finish cooking the rice. In other words, don't guzzle ALL the wine. Save a little until you're sure of its best use.

When the liquid is at a full, serious simmer, reduce the heat to low and cover the pan. Resist looking for at least 15 minutes, unless you smell something burning. After 15 minutes on low, you can peek. If the liquid seems to be absorbed, at least mostly absorbed, taste a grain of rice and a piece of pasta. Are they done? Al dente? If not, add more liquid if you need to, just a splash, cover the pan and continue simmering, checking ever 3-5 minutes or so. If they are done and there is still a bit of liquid left, just uncover and let that reduce. This has never happened to me, though. I've had to add a bit of liquid, but never had too much at the end of the cooking time. Maybe it's just luck.

Now you have enough of the yummy stuff to fill the trunk of a Buick. My plan was to have leftovers for my lunches, but think of all the other things you could do with the leftovers!

Add a little cooked, crumbled sausage and some good feta or parmesan cheese and use it to fill stuffed mushrooms, pork chops, chicken cutlets or Cornish game hens.
Turn it into a chicken-mushroom-rice soup. Yum!
Add some to a breakfast burrito to elevate it beyond blah.
Mix some into a meatloaf and make it more sophisticated.

So many wonderful things you can do with this. Best of all, serve it alongside a nice piece of fish or chicken, with a glass of nice wine and sit across the table from someone who makes your heart go pitter pat.

Now I'm wondering if I could have saved the water the rice soaked in and started a batch of horchata with that? That would be nice.

I think this would be a good recipe to add some chopped kale, broccoli or spinach to. It would probably be delicious with some cooked ground turkey added for a one-pot dinner. I mean really, rice and mushrooms? They go with everything!





Basmati Rice -- Where Have You Been?

I picked up a bag of (what I thought was going to be) an ordinary white rice, non GMO and sustainably grown.

Seems simple, yes?

SO wrong! This was, hands down, the most fragrant and flavorful rice I have ever tasted. I didn't do anything special to it, just made it the way I've been cooking rice since Moby Dick was a minnow.

I knew I was in for something special the moment it started to toast in the skillet, and it did not disappoint when I plopped a fluffy scoop onto my plate. Basmati is my favorite variety of rice anyway, but this was the best example of that delicious food.

OK, so these fine farmers who grow this heavenly food have never heard of me. I'm sure they don't care one little bit that they have ruined me for any other kind of rice. I bought it at the Yoke's Supermarket in Ponderay, Idaho, but you can also find it at Amazon in organic and non-organic varieties. If you like rice, I encourage you to run right out and get some of this. Naturally, the links I posted are for the stock-up size order, since I'm a stocking up kind of girl.


Almost Forgot...

The local folk tell us that this part of Montana is enjoying the most snow and the coldest temperatures that have been seen around here for 20 years. That is a source of some amusement to the ones who think that Arizona transplants like us are going to be crying for our mommas over the weather. Ha!

Beside the fact that not all of Arizona is like Phoenix (hello! Pine trees! Skiing! And a white Christmas in our old home town.) the doubters don't know that I grew up in the Rockies.

HIGH up...way high....in the Rockies. The nearest wide spot in the road (we called it a town) stands at an elevation just over 9100 feet. Our house was a little higher. Yeah. We got snow and we got cold.

Being here in this remarkable winter has reminded me of things I almost forgot.

The way the snow crunch-squeaks differently under your feet when the temperature is really cold.

Snow so cold and dry that you can't make a snowball of it. When you shovel it, it's like a shovel full of visible air.

The way that icicles on the eaves will gradually point toward the house as the snow inches down the roof.

Never wanting to be barefoot, even indoors.

The still, quiet air that tells you it snowed again, even before you look outside.

How differently sounds and smells carry when it is snowing.

The way the warmth of your home feels when you walk in the front door, after being out in the cold weather.

The way it feels to step a stockinged foot in a puddle of melted snow on the floor. Darn!!

Snow crystals on the dog's whiskers...and the way snow packs in between their doggie toes.

On the nights that my Ohio grandma was going to be home alone, one or more of her grandchildren was usually expected to "Grandma-sit". She lived just up the hill on the same driveway as we did. When my uncle got home and I would walk back to our house on a dark, snowing night, there was a pristine beauty to the night that defies description. The world seemed to be holding its breath in wonder, the way a mother looks at her sleeping baby. I would walk as quietly as possible, so to not disturb the fragile scene, and to absorb every molecule of the moment that I could. Then, of course, I would walk in the front door, stamp my feet like a buffalo and destroy the quiet.


Riches and Wealth, Silver and Gold

What does it mean to be wealthy? Is it the same thing as being rich?

I don't know the answer to that.

Actually, I don't particularly even care, except from the point of view that I love words and their many shades of meanings. Nuance is fascinating to me.

We were never wealthy, but we have always been rich.

We are rich in the obvious ways: we have each other. We have our wonderful sons. We have our health, and a cozy home and plenty to eat. We have enough money to pay our bills and we have some money in savings and some set aside for retirement. So we are rich.

But when I look at the standard of living across the world, and even across the county I live in, I realize that we are rich in some more subtle ways. We are rich in ways that would be very easy to overlook.

I am rich in experiences. I have:

  • tasted the salt of the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans, and the Gulf of California, too.
  • scraped my skin on coral and on ice, and I've worn bikinis and snow pants. Not together, though.
  • seen the Aurora Borealis, sat in the hot tub and watched the Perseid meteor shower light the sky.
  • written my initials in the ash of Mount St. Helens, where it fell on our porch in Colorado.
  • been to the borders of our country, east, west and south, and just 8 miles away from the Canadian border. I've been to the Four Corners, too.
  • caught a fish, killed a bison (and ate it), raised a beef and turkeys and chickens.
  • milked a cow. 
  • raised an orphaned quail, who came to me still wet from the egg, until he could go off with other quail as a healthy adult. 
  • tasted foods from many, many cuisines and learned words from many languages.
  • read a wide variety, from classic literature to cereal boxes.
I am rich in education, even though I am only a high school graduate. I have learned:
  • to read. Yes. How simple that sounds, but I often think of how difficult this world must be to navigate if you are not literate. From menus to street signs to the for-sale listings on Craigslist, reading is the only key to some kinds of knowledge. 
  • that I can learn. I am not good at everything and struggle with some things in particular, but I have learned that I can learn. 
  • how to interpret a dress pattern, a road map, a recipe, a parts explosion and a cut sheet. 
  • old knowledge: how to read the cursive handwriting of someone who learned how to write before the 1940s. How to pluck a chicken, make pickles and how a yankee drill works. New knowledge: search engine optimization, spreadsheets, browsers and other fun stuff like that.
  • how very limited what I know really is. There is so much more to know in the world!
How many times do we pause to consider the riches we enjoy? Do you mentally bless your teachers and mentors in life, when something you learned from them helps you succeed at some present task? When you are faced with a new situation, and you can apply lessons from previous experiences to help you conquer this new thing, do you feel rich in experience? 

In some way, every person on this earth is rich. Maybe they are only rich in their ability to love, or to be patient, or to endure. Those might be the richest riches of all.

2017, We're Ready!

Yes, it is already a brand-new year!

As I look back at what changes 2016 brought for us, I'm a little in awe that it all really happened.

One thing that the past year has accomplished for me: 2016 brought my life into a clear, sharp focus. I have been reminded and refreshed about all that is most important to me, about what I think is needed for a life well-lived.

Eight years ago in this space, I wrote about why I don't do resolutions for the New Year. I never really have done them, and don't plan to ever start. Not because I'm already so dang wonderful, but just because I think self-improvement is an ongoing thing, not a flash at the beginning of each new year.

I am reminded again, the New Year, of the beauty of a small life. The Sweet Hubs and I left our good paying jobs in Arizona (his was especially so), with security and seniority and all kinds of good things that attend those jobs. We were each in a position of some authority and autonomy. Some of our dear ones probably wanted to get us some psychiatric evaluations, at the idea of our leaving that kind of security and income to come here and take this chance. There are a few who understood, though.

We are small-life people. Simple people. We each enjoy a good day's work and a sense of accomplishment. Neither one of us feels that something is missing by having a hot tub in the trees, instead of satellite television service.

The cozy house that Sweet Hubs built for us is 1200 square feet, with big covered porches front and back. We don't need more house than that. The kitchen is small, but efficient and enough.

We live a life of that is deeply rewarding and satisfying. We have the room to be creative and expressive in both our daily labors and in our free time. We have the opportunity each day to do things for each other and with each other. We have the time to talk to each other. Really TALK to each other.

We have a small community of neighbors, none of which is too physically or visually near, who care about each other and help each other.

We have two fantastic sons and one amazing girlfriend-in-law who I love as much as if she were my own daughter. We have two good dogs. We have nearly 32 years of marriage under our belts, to have reached a point where we can take on massive changes and projects and still like each other at the end of the day.

It was a frightening, intimidating thing to do, to leave what we had in order to chase this. You hear about those guys who chuck their jobs as CEOs or lawyers or whatever, to go live on an alpaca ranch in Washington, and you wonder if they're bonkers.

They aren't. They figured out something that I am reminded of with the onset of a new year.

There is a price to be paid for "success". The cost of a house is more than just the selling price. The price of convenience can sometimes be very inconvenient.

A really good job can also be a shackle.

Work can be pleasure. It doesn't have to be stress. It doesn't have to be something that you fret over, long after the work day is finished. Your identity does not have to be your job title.

What is my job title now? I don't even know. I work a short schedule as a secretary/bookkeeper/office person. That's what I do for a paycheck. The rest of the time? I'm many things.

A doggie mommy.
A cook, baker, dishwasher, bus girl, house keeper, laundress.
A writer.
A fledgling musician. (OK, I might not even be hatched yet.)
A fire tender.
A hot tub soaker.
A recreational photographer.
A blogger.
A firewood stacker.
A future gardener and small-scale poultry grower.
A host.

Ultimately, eminently, completely satisfied. A small life suits me.