Hoeing and Sowing

When it is sunny in Portland, it is paradise on Earth. It reacquaints you with all the reasons you live here: the beautiful scenery, the miles of hiking and biking trails, the outdoor community gathering spots, the not-too-hot perfect temperatures, the outdoor activities—need I go on? Amnesia about the past seven rainy months takes over and you become at one with the sun.
I used my sunshine-induced exuberation to plant seeds. I love creating those orderly little rows and watching the progress reminiscent of a kindergarten science experiment: First you see that little green crook barely surfacing from the dark soil. Then, up pops a spritely little sprout with its two leaves still sandwiched between the halves of the seed coat. Even though I know that nature meant for this teeny baby plant to separate and shed them, it’s hard to resist intervening and plucking them off. After this weekend’s work, I anticipate my meddling with this year’s sprouts to occur in about two weeks.

I planted beets (those really dark ones with the rings in them), green beans (skinny and French, but no correlation between those two descriptive, please) and snap peas (bush style with edible pods and no tough string). I am already salivating for beet salad, roasted green beans and snap peas with hummus. Two Christmases ago I made beet salad with freshly pulled beets from the yard. Beets are about the most polite vegetable there is. They wait patiently where they are planted until you are good and ready to use them, even if it is three months later, and still taste wonderful.

Here is one of my favorite beet salad recipes, but admittedly I never met one I didn’t like. I honestly don’t think I can wait for my own beets to mature to enjoy some beet salad, so in the meantime, it’s either grocery store or farmer’s market beets for me. Here is what I will make when I procure my next bunch of beets.

And did I say something about hummus? Yes, it is the perfect dip for snap peas, among other things. Hummus is so darned easy to make, I ask myself why I don’t make it more often. I rarely follow a recipe since there are so few ingredients and really it’s a to-taste concoction anyway. Here is the way I make it, more or less, but of course, please adjust it to taste.

Broth

Know what’s great about Oregon? You can get away with things that you never could in other states. Case in point: chicken. I can buy one good-sized whole chicken and have it two nights for dinner. Then, I boil all the bones and skin and make broth. But wait, the water I use is from the pasta, already salted, a bit starchy and perfect for soup, and I’ll throw in any unused bits of onion, celery or carrot if I have them. Then after the broth has simmered for a couple hours, I drain it and freeze my precious broth in ice cube trays which I later transfer to a reused zip-lock bag so I can refill the trays. It makes thawing quicker and allows me to use small amounts if I need to such as in Thai peanut sauce or my super-favorite tomato soup. (Recipe forthcoming.)Then, I feed all the pot leavings to the chickens. I know; I make the Frugal Gourmet look extravagant. In some states I would be criticized as being cheap, but in Oregon, I’m praised as being green.

More on chickens later, but for now suffice it to say that Frittata, Omlette and Poachie are happy as pigs in mud.

Unexpected Treasures

Today's unexpected treasures:

• The sun came out for about 10 minutes during my run.



• The newer ROAD WORK AHEAD signs that are placed in roadways temporarily while there is constuction, tree trimming, utilities repair, etc. are actually quilted in the tumbling blocks pattern. Really. I just noticed it during my run.



• Quinn, my 14-year-old daughter, presented me with a 2 1/2 page typed persuasive paper on why she should have texting. I am considering granting her request for the excellent writing alone, quite apart from the arguments she presented. When I say presented, I mean just that. It was an oral presentation and no one loves an oral presentation more than me. My, but she does know the way to her mother's heart.

Sentret

I was in the garage when Logan ran up to me more excited than I had seen him in a long time, bright-eyed with a huge smile. “Mom, mom! I have to show you something!” What could it be? A super-cool fort he built? Money he found? It was the kind of exuberance reserved for only the most wonderful and hoped-for surprises. He enthusiastically led me by the hand over to his bicycle and knelt down beside it. Lying in the water-bottle cage of his bike was a dead bird. Suppressing my true reaction, I could see that Logan was not merely trying to shock me, nor was his attitude one of macabre interest. Rather, he spotted this opportunity to help the bird, not fully realizing that its injury had been quite fatal. I saw that the loving and compassionate hands of my son had scooped up this bird and nestled it gently and carefully into this improvised ambulance and he had sped home with his patient. It was newly dead because it was still flaccid as it laid breast up, head dangling backwards from its lifeless neck. “Look!” Logan exclaimed. I did look, but from a safe distance. “No…LOOK!” Logan insisted. So, on my knees I went, not for my need to see the bird closer, but as an expression of my interest in the object for which he had so much emotion. I asked him where he found it and he explained. I asked him if he picked it up with his hands and he said he did, though there was concern in his voice that perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. I quickly said that it was okay, since I wanted neither to dampen the moment nor infringe upon his innocence. Logan drew my attention to the peculiar color of the bird’s eyes and encouraged me to get even closer to really look at them, which I did. He gently lifted up the flaccid head. “Maybe it just fainted,” he said hopefully. “No, I don’t think so, honey.” And he gently released the head which returned to its dangling position. Logan suggested two names for the bird which clearly he had thought of before arriving home and asked me which one I preferred. “I think I like Sentret better,” I said in a thoughtful voice. I don’t recall the other name. Solemnly we examined the bird. Logan talked and I nodded. We talked about how pretty he was and how nice his color was. We talked about what kind of bird he might be and both decided that he was no ordinary bird. Logan spoke lovingly about Sentret’s wonderful attributes, as if his new pet bird just happened to be dead, a small fact he was willing to overlook. Finally, Logan asked if I thought we should bury Sentret. I said yes. Logan felt we should mark the grave with a large cross, but in the end we settled on a rock. I got two garden trowels and we dug a shallow grave, laid Sentret to rest, and covered him up. We prayed over Sentret, but though my lips were pronouncing words of peace for Sentret, my heart was thanking God for my kind and compassionate son who would stop to adopt a lifeless bird in hopes that it could finally have a good home.

Green Night

Several St. Patrick's Days ago as I was doing my meal planning, I had visions of corned beef and cabbage, Irish soda bread and perhaps another side dish to round out the meal. Corned beef brisket was on the front page of every grocery store sale flier and who can resist a hunk of meat for $1.99 per pound? It's like a gravitational pull. Then there's the cabbage that stores are practically giving away. And we all know that a head of cabbage will stretch for three meals or so or at least until we're all good and sick of it. So what's the problem? The problem is that my family can't stand any of it, save the soda bread. So feeling like it was time to break out of the societal mold, I owned up to the fact that none of us are Irish anyway, so it was time to chuck the traditional faire and go for something with more gusto--or at least with more color. Don't get me wrong; I still like to decorate my hallway table with cute little shamrocks, green candles and the like, but our pot 'o gold was not going to be simmering with corned beef and cabbage. So rather than chew on the 'ol brisket until our jaws ached and listen to choruses of Seriously, This is Gross, Mom, I simply preserved the color of the occasion: Green. Everything would be green. Green pasta with green sauce, green vegetables, green drinks, green dessert. I couldn't stop there. Green plates, green glasses, green napkins, green centerpiece. There's more: the family had to wear green. What could be greener--I mean, better?

I grocery shopped accordingly, snubbing the corned beef brisket and zipping by the cabbage with a smug look on my face as I headed for the spinach pasta, fresh basil, broccoli, peas, romaine for the salad and limes for the Key Lime Pie. I set a table the Emerald City folk would be proud of. I robbed the hallway decoration for the centerpiece and set out the green plates and glasses. I informed the family of the dress code and fired up the Riverdance videocassette (the original and my favorite) taped off a PBS special years ago to enjoy as I cooked. I prepared my 5-ingredient Key Lime Pie and simmered a basic cream sauce, added the steamed broccoli and peas, then finished it with fresh basil and feta. Have you even noticed how a little feta cheese can give a dish a certain something? I’m pretty sure I have had feta cheese as a fridge staple for over six years running. I cooked the pasta al dente and tossed the salad.

We were nearly ready. My husband dispensed with the tapdancers and put on some Chieftans just as I dashed a couple drops of green food coloring into the pitcher of milk for the table. Our meal was as delicious as it was green, and infinitely more fun than the standard C.B. & C. We practiced our corniest Irish accents and recited as many Irish facts as we could recall or make up. So even though I broke a few dozen rules, the luck ‘o the Irish still prevailed upon our very green dinner.