Almost Spring...

Sunday Breakfast With a Side of Ethics

Sunday is the one day of the week we're able to decide whether to get out of the house early or stay home in our jammies with the newspaper and pot after pot of tea. It’s that second option I like best on wintery days. I want to laze away the morning in slow motion. Sometimes we watch Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood, other times I go back to bed with the newspaper and stay there until I’ve read the entire thing.

Although Sunday breakfast should be special, it often isn’t any different than my quick workday bite just before I dash out the door. Actually cooking and lingering is part of what made yesterday’s breakfast so especially amazing.

We’ve been buying pastured eggs from a friend whose hens live a grand life. They get good food and stretch their wings in sunshine, scratching and pecking on green grass. Their eggs have bright orange yolks that stand tall and round in the pan and a taste that’s richer than anything produced by hens kept in small, artificially lit cages.

In addition to those delicious eggs we had locally raised, nitrite-free bacon and fresh, homemade (not by me) bread. The bread was light and hearty, full of whole grains and perfectly toasted. I topped my slice with a good dollop of Satsuma Mandarin Marmalade from this winter’s backyard harvest. It doesn’t get any more local than twenty feet from your own door.

The bacon we ate yesterday was thoughtfully and ethically raised. Knowing this, and that it was humanely slaughtered, makes me feel a sense of honor for the animal I don’t get with a package from the store. It wasn’t as salty as commercial bacon, was more thickly cut, and had a mellower flavor. It crisped exactly the way we both like.

I’m done buying eggs and bacon at the grocery store. For the small amount of bacon we actually eat (I could honestly have it every day if my cholesterol level would allow), I don’t mind paying a little more for this kind of quality. And isn’t that what Sunday morning should be about? Quality, ethics, honor, delicious food. My kind of day.

Why I Can

The response I get most often when people hear I’m a canner is that it sounds like an awful lot of work. And it’s true, but its work in the same way cooking dinner is, making a piece of art, or planting a garden. The fact is that most things in life are work. It’s only unpleasant if you dislike the process or the outcome. When it comes to canning I adore both. Not enough to do it every day, or even weekly, but often and intensely enough to satisfy a creative need.

I make a lot of jam, partially because I really like good jam (Smuckers anyone? I don’t think so) and because of the process itself. Anyone who’s ever stood over a pot of bubbling jam knows what I’m talking about here. From choosing fruit - if you’re really lucky, harvesting your own - through labeling and storing your jars, there isn’t a step that doesn’t involve the senses and require mindfulness. You can’t rush any step along the way. Jam gels at a certain temperature and not a moment before. Hurrying through filling jars just makes a mess; there’s enough clean up to do while the water bath is boiling your jars without having to wipe up sticky jam from the counter too.

It’s been almost six years since I started canning. I’d made freezer jam a few times, but was a daunted by actual canning. It seemed complicated and kind of scary. Then I read a blog post about dilly beans and something clicked. I could do this. One thing led to another and my pantry is now full of jam, dill pickles, tomatoes, peaches, brandied cherries, applesauce, pickled beets, conserves, and my beloved dilly beans. I’ve moved on to pressure canning; that was a big investment and I had to step up my game.

I like putting food on the table that I can trace back to my garden or the farm around the corner. Some produce comes from the 130 year old farm stand in town that tempts me to spend way too much money on far too much fruit. It’s important to know not only what’s in those jars, but also what isn’t. There’s not a hint of preservative, high fructose corn syrup, or food coloring. My hands were on every piece of produce, washing and checking for blemishes and ripeness. But the end product is only part of the reason I can. It’s the process I love most.

I love the meditative quality of canning. Everything in order and in its time. The smell and color of cooking fruit. The absolute sense of accomplishment when I pull the last jar from the water bath. The beauty of jewel-toned jars cooling on the table.

Yes, it’s work, but aren’t some things worth working for?

Prepping the Garden Beds

It’s time to prepare the garden beds for spring planting. We’ve poured bags of compost into the beds, turned the soil and covered it with sheets of newspaper again. It’s not pretty, all that newspaper weighted down against the wind with rocks and tree limbs, but it works. The weeds don’t get a chance to take root and the neighborhood cats won’t do their business where they can’t dig. And it’s cheap. When it’s time to transplant our seedlings I’ll peel back enough paper to plant, letting the remaining newspaper stay in place to continue keeping weeds and cats out of the bed.

The tomato seeds went into seed trays yesterday and the basil this morning. Our green bean seedlings have grown startlingly fast. It’s the first time I’ve started seeds indoors and I’m surprised at how quickly they germinated and grew. There’s a forest of green beans in my kitchen and by the time the last frost is past and the soil warm enough to plant they’ll be sturdy beanstalks.

We dug up last season’s parsley (that wouldn’t grow then, but looks healthy now) as well as a large clump of sage and moved them from wine barrels to beds. Lemon balm that wanted to escape its box is now confined to a planter on the patio.

(Here's a potato we found in a barrel when we dug out the sage.)

By the middle of next month the garden will be in full swing and my hands will be full of dirt. I can barely wait.

Dreams

What are your dreams?

Retro, Vintage, Old

Vintage is the new buzzword for old. It’s true that everything old is new again, especially if it has a certain retro or vintage vibe to it. The stuff our parents threw away because it was ugly, or no good, or didn’t fit in anywhere…what I wouldn’t give to have some of those things now.

Over the weekend I was gifted with vintage canning jars; four dozen jars that had been in storage for decades, packed carefully between layers of yellowed, crisp newspaper. The jars are Ball and Kerr, mostly pre-1960, some from the 1970's, as far as I can tell. Some are in excellent condition, others have a few nicks and scratches, not enough to warrant tossing them, but they won’t be up to a hot water bath again. Those jars, the ones likely to break in the pot, are still perfect for dry storage. A pantry full of jars is much prettier, and more efficient, than one filled with rubber-banded plastic bags and boxes that won’t stay shut. I can see exactly how much rice is left and if there are enough split peas for soup.

Of course, the decorating and other storage options are endless too: flower vases, candle holders, buttons, marbles, pens. Some people use them for drinking glasses, but I prefer my wine glass with a little less heft.

Not all of these jars will make it to my pantry. Even fewer will end up in the canning pot. I’m finding homes for some of them with canners as crazy about old glass as I am. I’m glad they didn’t get thrown away.

Bay Rum Aftershave

Grand ideas sometimes come out of nowhere. Or maybe it just seems like it, when actually they’ve been hovering just over our shoulder, nagging for attention. This week I stopped in my tracks to listen and good things happened.

In the past week I’ve made a batch of soap, a dozen or more herb filled microwave heating pads, worked on some mixed media projects, and started two batches of Bay Rum Aftershave. Each project is worth a post of its own, but today’s is about the aftershave. My husband likes the refreshing feel and scent, and especially that he doesn’t feel perfumed. I love the way it, and he, smells.

I first learned about Bay Rum probably thirty years ago when I took a class given by Rosemary Gladstar, but didn’t get around to making it until last year. Turns out it’s simple to make and requires only ingredients most of us have in our kitchens already. The hardest part is being patient while it steeps long enough for the fragrance to develop.

After poking around the internet for recipes, I found most of them to be the same. The one I chose was repeated most often; I like a stronger bay scent, so I added more bay leaves and let it steep for much longer.

Here’s the basic formula:

Bay Rum Aftershave

½ cup Vodka

2 Tbs. Jamaican Rum

2 dried bay leaves

¼ tsp. whole allspice

1 cinnamon stick

Zest of one small orange

Put all ingredients in a jar, close the lid and place it in a dark place for at least two weeks. Strain through cheesecloth and pour into a clean bottle. Give it to a man you love.