Exotic Every Day

A few years ago, my friends the WWs and I took a daytrip through northern San Diego county. We passed the guidebooks among ourselves and took turns deciding where to stop next. One of us, I think it was SWW, suggested we stop at an exotic bird refuge to visit with the animals. Once there, we paid our dollar admission fee, slathered our arms and hands with disinfectant, and entered the aviary. All sorts of bird inhabited the space. Some birds sat in corners, missing lots of feathers, clearly angry and clearly swearing. Others hopped to the edges of branches to be near us visitors; they talked and wagged their heads and let us pet them. One African Gray fell in love with RWW. The bird crawled up his arm and onto his shoulder, happily humming and rubbing against RWW's head. Supremely content, the bird gently took RWW's ear in his beak, pulled on it a little, then released it, stroking it with his beak.

(Slight interjection: When I told this story to my students just after it happened, one student, a student who though intelligent and creative, never looked much like he was paying attention, raised his head at this point in the story and blurted out, "Gives new meaning to the phrase 'exotic bird'!")

This bird loved RWW the whole time we were there. Finally, when it came time to go, SWW reached up to remove the parrot from RWW's shoulder. "No!" the bird shouted. SWW's hands flew back in surprise. She tried again. "NOOOOOO!" even louder, the bird cried.

Before this visit, none of us knew that the birds had words that they could use to really communicate, not just imitate. Here we were just stopping to get our animal-fix, and this small animal so clearly used our language to tell us what it wanted, and in this case, it wanted RWW. We got more than just the cute factor on this visit, but a reminder of how little we understand the creatures that surround us. How much underestimating do we do when we don't understand?

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In Santa Barbara for friends' wedding last weekend, ECG and I decided to go a little out of our way up to Goleta, where Norman Beard, a real estate broker, has a private nursery dedicated to tropical fruit trees. He led the two of us on a tour through his hilly 5 acres, where we met a mare and her 2-week old colt (named Hollywood) and lots and lots of fruit trees. Some of the plants he grew I had read could fruit well near the coast, with a more temperate climate. Others I had no idea would grow in Southern California at all.

A black sapote.

A broody-near-black paw paw blossom from below.

An almost-ripe white sapote.

An immature Pineapple Quince.

Immature longan fruit.

I can't remember for the life of me this plant is.

A small cherimoya.

A heart-shaped young mango.

We asked him about the flavors of his fruits, which ones were his favorites. Clearly a lover of tropical fruits, he firmly declared that he loved all papayas and he couldn't get enough black sapote. He showed us which fruits he eats on his daily cereal due to their prolific bounty, and which he cradles carefully until they are ripe, since he gets so few.

We purchased a Tainang papaya and a Keitt mango from him to grow on our little mini-farm. When he found out we were from Altadena, he declared, "You guys are so lucky; you can grow anything in such an exotic climate."

Exotic? It's hot every day here right now, sunny, dry; it's exotic to him, I guess. His clouds and July-green hills were awe-inspiring to us.

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In Mexico, it is cajeta; in Argentina, dulce de leche; and in other places, it goes by many other names. Before I met my Argentine husband, it was an exotic treat that I rarely consumed, but now there is always a jar of it in our house. ECG spreads it on toast in the morning or drizzles it over ice cream. Sometimes I melt a spoon of it in coffee.

Now, there are three ways to get cajeta/dulce de leche. First, you can buy jars of it at the store, which is what we usually do. Most Latin groceries sell it. Second, as we occasionally do, you can boil cans of sweetened condensed milk for an hour or so in a large pot of water and hope the cans don't explode. That gives a decent product, but it is hard to monitor the consistency and color of the caramel. And the third way is to make the whole dang batch from scratch, which I did a few days ago with some of the goats' milk I had received from a member of the produce exchange to which I belong. It takes forever, but requires almost no work, and it is the richest, most caramelly dulce de leche I've ever had. Will I make this every day? No, but it sure won't be unusual in this house.

Cajeta/Dulce de Leche/Whateveryouwannacallit
I found this simple recipe at Vanilla.com. It's worth the time, and it will make a lot, about a pint and a half, so you'll have plenty for a while.

You will need:
2 quarts of goat’s milk, cow’s milk, or a mixture of the two
2 cups sugar
1 large, plump vanilla bean, split open
1/2 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in 1 tablespoon water

To make the caramel:
In a large, heavy pot (not iron), combine the milk, sugar, and place over medium heat. Scrape the contents of the vanilla bean out and stir the tiny seeds into the mixture. As well, drop in the vanilla bean pod to further flavor the caramel. Stir regularly until the milk comes to a simmer and sugar is dissolved. Remove the pot from the heat and add dissolved baking soda; it will bubble up at this point, especially with goat’s milk. When the bubbles have subsided, return it to the heat.

Adjust heat so that the mixture is simmering. Simmer for a long time. For me, it took a total of about two hours. Occasionally stir the pot, making sure to swipe all along the bottom of the pot to prevent scorching or sticking. As the mixture begins to thicken and turn a caramel-brown color, you will probably need to stir more frequently.

If you take the pot off the heat and allow the cajeta to cool, it should be a medium-thick sauce. If it’s too thick, add hot water, 1 tablespoon at a time until it is the proper consistency. If it is too thin, return to the heat until it thickens.

When the cajeta is cool, remove the vanilla bean, let it cool, then lick off the caramelly goodness. The cajeta tastes great warm on ice cream, but also tastes fantastic cool, eaten off a spoon. Oh now, here I go, making myself hungry again.

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I have the ability to travel with or without my husband, in mixed company, dressed however I want. I have the freedom to write whatever I want to write about and publish it freely for whomever wants to read it. And no one could stop me, nor did anyone try, from marrying the man I love. To me, these are every day basic rights. To some, they're exotic.

Have a meaningful 4th of July.

For the Chard Haters

My husband hates swiss chard (and most things green), but he thinks this, as far as swiss chard goes, is at least edible. I, on the other hand, love swiss chard and think this version of it is vegetable heaven on a plate. So, for the haters and the lovers, here's a new chard dish.

Chard Stroganoff
You will need:
olive oil
1/4 lb crimini mushrooms, sliced thickly
1/2 large onion, sliced thinly
2 garlic cloves, smashed and minced
salt and fresh black pepper
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/4 cup cognac or brandy
1/2 cup mushroom broth
1 lb swiss chard (leaves only), cut into large strips
1/4 cup sour cream

To make the dish:
Pour a glug of olive oil into a heavy bottomed pan on high heat. Once the oil is shimmery and hot, toss in the mushrooms and a shake of salt. Sear the sides of the mushrooms until they begin to brown, turn down the heat to medium, and add the sliced onion to the mushrooms and stir occasionally as the onion softens and sweetens to translucency. Stir in the minced garlic and tomato paste, and cook 30 seconds or so, until very fragrant. Turn down the heat to medium-low. Carefully pour in the cognac; it will cook down quickly. Add the mushroom broth and mix the ingredients together while letting the liquid cook down. Let the mixture simmer for 5 or so minutes, until the liquid is syrupy.

Meanwhile, fill a large pot halfway with water and add a couple shakes of salt. Add the chard and bring the pot to boil. Boil the chard for about 3 minutes, or until all of it is bright green and tender. Pour the pot out into a colander over the sink, and let the chard drain completely. Use a wooden spoon to push the chard against the colander to remove most of the water.

Once the mushroom mixture is reduced and syrupy, add the chard to the mixture. As well, add the sour cream and a large twist of ground pepper. Toss the mixture around with a wooden spoon until it is evenly mixed. Taste for seasoning and add salt and pepper as necessary. Remove from heat and serve.

This will serve four chard haters or two chard lovers.

Summer Sugar

In the summers when I was a kid, my mom often gave my brother and me irrigation duty out in the huge veggie garden. It daily topped 100 degrees Fahrenheit, so we lived in our swim suits during the summers, dunking ourselves occasionally in the above-ground swimming pool behind the back yard to cool off. When my brother and I went out back to water the garden, my mom always required us to wear our cowboy boots for protection against the rattlesnakes that we occasionally found near our compost pile. Swimsuits and cowboy boots, those are two of the things that make me think of the long days of childhood summers.

The other thing that brings me right back to being 11 years old, chlorinated water drying on my brown skin and lots and lots of dreams in my head, is sweet, just-picked corn. Sometimes, when my brother and I were out watering, we would rip an ear right off the plant, husk it there in the garden, and eat the sweet thing raw.


After gnawing the cob to oblivion, not a kernel left untouched (as a side note—my husband eats his corn haphazardly, often missing a kernel here or there as he scarfs up its goodness, and it drives me crazy; it is all I can do to keep from picking up his cob after he is done and nibbling at the remaining kernels), we'd suck the juices out of the sugary stalk attached to the ears. So, so good.

Now that I am able to have my own out back veggie garden in which I have to keep my eyes open for rattlesnakes, I can finally grow my own corn.




No, it isn't ready to harvest yet, but every time I look at it, I drool a little. Okay, I drool a lot. I hear, however, that drool is a great fertilizer for sweet corn, so that means I should have a remarkable crop.


Curried Corn Soup
This is my own recipe that I created last night when I had a pile of good farmers market corn on my hands. In it, the corn's sweetness is enriched by coconut and curry, and brightened with lemon juice. It's spicy, smoky, and summery, and eating it, you may just experience that lifting warm freedom of summer.

You will need:
1 large red (or orange or yellow) sweet pepper
4 ears of corn, shucked
1/2 large onion, finely diced
1 cloves garlic, smashed and minced
1 tablespoon butter
2 teaspoons Madras curry powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 can coconut milk
2 cups chicken broth
lemon juice to taste
diced avocado and cilantro for garnish
optional: diced leftover grilled zucchini or yellow squash

To make the soup:
Place the pepper on your gas burner and blacken it on all sides, turning it occasionally with tongs. Once the pepper is blackened, set it aside to cool a bit before carefully removing the skin. After peeling, split the pepper open, remove the seeds, and dice. Set aside.

Over a large bowl, run a sharp knife down the length of the corn cops, cutting the kernels off the cob at their base. After you've cut all the kernels off each cob, scrape the flat side of the knife firmly down the length of the cob to squeeze out all the milky juice into the same bowl. Set the bowl of corn aside.

In a large, heavy pot, heat the butter and a tablespoon of coconut cream that has risen to the top of the can of coconut milk. The burner should be set to medium-low. Add the diced onion and garlic, and toss the alliums with the fat in the pan. Let the mixture cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is less opaque all the way through, but is not browned. Add the salt and curry powder to the pan, stir, and heat until fragrant.

Add the diced sweet pepper, corn, and collected juices (and leftover grilled vegetables, if you have them—I used two pieces of leftover grilled yellow squash, finely diced) to the pan. Stir to mix and coat the corn with the flavors of onion, garlic, and curry. Stir in the coconut milk then add the chicken broth. Simmer the soup for 10-15 minutes until the corn is tender and the flavors melded. Add lemon juice to taste, and adjust seasoning as necessary with salt and black pepper.

Ladle the soup into bowls and top with cilantro and diced avocado.


Serves four people on a dreamy summer day.

Graduation, Death, and Chickens

Despite the fact that, when I was 13, I would have cried if someone told me I had to do it, I stood in front of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, on Friday, reading names at my school's graduation. I had no fear—I just enjoyed the smiling faces of each kid as I called each forth to shake hands with the school board and principal. I was giggly. I told kids I was proud of them as they walked up to me. The students' enthusiasm and pride spread to me, and I floated on adrenaline and joy.

While I was experiencing this, my grandmother died.

Even in my giddiness, I knew my grandmother wasn't doing well because my parents called just as I arrived at District Field for the ceremony to tell me that my grandmother was still asleep from the anesthesia she received in her hip surgery that day. They weren't hopeful, but they expected her to last a day or two. Instead, she passed quickly, never waking up from her surgery. When graduation had finished and I made it back to my car, I found a message waiting for me, letting me know she had died.

I'm going to have to take some time to think about how best to write about Harriet, my grandmother, but I can tell you this now: she was tiny, she was smart, and she loved books. When I say she loved books, I mean she loved them so much that she was a librarian, that she brought books home for me the day I was born, and that she read every single day of her life. Part of my obsession with the written word had to have come from her. Someday later I'll tell more about her.

So Friday night, I was high on graduation-adrenaline and down from the loss of my grandmother, and the combination of feelings, along with the excitement of what the next day offered kept me from sleep. I spent the night tossing and turning while processing the memories of my grandmother and thinking about the smiles of my students; I replayed their graduation speeches again and again in my head, excited for their futures and recognizing how little they controlled them. I got up at 2 am to do some kitchen cleaning, and though I went to bed again to try to sleep, I gave in for real and got up in the early morning and went outside to finish what needed to be finished: our coop.

ECG had done such a good job converting a doghouse and building a pen to attach it to for our portable coop, and I had spent a couple afternoons priming it and painting it, but we hadn't had a chance to finish attaching the wire walls and floor that would protect the birds from the raccoons, coyotes, and hawks in our 'hood. But I did it early Saturday morning, well before ECG was awake and before most of my neighbors roused. I wrestled with hardware cloth and managed to give myself hundreds of small puncture wounds as I lined the frame. I finished by 9am.

I rushed out of the house with a map and an empty pet carrier, picked up my friend SWW, and we were on the road to a ranch out in the country where my chickens waited for me.

In the weeks prior, while looking for a reliable place to buy pullets (female pre-laying chickens), I found a ranch not too far away that raised interesting breeds. I called the owner and had several frustrating conversations with her: she was a know-it-all, scattered, and impatient. But, she was close and she had a good product, and when it came down to it, those things won out. When SWW and I drove out there Saturday, we fully expected to have a quick encounter with the rancher, purchase the chickens, and get back on our way home.

It didn't turn out that way at all.


Instead of crazy-angry, the kind of crazy we expected from the rancher, we found crazy-fun. First off, when we got there, she wasn't there. We waited around the gate, taking pictures of the friendly roosters who kept wandering over to check us out. Her entire front yard was one cage after another: chickens, ducks, peacocks, turkeys, geese, pigs, an emu, and in the back, behind the house, we could see goats and hints of other animals. When she did arrive, she arrived in a whirlwind of dirt, animal dander, and happy hysteria. She jumped out of her car and into her house, running back out seconds later with two baby animals under her arms.

She shoved a baby chihuahua into my arms, a baby potbellied pig into SWW's and shouted, "Here, hold these guys! They need to be socialized!" Then she turned to a giant Brahma rooster and yelled, "Chick-Chick!" She turned to us, "See, he knows his name!" She turned back to the rooster, "Get back over the fence! You know you need to be on this side!" Chick Chick came to her, she picked him up and shoved him into my arm not occupied by the chihuahua. "Here, hold him for a second!" While SWW and I held our assigned animals, the rancher ran off again. She came back with the chihuahua's parents and gave us them to hold too. We were out of arms, so we just started putting animals down on the ground around us. She went off and came back with the potbellied pig's mama in her arms (quite a bit to carry), the pig's udders (are they called udders on a pig?) swollen huge. Luckily, she didn't shove this one on us too, but just showed her off. A little later, she ran back to the emu cage and shouted at us to look. "Watch! This is Emmett! Emmett loves attention!" And she began stroking his head and neck until he wrapped his neck against her own. She massaged his back, rubbing the opposite directions of feathers, and he collapsed into an avian pile of relaxation against her, and she fell down into the dusty dirt with him, laughing.



Neighbors came by and the animals were passed around their arms. An elderly couple with a van full of day old bread came by to give it to the animals, and the chihuahua ended up in the wife's arms for a while. Grandparents brought their grandsons by with a few roosters in tow; their 4H project gave them more boy-chickens than they expected, and they gave them to the rancher to take care of. A woman and her adult son brought a peacock chick that the man had found being chased by his cat. The rancher put the chick in a cage with food and water. People flocked to the rancher because they knew, kooky as this woman is, she'd take care of whatever they brought her.


When the stream of people slowed a little, the rancher showed me how to tell the difference between a male and a female chick, what a chick looks like when it's scared itself to death and broken its own neck, and, as she rubbed it between her fingers, demonstrating its texture and color, what healthy chicken poop looks like. This is a woman who thrills in life: noise and death and shit and genetalia. And when I was with her on Saturday, that thrill was contagious.

As a result, I brought home three chickens on Saturday that may not be the most practical, may not be the most productive, but certainly may bring the most fascination to my life: One Black Jersey Giant, the largest breed of chicken, a huge, beautiful bird that shines green in sunlight. One Cuckoo Marans, a splatter of black and white, and a layer of chocolate-brown eggs. And one White-Crested Blue Polish, a bird with a top hat.

Though I haven't figured out names for each of them yet, I've figured out one. That Blue Polish, her name is Harriet.

Garlic

This spring's rain: it was not as much as we needed, but enough to grow pounds and pounds of the best garlic I've ever grown.


Here is my 2009 crop, in the order each matured for harvest:

1) Shilla: Powerfully flavored, slightly mustardy, and large-headed, Shilla is a Turban hardneck that matures early. It matured two weeks before some of the others, and was ready for harvest the second week of May. This is the first year I grew it, and I'm thrilled: it gave me great yield and great flavor with absolutely no trouble.


2) Ajo Rojo: Gosh, this is a gorgeous garlic. The outer skins are shiny and translucent, tucking deep burgundy clove wrappers underneath. It is a strong garlic, but not overwhelming, wonderful in sauces and stews. It is a Creole garlic, and it grew much better for me this year than last. Thank goodness, because I love this baby.


3) Red Toch: This is my primary garlic, the one I grow the most of and rely on throughout the year. It has big fat cloves that grow out below the roots, creating heart-shaped large heads. Raw, cooked, roasted, this not-too-hot garlic tastes good however I prepare it. It is an Artichoke variety that seems to love our particular climate and gives me a reliable yield of fat heads.


4) New York White (aka Polish White): This is another Artichoke variety—a type that grows very well for me—but is stronger in flavor than the other two artichoke varieties I grow. It gave me medium-sized heads with big fat cloves and rich and medium-hot flavor. This is a great all-purpose garlic.


5) Applegate: My third Artichoke variety, Applegate has proven itself a couple times for me now. It yields large heads with fat cloves wrapped in rich parchment with purple and peachy-pink stripes, another of the beauty queens. Very mild-flavored, this is the perfect ingredient to use in recipes that call for raw garlic.


6) Metechi: A Marbled Purple Stripe variety, parts of the exterior wrapping are deep, deep purple. It is also deeply, deeply hot. This is the most pungent of the bunch, as well as the prettiest plant as it grows. The foliage is sturdy and symmetrical, with a soft blue blush. This was my first year growing it; I'll definitely grow it again. Hopefully I will be able to harvest larger heads from it next year. I just harvested it as it seemed so much later than my others and I thought it had to be ready to come up, but I should have let it go another week or so.

V is for Vignettes

Two weeks ago, ECG and I went for a walk around the corner from our house and into the canyon. On our return, we ran into a couple on horseback searching for a runaway horse. Apparently, another rider had been out with a friend, dismounted, then on the remount dislodged the saddle, startling her horse. The horse took off without the rider, but with all the tack, and has not been seen since. This horse has been missing for two weeks. Two weeks! Was the horse stolen? Was the horse eaten by bears or mountain lions? Did the horse get its bridle caught in a tree and inadvertently hang itself? Each of these is a very real possibility. I live 11 miles away from downtown Los Angeles, but events like these make me feel that we're still part of the Wild West.

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There are many benefits of occasional meet-ups with people who are as garden dorky as yours-truly. Here is one:

This morning, a man well into his eighth decade, but none the slower for it, responded to complaints about gophers. He said, "Here's what you do. You take the cat hair, or the dog hair, or whatever pet hair you have around, and cut it up real fine. Then you sprinkle it into the holes you find around the yard. When that male gopher gets looking around, sniffing at that hair, he's sure to bring some of it home to the nest on him. His lady gopher is going to take one sniff of him, ask him what the hell he's doing with someone else's hair all over him, and kick him out of the nest. No man in the nest, no babies, no gopher problem. Easy as that."

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A few weeks ago, a friend of ECG's held a limoncello making party. Although he lives smack dab in the middle of the city, he's got a lemon tree out back, and has more lemons that he could possibly use himself. So, he picked half of them, asked all his friends to bring a liter of Everclear or Vodka (after making it myself a couple times now, I prefer Everclear over vodka for a cleaner lemon flavor), and threw a party. Imagine the scene: a room full of Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and English voices swimming through air rich with the scent of hundreds of lemons being simultaneously zested by happy people. Several party-goers arrived hoping it was a limoncello drinking party, their eyebrows raised and curling lips expectant, but, when discovering that the limoncello wouldn't be ready to drink for a few months, had faces that melted into disbelief. A few bottles of wine and beer sufficed for those who were disappointed; however, most of us were drunk on the lemon-oil-rich-air. My hands were lemony-beautiful even the next day.

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In the school hallway the other day, I nearly ran into a former student, one who is days away from graduation, without recognizing her. Her shiny black hair, once long enough to nearly reach her butt, was gone, replaced by a tousled bob. "Your hair!" I gasped, "You look beautiful, but I almost didn't know it was you." She looked at me steadily with her huge smile, and she said the most perfect words: "I donated it."

Every day, my students teach me how to live.

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Coffee Brined Grilled Chicken Legs
Adapted from Phil Lempert's Supermarket Guru, a recipe site I found while searching online for an interesting brine. Serves 2.

Save some of the stories from the week, and while you grill on the back patio with a friend or lover, tell the stories slowly and with luxurious detail. Relax, sip something yummy, and enjoy the fact that grilling doesn't happen immediately. Then, devour these smoke-infused juicy legs with grilled corn and braised chard.

You will need:
2 shots of good espresso
1/4 cup salt
1/4 cup brown sugar, packed
1 teaspoon each of whole mustard seeds and whole peppercorns
1/4 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1/2 lemon, thinly sliced
3 cups water
2 whole chicken legs (thighs attached)

To prepare the chicken:
In a large shallow bowl, mix together the espresso, salt, sugar, and spices. Ad the water and lemon slices, and stir until the sugar and salt are dissolved. Place the chicken legs in the mixture, making sure they're fully covered by the brine. If you need to, you can place a plate over them to press them into the liquid. Refrigerate for three hours, turning, if you need to, once to make sure all sides get adequate "brinage."


Prepare your grill, and cook over medium heat until the juices run clear from the thickest part of the legs, and the meat is smoky and rich.

May

Garlic is here.


And strawberries.



Poppy seeds.



Bush beans.



Figs coming.


Persimmons coming.



Oh my, oh my, oh my, I can't wait. Tomatoes are coming!



Bees and flowers everywhere, and other babies are coming soon too.


Here's a hint about what's coming: making this late spring salad—arugula, stilton, the first nectarines, barely cooked eggs, and a sherry vinaigrette—will be a whole lot easier once they arrive and grow up.