Be-bop-a-re-bop

Almost two weeks later, and I still think this is one of the prettiest plants I've ever seen.

On my last day at the farm, Carden walked up to the house with a bushel basket full of what looked, at first glance, to be broccoli. Except the "heads" were red. And, well, Courtney already told me Carden was out cutting rhubarb.

Yep, that's rhubarb you see there, and that lovely, colorful broccoli looking part is the seed head. You can't eat it, it's poisonous. You also can't eat the leaves. Nor can you eat the stalk to which the seed head is attached. But you CAN eat the stalk that ends up becoming the leaf.

Just cut the leaves off, chop the remaining part, and voila. Rhubarb. But what on earth do you DO with it? The obvious choice (to some folks) is pie. Either rhubarb pie or strawberry-rhubarb pie. In fact, most of the options for rhubarb involve lots of sugar, as this is a very tart vegetable.

Toting home about two pounds of the chopped rhubarb, I had 8 cups to work with. Enough for a few different things. So, I made muffins and pie, both with recipes from Simply In Season. I say the muffins were quite good, while Derek gave them the stinky cheese face. Not a fan of rhubarb, that one.

On with the recipes!


Rhubarb Pie

2 eggs
Separate yolks from the egg whites. Beat egg whites into stiff peaks. Beat egg yolks separately. (there is an alternative for this below, and how I made the pie)

1 cup sugar
3 TBSP flour
1/4 tsp salt
Mix in with egg yolks.

3 cups chopped rhubarb
Add to egg mixture. Fold in the beaten egg whites.

9-inch pastry shell, unbaked (c'mon, make your own!)
Pour mixture into shell and bake in oven heated to 425 for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350, and continue baking for 30 minutes, or until set.

Filling variation: Instead of separating the egg whites and yolks, add the whole eggs to the flour, sugar and salt. Flavor with 1 tsp vanilla and/or 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg or the grated rind of one orange. Mix well. Fold in rhubarb and pour into pie shell.

Crumb topping variation (HIGHLY recommended and pictured above):
combine 1/2 cup flour or rolled oats with 1/4 cup sugar or brown sugar. Cut in 2 TBSP butter until mixture is crumbly. Sprinkle over rhubarb mixture, then bake as above.


Rhubarb Muffins
1.5 cups flour
1 cup whole wheat flour (you can use all whole wheat if you want)
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
Combine thoroughly

1 cup buttermilk, sour milk or plain yogurt
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup oil
1 egg (beaten)
2 tsp vanilla
In a separate bowl, mix well. Stir in dry ingredients until just moistened.

1.5 cups diced rhubarb
1/2 cup nuts (toasted and chopped; optional)
Stir in. Fill greased muffin tins 2/3 full.

1/4 cup sugar
1 TBSP melted butter
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp flour
Combine and sprinkle on top of batter. Bake in oven heated to 375, until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean, about 20 minutes. Remove from pans and cool on wire racks.

The need to use our hands

My mother recently lamented that the "old" knowledge, consisting of skills once common, was lost. We'd been talking about my most recent farm experience, in which I helped Courtney process four hens and how thoroughly fascinated I was (not grossed out like some folks would be).

"Sad, the skills that have been lost with the passing of the old-timers. Most I have known were quiet humble men but were willing to share their knowledge when they realize you are genuinely interested."

I countered saying that the skills were still there, one simply had to ask around. Those quiet humble men, and women, are still more than willing to share their knowledge to those who are genuinely interested and willing to ask. The problem isn't that the old skills are lost, it's that people aren't asking for them as much as they used to.

That conversation came to mind this morning while I waited for my tea kettle to whistle. After my last farm experience, I decided to pick up, again, a book I borrowed from my mother awhile back: The Foxfire Book. Talk about learning the old ways. I'm currently on an early chapter that discusses building log cabins. The chapter gives instructions for a lavish log cabin, a not so lavish one, and then variations. But the last two paragraphs of the intro are what brought to mind my mother's comment.

"To those who would look upon such a project as a farce, or a chore not worth the time, we have little to say. We speak instead to the individual who feels some loss in the realization that this age of miracles, miraculous though it is, has robbed us of the need to use our hands. We speak to the individual who feels that someday, somewhere, the use of the instructions contained in these pages will be a source of tremendous satisfaction. And we speak, in a sense, to the child in man - that free spirit still building tree houses in the woods.

To the enthusiastic, all-things-are-possible child spirit, and to the man who longs for the peace that independence and skilled self-sufficiency brings, we address ourselves in this chapter. And we wish him well. He's one of us."

In our age of iPods, iPhones and iPads, internet and cable/satellite TV, we HAVE lost the need to work with our hands. Ask me what it is I like about my farm days, and that's just it: the need to use my hands. The need to stick hand in dirt (or in chicken!), wrestle with prickly weeds and free carrots from the clutches of crab grass, to spend a few hours on the back of a potato planter poking at spuds with a tobacco stick and trying not to fall off.

And if I had the resources, I'd totally be building tree houses in the woods. All things ARE possible. :)

Dinner delayed

We made good this evening on a November vow between Courtney Willis and myself to get our respective selves and husbands together for dinner at some point over the winter.

Though the farm figured far more important in my life last year than I could ever have imagined, Derek had not yet been there. Various factors prevented us from going to the spring and fall potlucks at the farm.

The drive to the farm was a nice relaxing sojourn from the last couple of hours spent on the Interstate heading into and out of Louisville. The smell of the fields - the sweet, earthy scent of dried grass and hay - seeped into the truck through slightly open windows. We arrived at the farm just before 7, with enough light left for Derek to see the place I've come to know and love. He was captured, as I was the first time, the moment we went up the driveway. And to think - nothing is green yet.

Courtney greeted us from the hoop house, and invited us up to take a look at the newest members fo the farm - some chicks that are, I believe, about a month old. In a relatively adolescent stage for chickens, the chicks were in what I dubbed the "adorably ugly" stage. It's a fitting description really, as the poor things are rather awkward looking - midway between baby down and adult feathers, and gangly legged, but still chattering in the sweet peeping sound that only chicks make. They're cute in the weirdest of ways.

Back in the house, we prepared for dinner - roasted chicken and roasted winter vegetables. My contribution was homemade chocolate chip muffins baked in a cast iron pan. They hadn't turned out quite as lovely as I'd hoped - I didn't allow enough time for making them - but they were tasty just the same.

Dinner was an adventure, as we laughed through the, ahem, "carving" of the dinner bird - a task that proved more amusingly difficult than anyone imagined. I'm getting used to the task of carving up a raw chicken for making stock or dinner, but a cooked chicken is, well, a different bird. Later, we decided that the difficulty helped to break the ice a little, as Derek and Carden got several giggles out of our combined efforts.

But the effort was well worth it. It's been a very long time since I've had a REAL chicken. The Harvestland whole chickens I get in the stores are a better alternative than Tyson, but it's still ... different. You see, a chicken raised on a farm and nurtured into laying eggs lives a longer life than one that winds up in a grocery store cooler.

Chances are it's had more of an opportunity to run around - and on a time table according to the bird's instincts. Chances are it's lived longer, and has found its way to the dinner table because its egg production has diminished. Chances are it has eaten what chickens are supposed to eat.

The first thing you're likely to notice is that the dark meat is truly dark. The drumsticks were a little tough, yes, but still very tasty and had a stronger flavor than a commercial chicken. The white meat of the breast was tender and juicy, and too had a stronger flavor than the palid meat that passes for chicken breast in a grocery store.

I wondered briefly which one of the chickens I had photographed over the summer was sitting naked on the table, cooked to a golden brown, drumsticks in the air, waiting to give us sustenance. Internally, I said a little thank you to the chicken. It gives you a different perspective on dinner when you know you've met the animal that you're about to eat.

The dinner conversation, as lunch conversations were throughout the summer, was relaxed and full of laughter. I could tell that Derek was quite comfortable, as he was already telling stories and asking questions, where otherwise he might be quietly observing. "They're good people," he said on the drive home. "Really, really good people."

And they are. It was wonderful to see good friends again, and we hope to make dinner with them a more regular affair. It's our turn next, and I suspect Indian food will be on the menu.

--
Chocolate Chip Muffins
Heat oven to 350

1 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/3 cup melted butter
1 cup milk
1 cup chocolate chips (I recommend DARK)

1. Blend dry ingredients well in medium/large bowl
2. Add milk & butter and blend well. Batter may be lumpy.
3. Add chocolate and blend.
4. Fill muffin pan (lined or not, it's up to you) cups to at least 2/3 full.
5. Bake 15-20 minutes, maybe longer depending on your oven.
6. Remove as soon as you can handle the muffins, and cool on a wire rack.

* If you have the pleasure of owning a cast iron muffin pan, lube up the cups with melted butter (but don't overdo it - a dab'll do ya, too much will give you soggy muffins), and heat the pan while you're mixing the batter.

These suckers are nommalicious while still warm and melty. :)

A piece of heaven

It's almost time. Spring is so close I can feel it in my toes. The first weekend of Spring will be celebrated with some manner of camping trip. And after that? After that it's CSA time.

Words cannot express how much our CSA means to me. I truly, truly cannot do it justice. I've started this post half a dozen times.

Our CSA — A Place on Earth CSA — is run by Carden and Courtney Willis, a couple of late-20-somethings who started their CSA about six years ago. They plan each year for 75 shares, and last year, I signed up to be a working share.

That meant that instead of the full price, we paid a fraction of the full share cost in exchange for working on the farm once a week for four hours. And, since I worked the day the boxes were packed, I picked up our share there, knocking a little more off the price. If we could have afforded to pay

But money? Money's not important here, except to say that it was the best money I've ever spent. Every week I brought home a box of (practically) organic, locally grown food that I helped to grow, weed, thin, harvest, wash and/or pack. The farm isn't even 10 miles from our driveway, so the produce is as fresh as it can be without being grown in our own back yard.

Very quickly I learned that the experience was about far more than great, locally grown food purchased at a discount in exchange for a few hours of labor. It was about the relationships formed on my farm days. Working along with me were John, Marissa, Carol, and others. And then, of course, there were Carden and Courtney.

The stories told and experiences shared while we spent hours, and I do mean hours, weeding carrots, or picking cherry tomatoes, or sorting tomatoes in the barn, were priceless. John and I talked endlessly about books and reading. Carol educated me on the raw food movement. Conversations about politics were plentiful. Each week, Courtney seemed to enjoy some of the more colorful tales I had from the rough and tumble world of weekly newspaper editing.

Each day, we'd gather, somewhere in the neighborhood of 1 p.m., for an always fantastic lunch after a morning spent outside, in the sun, in the fields, enjoying the sites, sounds and smells of summer. The food. My GOD the food. It began with Courtney's roasted vegetable pizza (don't laugh, it was excellent) and stuffed shells made by Marissa's mother, and continued on throughout the summer with a variety of foods. Pesto. Vegetable Vindaloo. Homemade bread. Sweet potato quesadillas on homemade tortillas (made by Carden and the meal that finally urged me to purchase the cook book Simply In Season).

The best lunch came on a day when, as we later found out, Courtney had no bread in the house. That morning, I showed up with a loaf or two of sourdough. Carol showed up with a loaf of bread, and I think Marissa may have brought one as well. We feasted royally on tomato sandwiches. Oh, sweet summer, the tomatoes.

Just looking at this tomato picture conjures up memories of the smell in that barn where we sorted tomatoes. Nothing compares to the smell of a fresh tomato. And please, don't kid yourselves, those red round things you find in most grocery stores aren't tomatoes. Not really. They pretend to be. But they're not. They can't compare to that pile of red, yellow, orange, green and white orbs. On more than one occasion, Courtney delighted in my own expressions of tomato-worship. I couldn't stop smelling them, and praising their beauty. I can't help it. I love me some tomatoes.

My farm days were the best therapy a girl could ever ask for. It was, and is, good honest labor, performed with good, honest folks. I was very sad when the end of the season approached, and actually cried thinking about the last farm day - which was spent tossing hay bales from the back of John's truck. It was hard work, yes, but God it was fun.

Courtney reminded me, as we lounged outside after lunch that I didn't have to wait for the CSA season to start before I come back. Any time I wanted, or needed, I could come out. When she e-mailed me this week to say she'd received my subscription form and payment, she reminded me of that - and of an agreement we made to get together for dinner during the winter months.

The upcoming season has me so excited, I'm having a little trouble getting to sleep. And after that first weekend of Spring camping trip, I'll start up again with my farm time. No sense waiting until May for something that is so soul-fulfilling.