Harlot alert!

Most of you probably know this already, but the Yarn Harlot (a.k.a. Stephanie Pearl-McPhee) will be at the Ann Arbor District Library Downtown Branch this Sunday, July 30 from 2-3:30 PM. Her blog is one of my (and pretty much every other knitter's) favorites.

Here's a link to the event info.

Freaky

Freaky item #1:
Peas from my garden in mid July. Mid July?! Peas are a Spring crop and I already had one bountiful harvest but they flowered again and ta da, I have sweet sweet peas in the middle of Summer.

Freaky item #2:
A princess puzzle for Fiona from Granny Kathy.

You might need a closer look to get all the good freakyness:
Heh heh heh. Deciding which dress the princess should wear is kind of boring, but putting robot stickers on her face, now that's fun! So much for Granny Kathy's Feminize-Fiona project....

"so ugly and so glorious..."

I tried not to feel glad that my kid came down with strep throat yesterday, but since she did and since she slept a lot of the day, I was able to finish The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. So I'm offsetting the downer guilt for being a crummy mom with the invigorating oomph that a really fine book produces. This is a difficult book to write about--a phrase like "The power of the human spirit" sounds incredibly trite, but frankly, I can't think of a better way to express the mash of feelings that this wonderful, quirky, intense, sometimes funny, sometimes tragic book inspired in me.

I think the best I can do is quote a line that captures the essence of the story:
"I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant."

I read the last 100 pages with tears streaming down my face, but despite the fact that the narrator is Death and the subject matter is the Holocaust, the book is incredibly life affirming. It reminds me of one of my other favorite books, Everything is Illuminated (which also devotes a significant amount of its plot to the Holocaust) and The Book Thief is going to join the company of Everything is Illuminated by bumping Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott off of my Top 10 list (which is still a mighty fine read, mind you, but now that both of my kids are potty trained, the daily relevance of the "shit storms" that Lamott writes about has decreased).

If you are on my regular list of gift-book recipients, please be advised that you will most likely, be receiving a copy of this book from me when the appropriate celebratory occasion comes around. I gotta tell you, it is great to know what you'll be giving everyone for Christmas on July 22nd!

Rampant Reading

It's a good thing that comp grading is over for the near future and I finished my canoeing piece for the Community Observer because, people, I got some reading to do! There are times when I feel I make no progress on my reserve list at the AADL. One of the nifty new things about their website is they let you know where you stand in the queue for a book; right now I happen to be # 16 of 22 requests for Monica Ali's new book, Alentejo Blue (yes, I put in a request for it despite the fact that I didn't like or finish her other book, Brick Lane...This one sounds kind of promising).

For some reason, I hit the jackpot in the last week on the reserve lists and received numerous e-mails telling me to hightail it to the library to pick up a ton of books.

First we have the three books that I have already started:

From Top: Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende (about 100 pages left, so-so read but not so bad that abandonment is immanent), Bad Twin by Gary Troup (about 50 pages left, a trashy gimmick novel tied to the TV series "Lost") and Black Swan Green by David Mitchell (only just finished the first chapter but looks very promising)

Then we have the four books that might soon be making me even more of a book polygamist:

From top: The Antelope Wife by Louise Erdrich (next book group book), Tied to the Tracks by Rosina Lippi (whose Homestead is on my Top 10 favorite books), The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue (ok it has been publicized up the yin yang, but I like the subject matter) and Brookland by Emily Barton (which sounds like my kind of historical novel).

and the four books that are a part of a a little Michael Chabon crush I'm having since finishing (and raving about) The Final Solution:

Werewolves in Their Youth (by Chabon), McSweeny's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories (which Chabon edited), A Model World (by Chabon) and The Classic Illustrated Sherlock Holmes (to try and tap into Chabon's thoughts and why he wrote The Final Solution)

And don't forget the two books that wait for my continued reading of young adult fiction which has been encouraged of late by how much I loved reading Fly by Night:

So You Want to Be a Wizard by Diane Duane (recommended on some blog recently, wish I could remember which one...) and Bella at Midnight by Diane Stanley (which A Fuse #8 Production--she who led me to Fly By Night--gave a very good review)

I ask you, why does the bounty of books descend upon me in the midst of decent weather and in prime produce season (which means I must spend some time away from my beloved couch being outside so I don't get seasonal depression in the middle of the summer, and, when inside, preparing numerous fruit pies and freezing enough pesto to get me through another winter....)?

So people, where the hell do I start?

Pesto Delivery Device

I have discovered the finest Pesto Delivery Device and it is called:

The Radiator.

This is the first noodle I have found that delivers an appropriate amount of pesto to my mouth--that is to say, a ton. Basil season is upon us folks, better go get yourself some radiators.

Simple is good

With the heat index in the 100 degree range and the air so think that I feel like I'm treading water when I'm just standing up, the amount of energy I have for cooking is pretty minimal. Last week I made a strawberry rhubarb pie

(yes, it really was that fluorescent red orange color and mighty tasty too)

but this week it seems insane to have the oven on for that long. Hopefully some cooling breezes will come along because I'm taking Fiona blueberry picking at the Dexter Blueberry Farm on Thursday morning and I'd really like to be able to make a pie with them.

In the meantime, we are eating cold around here. Today for lunch I made the simplest and, in my humble opinion, the best potato salad. I had some cooked redskin potatoes left over from dinner over the weekend. I mixed up a dressing of lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper and chopped fresh dill. Then added about a quarter of a diced Vidallia onion and the potatoes. Done! Of course I would probably eat a brick if you doused it in a salty, lemony dressing...
I also had a tuna sandwich with slices of fresh farmer's market cucumbers (a completely different vegetable from the waxed supermarket variety and a fine excuse for having The Best Damn Summer Beer Snack every evening) and spicy sprouts. And you see a few baby carrots that Fiona wouldn't finish from her lunch which, in my role as the Human Garbage Can, I felt compelled to finish. (I alternate the role of Human Garbage Can with those of the Human Napkin and--reluctantly--the Human Snot Rag.)

We'll be doing some main course salads later this week, most likely another grilled tuna salade nicoise now that my green and purple beans are growing in the garden. And I might be able to stand turning the stove on just long enough to make these mango blue cheese quesadillas that I read about over at Weekly Dish (the small people will get their regular beans and cheese quesadillas) because they sound like a lot of flavor for little effort or btu's.

What are you eating in the heat?

This girl knows how to have FUN!

Brian took the kids camping this weekend so I could have some writing time. I'm trying to finish up a personal essay piece about canoeing and relationships for the Community Observer and haven't been able to finish a paragraph before a small person interrupts me with a request for a beverage. I am beginning to think there is something wrong with my kids in their perpetual need for beverages.

But this weekend, I am free from my tot-tail (as opposed to cock-tail) waitress role and can sit at the computer until my butt gets numb.

Of course, one can not write the entire 48 hours the kids are gone so some diversions are necessary. And I'll tell you folks, I know how to have fun!

I decided to clean and wax the floors.

Before you mark me up as an obsessive compulsive, let me explain that the floors in this house have not really been cleaned or waxed in the 7 years I have lived in this house and I strongly suspect that they weren't treated very well in the 8 years prior to my appearance after my husband bought the house. These old oak floors have seen a lot of traffic in the almost 100 years they have been down and we certainly haven't treated them with the respect they deserve.

Now that I have established the floors' needs and our neglect I'll take on the question "why this weekend?" When liberated from ones children, couldn't I come up with something a little more, well, fun? Go to a movie? Invite some childless friends over and relish the feel of an uninterrupted conversation?

Those things sound nice, but getting down on my hands and knees and cleaning and rubbing wax into the floors then buffing them to a shine fulfills some other need in my psyche.

I remember reading a forward to one of Jeanette Winterson's books in which she declared that in order to write, one must get rid of all dingy underwear. Despite being in an impoverished-artist state, she threw away all her graying underwear and went out and bought bright colored underpants. When she washed them out in the sink and hung them to dry around the apartment, she felt like she was accompanied by a flock of energizing parrots. And she felt the words pour forth.

That's kind of how I feel about the floors. No one else is going to know the charge you get by wearing hot pink undies when you are sitting down writing. No one will notice that my kitchen floor now shines for the first time in my residency. But I know and this sense of external brightness and order makes me feel like I can create clean, organized prose. So bye bye muddled mess of words and hello cleaned, waxed, and buffed paragraphs!

Oh, and I gotta tell you, it is actually pretty fun to wax a floor at 11:30 PM with a big glass of red wine and Bob Marley blasting on the stereo.

Delicate reading

We just got back from a week of canoeing and camping at Isle Royale and while up there in the boonies, I read a lovely, delicate little book, The Final Solution: A Story of Detection, by Michael Chabon.

The book is only about 130 pages long (and was published in the Paris Review before coming out as a book) but Chabon reveals characters in the most minimal and effective fashion. What comes to mind is a watercolor with just a few brushstrokes capturing an image so effectively, yet in this case it is Chabon using just the right sentence to capture a character.

The plot isn't really significant (set in WWII, a mute boy, a parrot who squawks numbers that may be German codes or something else, an old detective who, though never named, is clearly a retired Sherlock Holmes) though the story is fine. This time it was the beautifully crafted writing that kept me entranced.

I've read and enjoyed a number of Chabon's books (The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Summerland, Wonder Boys, Mysteries of Pittsburgh) and there are small things in this book that are similar, most of all the underlying good humor and tolerance of human frailty. But when I think of the chunk of a book that is Wonder Boys (a good chunk mind you, one of those stories that you are glad goes on and on and on) and compare it to the style of this book I am blown away by Chabon's versatility. Also, this one is set in England and his British-isms are "spot on." Brian read the book after me and thought the author was English.

My favorite part of the book was chapter 10 which was told from the point of view of the parrot, Bruno. This might seem silly in some author's hands, but it was rendered so beautifully that I have gone back and re-read it three times already. Here's a sample to tempt you:

"The alphabet song swelled and billowed, distending Bruno's breast. As was true with all of his kind there was a raw place somewhere, inside him, that singing pressed against in a way that felt very good. If he sang the alphabet song for the man, the rawness would diminish. If he sang the train song, which had lingered far longer and more vividly in his mind than any of the thousand other songs he could sing, for reasons unclear even to him but having to do with sadness, with the sadness of his captivity, of his wanderings, of his finding the boy, of the rolling trains, of the boy's mama and papa and the mad silence that had come over the boy when he was banished from them, then the rawness would be soothed. It was bliss to sing the train song."

The only bummer with bringing this book was that I finished it in a day or two and was left with 4 more days in the woods to fill without sufficient fiction. Aaaagh! How could I make such an error! I foolishly thought that because we were camping and canoeing with the kids I wouldn't have much time to read, but I forgot that I routinely get up at least an hour before anyone else in my family and fire up the camp stove to make coffee and read.

So I re-read this book, then moved on to a book Brian bought for the kids, a mediocre sort of Laura Ingalls Wilder story set on Isle Royale called Charlotte Avery on Isle Royale. I started getting pretty itchy and restless without fiction and was reading and trying to memorize the tree and wildflower and bird guides we brought. But like Bruno's raw place that singing fills, I have a raw place that needs constant applications of fiction otherwise the pain of boredom becomes quite acute. I think it is a need for regular escape from reality; no matter how pleasant my reality may be (and it was pretty damn beautiful up there) I still need a break from it and without fiction, I feel trapped in reality and start pacing my cage.

I reached my limit the day before we were scheduled to leave and arranged for our paddle that day to take us back to the relative civilization of Snug Harbor where the Lodge is located (and I wanted to reward the kids for good behavior with a popsicle) and found a book on their shelves of lendables to tide me over. I got lucky. Most of the books on the shelf were pretty trashy, but hidden among them was a lovely Clyde Edgerton novel, Lunch at the Piccadilly. I really enjoyed his novel, The Floatplane Notebooks which I read a number of years ago, but hadn't read anything else of his since then. The jacket blurb on Lunch at the Piccadilly was horrible and made it sound cute and saccharine and Driving Miss Daisy-like. But thankfully it was none of those things. Instead it was another book full of sympathy for human flaws, a kind book with kind people who aren't simplified merely because they aren't bad. The book is set in North Carolina and while some of the characters have their eccentricities, they never deteriorate into the Fanny Flagg territory of becoming cliche.

I'm glad to be back to a home with a hot shower and a refrigerator, but most of all, I'm glad to be back to my shelves groaning under the weight of good things to read.

Technique

I had a birthday recently and my dear family gratified my gluttony with these gifts:
That's an Easysprout, new Braun blender, and a mozzarella cheese making kit! Yes, these were all gifts I requested. The blender I already knew how to use, but damn this one works better than my old Osterizer that would choke on just about anything more firm than a banana. I've been making the kids mango pineapple popsicles that are a breeze to whip up with this thing (take frozen mango, frozen pineapple, add a little juice of your choice and then blend 'till slushy. Pour in popsicle molds and freeze.)

When it came to the Easysprout, the name really says it all. Take 1.5 T of which ever seed mix you want (the sprouter came with these packets of seeds bought from the Sproutpeople) and put them in the container.

Rinse and drain the seeds every day and Ta da! on day 5 you have a container that looks like this.

Which means that you can have my favorite breakfast which looks like this:

That's a bagel, cream cheese, cayenne pepper, black pepper and spicy sprouts. Best washed down with strong black coffee.

I know, you can use a mason jar and damp paper towels to sprout seeds, but this system is so much less messy and has better air circulation. For ease of use, it is worth it.

Not everyone is as fond of sprouts as I am. I figure it is the residue of being raised in Ann Arbor back when the hippie culture was still pretty prominent (anyone else out there have fond memories of the Sun Bakery? Sigh.) Sort of like gefilte fish, you may need to be weaned on it to truly enjoy it. I love sprouts and it is really hard to find decent, fresh sprouts even at the natural food stores. And if you find them before they are slimy or dried out, they usually cost somewhere in the realm of $3.50 per container.

So my sprouting technique is just fine.

I can't say the same for my cheese making skills.

I attempted my first batch of fresh mozzarella on Sunday and the result was eeeeeeh. I read the instructions, but didn't watch the video that is available on the web site (next time, I'll follow those instructions rather than the pretty lousy written ones that came with the kit). Mine didn't take 30 minutes, more like 120 minutes.

I started with the milk, citric acid and rennet:
drained off some of the whey (which was a pain in the ass and which I'm pretty sure I did wrong since draining it took the bulk of my time)
and then heated and drained it until it came together in a ball
then added some salt and kneaded the ball (which hurt--the curds have to get to at least 135 degrees in order to stretch and that temperature is not comfortable for hand immersion.)

Finally, after much sweat (literally), I had this small ball of cheese floating in water:
It looked the way fresh mozzarella is supposed to look, but when we cut into it to taste, it did not taste like the lovely creamy stuff I've bought on Saturdays at Morgan and York. Instead, it tasted a lot like raw bread dough... It was ok for putting on grilled pizza, but really nothing to write home about (or to justify the effort).
After two hours of kneading hot cheese curds, I needed a gin and tonic in a pint glass...

I need to work on my mozzarella technique. Luckily the kit makes up to thirty batches of the stuff, so hopefully sometime before batch 30 I will get the hang of it.

The mouthpiece of the neighborhood

My kids drive me crazy on a regular basis. Some times they drive me to this combo
at a time that is not considered Cocktail Hour (but as my friend Jen says, it is 5 o'clock somewhere...)

But other times it is so fantastic to have a kid that you just have to celebrate by making a Lemon Sour Cream Thomas Cake:
The most recent incident of fabulousness involves my son's lack of inhibition. True, lack of inhibition can cause some embarrassing moments, but it can be useful if channeled properly. This summer we have subletters living in a house that backs up to our yard. Previously there was a lovely Australian woman who rented the place and regularly fostered greyhounds for the Greyhound rescue group. The greyhounds would poke their long noses and narrow heads through the gaps in the fence and look at us a lot. But it was kind of fun being watched by silent, pointy headed dogs. Sadly, the dog-fostering woman moved to Saline.

Now among the occupants next door is a really, really horrible drummer. When he first moved in, practice sessions with his equally horrible band would begin at 9 pm. Within the acoustic vicinity of his house must be about 10 kids under 10 years old, most of whom should have been in bed at that time. After a number of requests by the neighbors/calls to the cops when the "practice sessions" turned into parties and the windows in our house were rattling with the noise at 1 am, the band has decided to practice during the day. While this has improved evening life on our block, playing in the yard in the daytime is now an exercise in noise tolerance if it coincides with band practice.

The drums are bad, the guitar is often out of tune (when there is actually a tune) and the singing sounds like cats being murdered.

My son has never been a fan of loud noises and the fact that the noise from next door is messing with his enjoyment of the backyard fort that his Dad built this spring has resulted in some fantastically uninhibited behavior. He climbs up on the fort and shouts at the top of his lungs "Stop that horrible noise! You are hurting my ears!"

I know I should tell him he is being rude. But instead I just run in the house and snicker and pretend that I don't sanction such behavior.

You wouldn't think that criticism from a 5 year old would make an impression on "musicians" with such crude taste in "music," but hey, I guess that even a wreck of a band wants an appreciative audience. Usually about 5 minutes after Ian starts shouting for them to stop, they actually will. And if that isn't a good reason to bake a cake I don't know what is!

This is a fantastic cake, as well it should be with two whole sticks of butter and a cup of sour cream. The lemon flavor is prominent even though it is supplied only by some zest, no juice at all. It could have a lemon glaze if you want to make the effort, but the whole cake with no frosting and just a little powdered sugar disappeared in about an hour when we had some kids over to play last week.

If you aren't the proud owner of a Thomas cake pan, you could make this in a bundt pan.

Lemon Sour Cream Cake Worthy of Celebration

• 2 C flour
  
• 2 t baking powder
• 1 t salt
• 1 C butter, room temperature
• 2 C granulated sugar
• 3 eggs
• grated zest of 1 large lemon
• 1 C sour cream
• powdered sugar (about 1 T)
  

Preheat oven to 325. Butter and flour your pan.

Sift together flour, baking powder and salt.

In a mixing bowl, cream butter and granulated sugar at high speed until mixture is very light and fluffy, about 5 minutes.

Beat in eggs, one at a time, making sure to scrape down bowl frequently. Blend in lemon zest.

Add flour mixture to the butter mixture alternately with sour cream, adding each in 3 additions. Scrape sides of bowl frequently.

Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 55-65 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean. Cool in pan for 10 minutes, the turn out onto plate or platter. Sift powdered sugar over the top.