Costco Moments

I have avoided Costco for many years, put off by the crass commercialism and over-consumption of a place where everything comes in gargantuan quantities (do I REALLY need four 36-ounce jars of cinnamon toasted almonds? Or eight 22-ounce cowboy steaks? What cowboy is going to eat 22 ounces of steak at a sitting, anyway?)

But.

There are some good things about this shrine of bargain prices. Like, buy in bulk, save much money. For large families – and yes, small ones too – this can be smart and keep folks afloat during tough times. If you have room to store 16 rolls of toilet paper at a time.

And I just discovered Costco has eyeglasses at deep discounts. Cool ones. So we headed over recently, and chose a pair for Joseph. They look fabulous – and cost about a quarter of what he’d seen elsewhere.

Then we moseyed around the store, thinking we wouldn’t get much but, ha ha! Of course we did. Even me, the cynic.

Get this: they have organic foods! I got a double-size clam shell of Earthbound organic mixed greens for $4.99. Half that amount costs a dollar more where I shop! Joseph and I split the container, as all that lettuce would go bad if it were just me and Clara eating it (or just Joseph).

I also got several cartons of Pacific Crest organic tomato-roasted red pepper soup, and Amy’s organic lentil soup. I got orange juice. And underwear. I got organic peanut butter. And socks. And shrimp. (But don’t buy the shrimp, they were not only from Vietnam (oh so far away and inefficient to transport here) and farm-raised, they tasted old, so disappointing.)

But I loved the Mayorga stand – the guy was super friendly and the Cubano coffee was outstanding. And the man demonstrating the super-duper, change-your-life blender was a stitch, he just needed a TV screen around him to complete the late night commercial picture. “Soup in minutes! Smoothies at the press of a button! Even a man can do it,” he said, “Here, you, sir, go ahead and push this button,” and Joseph grinned and complied. Voila! Grapes, berries, apples, mashed into a milkshake sans milk. Delish! We didn’t buy the miracle device (for $300-plus) but wow, were we impressed!

The best part – another surprise – was the lunch counter. A set of big (everything is big at Costco) photos set high on the wall above a service counter shows various fast food-type choices – the photos are so big, you can see them from the lines at the registers and make your choice while you’re waiting to be checked out. Among the possibilities: hot dogs, burrito-looking things, and pizza. I went for the Italian sausage. And Joseph ordered a hand-dipped ice cream bar.

Italian sausage in hand, I waited and waited as the server went back to get that ice cream, thinking wow, she must be reaching deep into that freezer where the ice is starting to bury drippy ice cream sandwiches, this’ll be a freezer-burned disaster. Why would Joseph order such a thing? Maybe it was his Costco moment. Then the server came out with something on a Styrofoam plate. And I said out loud (to the chagrin of the people around me who were all politely keeping to themselves) “it’s on a plate!” “Yes,” she smiled, as if I were an idiot, of course it’s on a plate. “You just dipped it!” “Yes,” she smiled again.

Right at Costco. A freshly dipped ice cream bar, still glistening with liquid chocolate, and covered with real, roasted, fresh almonds. Yuh-UM!

And we didn't have to buy it in bulk.

Bone With a Hole

Winter brings on a craving for stews. Meaty stews. All vegan experimentation aside, I do like a rich, weighty piece of meat every once in a while, and there’s nothing like the smell of a slow-cooked pot of meat and vegetables to make the house seem cozy, homey, and the perfect place to be on a windy winter-like day like today.

In keeping with my proclivity for naturally raised, grass fed meats, the stew I made recently was from local, grass-fed bison. I bought it from a bundled up young woman at the Gunpowder Bison and Trading stand at the Takoma Park Farmers Market, where the farmers were sporting bright red cheeks in the wintery wind on Sunday, and using those mittens that fold over fingerless gloves, to give you alternating warmth and enough agility to handle coins and bills from their customers. Farmers Market gloves.

Instead of the chunks of bison she was selling for $10 a pound, the woman behind the folding table guided me instead toward the cheaper stew option: $1.50 a piece for chunks of bone with some meat still clinging to them. These were called “osso bucco,” which I thought was a fancy dish. It is, kind of. Here’s the definition from my food encyclopedia (one of my favorite books ever, The Food Encyclopedia by Jacques L. Rolland and Carl Sherman): “braised shank, usually veal [not this time!] with a rich tomato-and-onion sauce, originally from Milan. Italian for “bone with a hole,” from the Latin os, meaning “bone.”

So this was definitely “bone with a hole.” But how much meat was really on those bones? The farmer first suggested they’d make a great stock, then assured me if I bought six of them, it would be the equivalent amount of meat to the package of chunks, so I decided to give them a try. I plunked down $8 for 6 packages frozen like rocks. I brought them home and left them on the counter (well away from where the dog could reach them!), then realized I wouldn’t have time for the slow-cooked stew I wanted to make, so I put them in the frig until the next day.

I’d looked for a good beef stew recipe, but not very thoroughly. The one in Jamie Oliver’s book, for Jool’s favorite beef stew, became a loose model for me: he cooks it for 3 to 4 hours in the oven, and I took my timing cue from him. This also allowed me to leave the stew in the oven while I went to dance class (probably not the best idea, if you asked the fire department, maybe I’ll do the crock pot next time).

The girl at the market recommended dredging the meat in flour, then browning before cooking. I liked this idea, it seemed like it would make the whole enterprise more substantial, so I followed that advice but added salt, pepper and thyme to the flour. Jamie Oliver uses cubed squash and Jerusalem artichokes, but I didn’t want to take the time to peel the hard-skinned acorn squash I have and I didn’t have any Jerusalem artichokes, so I went with the traditional carrots, onions and potatoes, hoping they’d be sufficiently flavored by the end of 3 hours in the oven. And they were, the carrots brilliant orange and sweet, the potatoes—also from the farmer’s market—becoming little pillows of buttery flavor. I also threw in whole, peeled cloves of garlic – apparently I have a reputation among Clara’s school friends for throwing whole garlics into my roasted veggies (and giving her leftovers for lunch), so I figured I’d continue the trend and use whole cloves in the stew. I was glad I did: they became soft little bursts of flavor in the finished dish.

Bison is leaner than beef so I was apprehensive about it getting dried out. Not to worry. I also thought the absence of red wine in the broth would make it less hearty – again, I needn’t have worried. The only possible problem with this dish was that my Dutch often ALMOST didn’t hold it, since some of the bones were so big. But it all fit in, and I had a feast when I got home from dance class.

Ginny's Bison Stew
6 osso buco bison bones
about 2/3 cup flour seasoned with 1/4 teaspoon thyme, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 onions, chopped
4 carrots, chopped and sliced (peel 'em)
2 potatoes, chopped (no need to peel 'em)
thyme to taste
sage to taste
5 cloves garlic, peeled but not chopped
1 quart plus 1 cup vegetable broth

Dredge meat in flour mixture and brown lightly in olive oil heated in crock pot. Remove meat, saute onions in the same pot. Add vegetables, meat, broth and herbs and bring to a boil. Cover and put in preheated 300 degree oven. Cook 3 to 4 hours, until meat is falling off the bone.

Hot Breakfast

I know it’s cliche, but I love a bowl of steaming oatmeal on a cold morning. I am not talking about Quaker Oats instant oatmeal packets, which carry a thin essence of what a good, sturdy bowl of oats should be (along with a few unwanted extras, like sugar and guar gum—though to give credit where credit is due, Quaker also offers organic options with no additives at all). What I like is homemade oatmeal, complete with loads of chunky fresh fruits and nuts, done up in my favorite little bowl and served with a scalding hot cup of tea.

My favorite is ginger and pear oatmeal, but I’ll also go for apple and raisin, or plums, or frozen blueberries or raspberries. Any fruit, really. Yogurt is good on top, cream is better (though I’m still going without dairy, so it’s hemp milk or soy yogurt these days). And nuts: for crunch, for protein, for rich depth and flavor. I like toasted pecans the best, but walnuts are good too – whatever’s around. Sweeten it with honey or maple syrup – or, as I discovered recently, a bit of apple cider will give you sweetness and a blast of autumn, straight from the farmer’s market. This reminds me of college, when one of my friends ate raw oats with apple cider on them to avoid having to start the fire in the wood cookstove at his house (remember that, Chuck Mecho?). It wasn’t too bad – chewy and flavorful. But I like cooked better.

A great bowl of oatmeal doesn’t have to be a production: it’s as easy to make your own as it is to rip open a packet of (overpackaged) premade stuff and zap it up in the microwave. Don’t bother with instant oats – just go for the regular, rolled ones. They hold up better and stay a bit chewy, instead of turning to complete mush. You can get them from Quaker (in those great cylindrical boxes that, after they were empty, became toy drums when our kids were toddlers), but I buy mine in bulk at the Food Co-op.

This is so simple you probably don’t need a recipe, but here’s how I make my favorite

Ginger Pear Oatmeal

Pour some oats in a bowl, add good shake of cinnamon, a pinch of salt and some diced up ginger (maybe a tablespoon. I love this stuff, and it’s great for digestion). Add water to a half inch or so above the oats, and zap in the microwave for 2 minutes (more if all the water isn’t absorbed). Or, if you’re in a mood (which strikes me occasionally) that dictates avoiding the mysterious who-knows-what-it-might-do-to-our-bodies microwave, simmer the mixture in a small pan on the stove until it’s the consistency you like. It only takes a few minutes more – just be sure to stir it up or it’ll stick to the bottom of the pan.
When the oats are finished cooking, add cut up pear, maple syrup or apple cider, and toasted pecans. Top it with (optional) cream or yogurt.
Yum.

Spinning

When the kids were small, and dentists were new to them, I decided I’d reject the old dreaded trip to the dentist routine and use spin to make it more appealing. As someone who cringes when approached with sharp tools near my mouth, this was no small feat. But I knew other people who liked the feeling of clean teeth, who didn’t mind so much going to the dentist. Maybe my kids could be like that.

The result? They never clamored to go to the dentist, but they didn’t protest, either, and they never bit him – as one of their young friends did once. I’m not sure their lack of dread was due to anything I did. You never know, really, whether our children do something good (or bad) because of us parents, in spite of us, or just because that’s who they are and it has nothing to do with us. But. If I did have any influence, I’d credit a small turn of phrase I intentionally used each time we headed off for our check-ups.

Instead of “having” to go to the dentist, we “got to” go to the dentist. It helped that our dentist, Michael Bernstein, was kind of a goofy guy who joked around with them and let them choose new toothbrushes at the end of each visit (which, when you’re that young, seems like a big treat). But starting the anticipated trip out as if it were a fun adventure, that might include a treat afterward, couldn’t have hurt.

The best thing about this verbal trick is that it now works with other things, and I can actually trick myself. Tricky, no? The other night, for example. I went out with a friend for a glass of wine. Anticipating that I’d be cutting off the evening early because Clara needed help studying her vocabulary words for school, I began to think about “having to” drill Clara with vocab flash cards. But my new habit caught me, and instead I thought, I’m “getting to” do vocabulary. Which is really closer to the truth, anyway. I love words. I love learning new ones. I love sharing them with my daughter. And the way we do vocabulary flashcards, with dramatic exaggerations of pronunciations and facial expressions meant to give gigantic, give-away hints (Dessicated. Corruption. Calumnious.) often turns into a hilarious session for both of us.

This trick works to varying degrees, and requires different amounts of stretching. For example, now I “get to” sign off the blog and pay bills – not so appealing (though phrasing it this way makes me more likely to feel grateful that I have enough money to pay them all). I also “get to” go back to work assignments – depending on which ones, that’s a mixed blessing.

Switching the Soundtrack Around

When I was a small girl, my sisters and I took turns having “sleepovers” at Grandma Jean’s house. This was a treat, when we’d get pampered and bathed in one-on-one attention. Literally bathed – Grandma Jean had a big, deep tub with bubble bath and bath oil beads. Her bathroom smelled like Camay soap, and she had a mirrored tray crowded with fancy perfume bottles in exotic shapes, some of them with puffy atomizers we could squeeze for a spritz of scent. Sometimes our grandmother took us to the beauty parlor, where we got “nailish,” – nail polish – and all the old ladies would coo over how cute we were, and give us sloppy lipstick kisses.

I was the youngest of the four girls, and while spending the night at my grandmother’s was a treat, it was also a little scary to be so far from my own house. To make me feel more at home when bedtime came around, Grandma Jean would busy herself outside my bedroom door with noisy activities – I don’t remember what, but it might have involved clattering dishes as she washed them, or listening to the radio. She was trying to simulate the comforting sounds of a household full of family – that background noise that provides the soundtrack to so many young lives.

It’s like hearing your parents talking in the front seat of the car, while you doze in the back. Or like listening to adults clink glasses and laugh downstairs at a party, when you’re already tucked into your bed. Or hearing your older sisters giggle and chat in the cockpit of the boat while you rock gently in your bunk below. You might not understand exactly what’s being said, or even what’s going on, but there’s a certain quality to those muted voices that makes you feel safe and easy.

Over the recent Thanksgiving holiday, I remembered those voices when I heard my own kids rattling around the house, gathered together with friends home from college. I’d be reading in the living room, and hear their laughter and conversation while they made cupcakes in the kitchen. Or I’d be making dinner, and hear them singing together, then playing the piano, then talking two rooms away. It was that same soundtrack of muted conversation and activity that I didn’t quite understand when I was small—this time with younger voices.

It was the sound of home.

Performance Art

I love that I am surrounded by art.

Recently, it was performance art, courtesy of my friend, Melissa Leebaert. Bold woman that she is, she put herself out there on stage, bravely looking at her experience of young love--in front of God and everybody.

Melissa was one of three artists performing last Monday night at the Capitol Hill Arts Workshop, as part of a showcase following the DC Solo Performance and Presentation Lab (taught by Laura Zam). The genre is a sort of story-telling session for grown-ups. Think This American Life (my favorite radio show). It also seems a little like blogging on stage (except there’s a lot more rehearsal involved).

Rob Cork went first. A self-proclaimed space geek, he took the audience from his third grade classroom, where he was inspired by a visiting NASA scientist; through Trekkie fandom; to the crushing loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger and on through his continuing fascination with space travel. Sylvia Meinert, a German world traveler, danced her way through a comic look at language and culture, her search for common ground, and a wry take on the politically correct.

But it was Melissa’s story that moved me most.

It helped that this story happened to take place in an exotic locale – Australia – and involved a wealthy man, and topless sunbathing by the pool, and lunches with ladies who had lovely accents and probably perfect manicures as well. Melissa nailed each of these elements and more, lounging by the imaginary pool and mimicking that peculiar Euro-English-worldly accent of the globe-trotting elite, pedaling an invisible bicycle down High Street and cruising behind the wheel of a new jag. With no props.

Okay, not all of us get to jet around the world on the arm of a wealthy Australian (and re-enact the dream). But I think that’s one of the elements that made the story work – the contrast between what seemed so exotic, in some ways, and the story’s center, which had nothing to do with glamour and wealth. Melissa told a simple tale about love and longing and vulnerability—with a healthy dose of adventure and independence, because that is who she is.

This is art: telling a story that is uniquely our own, yet resonates with others.

And I got to sit in on it.

Ain't art great?!?

Schooled in Shakespeare

For most of my life I’ve been one of the many people put off by Shakespeare’s twisted old English, a tangle of unfamiliar words coming so quickly from the stage that I don’t have time to unwind them and get their meaning. Did people really talk like this? Or did Shakespeare deliberately obscure his meaning? All the words seem switched in order, with oddities dropped in here and there to further confuse me. I know if I study the play before I hit the theater, things will be clearer but I rarely feel up to the effort.

After seeing Macbeth – finally – I may have to change my mind. This month’s performance of the iconic play, done by the acting troupe at Montgomery Blair High School, was well worth the prep time I took to get to know the story (not much, actually: No Fear Shakespeare, the modern equivalent of Clif Notes, plus a crash course in the story from Clara, who was part of the cast). The tale of raw ambition coupled with doubt and moral struggle so deep it leads to madness truly speaks to the ugly side of our human condition. What could be more relevant in these times of scandal and greed? Does the lure of power ever really change?

Plus. This is one impressive high school drama program. The acting was great, the sets fantastic (arranging the performance Globe Theater-style, with a smaller stage than usual and the audience inches from the actors, was an especially brilliant move and made the experience much more intimate and impactful).

Yes, the cast was all kids—stage crew, too—and they are young. Which adds an intriguing element to the experience: I remember some of the actors from my days as a volunteer in their fourth grade class. But wow, some of them got some chops! Including my lovely daughter, Clara, who turned heads even in her small part(s) as an attendant(s). Seems that once she showed her competence and commitment, she was used again and again to carry baskets of linens or trays of cups across stage, a servant to the Macbeths; she even carried Lady Macbeth from stage when she fainted, and sobbed violently upon the news of King Duncan’s death. Yes, Clara, it was convincing!

Lady Macbeth was truly chilling, and Macbeth's famous monologue right on target: "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" (ah! I thought, this is from Macbeth?!?!) Macduff’s devastation after the death of his family was heart wrenching. The best part, though, was that I know these kids had a blast producing this play – and they get to do another one in the spring. No Shakespeare this time: we’ll get Guys and Dolls.

Can’t wait.

Ode to a Squirrel

They really are beautiful animals. Silky fur, like a cat’s, a melding of individual black and grey hairs that come together in one impossibly smooth coat. Handsomely bushy tail. Delicate features: small, observant eyes, pert little nose always on the alert, sweet little cups for ears. I got a close-up look at one this morning.

Because, after weeks of autumn squirrel frenzy, tearing around the yard, going over the fence a few times in pursuit, yanking the leash during walks, my dog, Nala, finally caught a squirrel.

I must have been on the phone when it happened—I heard the squealing sounds outside my office window, but dismissed them as squirrels scolding Nala for the constant chase she gave them. By the time I went downstairs for a late breakfast I’d forgotten about the noises. Not for long: when I looked out the kitchen window, there was Nala, standing over a dead squirrel in the back yard.

What to do? Let her eat it? Isn’t that the natural order of things? But Nala didn’t look as though she knew what to do with her prize. Besides, for a dog accustomed to dry kibble, raw squirrel meat might have made her sick. I looked on her jowls for traces of blood and fur – none. Maybe she hadn’t even thought to eat it? It looked intact. Was it even dead?

And what about scolding her? If it is in the dog’s nature to chase and kill squirrels, that hardly seemed fair. But I didn’t feel right about praising her, either, since more dead squirrels are not where I’d like to go with this. So I just brought her in the house. My spontaneous “oh, no,” and “oh, dear,” uttered to no one in particular, were enough to make her cower as if she’d been a very bad girl, and come obediently, leaving her squirrel behind.

Back outside I poked the squirrel with my foot to be sure it was dead, then picked it up by the tail, using a plastic bag like a glove. (My mother always told me not to handle dead animals.) It was much heavier than I thought it would be. And more beautiful, even in death, sleek and whole and perfect. Except for some wet fur where the dog must have mouthed it, it seemed untouched. Its eyes were glazed, definitely dead, but it was still warm, maybe from sitting in the sun.

I put the body in another bag, intending to throw it out with the trash tonight – but as it settled against the plastic I thought no, that doesn’t seem right. So I dug a hole in the garden and buried it there, placing a trash can on top so Nala wouldn’t dig it up again.

When we went back outside later in the day, something seemed to have shifted in the yard. The squirrel noises were different. More high-pitched. Did they miss their mate? There were more birds around. Did they feel emboldened by the death? Did they come to chatter about it? The silences between birdsong and squirrel chatter felt deeper than usual, too. Maybe my senses had just been heightened, but our little ecosystem felt skewed, off-kilter. It felt like there was something missing.

When I took Nala to her dog-buddy’s house for her daily playdate, both seemed more subdued than usual. And my friend, this dog’s owner, told me her mother’s cat had died in the house last night. The cat was 19 years old, so this also fits into “natural order of things,” but still, it was sad. We talked about how the animals are usually such stalwarts in the face of change, they continue to play, to eat, to sleep, as if no one recently lost a job, or got a bad diagnosis, or split up a marriage.

Not today. Today, even the animal world rocked. Perhaps that’s in the natural order of things as well.

Our Daily Bread

I’ve adopted a new item in my regular kitchen repertoire. Homemade bread.

This is partly because I’d begun to buy farmers market and Whole Foods bread on a weekly basis, tempted by their chewy crusts and soft interiors and irregularly shaped artisanal charm. My favorites were often the simplest – just flour and water and yeast. So I thought, how hard can it be to throw together a handful of ingredients and come up with a great loaf of bread? Not $4 or $5 worth of hard. I decided to try it myself.

It’s not like I haven’t made bread before—I once sold my loaves at a health food store for summer spending money during college, and I’ve made plenty of bread since then. But my bread baking standard was always to take an afternoon and set it aside for Making Bread. I loved the luxury of unhurried kneading, and the promise of warm, aromatic loaves in exchange for following the structure of a recipe with lots of steps and ingredients in it. The last loaf I made this way was a seven-grain recipe from my sister (thanks, Jean!). It was delicious.

My new ambition is to make delicious without all the fuss. I began by looking up “artisanal bread” on the internet and bingo! There was one of the simplest recipes I’ve ever encountered. Best of all, it helped me break down the process so I feel comfortable ignoring all those steps I so slavishly followed in the past. Now I can start with the basics and if I feel like experimenting (or happen to have that luxurious afternoon), I’ll start adding on.

Distilled to its essence, good bread really is just four ingredients—flour, water, salt and yeast. Even when you knead it by hand, it is unintimidating and simple enough to do in 15 minutes while you’re waiting for your afternoon tea to boil and steep. Last week, I made bread in the time it took to watch Jon Stewart interview President Obama. That internet: first a great bread recipe, then a way to watch the show I’d missed two nights before!

By the way, I realize a bread machine is even simpler, but that takes the magic out of the process. I love pushing the heel of my hand into the silky dough, then turning it gently and rolling it around on the counter top for ten minutes. As I knead, I like to look out the window at the oak tree in my backyard and empty my mind, or think of the people who will slice and butter and eat this bread, warm from the oven or toasted for breakfast. The process becomes a meditation.

Here’s the bread recipe, modified from that web site per my own experience with it. It’s a cinch. And if you comment on the blog (and live near me) I might even make you a loaf.

Basic Bread
yields one loaf

3 cups flour (all unbleached white rises more, but when I make it with 1/3 whole wheat it's still delish and not overly dense)
1-1/2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons yeast
1 1/8 cup warm water

Stir yeast into water until it's dissolved. Mix in salt, then flour -- first 2-1/2 cups, then add the rest as needed to create a ball of dough that is kneadable -- not too wet (though it's okay if some of it sticks to your hands), but not too dry (you'll know if it's too dry, the flour will sit in the bottom of the bowl and not incorporate if there's too much of it).
Knead it for 10 minutes. Place in a greased bowl (I use olive oil for this) and cover with a damp cloth, set it aside to rise until it doubles in size, maybe an hour. Punch it down and let it rise again. Place in a greased loaf pan or, my preference, on a cookie sheet in the shape you like best, and let rise a third time, maybe 20 minutes or a half hour (not necessary, but my theory is that it'll make it airier). Bake in a 425 degree oven 'til done -- this was only about 20 minutes in my fast oven, but it might be different for yours. Just keep an eye on it. It's done when it makes a hollow sound when you thump the bottom with your finger.

Hungry for Meat

My daughter, Clara, recently decided to try a vegan diet – not to lose weight (because she has not one extra ounce on her) but to see how it made her feel, if her body would respond with more energy, if her conscience would be clearer because she was not eating animals or participating in the large-scale corporate agriculture that is the conventional delivery system for American meat and other animal products, and to see if she could do it.

I signed on for the project partly because 1) I am interested, for the same reasons, 2) I love a food challenge, and immediately started flipping through my mental file of vegan recipes, and 3) I’m the one who makes her dinner.

So how do I feel after a week of vegan diet?

Hungry. All the time.

A vegan diet is a wonderful thing for many reasons: there is, of course, saving animals from slaughter, which is graphically depicted in PETA and COK literature (yuck). My regular diet includes occasional meat, but I still avoid big-agriculture raised animals (with the corresponding unnatural and inhumane treatment of the animals, over-dependency on pesticides for grain feed, use of antibiotics to keep corralled animals from infecting one another, etc.). Instead I go for local, grass-fed, free range fare (way less yuck). I justify the price of this indulgence because I don’t eat meat often, and I believe the meat is vastly more healthy for my body. Plus, it tastes so much better. (For more on Good Meat, see Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma, one of my all-time favorite tomes).

A vegan diet is also good for your health, as long as you are careful about getting enough protein and fat in your diet. Eating all those veggies packs your body with vitamins and amino acids and fiber and, in general, good health. Cutting out dairy products eliminates the mucus-y gunk that can accumulate along your digestive tract, and, for many people, a non-dairy diet clears up decades of all sorts of maladies, from indigestion to depression. I’d even read it would help clear up eczema, which I have (it didn’t).

Theoretically, all those healthy veggies, fruits, nuts, seeds and grains don’t leave much room in the belly for dairy products, meat, and junk food, anyway. But theory doesn’t always prove true. There’s plenty of room in my hungry belly, and there don’t seem to be enough tamari-roasted almonds and dried apricots in the world to fill it.

I did stay vegan for a week. Maybe my body is just taking a long time to shift. I do feel lighter. My energy’s been fine, for the most part. It was fun finding (and revisiting) recipes that I liked, and I discovered that coconut milk and hemp milk are rich and satisfying on granola. The hemp even has omega 6 and omega 3 fatty acids in it (for the uninitiated, and those busy with things other than the minutiae of food nutrients, that’s good. And, the hemp won’t get you high – same plant, different process). Oh, and I created a new favorite snack: lightly toasted bread with olive oil and salt, then squares of chocolate melted on top and spread around with a butter knife, topped with fig spread left over from two years ago New Year’s Eve. Yum.

So I learned a few things. But I’ve added meat back into the diet. I had burgers two nights in a row, and fish today – think I’ll go back to salad for dinner.

Leaving Home

Just outside my office window, perched on top of the window unit air conditioner, is another mourning dove family. For those of you who read my earlier blog about the flower basket full of birds on my front porch, this story might ring familiar. The air conditioner doves occupy the second nest at our house, and if you count all the babies these two families have produced, there have been a dozen. Two eggs at a time, each in succession, all in one season. Somehow, I feel proud.

I have a front row seat to the air conditioner doves – the chair where I sit typing is maybe three feet away from them. They don’t seem to mind that I am practically on top of them, especially when I reach over to use the fax machine, inches from the window. Mama keeps an eye on me, and the scruffy-looking babies seem curious about what goes on inside the house – or maybe they are just enchanted by the window itself, pacing back and forth and running their beaks along its surface.

Lately, they are all flapping wings and clouds of tiny feathers. They are learning to fly. Yesterday, one of them left the ledge, oh so briefly, and lit on a nearby tree branch. The other stood with wings flapping and I watched as its little feet levitated an inch off the surface, then back down. They are so big compared to the tiny eggs where they’d nestled under their mama’s feathered breast. Like my own babies, there is a pair of them. And, like mine, they are almost ready to leave. They are breaking my heart.

Oblivious, of course. Just being birds.

Their mama flies away frequently, leaving the babes with plenty of room for learning. They totter at the ledge, turning their heads quizzically. They stretch their wings, unfold them like accordions, and fluff their feathers. They pick at each other, then settle down to sleep side by side. When Mama returns, they attack her. She is still feeding them, a comical (and violent) act that involves babies pecking around at her breast, then inserting both their beaks into hers as she regurgitates whatever it is she’s gathered to eat. She looks exhausted. And is that blood on her beak? Or just some red markings? Every time I see this spectacle I’m grateful we humans use spoons and mashed banana to feed our young. Mama also seems to be eating their excrement, to keep the nest clean. The babies are getting so big, I wonder how long this will go on – and she probably does, too.

Today, the babies are hopping and flapping the six inches from the nest to the branches of the mimosa tree. Sometimes they almost miss the ledge and scramble to get up, scratching their little claws on the metal of the air conditioner surface. Sometimes they get their wings caught on a branch and awkwardly rearrange themselves before trying again. At first, Mama stood by briefly, sitting on baby #2 after baby #1 flew off – as if it were too much to watch them both totter off at once. Then she flew, and after a minute or so Baby 2 took off as well. Both babes are in the mimosa tree now. By tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I’ll find them two stories down in the garden – or they’ll be gone entirely.

Grapes

My house smells so sweet today.

That’s because last weekend Joseph and I were standing in a clearing at Misty Mountain, his paradisical property in the southwestern Virginia Blue Ridge, when he looked up and said he smelled grapes. A minute later, I caught the scent, and we scouted around until we found them: wild vines draped all over a downed tree, heavy with sweet muscadine grapes.

We reached up and picked a few – they were perfectly ripe, plump and juicy and full of flavor – and also so tart they made my face scrunch up at the first bite. These are the kinds of grapes you eat slowly, working the seeds out with your tongue, squeezing the skins between your teeth to extract all the sweet pulp, then savoring the bitter kick of the skins themselves. That evening, I discovered they are phenomenally tasty when paired with Parma cheese, its nutty depth the perfect complement to the tang of the fruit.

I returned to our discovery the next day, feeling incredibly lucky to have stumbled on this gift from nature. There they were, still hanging from their tangle of vines, these darker-than-dark orbs that looked as though they were ready to burst out of their tight skins. I reached up and began to pick, reaching higher and higher, finally retrieving a bucket to stand on for a bit more height. I climbed up one of the vines to get to the clusters of grapes hanging higher up. I felt greedy for these little gems, and gathered as many as I could, tugging the stems and listening to the loose ones drop into the cardboard box I’d brought along to hold them all. I filled it two or three inches high with grapes, then had to give up as it was almost time to leave.

Today, I took the grapes from the refrigerator back in Takoma Park. I’d gathered enough to fill a grocery bag about three quarters full. I poured them into a colander, picked them off their stems, rinsed them and put them in the biggest pot I have. I smashed them with a potato masher, then poured boiling water over them to cover, and let them simmer about 15 minutes, until they softened – all as directed by Joy of Cooking and a couple of web sites about how to make grape juice (John, take note: cooking the grapes makes all the difference!). Then I poured the cooked grape juice and skins into a cheesecloth over another big pot, to strain the juice. The juice is straining overnight.

And the entire house smells like that afternoon in the country.

[next day note: this juice is concentrated grape-ness in a glass, fills your mouth with pure flavor, and, to risk hyperbole, it really does feel like you're swallowing the essence of the earth and sun that grew them]

Just Peachy

We did it. Clara and I put up 18 quarts of peaches. Bright sunshine of the season captured in Ball jars.

Not only that, we discovered that there are all sorts of surprises when you take an entire afternoon and spend it with a half bushel of fruit. Like, the sunset-red blush of a scalded peach that’s just slipped its skin. And the taste of juice squeezed from the discarded skins – essence of peach. And the nectar that clings to the sieve when you strain that juice, melting like cotton candy on the tongue. All this even before that moment in the dead of winter when you open the jar and let a bit of summer escape onto your tongue.

Canning is much easier than you’d think and it makes me feel famous. Virtuous. Lucky. Here’s a step-by-step description, which we put together ourselves from various sources –

FIRST
We started with an inventory of our canning equipment: hot water bath canner – basically a big, speckled-black pot with a wire rack; a bunch of quart jars (I bought a dozen new ones at the new Takoma Park Ace Hardware, 20 percent off all canning supplies!). If you’re using last year’s jars, be sure the lids are new – you can get those at the hardware store, too. I also have a handy set of tongs for lifting the hot jars out of the water bath. And I bought a jar funnel to make it easier to fill the jars, but we didn’t use it. I used Joy of Cooking for instructions, supplemented by some web site info.

SECOND
Next step: one of the best parts. We went to the Takoma Park Farmer’s Market and bought a half bushel of fragrant peaches from Twin Springs Fruit Farm (Thanks, Joseph, for hauling them to the car for me!). While we were at it, I bought some pea shoots for salad, a few ears of corn, some perfectly-ripe cantaloupe and brilliantly red bell peppers. The market is bountiful this time of year, it makes me want to can everything in sight, since I can’t eat nearly enough to do the harvest justice.

Back home, the process really began:
1) Gather three big pots: #1 for the canning itself (that’s the water bath canner), #2 for boiling water to scald the peaches, and #3 for heating syrup or apple juice (we used apple juice). Make sure you have tongs ready, too, for lifting peaches out of boiling water (you’ll see why in a second). And a paring knife for slicing.
2) Wash the jars and lids in sudsy water and rinse thoroughly. If your kitchen is small like mine, good luck finding space for them to dry!
3) Fill the sink with ice water.
4) Boil the water in pot #2. Pop the peaches in a few at a time, for just a few seconds (say, 10 or 20). This loosens the skins. But you don’t want to cook them, so to stop the cooking process, take them from the boiling water (with those tongs you’ve got ready) and put them in the ice water, where they’ll float around until they get their turn at being skinned, which is the next step.
5) Peel the peaches. This should be easy, since you scalded them – but some of the skins are kind of stuck on there. If this happens, pop them back into the boiling water for a few more seconds, or else just peel the skins with a knife (which I find handy to start even the easy-to-peel ones).
6) Slice the peaches. Or, you can leave them in halves – we sliced.
7) While all this is happening, put apple juice (or sugar syrup, which you make with one part sugar to one part water) in a pot and heat it to a simmer.
8) Once the peaches are sliced, put them in the jars, getting as many in there as you can without having them stick out too high (you don’t want them to touch the lids once they lids are screwed on). Pour the boiling apple juice or syrup on top of them, to within a half inch of the top of the jar. Screw on the dry lids, and place each jar in the rack of the water bath canner.
9) Boil in the canner for 30 minutes.
10) Remove from canner with the canning tongs.
11) Cool jars with lots of space between them. The books and instructions say to keep them away from drafts. Don’t touch them while they cool.
12) One of the coolest parts: while you’re eating your dinner, or reading the paper that night, you’ll hear a little a “pop,” out of nowhere, then maybe 10 minutes later, a “ping.” This is the pressure pulling the little lid toward the peaches – sealing the jars with a vacuum.

A quick note: we chose the “cold pack” method, which means we didn’t cook the peaches first (thinking that they would retain more of their nutritional value that way). But. Our peaches shrank once they were all jarred up and cooling. They are safe to eat, but a jar that’s only half full is not as great as a jar full of fruit. Next time we’ll try hot pack: you only “cook” the peaches for a few seconds, by immersing them in the juice or syrup, before packing – and it looks as though you can really fit a lot more fruit into the jars. Anyone have experience with this?

Last time we canned peaches, two years ago, Clara pulled the jars out in winter and made peach cobbler. Yum.

Fresh Laundry

When my children were small – maybe 3 and 5 years old – I knew it was a good day when I had time to hang the laundry on the line. Instead of the rushed grab-and-throw from washer to drier, I would hitch the laundry basket onto my hip and with the children underfoot, go out to the clothesline to take advantage of the sun.

I had a miniature clothesline for the kids, low enough for them to reach. The idea was to include them in household chores when they still thought it was fun to be just like mommy – and I always felt it paid off in the long run, even though it took infinitely longer to get anything done when they were “helping.”

What I remember about laundry from my own childhood is running through fresh, crisp, white sheets that move just enough to make way for you as you run through them, ducking under or trailing fingers along their edges. I remember hot sunlight that smelled of summer, with a back scent of freshly cut grass. And later, I remember my mother saying how much she loved to watch the laundry "dance" on the line.

Even today, when there is only a dog underfoot, I like to break up the day with a little laundry time outdoors. Of course, I’m all for air drying my laundry to save energy – and money. But what I love most about it is the fresh air that wakens my senses twice: once while I’m hanging clothes, and again when I smell that line-dried scent of clothes and sheets that have absorbed sunlight and breezes from my backyard.

Baker Boy

On the Finca Montezumo (farm) near Puriscal, Costa Rica, neighbors gather around an outdoor, wood fired, earthen oven each week or two to bake. Usually on a Thursday.

I know this is because my son lived there for two months and pitched in, mixing dough and sliding loaves in and out of the oven. I imagine that this idyllic-sounding community event – baking bread together – began as an exercise in economy of scale but continues as a social event, as neighbors come and go, catching up on village gossip, sharing family news, knitting the community together through one of the world’s most basic foods: bread.

Although I didn’t get to experience the weekly baking sessions myself, Tyler brought them home, in a way, and we got to socialize, ourselves, over a miniature baking session in our own kitchen.

Tyler spent three months traveling in Central America, learning Spanish and working on organic farms (Montezumo is part of World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms). At the farm in Costa Rica, he helped plant and pick and roast coffee; make miel, a honey-like, molasses-like substance made from sugar cane; tend a tilapia pond; and bake bread. Flying back home, he managed to get a jar of sourdough starter past customs officials and then altitude changes that could have exploded gooey starter all over this luggage.

The starter is about four tablespoons of thick, white liquid that contains the magic ingredient, yeast – but not the baker’s yeast I’m more accustomed to in my more conventional breads. This yeast is naturally occurring, floating around in the air before it is captured in a soup of water and flour. Which means: the bread we made from Montezuma starter has the essence of the Costa Rican countryside in it, come home to our Takoma Park kitchen. The famous San Francisco sourdough was the same -- essence of San Francisco, shipped around the country. My friends in Floyd County, Virginia have a sourdough starter that they use in their distinctive Dogtown Pizza, making their pies indelibly local -- in fact, Dogtown was inspired during a community baking event much like the one at Montezuma, when neighbors gathered to bake in a backyard earthen oven.

The best part of making the Montezuma sourdough bread is that I got to learn from my son, who is a natural teacher – very patient. Watching his hands plow through the sticky bread dough made me realize how very capable he has become – learning from your (almost grown) kids is one of the best gifts of parenting. Ty also taught his sister and I how to make empanadas and pupusas – simple and delicious. But I’ll leave those recipes for another day.

Here is Ty’s recipe for sourdough bread.

THE STARTER
The first step in making sourdough bread is to “feed” the starter, Tyler explains. Where does one get starter? I don’t know – I just lucked into this, thanks Ty!

Feeding the starter involves adding just enough flour and water, at just the right temperature, to bulk up the small amount you have to begin with: Tyler's detailed notes, labeled “Tricks with Bread,” explain that you should have one part starter to four parts flour and water. So, to feed the sourdough:
• Whisk in four parts water to (one part of) the starter. Be sure the water is 110 degrees Farenheit.
• Add 3 and 1/3-ish parts white flour and whisk until even.
• Leave out at room temperature, covered (we used a damp cloth) for 12-ish hours
• Add five more parts white flour, mix evenly. Put in frig.
“If there’s mold or something on top, just scrape it off and do the process like normal,” says Ty.

By the time I came in the kitchen it was already time to make the dough. Tyler was nonchalant about what I thought would be an all-day process – it’s easy to do this when you work at home, he told me, just do the steps between other tasks. Turns out it took us all morning, but it was great working with him and the end product was phenomenal -- totally worth the effort.

MAKING THE BREAD
3 cups sourdough starter (see above)
4 cups water at 110 degrees F
5 cups white flour
5 cups whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon salt
½ cup oil
Note: flour measurements are inexact. You will probably add more during process

Mix water and starter evenly. Add everything else and mix evenly. If it’s too liquidy, add flour as needed. Better to do this now than later to keep the “gluten bonds” that will form later.
Leave for 15 minutes.
Knead for one minute, leave for four minutes. Repeat this process four times, for a total of 20 minutes.
Note: Kneading sourdough is very different from kneading other breads. You try not to break it at all, just scooping from below and folding over in a circle around the edges. It is VERY sticky.
Leave for 30 to 90 minutes, then knead one last time.
Leave for an hourish or more.
Form into round loaves. This must be done very carefully, again to preserve the gluten bonds: Tyler showed me how you gently lift the round of dough and tuck its outside edges under. This worked a whole lot better when we put a ton of flour on our hands, sprinkled it on the dough, and kept replenishing it. We rotated the round loaves as we tucked.
Place on a floured or cornmealed baking sheet and sprinkle with more flour on top. We covered the bread again at this point and let it rise, maybe 20 minutes -- though Ty says the rising time can vary.
Finally, time to bake. Bake it in as hot an oven as you can get – remember this went into a wood-burning oven, SUPER hot. I set my oven at 500 and watched it very carefully so it wouldn’t burn. It only took 10 minutes for the smallest loaf, 20 for the larger one. We got four loaves out of our batch. Ty says the high heat means it’ll have a moist inside and a crusty outside.

Buen provecha!

Basket full of birds

I love the beauty of living, growing flowers hanging in colorful baskets from my front porch. But this spring, we had something even better.

We had a family of birds, nesting right in the flower basket.

First, my daughter and I watched as Mama sat for weeks, a serene mourning dove whose bright eyes kept watch each time we sat on the porch with her. Her nest was right above our heads, but she never stirred in our presence, steadfastly claiming her territory, protecting what we assumed were eggs hiding beneath her feathers.

After weeks and weeks of sitting – it seemed she never left the nest – I began to wonder if Mama might have lost her eggs. Maybe they had died, and she was sitting on perfectly shaped but now-vacant orbs? Maybe she was out of her mind with grief, continuing to sit despite her loss? We waited to find out. Meanwhile, my son came home from traveling in Central America – my own little family was back in the nest.

One day I noticed Mama bird had flown, and I thought perhaps that was the end of our front porch drama. I stood up on one of our chairs to peer into the nest.

There were no eggs. There were babies. Two shaggy, mussy-feathered babies sitting very, very still.

Later, Mama returned and we watched as the chicks nestled under her breast feathers, all but disappearing as she puffed herself up protectively. This continued for days, the babies taking up more and more space, growing at an unbelievable rate, the Mama flying off to forage for them and returning to the crowded nest.

And then one day the babies were gone. I found them sitting on a bench cushion under the nest, still scruffy but nearly as big as their Mama. It couldn’t have been more than two weeks that they’d gone from new discoveries tucked into the depths of the flower basket nest, to these gangly birds that reminded me first of toddlers, trying out their wings, and then of teenagers, on the verge of leaving home.

When I saw the babies in a nearby tree, then heard they’d been standing in my neighbor’s garden, I felt a pang of loss. Already? They were so young!

Then they were gone.

Mama came back. Did she miss her babies, hope they’d come home again? I empathized as my own kids talked about college and cooking school and how late they could stay out at night. But at least my babies were still around – the fledglings had disappeared entirely. Still, Mama sat quietly, as if waiting for them to return. Again, I thought she was perhaps addled in some way, out of her mind with grief.

Until I saw two fuzzy heads bump up under Mama’s breast. She’d had two new chicks.

This time around, I’ve noticed the Papa flying back and forth, feeding the babies, who poke and prod him around the throat and beak until he regurgitates whatever he’s gathered up in the garden for them. Today the whole family is balanced precariously in the basket, the babies so big their tails hang over the side, the adults trying to make themselves small to accommodate all those wings and feathers. Soon the nest will be empty again.

I can’t imagine what flowers I will plant when they are gone.

The Gym

I was never a health club person.
For me, one of the joys of exercise is being outdoors. A good run through the park involves more than muscles and sweat, it includes seeing trees recently leafed out in spring, squirrels chasing one another in the woods, noticing whether the creek is up or down after rain or drought, maybe greeting a neighbor. Biking opens the experience even more, with miles of country road to explore, steep inclines to challenge those quads, and the whoosh of wind in my ears on speedy downhill rides. I also dance and practice yoga, and though they are done indoors they involve the mind and spirit in ways I wouldn’t expect in a gym. By comparison, running or pedaling in place seems manufactured.

But something has shifted. I have discovered The Gym.

In the category of “when a door closes, a window opens,” a shoulder injury limited my activity last winter, slamming the door shut on my customary dance class, yoga and running. The window opened when my sweetie invited me to try the pool at his gym – swimming being one activity that is safe for most injuries. After some hesitation (it’s not like stepping outdoors in running shoes and going – you have to fish around through summer gear to find swim goggles and a bathing suit, drive to the gym, figure out their Byzantine system of guests and free passes, etc.) I decided to give it a try.

I felt like an outsider visiting a foreign land. I walked through a maze of treadmills and elliptical machines, took a brief tour of weight-lifting contraptions and peeked into a room full of stationery bicycles for “spinning” classes, where apparently members pedal away while a teacher urges them on, changing the settings on the bicycles to simulate hills and flat areas. I found my way to the locker room and figured out the protocol of choosing a locker (any locker), then hoped my street clothes would still be there when I returned from the pool (I had no lock).

The pool is tiny, four lanes, but not at all crowded. We enjoyed a brief swim, maybe four laps in all, and lots of lolling around in the water. We raced once. My shoulder seemed all right, in fact it seemed to loosen up as I moved it and I felt relief from the constant pain I’d been experiencing. Then I sat in the “spa,” a giant hot tub with swirling jets and super hot water. That alone was worth the price of admission. Which, as it happens, was free, since I was a temporary guest.

And there were other things. Contrary to my preconceived notion that everyone in a gym would be in spandex wrapped over hyper-tight, super-defined muscles, this is a place where all shapes and sizes, all ages and races and socio-economic levels mix. Granted, most people are plugged into iPods while they run or pedal in place. But there is occasional friendly interaction in the pool, the spa, the locker room, and it’s sweet to see friends come to the gym together, chattering away as they get into workout gear. People seem to really be there for their health, they are doing something positive for themselves, and it feels good to be around that sort of effort.

I decided I’d go again. This time I swam longer. I felt I could stay for hours. My body, so starved for physical activity, was ecstatic, endorphins finally flowing again. I swam five lengths, then sat in the spa, then plunged into the cooler pool, invigorated, and swam five more. In the locker room, I helped one of the other members puzzle out her new combination lock, despite the fact that she spoke little English.

Since those first couple of visits, I’ve become a convert. I joined The Gym. This process was not so great – more like buying a car, with the staff throwing out specials and deals and instead of telling me what it costs each month, writing down the sum on a piece of paper as if it were a Great Secret, and sliding it across the desk for me to consider. Here’s the Secret: I wound up joining for a $25 initiation fee and $34.99 a month. More affordable than I would have imagined, pre-Gym Epiphany. Rates vary from gym to gym, of course – this is LA Fitness, in Silver Spring – and, as it turns out, from week to week, season to season, person to person etc.

But now that I’m a member, with a little card I can scan for entry into the sanctuary of good health, all that bargaining and car-dealing is behind me.

When I’m organized and have the time, I go to The Gym with a book to read while I work out on the elliptical machine (kinder on my still-healing shoulder than the treadmill). I don’t have to worry if it’s unseasonably cold, or raining, or dark. I don’t have to make it to The Gym in time for class, I can go whenever it suits me. I can sweat on the elliptical, then rinse off and go in the pool. I’ve worked up to 20 laps, sometimes more, not much by an athlete’s standards but enough to get my blood flowing. And then I get to sit in the spa, position my shoulder at the jets and breathe a loud sigh as I feel the tension flow out into the water.

The whole experience is like visiting a little oasis that is All About Me. I love the actual workout, feeling my heart rate increase, feeling my muscles stretch and come alive. I like to look at the inspirational photos of athletes on the walls, staring out of smooth, taut faces, challenging me to challenge myself. I love the order of the locker room – the efficient little lock I now use, the neat lines of wooden lockers, the convenience of hair driers, the option of a sauna or spa, the satisfaction when I remember all the accoutrements of post-workout routine (shampoo, lotion, hair product, clean underwear) and the efficiency of routine. Visiting the oasis is like a little gift to myself, all in the space of an hour or so.

My shoulder is feeling better. I think it's the swimming, and maybe the spa. Healing: just one of the many benefits of my newfound favorite thing.

Country Dog

Nala the city dog went country this weekend. For the first time she got to run beyond the confines of a small, fenced yard, and I got to walk her without a leash.

Sounds simple, and great, but from the front porch of our Takoma Park colonial, the prospect of Nala off leash was daunting. This is a dog who, when she slips the leash, gleefully runs away, moving like a souped up gazelle, all muscle and motion, joyfully speeding in and out of neighbors’ yards and scaring all of us with an abandon that shows her ignorance of moving vehicles. She has gotten into the middle of a six-lane highway and we felt lucky to have gotten her back. The country place we visit is far enough from any big roads to feel safe, but I couldn’t be sure that a taste of freedom might not tempt her to mindlessly run until she was exhausted, and then not be able to find her way back.

I didn’t give her enough credit.
Nala is nothing if not loyal, and she stuck pretty close to me in her initial hours here at Misty Mountain, a sweet little spot in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. By day two, she was comfortably mingling with new friends at a party on the deck, and I’m sure had no idea where I was.

Having dogs in the country is an entirely different enterprise than it is in the city. No one goes around picking up their poop, for example. They come along for the ride when it’s time to go to the grocery store, or the beer store, or to pick up seed at the farm supply place. They do not go in these places. They wait in the vehicle patiently – or not.

Country dogs don’t wear leashes, though they do have collars and tags. They are in and out of the house all day. They have their own lives.

Nala’s country life included:
Running free through acres of woods
Swimming in the pond
Riding to the general store
Chasing a wild turkey
Carrying a dead rabbit around in her mouth – killed, I am guessing, by the resident cat
Flopping, exhausted, at my feet.

And although I suspect she would have come by all this naturally, Nala has a compadre at Misty Mountain. Daisy, the resident dog, is a chocolate lab puppy and the first dog I’ve seen out-energize Nala. (That's her in the photo, before she met Nala.) She joyfully bounded around, showing Nala her favorite runs and leaping into the pond – while Nala watched from the shore.

Our city girl’s experience with water had been limited to tentatively dipping her paws into the very shallow Sligo Creek. Curious about not only Daisy’s swimming, but the humans splashing around, she put her paws in, then backed off. One of us gave her a push off the dock and she plopped in, surfaced and swam the short distance to shore, unconvinced she’d like to do it again.

Two days of running with Daisy and watching her plunge in and out of the pond, and that began to change. On Sunday, Nala ventured in a few inches, drank some of the water and backed out. Next time, she went in up to her chest. Finally, she swam into deep water – and, as if encouraging her new friend, Daisy got in, swimming so close their sides were touching. Then the two of them got out, shook off, and ran.

Country dogs.

Coloring Book

We love color in our kitchen. Nothing beats vibrant red and yellow peppers on various shades of mixed green lettuces, done up in a sea-blue bowl with a sheen of olive oil to set it off. And did you know that the red peppers have twice as much vitamin C as the green ones, nine times the carotene plus the cancer-fighting phytochemical lycopene? True fact: I learned it from the American Institute for Cancer Research, home of all things healthy and cancer-preventive.

Experts often tout color as an indication of a healthy diet – the more color, the healthier the plate. Now Michael Pollan, our household’s hero du jour, has added his voice to the chorus. In his latest book, he suggests, “Eat your colors.”

I bought this book, Food Rules, on impulse, thinking I’d read it and then leave it out for the kids and their friends to pick up when they’re sitting around the living room, hanging out (sneaky way to turn them on to good health, I know). Formatted in micro chapters, it is an easily digestible, entertaining list of do’s and don’ts: what to eat, what to avoid, and a bit about why. I imagine it’s a condensed version of Pollan’s other books (In Defense of Food and The Omnivore’s Dilemma, which I have not yet read -- I am admittedly nonfiction-averse, someone who starts a non-fiction book with enthusiasm, gets distracted two chapters in and returns to the world of make believe. Food Rules is so short, though, I got through it just fine).

Food Rules includes such witticisms as “Don’t eat breakfast cereals that change the color of your milk” and “It’s not food if it arrived through the window of your car.” Some of my favorites include “Eat meals” (as opposed to endless stand-up snacking); “Don’t eat anything your great-grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food”; and “Eat mostly plants, especially leaves.” I also like, “Have a glass of wine with dinner.”

The kids haven’t had a chance to pick the book up in the living room – yet – but Clara wound up choosing it as the nonfiction assignment in English class. She read it with a friend, and now the two of them are experimenting with new habits – chewing your food until it’s liquid, for example, and crowding an omelet with veggies.

Not that I’m surprised -- many of the teens I’ve met care about what they eat and are various shades of vegetarian, have sensitivities to dairy or wheat, recognize the value of organic and would like to buy from local farmers (it helps that some of them have worked for the farmers at our nearby farmer’s market, selling produce on Sundays). Now that the Pollan book has made it into their consciousness, I am pleased not only for them, but for myself: They are reinforcing my belief in some of what he has to say. Clara even made her own rule, which she illustrated with fresh carrots and homemade pesto noodles on an orange colored plate: “Never eat food that is the same color as your plate, unless your plate is orange or green.” Makes for a beautiful meal.

Carpe Diem, Carpe Musica

Okay I’ll admit it. I haven’t sung with a choir since I was in high school, and that was a very long time ago. But here, in this spacious rehearsal room at Strathmore, a center for the arts, I get to do it again – carefully pick out my part in the sheet music, then blend my voice with the sopranos on either side of me. I love that leaning-in moment when two singers are listening to one other, and I love that surround-sound feeling of many voices – nearly 100 in this case – striking full-on harmony.

It is the third rehearsal of Carpe Diem, the ad hoc chorus I wrote about here. The music is lovely – Malcolm Dalglish’s Song of the Earth, with fluid, undulating harmonies and rippling rhythms evocative of flowing rivers and breezes blown through leafy trees. It will be sung, appropriately enough, for Earth Day.

But I think I’m enjoying the comradery of singing just as much as the music itself. Just as it did in high school, the music transcends the other things that define us as individuals. In school, chorus was the one time I stepped out of tracked honors classes like chemistry and English, and into a more diverse group of kids, where we thought about voices, not grades. In this adult chorus -- with a few teens sprinkled in – singers are more interested in musical experience and tone than who’s working what job and for how much salary.

Still, I do know that the woman next to me teaches young primary schoolers music – I asked if she sang professionally, as her strong voice was nailing that high A pretty well, and she admitted her job did keep her tuned in, so to speak. On my other side is a woman I know from my neighborhood, a minister mom I run into occasionally at yoga class. Last rehearsal I met a professional story teller. My carpool buddies include a psychotherapist, and I know there’s at least one doctor in the mix, plus a midwife, a land conservationist and a landscaper.

Here, though, we categorize ourselves not by profession but by voice: soprano, alto, tenor, bass. And then by height, so the director can hear each of us, and we can each see her. That feels like another throwback to school days – tall, lanky folks in the back, so they inevitably feel gawky and awkward; short ones up front, where they can feel stumpy and small. You would think we’d have grown past all that as adults but I can see by the way people shuffle themselves around that we’re not quite over it. No matter. The music does transcend – body image¸ age, profession, all of it.

I’m looking forward to the next rehearsal – last time, our director admonished us that we must do our homework, and I’ve been dutifully sitting at the piano, practicing. And here’s an improvement over high school days: I can listen to a CD of the music and sing along or I can use an MP3 player or my computer to hear an explanation of dynamics from the composer, Malcolm Dalglish. Yes, a few things have changed – but the inspiration of the music remains.

Carpe Diem will be performing April 23 – for more info see the web site.
(Image from Oolitic Music)

The Chopins: Bringing Music and Literature Together

This week my daughter, Clara, came home from school and announced she likes Chopin. Both Kate Chopin, whose book, The Awakening, she is reading for high school English, and Frederic Chopin, the 19th century composer. Clara’s fabulous English teacher (thanks, Mr. Anderson!) had the students listen to Chopin, to see if the piece referenced in the book matches the mood of the story. Talk about value added. I love this class.

So as Clara played Chopin through Pandora (do you know about this? Tell the web site what music you like and it will play it, plus music like it, for hours), I recalled how I once played Chopin on the piano, myself. I don’t play much anymore, but, inspired, I took out the old music books.

Playing a piano is a little like riding a bike – once you’ve done it, it comes back quickly. But if you’ve been away for long, there’s a whole lot more wobbling, and if you could fall down on a piano, there would be a lot of pileups and scraped knuckles on the keyboard. The muscle memory in my fingers allows me to run pretty accurately over grace notes and trills and magically land (some of) the right chords, but precision and consistency are long gone. And if I start to actually think about the individual notes, they leave me stumbling.

Still, going through my old piano books and trying some of these pieces was a little like going through an old photo album. Things are familiar in an “oh, yeah, I remember this!” way. I was amazed at how much I could play – and so very grateful to my parents for giving me lessons (and enforcing practice time) for so many years.

These occasional forays into reviving my piano playing always bring to mind the salons of the 19th century, when instead of turning on the television, people would play music for one another in the parlor. I get the feeling that most people (of a certain stature) learned music of some sort. And I often wind up thinking about how much more beautiful our world would be, if we chucked the t.v. and instead played music and read novels and poetry to one another each evening (a little needlework, anyone?)

On our Chopin night, Clara wound up turning off Pandora and I played for her (and, admittedly, myself) while she did her homework. Turns out that in addition to Chopin, she likes Mozart, too. Later, she dug up “Bastien Piano Basics, Primer Level,” and reviewed what she’d learned at around age 11, when I (briefly) sat her down on the piano bench and gave her lessons. And yesterday, she came home from school and made a beeline for the piano to play some more. I can’t tell you how lovely it was to sit in my office and hear I’m a Little Teapot, Skip to My Lou and Scarborough Fair drifting up the stairs.

First blossoms, all over again

It has been a long winter. The longest in memory for me and my Maryland neighbors – but perhaps that’s just the way it feels in the wake of weeks of snow and ice, followed by an uplifting but too-brief peak of sun, then bone-chilling dampness and rain for days. Cold, again? Yes. So the garden gloves go back on the shelf and we pull on our sweaters and wait it out.

And, in this grey landscape, we cherish the bright spots: like the first daffodils! I saw them just days ago. They were still tight in their buds, but like a lesson learned over and over again, I knew they would emerge, and today, here they are, open to the first sun we've had in a what seems like a very long time. Spring, I think, is the very origin of faith.

Other signs whisper of warmth and color to come: patches of purple crocuses (does anyone ever plant these, or do they just come up on their own every year?), an early spray of yellow forsythia down the block, a sprinkling of snow drops in my own front yard.

Last week (in that brief sunny period) I watched as my neighbor crouched in his curbside garden with his two young daughters (ages 2 and 4), showing them how to draw a line in the soil and sprinkle lettuce seeds in a (relatively) straight line, then gently cover them up. When the tender leaves emerge, and the girls taste what they’ve planted, it will be an epiphany – look at what we did! Even though I have sprinkled lettuce seeds year after year in my own garden, when the babies appear like green fuzz on the soil, it still seems like a miracle. And it is.

The twist to this lesson in faith: Planting a garden only underscores the promise of spring. The earth will come around, whether we believe in it or not.

Play It Again

Yesterday I slid a CD into the player and selected my favorite track and just as it began to play, was filled up with missing my son, it was like he’d gotten in the car after a long time away and we were both grinning over the opening riff of a Dave Matthews song, and then that piercing vocal interval, and the lyric, “I’d like to show you what’s inside, but I sure don’t care if you do or you don’t like it.”

What do I miss about Tyler, as he travels the world? I could tell you I miss his creativity, his fearlessness and disregard for convention. But words don’t quite get at the way we miss our loved ones. Thank God, then, for music.

There’s another tune running around in my head that brings me back to when the children were slippery fish in the bath tub, and I was a young mama singing to them: “You’re my little potato... my sweet potato, dug you up, you come from underground.” I thought it was just a quirky tune from a children’s cassette but now I realize that (of course) someone wrote it and arranged it and, imagine this, will be performing it April 23 at the grand Music Hall at Strathmore. And – surprise! -- I’ll be singing it there, too.

As a member of Carpe Diem, an ad hoc chorus pulled together to perform at specific events, I’ll be singing with Malcolm Dalglish, the very man who wrote “Little Potato” – and a plethora of other songs for dulcimer, drums and voice. The event celebrates the fortieth anniversary of Earth Day, so while I may have visions of bathtime, most of the music will evoke the rhythms and beauty of the natural world – another grand subject difficult to capture with just words.

The potato song goes on -- “The world is big, so big, so very big – it’s new to you, it’s new to you.” Its bounce and upbeat melody convey the simple joy of discovery – or rediscovery, the privilege of parents everywhere who see the world anew when they look through the eyes of their children. Happy travels, Tyler. Happy Earth Day, all.

Rising ambition

I have had this recipe for 7-grain bread for too many years to count. It was tucked into the wooden recipe box I inherited from my mom – the kind sized for the little “recipe cards” we used to exchange, before the days of Cooking Light and Epicurious.com. You remember them: variations on index cards, with cute pictures in the margins and a little spot that says, “From the Kitchen of. . .” where you fill in your name. I have plain ones, too, with my grandmother’s handwriting (meatloaf, apple cake), the neighbors’ (Scotch shortbread, spiced nuts), and my mother’s (too many to list).

This recipe – on one of the fancy cards -- is in my sister Jean’s hand, so as I gather ingredients I picture her pantry, always stocked full of grains and beans and home-canned fruits and vegetables. I don’t know what her pantry looks like anymore – she lives several states away, and the last time I saw her food shelves was years ago. I know without looking, though, that her shelves are always well stocked, and that is a comfort to me.

I use a breadmaker for the first time on this bread, a breadmaker unearthed after 25 years of storage from my friend’s pile of things-untouched-for-years. I’m sure it has its own memories and people attached to it, but I don’t ask much about that. I am busy adjusting my attitude toward mechanized bread making.

Breadmakers have always felt a little like cheating, which is why, when my mother sent me money years ago to buy one for myself, I bought a juicer instead. Maybe it’s because I still love the feel of silky dough between my fingers, and I don’t mind the 10 minutes of kneading – it is a quiet break in an otherwise hectic life. I love to punch down the pillow of dough after its first rise, losing my fist in its yeasty ambition, knowing it will overcome this small act of aggression and rise all over again.

But I’ve also heard enough converts point out that, if you can make bread in less time, with less effort, it’s more likely you’ll make your own instead of caving in to the $5 loaves at the farmer’s market (which, in fact was the inspiration for this bread making session). So I give the breadmaker a whirl:

Pour all the ingredients into the machine, yeast first, lukewarm water last. Flip a switch, and watch it gyrate into what becomes a blob of living dough. Take a nap on the couch. Four hours later, gently extract an enormous, cylindrical loaf of seven grain bread your sister would be proud of.

Wow, was that ever easy. I am already picking out the next recipe to try.

In Love with the Downbeat

You can do it in a honky tonk with sticky floors and bad acoustics, in a bar called the Rock and Roll Hotel, in an elegant, velvet-draped music hall or in a church meeting room. You can do it in your living room, or in your friend’s shed, or on the front porch or in the back yard. Wherever you are, when the beat is called out – uh-one…two...one-two-three-four -- and someone lays into an infectious groove, I’m hooked.

I’m lucky – I get to hear live music in all of those places. Last week, I heard Mark Wenner, the driving force behind the area’s venerable Nighthawks, along with a slew of blues and roots musicians (the Akousticats) who first made me feel inadequately educated about the origins of some of our most familiar tunes, but more importantly (and lastingly) made me grin ‘til my cheeks hurt, listening to their tight sound and the wail of Wenner’s harmonica (what is it about its piercing music that reaches right into my chest and squeezes my heart?). They hit the “stage” at St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church, home to the Institute of Musical Traditions (IMT) weekly concerts; the audience sat on folding chairs and ate homemade cookies and drank tea, listening to music more evocative of a smoky roadhouse than a church service. They loved it.

I also caught Mark O’Connor and Dorado Schmitt recently at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theatre, an intimate space tucked into the second story that I’d somehow missed in 27 years of living in the D.C. area. The concert, a tribute to the late Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli, was another grin-fest. These musicians were phenomenal: O’Connor on jazz violin, so comfortable in the music it was like a second skin; Schmitt playing gypsy strings so fast it took my breath away; the guitar duo Frank Vignola and Julian Lage like kids, trading licks, giddy with how perfectly it all fit together. At one point the bass players – one from O’Connor’s band, the other from Schmitt’s -- took turns on one instrument, each completing the other’s bar, barely missing a beat.

Then there was D.C.'s Rock N Roll Hotel -- really -- where we got to hear the great and uber-danceable Afrofunk band, Chopteeth, all percussion and brass and deep rhythm, calling out to a crowd that included aging hippies, Peace Corps-looking 20-somethings, and plenty of in-between. The bonus was an upstairs disco complete with lights and music that might have sounded retro to the younger crowd that dominated the dance floor, but sounded like yesterday to me.

These are just three examples of local music venues, but there are plenty more. IMT recently found a second location, so there will be concerts in Takoma Park beginning next month, at Liz Lerman’s Dance Exchange on Maple Avenue. (The first concert is Laura Cortese and Jefferson Hamer -- traditional and modern folk and pop – and since it’s a “concert and jam,” you can bring your own instrument and stay to join the performers if you like). These shows are so affordable -- $10-20 in advance – it’s hard to make an excuse to miss them. A similar organization, Focus Rockville, presents weekly at the Unitarian Church in Rockville.

There are, of course, free street festivals featuring loads of local music when the weather gets warmer. Meanwhile, Takoma Park hosts the annual Folklore Society of Washington Midwinter Festival at the Middle School, Feb. 6, with live music and dance lessons (two of my favorite things in the world).

If you go to hear any live music in the area – and you really should – look for me. I’ll be the one in the middle of the room, wearing a big grin.

Why I Have a Dog

Recently we had one of the most frigid days of the season, the kind of day when I wonder why I left the Florida town where I grew up, the kind of day more conducive to baking bread and making stew than to long walks in the park. But you never know where whimsy – or your dog – will take you.

That’s why I love having a dog. She gets me out of the house when nothing else will, and on days like this icy January morning that can mean unexpected pleasure.

I must admit, one of the keys to enjoying the weather – even when it is icy cold -- is gear. I learned just a couple of years ago what a difference good cold weather clothes can make. Layered up in snow pants and parka, scarf, hat and gloves with two sweaters underneath, I was Warm Enough and once I got walking I was Toasty.

So Nala the dog led me off to Sligo Creek Park, my favorite dog walk when I have the luxury of an hour or so to walk her. There were few other walkers out – though I was impressed to see my die-hard neighbor running (Go, Peter!). Fewer people meant fewer dogs, and fewer yanks on the leash. Even the squirrels seemed scarce.

Actually, we had the park to ourselves – if you don’t count he myriad previous visitors Nala picked up as she sniffed what remained of their scents. The creek was beginning to freeze, so it was still along the banks and had a narrow thread of moving water down its center. Lacy platforms of ice were forming like the brims of hats perched on grey boulders. Branches, bare of leaves, stood dark, etched sharp against the gray sky. The world was all ours – like a gift.

Thanks, Nala.

Biker Boys are Back

Many of you readers know that the boys who biked across the U.S. – my son, Tyler, and two of his buddies – returned to Takoma Park in December. Safely. Despite the final ride up North Capitol Street from Union Station, in the snow, after dark.

We are thrilled to have them home! For those who lost track, or are coming to the blog late, the boys pedaled away from our homes in Takoma Park, went up the east coast, then took the train from Boston to Seattle. From there they made their way south, mostly along the beautiful Coastal Highway, to just south of San Francisco. Then they turned east and pedaled long miles across desert, through Texas, stopped for a big time in Austin around Halloween, went to New Orleans and volunteered ,doing Katrina-related service projects (planting sand fences in the dunes to prevent erosion, for example). Then they went to St. Augustine, their last port of call before they boarded the train for home and Union Station in D.C.

Their return warranted a second group Thanksgiving among their families and more recently (yes, nearly a month after they returned) a gathering to look at photos from their travels. I especially liked the theme of happy/sad: the boys took photos of themselves in various locations, first with sad faces, then happy. The results are pretty hilarious, especially when other people join in the charade. The world is FULL of lovely people not only willing to let three boys camp out in their yards overnight – and some of them even produced big meals for the guys and their outsized appetites, or provided beds indoors -- but these folks were also willing to pose in the happy/sad photos. We have a lot of amused grown-ups gamely masking still-visible grins behind the “sad” faces the boys requested for the photo account.

There was also a theme of falling: as in, falling off the bikes. The rule, we were told, was that the person who had fallen had to stay down until a photo could be snapped. And, we were treated to footage of bloody shins and toes – though we are lucky that there were no major injuries. Mix these quirky pics in with beautiful photos of the Grand Canyon, expanses of rocky cliffs perched over the Pacific, reflective shots of tree-lined roads that give you a visual idea of just how many miles these guys pedaled, idyllic hiker/biker campsites and laundry hanging on a line (thanks, Ty) outside a free hostel in Pietown, NM (population 60, and yes, they have pie) and it was a wonderful show.

Note the hats -- they survived the entire trip! And the pies -- Happy Thanksgiving.