Forgiveness

I opened the frig in Takoma Park the other day and saw (again) an enormous plastic grocery bag full of grapes from Misty Mountain, the western Virginia hideaway where I picked them oh, say, three weeks ago. Oh, dear. They must be leaking all over the refrigerator shelf. They must be far past their prime. How will I get them to the compost pile without staining the floor with grape juice on my way?

I first discovered these grapes last year, when their overwhelmingly sweet smell led me to the spot where they hang from a tangled vine, entirely unkempt and temptingly plump. Thrilled to discover this bounty, I made grape juice from them—two quarts of it. I savored the pure, sweet grape-ness of it, in small portions (it was so intensely flavored), then let it sit in the back of the refrigerator in its quart jars and… go bad. Sadly, I had to throw it out.

Unforgiveable.

So this year, I decided to try again. Between other chores at Misty Mountain, I slipped away to fill another bag with these deep purple orbs, carefully stretching to grab as many as I could, knowing full well that I might not be able to do anything with them for some time. But I felt greedy. They smelled so good. And there were so many, tart little orbs ready to burst with juiciness, just hanging from this vine that seems to have sprouted out of nowhere to climb all over a (mostly) dead tree, tangled up and all willy-nilly. I picked and picked and longed to be able to reach the higher portions of the vine, but I ran out of time to rig a way to reach higher, and had to leave with just the one bulging plastic shopping bag stowed in the car, which then smelled sweet for the entire, four-and-a-half-hour drive home. No Staples bag has ever smelled so good.

But there it sat, the Staples bag full of fat and juicy grapes, in my refrigerator, untouched. I had such great intentions: to make grapejuice, and not let it go bad. Can it. Or freeze it. Something. But competing deadlines and business trips out of town and launching my daughter to New York City prevented me from processing any of them. They just sat.

You would think that the smell of fermenting fruit would start to overpower the rest of the contents of the frig, eventually flavoring the butter and wafting out when you reached for the cheese.

But these were, I have discovered, patient and forgiving grapes.

Despite last year’s moldy grape juice and this year’s three weeks of neglect, despite the abandonment of homesteading aspirations, and the prioritizing of working overtime instead of putting up pints of essence-of-grape in jars of juice to line my winter shelves for winter, these grapes came through for me.

When I reached into that Staples bag, instead of mush or shriveled up raisins, I found (mostly) firm grapes, ready to become whatever I deemed best. Or, more accurately, whatever I had time for.

So the other night I made grape juice, and I made a grape pie.

The juice is straining in the frig overnight. I promise it won’t go moldy this time.

The pie was inspired by Lucky’s, a new favorite restaurant in Roanoke; I ordered it for dessert a few weeks ago, and though I didn’t love it, I loved the idea of it. So I made my own version, which I believe is better –but credit must got to Lucky’s for inspiration (and everything else about this place is great).

I’d never have thought to make a pie from grapes. I’m not sure I’ll do it again – but maybe. On a special occasion. It is labor intensive – to say the least. But oh. So. Good.

This recipe is for a (6”) miniature pie, which will feed two hungry people or four people who want a tantalizing taste of grapes for a reasonable after-dinner treat. The flavor is so intense, a small bit really is enough. Or, you could double or triple this and fill a bigger pie tin. Depending on how much time you have.

Grape Pie

2 cups Misty Mountain grapes (or wild grapes. Or I guess you could grab some seedless ones at the store, but they won’t be as tart, tart, tart)
3/8 cup sugar (or so)
1 teaspoon or 2 of cornstarch

Wash the grapes, and pick off the stems and other funny detritus that winds up all over them. Squeeze them out of their skins, and put the skins aside. Take the pulp and put a bit of water on top of them in a pan, heat slowly until they start to soften and their seeds loosen.

Sit down. Call a friend on the phone, or settle down with someone you love. You will be picking out seeds for a long time and good company would be nice.

Once the seeds are picked, combine the now seedless pulp with the skins (which are a gorgeous royal purple/black color) and add the sugar and cornstarch. Let it sit for 15 minutes.

Pour it into a waiting pie crust and put into a 400-degree oven. Turn the oven down to 350 and bake for about 20 minutes.

Yum.

Country mouse, city mouse

It’s a Thursday morning. I reach into my backpack, past the parsley and basil I picked in the garden this morning, find my metro card, and pull it out, redolent with fresh herbs. I’m ready to commute into the city, smelling still of the garden – and, by extension, the country.

It makes me think of Clara, who spent a month in the mountains of southwestern Virginia over summer, quiet days near a pond, picking blackberries and catching salamanders in the pond with the two children she nannied. She ate eggs from hens clucking to one another on a farm just down the highway, and learned to two-step with the old timers dancing to bluegrass music at the country store.

Last week, I dropped her off in New York City, where we navigated the crowded sidewalks of Soho to discover the best health food café and art galleries and clothing boutiques and, well, the usual teeming and over-stimulating activity of the city. She’s working at the uber-hip American Apparel on the Lower East Side, making art with friends at the School of Visual Arts and interning at a ballet company, helping with administrative tasks in a loft above Broadway. (the photo was taken just outside the loft)

My own days have handed me a series of these country life/city life moments as well. One afternoon I’m standing on the dock of the pond, my clothes hanging in the branches of a white pine, with the dogs swimming among the reeds. The next I’m standing in line with a bunch of office workers to choose between lamb gyros and bahn mi from the food truck outside a 10-story highrise in D.C.

What do you get when you cross a country mouse with a city mouse? A chameleon.

Back to the future

When I was small, I wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder in the Little House in the Big Woods. I would dream of having a home with only kerosene and candles for lighting, and a butter churn, and a little pinafore and a prairie hat to go with it.

Then, when I was in college, I spent some time in a house that had no running water; we hauled our water from the spring in the yard, carefully dipping the bucket so we didn’t disturb the resident frog, who would muddy the water if he was startled. There was an outhouse there and I loved going out in my flannel nightgown and hiking boots, then sitting with the door open on a starry winter night.

Now I live in a house with electricity and running water and internet service, the usual array of conveniences. But once in a while, when a storm comes along and knocks out the power, I think about Laura and wonder how I would fair in pioneer America. And, earthquakes and hurricanes and 10th anniversaries of terrorist attacks make the idea of going back to a simpler time more and more appealing.

Having said all that, isn’t it a lucky thing that I have partnered with a man who has been a homesteader? Who heats with wood? Who grows his own food? Who has not only used an outhouse, but dug one?

And now, he has bought a couple of vintage items that will steer the future back to the past.

First, a Maytag washtub. This is an electric washing machine, but without the spin cycle (see photo). Pour the water in from a hose, turn her on and she swishes your clothes around until you think they’ve churned enough. Then you turn a lever and the water empties out, preferably all over the garden. Next: rinse. Drain. Then, my favorite part: put the clothes through the wringer instead of a spin cycle, saving energy and delighting me with ingenuity. It’s like a pasta maker, but instead of dough it flattens clothes—which are then no longer drippy, and ready to hang on the clothesline.

Here’s the bonus: when you’re not washing clothes in it, this machine doubles as a beer cooler.

Perfect.

The other new/old item we recently acquired is a Home Comfort wood cookstove. Cast iron and white enamel, four big burners and two mini’s, a good-sized firebox, a little drawer for emptying the ashes, and a spot for a water tank to keep hot water available for dishes and cleaning and baths, I suppose. I am picturing myself baking bread and keeping the house warm at the same time. Cooking soup. Learning to stoke the oven so it’ll cook but not burn my favorite pies.

We may just re-enter that Little House in the Big Woods. Bring the past into the future.