Jenmenke

Road Warrior

Garden

My Love Affair with Kale Continues

So my new thing, besides *finally* learning to bake kale chips without burning them, is eating kale raw. I’m obsessed. I’m a Kale evangelist. I should be this fervent as a Christian. Seriously.

I bring my kale salad around saying “wanna try some?”

And today (actually about a month ago, as that is when I first started writing this post) I brought a bowl of kale chips to Morgan’s soccer game passing them out at the gate while I worked on tickets. All takers were smitten, except Paster Greg, who agreed that I should be that fervent for Jesus, and also said they’d good with ketchup — which I took as the single strike against them.

I usually grow just black tuscan kale, which is the long skinny leaved variety favored in Italy.

[Cuz I’m so cultured.]

This year, I also grew a box of Red Russion. Which, isn’t red at all, but is perfect for my salads and chips. Not that the black tuscan isn’t good for those things, mind you. It just that… oh never mind. It seriously doesn’t matter.

Here’s a question for you to ask the produce manager the next time you go grocery shopping (which for me is hopefully never): WHY THE HELL IS THIS KALE SO EXPENSIVE?

And if you aren’t comfortable with such a bold question to a perfect stranger (and swearing), then how about this one: WHAT IN THE SAM HILL CAN I DO WITH 5 KALE LEAVES?

These are both totally fair questions. Kale should not be expensive this time of year. It’s like arugula, which is like a weed. Yet you can only buy the daintiest little bunches of it for something like $5. Crazy. Meanwhile there is this kale revolution going on everywhere: recipes, online, restaurants… I’m waxing poetic all the live long day. My friends go to the store to buy some (because my house apparently isn’t as convenient as a grocery store), and you have to pay $3 for 5 medium sized leaves that will cook to nothing and serve about one person. It is seriously crazy. We need to start a mutiny.

Well, you can. I’ve got a lot of things to do today and besides, I’ve got enough kale to last me until 2014.

The other day, I read about using kale to make some kind of pesto sauce. Frankly, the blog I read it on is one that I accidentally subscribed to and can’t figure out how to unsubscribe. The blog drives me literally bonkers. And yet I can’t help peeking when they show up in my inbox because I love to hate this woman. She is an unadulterated and shameless COPYCAT of www.latartinegourmande.com, who you could also hate but for entirely different reasons (jealousy). The copycat styles her photos the exact same way LaTartine does, which is very unique to her (and gorgeous). And worse, she tries to write in the exact same voice — which is crazy because latartine is French and english is her second language! aaaah it just drives me to drink. I’ve got to figure out how to unsubscribe. Anyway, forgive my rant. The copycat did mention a kale pesto that sounded intriguing… She probably copied it from somewhere.

For now, in addition to my kale posts (I was going to link them for your convenience, but I found I’ve written way too much about kale. Just type it in the search box and see for yourself.) from previous years, here is my latest and greatest way to devour my crop:

Kale & Mustard Greens* Chips:

These are everywhere online. But here’s my I-tried-it-so-you-don’t-have-to-suffer-the-same-fate advice: bake at 250 degrees for about 20-30 minutes, turning and removing just before they turn brown. Lots of recipes have you bake them at 400 or higher for a minute or two. It is impossible to keep most of them from burning at that temp.

Take out any bigger sized stems, because these take way to long to get crispy and you’ll burn the leaves waiting for it to happen.

Rub the leaves between your hands to distribute the olive oil.

Salt (and pepper) generously! I also like to sprinkle a little hot chili powder on them for a little zing.

Now that it’s not humid in MN, they keep a long time in a big bowl in the pantry. Keep them on the counter and you’ll find yourself eating them instead of crap food.

Kale Salad:

Why don’t I have any pictures of this? I know not.

Anyway, here’s the deal: cut up into salad size pieces, toss with about 1/2 teaspoon of salt for a medium sized bowl of kale, (probably about 2 or 3 lame grocery store bunches) a tablespoon of olive oil and the juice from a half of lemon. Stir it all up and let it sit about 30 to 60 minutes. That’s all it takes to tenderize the leaves. Then mix with just about anything tossed with a little more lemon and olive oil to taste. Here are some I’ve tried and loved:

  • apples, almonds & quinnoa
  • butternut squash & craisins
  • wild rice and pears
*Mustard Greens. I planted these this year and they are quite the prolific little crop. They are really zippy tasting raw and I’ve used them raw with the kale for salad. Spicy, mustardy tasting. I’ve also baked them into chips and it works great! They take just a bit longer to cook.

(Never fear: road warriors will be completed, as promised, by christmas.)

 

Rainy Saturday…

You may thank me, drought-striken Minnesotans, for this unexpected, unforecasted rainy Saturday.

Why?

Because I started washing windows yesterday. Because it always rains the day after I wash windows. Inexplicably. Without fail. I don’t actually believe that, and yet… it hasn’t rained for something like 75 days, I wash windows yesterday and even though the forecast from last night doesn’t call for rain, it is currently raining.

Coincidence?

I remain on the fence.

And while we are on the subject of windows, you may think I’m overly ambitious. That my windows may not actually need to be washed.

I disagree.

For that is what each and every window looks like. And understand this: it is ever-so-difficult to capture those spots in a picture. Because that picture doesn’t do justice to the overall effect of gray water spots covering every entire window in our house. (Of which there are 67 and I have washed 15. Not that I’m keeping track.)

The spots are from the Plunkett’s man, sprayed in September to deal with our boxelder bugs and asian beetle problem.

Last year we couldn’t spray because we were painting the house. It was a melee! I was actually feeling quite smug about the whole thing and thinking I wouldn’t spray this year either, because it was only really bad for a few weeks and *presto!* they were gone.

Only they weren’t gone. I slept with, vacuumed — and even almost ate — boxelder bugs on a daily basis throughout winter and well in to summer. They were fricken everywhere. So this year I bowed to the chemical god, suppressed my holier-than-thou organic attitude and called Plunkett’s.

And the trade off is this. The window spots. Which are a beast to remove. Even with a nylon scrubby  they remain visible when the sun hits the window just right.

Whatever.

I’m ticked I can’t continue on my window-washing death march. I was all ready to tackle the remaining main-floor windows when it started misting.

Instead, I turn to the garden.

And the rotting vegetables on my counter.

And the kale.– Though that is fodder for another post. (One I started writing about 2 weeks ago and have yet to complete, actually.)

And the apples, which I haven’t even wrapped my mind around yet. And the longer I procrastinate, the less I will have to deal with because the wasps are steadily working on ingesting each and every apple.

Did you know that? That wasps eat apples? Literally eat them so that when they are done it looks like a human took a bite?

Anyway.

Here’s another “Did you know”:

Did you know that if you don’t harvest your carrots in a timely fashion, that someone else will?

Who?

I know who, but I did not get a picture of the culprit. Here is all the remains of the evidence.

I also hope to deal with the already-mentioned-rotting tomatoes today, that I harvested over a month ago, but weren’t totally ripe at the time.

Now they are going to bad. In addition to my own festering stash, it seems I was visited by a tomato fairy, who generously came to let my dogs out one day that I was gone last week, who deposited some of her own on my counter as a “gift.”

And just when I think I am getting to the end of this thankless task, I go out to the garage and trip over this:

Not to mention, this surprise — found when I was gathering sheets from the garden as it started to rain:

It will never end, I tell you. Never.

 

Picking Raspberries is Never Lonely

I confess: I don’t actually mind picking raspberries even though I pretend that is it a huge ordeal (It is.). That it takes a really long time. (It does.) And that I have tons of other pressing things to do. (I do.)

But.

If you happen to be listening to a good book on Audible, and the sun is shining… really: how bad can it be?

(I don’t really want Dave to know this, so please don’t tell him. It works in my favor to have this to hang over his head for those Sundays that he is forced to dust.)

So, it is raspberry time of year again. Mine ripen in the fall. Most others seem to have them in the summer, but I like fall berries. That way, I don’t curse (as much) when I’m making jam and heating up the house with my stove and boiling water for canning. I cannot imagine having to do that in July and August.

We’ve had fresh berries for well over a month now, but it is just today that I’m filling up my picking basket that holds about 16 cups.

I remember when my kids would eat four cups of berries in a single sitting. They don’t eat them as much anymore. They OD’d I guess. So most go into jam.

If you live nearby, the offer stands: come on over and pick some. Just don’t complain when you find you are not alone:

(He’s big, by the way. Maybe an inch and a half long in the body alone!)

And my favorite, who hopped away before I could get a better picture:

OK, OK. I gotta go work now. Cuz Lord knows I’ll be picking more raspberries in another 2 days.

 

The Second Laziest Way to Preserve Your Tomatoes

Hi Everyone, just a short break in the Road Warriors “action.” I’ve been told by my “best” friend that the trip log is a little “boring” this year. I mean, I’d like to tell you there was another car wreck or a speeding ticket. Another huge fight and four more blown tires, but there simply isn’t. Deal with it. I can’t say I didn’t warn you all up front. I believe it was in the first sentence, even.

Instead of typing my boring trip journal into my computer, I am being forced, at the most furious pace, to deal with my garden. It happens every year. When will I get used to it? When will I simply harvest and compost in two easy steps? Rather than harvest, boil, peel, freeze and then compost?

I’m kidding. I don’t compost everything I freeze. It happens, for sure. In fact, I just tossed some chopped peppers of dubious origin. My best guess is that they were approaching three years old. But it could have been four. My medium-term memory has taken a serious hit in the past three — or is it four? — years. They (the peppers) went into the heap. But when you think of the time that goes in to the chopping and the freezing, it can really be a downer.

Anyway. While I’d like to tell you I made some delicious salsa with my rotting tomatoes, that would be wrong on two counts:

  1. My salsa is not delicious. It is merely OK.
  2. I didn’t make salsa because I was too lazy.

For the uninitiated, the laziest way to preserve tomatoes is to throw them into a ziplock bag and freeze them, right off off the vine. It works, people. And I’ve done it many a year. In fact now that I think about it… (I am leaving my computer with my camera and will be back in about 2 minutes.)

I am back with this photographic proof that I have done it:

I don’t have proof that it works, however if you are diligent — more diligent that I at this moment, anyway — and you scroll backwards in time, I am 100% sure you will find reference and a photo or two of these frozen globes in recipes from the past year.

The downside to the laziest way of preserving tomatoes is that as they cook, the skins peel off, break into tiny filaments, and float at the top of  whatever you are cooking them in. It isn’t a huge issue, but for picky people, it might be.

Therefore, the second laziest way is to peel them before you freeze them whole. The whole operation takes about an hour for about ten pounds of tomatoes. It’s pretty simple.

1. You wash or rub off the dirt and then cut a small “X” in the end of the tomato:

2. Then you put a whole bunch of the “X”d tomatoes into boiling water until the skins start to show signs of peeling away, about 30-60 seconds, but more if your tomatoes are really firm.

3. Scoop them out with a slotted spoon and add the next bunch. When cool enough to handle, just pull the skins off with your hands. You probably don’t even need to use a knife. I don’t even cut out the stem core.

4. Then spread them on a cookie sheet and freeze till solid. Transfer to freezer bags and use as many as you need for a recipe.

It beats sterilizing and chopping and boiling and toiling, but I still wish I could say I made salsa. I’m working on that. (The attitude, not the salsa.) Next up is raspberries, raspberries and more raspberries which are aided and abetted by edamame that went flipping nuts this year. Let me know if you want some.

The Good News Is: I Am Not Dead

And that’s about the only good news.

I’d love to rant and rave about all KINDS of blog posts that I have written in my head as I go from one crisis to another, always 7-19 minutes late for everything, but I don’t have time. Charlie has to ref in about 30 minutes, Morgan has to coach alone for the first time ever, more shingles just flew off the roof, I forgot to order net clips for the soccer goals, Dave just left for fishing (please don’t come and kill me), and the cat is sleeping on my keyboard making all of this a lot more difficult…

So here is a round up of the blog worthy things that I might have enjoyed writing about in the last month since the carnage:

I FOUND SOME MORELS!

OK, so I guess that was a good day.

THE ASPARAGUS:
…was a mess this year. Due to our crazy warm March things were greening up and my annual burning wasn’t done in a timely fashion. I did finally manage to get the dead stuff cut down, but the weeds are going nuts.

The asparagus doesn’t seem to mind. I’m giving it out by the armload once again. So, if you can think of a reason to visit me…

This year — yesterday, in fact — I made my first ever asparagus soup. It was the most vile looking gloop you’ve ever seen. But it tasted good…

I GOT A NEW STOVE!

(and need to sell my old one…) Here is a tribute to the cooktop that has taken me through 17 chaotic years. Goodbye old friend:

[Look for it on Craig’s List soon!]

HELLO NEW FRIEND:

(and pretty pictures of bread made for people other than my family. Very bitter children, have I)

It’s a 6-burner BlueStar. So far, so good. It’s HOT!

And for the Piece de Resistance (that makes no sense, I just wanted to say it):

MY GARDEN:

Or perhaps I should call it My NOT Garden.

Or my Garden Not YET.

And that is why I must go now.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I am now all caught up on my blogging.

My Potato Patch: A Retrospect

I know it’s been a while.

I know.

Let’s put that behind us and move on to greener pastures.

Or dead ones.

The potato patch, to be specific.

Potatoes are a cash crop and worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Potatoes grown in the garden are amazingly different from their supermarket counterparts and worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Potatoes are so easy to grow and rarely fall victim to pests or blight and are worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Like corn, it seems, every year, I grow potatoes, regardless of what my notes from the previous year tell me to do. I think the main reason is that I always have an empty planting box and withered, sprouting potatoes from the year before in the lower garage. It just seems silly not to plant potatoes.

So I do.

And then I listen to my dad bellyache about it for the next several months since I often guilt him in to digging them for me. He’s probably only really done it two, maybe three, times. But you’d think I had him out there slaving away every year since 1995 the way he goes on about it.

“Potatoes? Potatoes! Why’d the Hell you plant potatoes? I’ll buy you potatoes. I’ll pay you not to dig them. They don’t taste any different from the store. Geez”

…and on and on and on.

So it was this year as well. And I really had no intention of having him dig the potatoes. Really, I didn’t. But a series of events forced me to ask.

First, he was going to paint the barn. Then, when that didn’t pan out, he offered to paint the lattice on the screen porch. When we needed to use the parking spot where the lattice was laying, we farmed that project out as well.

Clearly he was in my debt.

And yet, still I refrained from assigning him potato duty. Not that I didn’t tease, and threaten. Sure I did. But I had no plans to go through with it.

Until that fateful Saturday in November.

He had willingly offered to accompany Charlie to his second annual Robotics tournament. Charlie had to be there at 8 am. It was a 45 minute drive, which meant they would have to leave at 7:15 am. No easy task for Gramps. He’s not a morning guy. I totally get that and it was one of the reasons I was delighted he wanted to go. –I take after him; I’m not a morning guy either.

The other reason was that last year’s tournament went all day.

All day. A robotics tournament, all day.

To be fair, I did want to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to do it. I even said, “You don’t have to do it, dad. I was planning to dig potatoes tomorrow, so if you don’t want to go, maybe you can dig the potatoes?” heh heh.

No, no, no, no. My plan worked! He was going. I was thrilled. My dad is the best!

Unfortunately, at 7:15 am the next morning, the loft was pitch black.

Pitch black.

So I threw the covers off, threw some jeans on, whipped my way-too-long-hair-for-a-46-year-old into a ponytail, screamed some things like, “WHAT ARE THOSE CLOTHES IN THE BATHROOM? WHY ISN’T YOUR BED MADE? ARE YOU READY? DO YOU HAVE YOUR STUFF?”

I threw the car into reverse and…

…nearly backed over my mother.

Who had run down the driveway in a panic wearing her gigantic fur coat that she keeps at the loft to tell me, “He’s up! He can take him. It’s fine!”

Which I knew was not true. He might be up, sure. But was he ready to go? Was he in the car? Why was my mother in the driveway, freezing her butt off? Or not freezing her butt off since she was wearing a big bear fur, or coyote. Or something.

“No, no. It’s fine. Just tell him he can either come relieve me at noon or dig the potatoes.”

And then I left her in the dust.

Ironically, it was also to be the first snow storm of the year. Which started around 11am and made it silly for him to drive all the way in to town to relieve me, and even more important for me to get the potatoes dug. And so began a day long email exchange:

The first, from my dad:

 

In between these two emails he called me and we decided he shouldn’t drive in. And he grudgingly said he’d dig the potatoes.

By this time, I was starting to suspect he was just messing with me. –That he had dug the potatoes hours before and was simply having fun at my expense. I went along with it, acting enraged.

 

 

 

 

He called me again, to ask me where the garden fork was. He was really hamming it up. I mean for crying out loud. I continued to go along with it. “DAD! It’s in the garden! If it’s not in the garden it’s in the barn hanging up! Where have you looked?!”

KJDJDSHSHST…YOU ARE BREAKING UP…. silence.

And he was gone.

*******

The sloth really didn’t dig the potatoes. He laid on the couch, watching the snow and reading a book all day. Morgan and my mom both tattled on him, so I know it’s true.

And, after the snow melted a few days later, I went out to the garden to see this:

The garden fork, in the potato bed.

So he’s a liar, too.