Home Again

Recipes that demand many steps are not for me, but what's not to try? Improvising and adjusting simplifies things, and the results are pretty simple, too. You either put to ruin good ingredients, or discover foods that you want to make again and again. I do both all the time.

Sifting flour sounds archaic and isn't a step I've taken since I was a teenager. My maturity in the ensuing years has never deemed the task sensible; it's delaying, messy, and requires the act of measuring--something I'm averse to.  I won't have any of it, and while I know alot of women who measure, I don't know of any who sift. Do they even make sifters anymore?!

It's curious to me then, (but completely predictable) that I recently became caught up in a search for vintage flour sifters. Like the antique rolling pins, cream whippers, wire whisks and nut choppers I already don't use, I feel that flour sifters (and other kitchen collectibles) will further put me in the mood for cooking and thus make my time spent in the kitchen a total joy. There you have it. There it is--my explanation why I mightily indulge in vintage kitchenware.

The craziest thing about this (yes, there's a crazier part) is that everytime I find something new (that's old) I want to make it a focal point of the room. Making it a focal point of the room means something has to make way for the new (old) thing, and then where do I put THAT (old) old thing? A couple of months ago I loved THAT thing so much it had to be the focal point, so now what?

Thus, the room gets turned upside down, every time. So does my porch pantry, which is the entry to our old farmhouse, a place I consider an extension of the kitchen.

Some would say I have too much time on my hands, but this is what I do. This is who I am. I have plenty to do in my days, but if I don't nurture the homefront then I don't nurture myself.

Speaking of nurturing the homefront, in the midst of all the disarray, aromas from the oven and stovetop blindsided me toward a hankering for homemade tortillas. Drifts of bubbling beans and garlicky, chili-crusted pork roast insistently reminded me that I was working up an appetite, and wouldn't from-scratch tortillas and a pan of traditional rice make the whole meal a feast?

Blame it on visions of flour sifters dancing in my head. Must have been the correlation between flour and tortillas, but I just added another glitch into getting my kitchen back in order.

Oh well. Some people thrive on the pressure of the corporate boardroom. The kitchen IS my boardroom. It's where I rule, at least in my own home. So on this day I was making a mess, and I was making tortillas.

By suppertime the room was pulled together save for the finishing touch--the actual flour sifter. Actually flour sifterS--I purchased two after a weekend shopping online from the comfort of my home. It's the start of a modest collection inspired by a woman whose shop I once visited in a small town near my home.

A quiet, unassuming sort, she nonetheless was prideful and possessive of her collection of old flour sifters. The stunning gems sat up high on a built-just-for-them shelf, and spilled into a locked glass cabinet underneath--appropriate for the jewels they were. Try as I might, she would not sell one.

I also by suppertime had fresh tortillas snuggled into a warmer, and a full meal inspired by another unassuming woman--my mother. She always made food like this. In her later years she, as many Californians do, came to rely on the good tortillerias that are prevalent everywhere. I watched her make tortillas often enough that I was able to imitate her when I came to live in places where only "lesser" tortillas were available. (In the world of tortillas less quality is never plenty good.)

It seems the passions we have can most usually be attributed to impressions once made, invited unknowingly to deeply sink in. We have little awareness of what is occurring and little say. It just happens. We might know we should strive to cure cancer, but we can only hope that someone else will. Not everyone wins a "doing what I love" career, but in our private lives it should be a given that we pursue in good measure that which (in positive fashion) moves us. And with no apologies to those who differ.

We respond to the inspirational models in our lives. Conversely and not-so-strangely, we at times extract the most inspiration from negative impressions made. We see the intolerable and determine: "That will not be a part of my life."

Sometimes our most affecting impressions result from long-term witnessing in our sustained relationships. Others result from momentary, fleeting exchanges. The woman whose flour sifters I coveted did not appear to be "wealthy," but she owned a wealth of resistance to caving in over a few dollars some might have said she appeared to need. It turned out that this building was also her home; one with inadequate private quarters and so while her shop was open to the public, not everything in it was for sale. Her treasures were her treasures, come what may.

I know the lesson well that an inanimate object (like a flour sifter) is never precious like a family member is.
But enlightenment did occur to me when I faced the reality that I had previously owned and (and then let go of) one of the flour sifters I recently purchased. Years prior, when opening my own little shop, I tentatively put this object out on the floor. I priced it high, hoping no one would buy it. I wrestled with wanting to keep it and wanting good stuff in my store. Darned if someone didn't quickly think it looked good enough to buy at my asking price, and away it went. For a few extra dollars than what I paid for it, I parted with it.

In paying a few dollars more than THAT now to replace it, it's hard to admit I've paid the price of ridiculous again. But could I really see the point of this new lesson any other way? Collectible THINGS will never be the treasures that people are, but a page from my flour sifter mentor's book should definitely be taken.

Lesson learned. And I can hear my husband swallowing THAT.

In My Own Backyard

It's starting to feel alot like spring here in Wisconsin.

The apple blossoms are struggling to fight off some lolly-gagging morning frosts, but the days are emerging radiantly warm and sunny.

This time of year exemplifies that "hope springs eternal." Despite its troubles, life never seems to give up on trying to renew itself. Appropriately, all the new growth of the season marks the time as a harbinger of the many good things to come.

Like babies of every species, and trees, fruits, flowers, plants and grasses. No withering now; everything is smoothly-skinned and pliable, because life is just beginning and it's all good.

The inhabitants of a country property should know enough about the plant-life on their place, but twenty-some years into here we are still pretty clueless. We know enough to avoid poison ivy and stinging nettle on the skin, and we've successfully tapped maples for syrup and transformed wild plums, apples and berries into yummy preserves. We recognize a great many birds and critters, and some of their calls and sounds. Mostly, we enjoy what we see and hear and use what we're certain of to modest degrees. After all, wild creatures need to eat too.

One berry bush that we failed to identify is the source of a funnily ironic story. Until recently I was the proprietor of a shop and cafe, "Corner Cupboard," where we worked hard to establish a small but strong following for handmade, from-scratch pies. One customer, Tom, often drove in from his outlying town to have a light lunch with us and a full wedge of pie. We always loved to see Tom--such a dapper guy, friendly and conversational always in a most appealing way.

A great promoter of my place, Tom poked his head into the kitchen one day to tell me that he would soon be treating a special friend to lunch at Corner Cupboard. This friend had a quirky inclination to always ask the server at any restaurant for one particular pie--gooseberry.

He had yet to receive a "Yes, we have gooseberry pie," answer, but this never deterred him from trying wherever he went. Tom's request to me was that whatever it took, he was willing to pay any price for a gooseberry pie on board when that lunch took place.

None of us had ever made a gooseberry pie, or even tasted one. I'd never noticed the fruit in a store and of course when I looked, it wasn't there--not in the frozen or canned aisle, and not in the fresh produce section either. 

That next Sunday my husband drove me to an eastern "burb" of the Twin Cities. After a few stabs in a melange of stores, I did find gooseberries in a high-end gourmet grocer's market. I was worn out from the trek through various unfamiliar stores, so the fact that they were only available in cans did not stop me from grabbing the only two that were on the shelf. I realized beggars can't be choosers, but I certainly didn't pay a beggar's price for them.

When the big day arrived, my pie-maker turned out a beautiful speciman, even if we were all put off by the filling that had gone into it. Do you know what gooseberries look like? They are round and green and look like slimy globules in questionable goop (in a pie)--not an appetizing sight whatsoever to any of our eyes.

But we figured Tom's friend knew his gooseberry stuff. He would happily expect them to look this way, and not be able to contain his gushing over the thrill of it all. The three of my whole staff were so excited we all managed to place ourselves in the vicinity for his, "Do you have gooseberry pie?" inquiry.

The question happened as predicted, but his response couldn't have been more different than we had imagined. No light sparked in his delighted eyes, no beaming smile of disbelief crossed his lips. Instead came a flat and to-the-point "Okay, I'll have a piece," statement, one void of all the enthusiasm we had so braced ourselves for.

The crescendo of our anticipation descended its incline so abruptly we could almost hear the "whoosh" of deflation. The fellow quietly enjoyed his pie, and asked for another piece to take home. Tom purchased the remainder, and our adventure was over.

We weren't so big about it that we didn't mutter a few expressions of disappointment over our anti-climatic experience, but we agreed that it probably paled compared to Tom's. We were sorry to see that his gleeful plans and benevolent plotting went unrewarded.

A few weeks later, my granddaughter was trail-hiking our place with the neighbor boy, a knowledgeable little guy when it comes to identifying creatures and plants of the natural world.

They stopped to pick small berries I'd never noticed before--or if I had, had probably avoided in a "better safe than sorry" mode.

But on this day my granddaughter was encouraged to try these "perfectly safe" GOOSEBERRIES--a tried and true fruit the boy knew well.

Gooseberries

To think: we'd traveled a distance we didn't commonly go, and paid a price we found ridiculously high--all for something that grew right in our own back yard. Now THAT'S ridiculous.

There's alot to learn on a country place, and it really pays to learn it. I like to think that the waste and cost of that experience was still an experience, and one that taught me a lesson: Know what you have, or pay the price of ridiculous.