Kitchens, with a hint of Ferrell

Make no mistake: while we drive matching Volvo wagons, N and I disagree on many aspects of life. He could cuddle into perpetuity and I need some space. He will work till he’s bone tired, and I’ll take a break so as not to be. Growing up, the Ferrells got-er-done and the Kitchens hired others to do the same. Neither way surmounts the other; the Ferrells saved more money and acquired useful skills; the Kitchens saved more time and acquired useful contractors.

This year I am determined to have raised beds. I set a date. I enlisted my handyman. I checked the weather. I scoured Skagit Building Salvage, where a hearty supply of used lumber begged for a  new life.  Through a work contact, N found some–what shall I call these pieces, nay, chunks of tree?–mother effing huge slabs of trees. The Forest Service had felled and processed the heart of the trees for table tops and benches; the remaining sides were up for grabs. N told me about the quarter-ish rounds, bark on one side, flush-cut on the other. They sounded cool enough.

Despite those potential tree sides, N, amazing husband that he is, went on Friday to the salvage place and purchased used wood while I sipped beer with a friend. Then, at the very last minute, in the eleventh hour, N decided that we should go by ourselves to check out the tree sides.

Did I mention we own Volvo wagons?

I should have guessed there would have been a forklift. The boy is lured by all things embedded with a motor, and, after attempting to lift one edge of a saturated trunk, N fired up the machinery. (Or tried to. The battery proved dead until we charged it. Who even knew forklifts had batteries?)

The three of us hoisted and maneuvered and cantilevered about the work yard, trying to coax the former sky-brushing giants into the back of a wagon. I admit, there was eye-rolling and short, declarative, demanding directions and sour faces. “Look,” I said, “we don’t have a truck, the pieces are too long and too heavy, and this is just wasting time.” I wanted to build the damn beds already. I’d waited out (patiently, I might add) vacations and illness. It was now or never.

But N is a Ferrell, not to be thwarted by mere weight of an object, quandary of a situation or whine of a wife.

Not even when forklifts get stuck in mud.

And what could I do but laugh and know that I could either succumb to the Ferrell way or pout off to the side while he wrenched his back, the machinery and possibly our marriage. Cause that was the thing, right? Our marriage? I agreed to this–this cold, heavy-as-shit, lugging lumber in the rain, seeing it through with him, executing a vision together–and I couldn’t turn back.

So I drove in reverse as I towed the forklift out of the mud.

Have I mentioned we drive Volvo wagons? Yes, you imagined correctly: one silver Volvo trudging a 6,000 lbs. forklift out of the quagmire. It was symbolic, I think.

We worked out a system. Found smaller pieces. Scooted in just right. Stacked pieces of trees on top of each other. Used a bit of tree for a hammer even though N had brought his own. I think he likes to make things difficult. Loves the challenge. The satisfaction. That’s probably why he loves me: I’m a damn hard challenge.

The tree sides–what do I call these things?–were so heavy-duty that we had to purchase 7-inch screws.

By day’s end, we had constructed one raised bed. She is a thing of beauty, I tell you. Deep and natural and forest-like. And every time I tend to that bed (and the other two, if we can get our asses in gear) I will think of my boy. Of his determination and drive to have it just right. Of not letting a dead battery or the stuck wheels of a forklift get him down. Of lifting much too heavy loads despite his bad back. Of working all day on his one day off to get me just what I wanted–no, better than I imagined.

Yes, The Ferrell Way at times, seems impossible. Maddening. But there is also a great joy in it. And luckily, there is also great company.

The world is awash in white. Snow is a breath-taking event here, as it fleetingness and rarity mean that shoveling the sidewalk doesn’t get old. And a snow day from school? I live for these days!

Up here, it’s the kind of day to lounge around in your polar fleece, cradle your coffee, finish your book, complete the puzzle and eat the last bowls of yesterday’s auh-maz-ing soup.

Smitten Kitchen's Carrot Miso

I promised a soup round-up, and so here we are. But first, do you know about The Soup Party? I wish I could remember its origins…a book, I think? But way back when I still lived over by SDSU and had to cook to entice people to make the drive, I read about a woman, new to her home, who wanted to meet her neighbors. She hosted a super casual soup party, where she set out three big pots of soup, passed out photocopied invites and opened up her home on a week-day winter’s night. Guests were instructed to not RSVP, not worry if they couldn’t make it and not fret if they couldn’t stay long. She suggested if guests wanted to, they could bring a bottle of wine or baguette to share. Voila! A yearly ritual begun. And so I followed suit. In 2007, I hosted my first and only soup party. But oh my–

I made three double batches of soup and requested that people bring their own spoons and bowls; wine or baguette if they chose. As the clock counted down, I feared being ladled in soup for many months to come; I mean, I had three double-batches, and I was asking people to come to my out-of-the-way condo on a Tuesday. Stupid, stupid.

But people showed,  wine and spoons and appetites in tow. Bread was broken and bowls filled and refilled and recipes shared while the various continents of my friends mingled like one big Pangeaic plate. (Nikolai was even there, pre-dating days. His presence was not lost on me!)

In the end, I had to scrape down the sides of the East African nut stew to even have enough for the next day’s lunch. I think thirty-something people showed in a period of four to five hours: families, friends, lovers, neighbors. It was so casual and so community-centered I have wanted to host another one ever since.

If you plan on hosting your own Soup Party (which I cannot recommend heartily enough) a few suggestions:

• Make one soup a day leading up to the party (Stews like to sit and marinate and get all jiggy with it in the pot, so those are good ones to make first.)
• Utilize your crock pot. You know you don’t use it enough!
• Purchase an extra ladle from Goodwill, or better yet, borrow your neighbor’s!
• Make little folded cards to place next to each soup. On it, indicate soup name, recipe soup and major ingredients (many people like to know if something’s vegetarian or vegan)
• Have soup toppings (drizzling oils, croutons, cheese, chives, etc.) in small bowls next to each soup
• Make double batches; I noticed that my guests wanted to try each of the soups, and they brought people with them.
• (Shhh! Two hosting secrets: since most people will bring their own bowls and spoons, clean-up is minimal! You have to attend to NOTHING! Prepare to be out of the kitchen and enjoying the company of your companions.)

Finally settling in means I have the energy to host another soup party! It’s on the books for February. Will you be in town? I suggest you pack a spoon. Here are the soups I plan on making. They have been the gastronomic highlight of 2011, and the Carrot Miso is the first new soup of 2012–a definite keeper.

• Anna Thomas’s Green Soup with Ginger–I make this soup at least once a month and double the ginger. Next time you’re not feeling so hot, force someone to make this for you. (But make sure they don’t eat it on the way over…) In her book, Love Soup (one of my all-time fav cookbooks) Anna does this soup a gazillion ways; it’s delicious in every rendition.
• This Carrot and Miso soup had me at hello. Seriously. I dove in for a taste test and said, out loud, to myself, “OH mygawd–OHMYGAWD!!” The entire batch was consumed in less than 48 hours. Make this bad boy with the freshest carrots you can find, probably the ones with greens still intact.
• This New Year Noodle Soup set off a cooking and writing stint between my teaching partner and I. Don’t try to make this guy on a weeknight; instead, plan to zen out while chopping and sauteeing and preparing this hearty meal.

Happy cooking! And don’t forget your spoon! (I’m partial to this one from Pike Place Market’s spoonmaker.)

Just 365 days ago I was swaddled up in my little one-bedroom, waiting out the snow and the promise of another job offer.

Now, I’m in my mustard-colored living room, the heat humming and wondering just how this will taste and if I have the time to both make and eat it in the next two days. (Answer: no, I do not. But I do promise a soup post coming up.)

Last year, living in Washington still felt like a dream. This year, I’m living the dream. (Proof: floated down the Skagit River with captain TK and fam in Operation Eagle, where we counted 113 bald eagles in a ten-mile stretch.)

For posterity’s sake, let me take stock of the year. And then, I promise, an analogy, and favorite soup recipes of the year to follow later in the week. Remember how I was going to claim my Washington-ness in 2011?

I wanted to marry the man of my dreams–check! The easiest and most rewarding Mission Accomplished to date.

Kick sirsasna’s booty by eeking out three sets of twenty-five push-ups. Well, let me say this: I am stronger than I ever have been. I’m addicted to this class; I can almost bench as much as the guys in the video and I can do three sets of twelve push-ups with my eyes closed. I can clean-and-press like it’s my job. Today I practiced headstand on my lawn and reveled in how light it felt. Like it’s supposed to, I hear my old yoga teacher saying.

I wanted to perfect the perfect pull of espresso. I found greener pastures, namely, a french press and a coffee class, where we all walked in subdued and walked out wired. The Pantry is one of my favorite new finds.

I planned on getting my writing ass in gear. Here’s the line-up so far: I have two non-fiction query letters in the hopper, I just submitted a guest post today and have successfully fended off anything that impedes my writing time. I am keeping my summer wide open, just as I did in the summer of 2007, so that writing can be my full-time job. Plus, I’ve edited and revised the first sixty pages of Wild Mustard. Slowly…

Wanted to walk on the Olympic Peninsula–check!

Also in the exercise realm, I vowed to run 5-9 miles.  Just last week, my teaching/running buddy and I clocked 7 miles–and we were still standing at the end! I’ve signed up for a ten-mile race at the end of February (eek!).

Between buying a house, moving and throwing a wedding, I’m actually pretty proud of myself that I got all this stuff accomplished. I wonder–what could I get done in a non-frantic year? One where I”m not leaving or returning to the country, or moving states, or hosting a huge party? I’m going to have to go scratch out a 2012 list–oh wait! Already did–the boy and I hunkered down and made The Book of Years, a small journal with our best memories of 2011 and our goals for 2012.

And, just like making good soup, it’s all about the stock. Take the time to make it from scratch–start as you mean to go on, Anne West would say–and you’ll make a bowl or a life that’s delicious.

To many beautiful days and dreams in 2012!

And, while you wait (patiently) for those soups, do take and make stock. It’s so easy and it will keep in the freezer until you accomplish your first New Year goal.

Basic Veggie Broth

• 5 carrots
• 5-6 large leeks (green part)
• 2 onions (yellow or white)
• 4 celery stalks
• 3 parsnips
• 1 fennel bulb
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 tsp. fresh or dried thyme
• 2 tsp. sea salt
• a pinch of peppercorns
• 5 peeled cloves of garlic
• chard or kale stems from one bunch
• 1 cup flat leaf parsley
• 3 1/2 quarts of water

Combine all the ingredients in a stock pot and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook for 45 minutes, or until all the veggies are soft. Strain and discard the veg. Wait anxiously for the best of 2011 soups. (**Keep the salt light. The stock will reduce further and you will inevietably add salt in your soup recipe.)

**I screw up this reciepe all the time, but the stock always comes out delicious and totally usable. Don’t be afraid to clean out the veggie drawer and toss it in–greens and roots are good!

I have my brother to thank for my love of the outdoors. And I think he has our mother and our godparents to thank. So it’s nice that I can venture into the great outdoors, feel the heart beneath my ribs and hang out with my favorite people: N, my brother and my niece.

We woke early (for a weekend) and met at the Sultan Bakery (hello, breakfast burrito and apple fritter muffin, I think I love you.) Properly carbo-loaded, we raced the freight train and headed for the hills, crossing over the Foss River.

To access the Tonga Ridge trailhead, we parked with a murder of Jeeps (surely a group of them is the same as for crows, no?) who were intent on “breaking trail.” Apparently, this is the thing to do if you have Jeeps and beer and nothing better to do. At least ten four-bys with nubby tires and winches, roll bars and off-road seat belts were parked huddled, waiting patiently like hunting dogs, ready to plow, get stuck and tow each other out. I swear saliva dripped from the bumper of the trucks–or were those icicles?

The Kitchens clan donned gloves, beanies and snowshoes and forged the path up, up, to the Tonga Ridge. The sun shone and all was right with the world, though my twelve-year-old niece complained otherwise. I will say, it was a bear of a hill, about a mile up a fire road just to the trail proper; I don’t know many twelve-year-olds who would even consider going out with their dad in sub-freezing temperature.

The day proved that I could have just as much fun and get just as much exercise in the winter and I can in the spring or summer. The herd of us made plans to go again within the month, perhaps to Artist’s Point up by Baker. I had no idea I’d love winter so much–the range of playtime activities has increased a gazillion-fold!

So, happy trails as you head out on your winter expeditions. Where are you hiking/running these days?

Oh! Did I mention I signed up for a 10-mile trail run? Eek!

Anne Taintor's Vintage Sass

Perhaps it’s because my last name is (yes, still) Kitchens.

Or because I had my ten-year-old birthday party at Let’s Get Cooking.

Or because I’m always thinking about food.

But I cook a ton. Every Sunday, for hours, in fact. And tonight, while slicing and dicing daikon radish for Yin Yang Salad and pureering Green and Mushroom soup, it occured to me: I have a pretty tricked out kitchen. So I thought I’d share some of my must-haves.

• A Vitamix blender–This bad boy sounds like a jet, and blends like a dream.
• I finally got an immersion blender. Tonight, I used all three parts of this one, and it was so easy to clean, I almost wept.
• A rice cooker. I wish I had one that made me weep. Alas, I am using a dinky one that gets the job done. Rice, quinoa, bulgar, wheat berries–they all go in the rice cooker. It’s easier than a stove top pot because it’s stick-free.
• I found this same set of vintage pyrex bowls at an antique store when I first moved up here. SO worth the hunt to find the old stuff. Why don’t they make bowls with pouring spouts anymore?
• Pack my lunch in these every day. I have yet to break one or toss one out because I let the food grow mold babies in the depths of my classroom. What? You don’t do this??
• Got this beautiful cookbook holder from Mama Kitchens–how have I lived without it?
• A family heirloom from Denmark: a bottle opener the size of my forearm. Big enough to whack someone over the head with; strong enough to open lifetimes of beer.
• My mandoline makes quick work of veggies
• Mine aren’t quite this nice, but I love my teak salad servers
• This sturdy garlic press is used several times each Sunday
• Any oil from Drizzle (sigh) Currently in love with this one, but I have a hunch this one might be my long term love
• GINGER! (I think all my favorite recipes call for it)
• Caramelized onions

Happy cooking!

Whitesnake pumps through my head. Rain pounds outside the windows. And somehow, I’ve found the courage to go again on my own.

I think the fabulous Meg Keene did her inspiration number on me yet again. A friend from high school  has sold her line of fabric. I read this book about women going out and harnessing life. Girlfriends are making shit happen.

So I’ve pounded out a new synopsis of Wild Mustard. I’ve scoured the A’s and B’s on QueryTracker. I’m putting my head down and getting back to work on another revision. I am going to make this happen. Or at least fight trying.

***

WILD MUSTARD

What begins as a journey for a memory ends as an odyssey to a sisterhood, one that Olivia Simpson may have to sacrifice everything to obtain.

All Olivia has ever wanted is to recall the moments before her parents’ death. After eight years and a trip to Costa Rica to scatter their ashes, a shard of memory is finally conjured. But it’s only a shard, and leaves Olivia begging for more.

With newfound resolve, Olivia confronts the other person who would remember those fateful moments before the shooting: Donna Henty—the woman who murdered her parents.  But Donna’s parochial memory is a dead end and the only other person who might recall the day—Donna’s daughter, Summer—hasn’t been heard from in almost a decade.

United by their quest to find Summer, Olivia and Donna forge an unlikely friendship. Olivia locates the daughter of her parents’ killer and devises several attempts to “serendipitously” meet Summer, all of which prove fruitless. In order to get close to the foster child, Olivia is willing to feign interest in adopting. But when the two orphans finally meet, Olivia realizes that the girls do, in fact, need each other more than they could have realized.

Summer, the taciturn teen, disagrees. As Olivia’s world crumbles around her, and Donna teeters on the edge of death, it seems that Summer may hold the only Hail Mary able to mend the haunted past of the three women.

Tonight I came home from the gym to this:

And this was on the porch:

I’m not much one for Halloween–especially since my mom stopped sewing my costumes–but my boy drove home two hours to pass out treats on our front porch.

For the first time in his life.

His big grin waited for me at the front door when I got back from the gym (working off all the candy I’d consumed–FOUR pieces ONLY!!)

“I saw a Smurf!” he cried, giddy as the kids loading up on Milky Ways. “And Mario and Luigi, and a fireman and we only have twenty pieces of candy left, and did you see Pumpky?” he asked.

He wanted to roast pumpkin seeds and still, despite no trick-or-treaters for over twenty minutes, he’s wearing his afro. He has checked on his jack-o-lantern every ten minutes.

It just reminds me of the joy of something new. Of participating in something, no matter your age, because you’ve always wanted to and never had the chance.

At my house, we never had enough candy and my mom, despite Halloween being her favorite holiday, was known for doling out toothbrushes, apple slices and raisins. Some years she decked the house out better than the local haunted house: a one-eyed monster in the doorway, holding a jar of eyeballs, a bat on his shoulder, another suspended from the ceiling, brains sliding across a table, apothocary jars with gizzards and newts and my mom passing out whatever “treat” it was that year, that cackle at the ready.

Have you heard my mom cackle?

She has to cross her legs when she does it; it’s so loud she sometimes pees in her pants. And the cacophony frightens me every time, even when I know it’s coming. It’s that good.

She called to chat with N. She is pissed that she only has three trick-or-treaters. N is trying hard not to dwell on the fact that he’s passed out bowlfuls.

So next year, I will decorate a bit, for mom. I will put on something silly for N. I will carve “Pumpky” for me. And have a bit of fun for all of us. Cause I’m not past fun, right? And how can you say No to a face like this?