Category Archives: Recipes

Splitting Wood

4 Replies

Let me begin with a brief thanks to whoever it was that created the electric wood splitter.  This is a brilliant, if improbably heavy, machine.  I love it!

Dave splitting wood at the farm.

Dave splitting wood at the farm.

"Coco Smash!"

“Coco Smash!”

With the first trip for wood, Dave started doing some log splitting to transform the log sections into actual fire wood.  Using a maul (doesn’t sound promising…), he started muscling through the pile.  I watched his technique and figured that it would take me only moments to lose a toe (we all know the luck I have with foot injuries… see “Family Dinner” post) and/or tweak my back beyond redemption.  So when Farmer-Landlord said (only partially joking) that the Men get the wood and the Women do the splitting (more hunter-gatherer references here), I knew I was in trouble.  Then Farmer-Landlord introduced me to Betsy… the name that I’ve given to his beloved electric wood splitter.

Me and Betsy posing.

Me and Betsy posing.

Betsy is worth her considerable weight in gold.  To help us out the first time, Farmer-Landlord backed his pickup to the wood pile, plunked Betsy down on to the open tail gate, and showed me how to use her.  The splitter looks more or less like a narrow chute with an ax bit at one end.  You plop the log onto the track, make sure one end of it is snuggly abutted to ax bit (aka the sharp end), and then in Betsy’s case you hold a button down while simultaneously pulling a lever (safety first) and a moving panel forces the log down onto the bit, splitting the wood.  For larger logs you can do multiple splits.  Easy Peasy.

Dendrochronology pop quiz...

Dendrochronology pop quiz…

In no time I had split my way, pink gloves and all, through about half of the pile of dumped wood.  There was still the large trailer full and the person-sized logs that still needed portioning, but all in all not a bad start.  At around the same time that my hands and arms started to complain loudly, Little Man woke from his nap complaining loudly too.  His poor little face was swollen from the yellow jacket sting from earlier that day, and the copious calamine lotion didn’t help the look.

The next day I went out again to the pile to split wood; good little wood chuck that I am.  The pickup was still parked next to it, the tailgate down at the perfect height for Betsy.  I just needed to go get her from the work shed.  Dave was off playing soccer, Little man was sleeping, and I was going to play Lumberjane.

wood 3

I knew where Betsy was in the shed, gave her a quick spritz of oil along the track, tipped her up and started to wheel her out to the pile.  Or I should say, uphill to the pile.  I wheeled her over to the low rise that we had to clime together and dragged her like a dead body up the hill, finally getting to the pickup.  I could hear the steady plunk, plunk, plunk of Farmer-Landlord “harvesting” rocks from the sheep pasture.  Apparently they were messing with the idyllic scene, so one by one, plunk, plunk, plunk, then went into the maw of the tractor.  Luckily the “rock garden” was around the corner from where I was attempting to work, so no one (I hope!) witnessed that pathetic struggle between myself, Betsy and gravity.

Now that I had gotten Betsy to the pickup, I needed to get her up onto the tail gate.  Oy.  I knelt down, grasped Betsy at both ends and made to lift her properly with knees bent, etc.  Nothing moved.  Betsy is a sturdy piece of work.  So I tried again, and she just wiggled a bit.  Now I was getting nervous that I would have to ask Farmer-Landlord for help, but I didn’t want to interrupt his chore to help with mine.  So one last harrumph and I got Betsy most of the way to the tailgate.  A lovely double-bruise on my upper thigh marked where I gave her a little extra boost up.  I would forget about that bruise until I took Little Man to the pool a couple of days later.  In my swim suit I looked battered, and got quickly into the water that miraculously hides a number of evils.  Once I had Betsy on the tail gate, we were off to the races.

A winter's worth of wood to be split.

A winter’s worth of wood to be split.

Again I made pretty quick work of almost all of the loose pile of wood, making quite an impressive (if not properly stacked) wood pile.  But I have to come back to that “almost all” from the previous sentence.  About five or six of the larger, more recently harvested logs were a bit wetter than the others.  A few of the dry logs sounded like a gun shot when the log finally split under the pressure.  The more recently cut logs sometimes fought a bit and would split, but not completely.  They hold themselves together in remembrance of what it was to be complete with fibrous fingers.  I “split” these larger logs four or five times and for my troubles ended up with my own wooden rose sculptures.  Do you know those pictures in Thai restaurants of the fancily carved fruit?  The watermelons carved into intricate flower baskets, the mango carved into a swan, etc.?  This is my own, much less appealing, version.  These wooden roses have been set aside in a pile for the stubborn, to be resplit by Dave.

My wood pile.

My wood pile.

In the meantime, Little Man managed to sleep through the wood splitting for a second day in a row, and was just waking up when I was finishing the pile and Dave was just getting home from soccer.  All three of us were a bit dazed afterwards, and while Betsy had done all the hard work for the splitting, I started to feel the exhaustion of lifting and hurling all the wood.  Now it was time to make dinner.  We wanted something hearty befitting our efforts, but not enough to induce a food coma.  And it needed to be quick.  As luck would have it, I had recently stumbled across (literally, one was on the floor of the grocery store aisle) prepared polenta in a local store.  Angels were singing when I found this tube and quickly plunked a couple down in my cart.  Little Man used one as a microphone for a bit.  This would be the basis for a super quick oven roasted polenta with marinara and oozy cheese.

This recipe is about as no-fuss as it gets.  The polenta is already prepared and in handy tubular form for slicing.  You slice, bake and crisp.  Then top with a heated from-the-jar good quality marinara sauce, top with some freshly grated cheese, broil, and done.  At least it is normally easy…  I didn’t fully realize how tired my upper body was until I was putting a full tray of food into the oven and my hands simply gave out.  The tray tipped forward and as I tried to compensate so as to not lose our dinner to the floor, I tagged my hand on the preheated oven rack.  Then I tagged the same hand again on the other side while I tried to compensate again.  So now I had two spectacular burns on my hands to compliment my lower body bruising.  Let’s just say that I was a vision of loveliness at the pool a few days later, bandages and bruises, and runny mascara (I’d forgotten to leave that off that morning on the way to the pool).  The glamour continues…

plating (2)

Oven Baked Polenta

Serves two with leftovers.  Easily up the quantity by just doubling (or more) the ingredients.  The method stays the same.

Ingredients

1 tube of prepared polenta

1 jar of good quality marinara sauce

1 cup grated mozzarella

½ cup grated parmesan cheese

Olive oil, to drizzle

Salt and Pepper

Directions:

1.  Preheat the oven to 425º Fahrenheit.  Prepare a baking sheet by drizzling about one table spoon olive oil over its base.  Too much oil and the polenta will be greasy, too little and it sticks.

2.  Slice the polenta into ½ inch thick coins.  Sprinkle salt and pepper over both sides.  Place the polenta coins on the baking sheet, and drizzle the tops with a little olive oil.

Sliced polenta coins.

Sliced polenta coins.

3.  Bake the polenta coins for about 25 minutes, or until crispy and golden on both sides.  Meanwhile heat the sauce, either in a pan on the stove or a bowl in the microwave.

4.  Once the polenta is golden, pull the pan out of the oven and sprinkle the grated mozzarella and parmesan evenly over the polenta coins.  Crank the oven up to broil, put the pan back into the oven, and watch it like a hawk.  Don’t answer the phone, don’t refill any juice cups, just monitor the melting cheese.  You want golden, not volcanic ash.

Golden brown polenta coins topped with chesse and ready for the broiler.

Golden brown polenta coins topped with chesse and ready for the broiler.

5.  Resist the temptation to simply top the polenta with the sauce in a nice large casserole.  You went to a lot of trouble to crisp up that polenta.  If you top the crisp food with the wet sauce, you will get soggy polenta.  Instead, be a little bit fussy (you can afford to be fussy here since the dinner took next to no prep) and pour a bit of sauce onto each plate.  Top the sauce with a couple cheesy polenta coins, and enjoy!  We served this with a great, simple fresh lettuce salad from the garden.

plating 3

Click here for a printable version of theOven Roasted Polenta recipe.

Pink gloves and all.

Pink gloves and all.

Lumberjack and Lumberjane

Leave a reply

A continuance of Poking a Wood Fire (see earlier post).

First year wedding anniversary, and just back from a field season in Turkey.

First year wedding anniversary, and just back from a field season in Turkey.

The other day I stumbled across some pictures of our first wedding anniversary when Dave and I were camping at the much missed Highpoint State Park in New Jersey (best campsites ever… and a really good winery call Westfall Winery nearby too).  The weather was so miserable that most of the other reserved sites were vacant and the park rangers looked pityingly at us whenever they drove by.  We, however, were having an amazing time and didn’t even notice the bad weather.  Dave and I had just come back from a field season in Turkey, had both lost ridiculous amounts of weight from a combination of hard work and dysentery, and were simply reveling in being on vacation… for our anniversary… in weather that was not topping 140º Fahrenheit.  After the sizzling, dry plains; the wet, dripping woodlands seemed miraculous.

Dave proudly standing by his tent; the one dry spot of our campsite.

Dave proudly standing by his tent; the one dry spot of our campsite.

What also seemed miraculous was Dave’s ability to start a fire in that wet pond of a fire pit.  While looking at the pictures from this trip and with fire-starting on my mind, I remembered that Dave had made a sort of Jenga-like construction of kindling, had filled it full of newspaper, then lit it.  Once that initial fire was established, he put logs around it and the resulting fire was amazing.  I’ve since used a variation of that as my “new” fire method, and so far so good.

If I look at it hard enough, it will burst into flame and warm me.

If I look at it hard enough, it will burst into flame and warm me.

Fire pit or bog?

Fire pit or bog?

Back on Vancouver Island and on the road to fire mastery, I turned my sight to our non-existent wood pile.  It is daunting to think how much wood goes into keeping a fire going, especially when you try to extrapolate that out to cover the unknown quantity of our winter.  For weeks I have been watching industrious neighbors and friends gather and split immense piles of fire wood, filling sheds from stem to stern with neat stacks.  Now I was also noticing how BIG these sheds are, and I was starting to think that we could be on the brink of trouble.  This woodchuck needed to start chucking wood, and fast.

Luckily our Farmer-Landlord was thinking similar thoughts, and approached Dave about heading up to The Mountain to gather firewood.  I don’t know which mountain.  I don’t know where this mountain is.  But you can hear the capitalization when people speak of it.  Farmer-Landlord sent Dave off to buy a wood gathering permit, and $20 later they had plans in place for the following weekend to drive to The Mountain to get wood.  Whatever that meant.

We weren’t really sure what to expect from Dave’s wood-finding mission, or how to prepare him for it.  What was it going to be like?  What equipment beyond closed toe shoes and gloves did he need to bring?  What exactly did one “do” to gather enough wood for an entire winter season?  My anthropologist friends will understand this, but the expedition was also starting to have a bit of a “hunter-gatherer” feeling to it.  Dave was leaving our home site to hunt and bring home wood, while I was staying around the home to gather… I don’t know… something fabulous I’m sure.

Then the day for the wood hunting expedition came; cold and misty.  Dave left with Farmer-Landlord in a beat-up old pickup truck with trailer attached.  On the way up The Mountain an elk sauntered across the road in front of them, the first sighting of such a beastie by either one.  Then they came to the timber yard, and it was like nothing either one of us had expected.  Dave’s cell phone photography showed a place that looked oddly like the messy playroom of a giant toddler.  Massive tangled mounds of the better parts of trees were piled around the clearing.  Dave and Farmer-Landlord started pulling logs out of the piles, chain sawing them into smaller pieces (ranging from ready for the fireplace to person-sized) and filling up the truck bed and trailer.  Once both truck and trailer were filled, they headed back down The Mountain, getting back to the farm midafternoon after a long day of hard labor.

Massive piles of the better parts of trees available for harvesting with a permit.

Massive piles of the better parts of trees available for harvesting with a permit.

A closer look at the timber pile.

A closer look at the timber pile.

This will keep us warm all winter... right?

This will keep us warm all winter… right?

In the meantime, back on the ranch… or in our case farm… Little Man and I had our own travails.  My lovely little toddler boy was stung in the face by a yellow jacket, initiating what I’m sure is the first of many medical panics of my parenting life.  That is a story for another time, but when Dave and Farmer-Landlord pulled into the yard I had just gotten my swollen-faced angel baby to sleep for his nap.  I was a mess.

Arriving like triumphant hunters, Dave and Farmer-Landlord dismounted from their trusty steed and posed in front of their bounty.  I was impressed, but still distracted by the sting and hadn’t had a chance to tell Dave of what happened since The Mountain was well out of cell range.  Farmer-Landlord misinterpreted my lack of praise and chastised me for not being more glorifying of my MAN.  He had hunted.  He had brought back fire wood.  I was not being as adoring as befitted a gatherer.  I stuttered out something not quite as idolising as Farmer-Landlord thought appropriate, applauding them both on the success of their hunt.  Farmer-Landlord rolled his eyes and looked pityingly at Dave who was finding all of this quite amusing.

The next few minutes were filled with me explaining what happened to Little Man, and then there was a flurry of logs being tossed through the air into piles bordering our property.  I pitched in as much as my bright pink gardening gloves would let me, and surprisingly missed being drilled in the head with the flying pieces of wood.  We now had enough fire wood to (hopefully) last us the winter… we just needed to chain saw most of it into smaller pieces and then split it all.  This was going to take some time…

The saga of the wood splitting will have to wait for another post, but in the meantime I knew that we would need snacks.  Power for the muscles, and comfort for the hunter-gatherer-wood splitter soul.  These Zucchini Oat Muffins have been a huge hit with Little Man’s buddies at play dates.  The last play date when I served these muffins at snack time, one of his little friends informed me that these were delicious and much better than the previous ones I had made, which happened to be quinoa muffins.  With the toddler vote strongly in my pocket, and with Dave attempting to snatch these muffins off of the cooling rack, these are some seriously delicious muffins.

Zucchini Oat Muffins

I am often trying to make baked goods a bit healthier so that I can feel better about feeding them to my toddler… and to myself, of course.  That is how I came up with these muffins in the first place, since most green things are on Little Man’s “persona non grata” list.  These, however, he gobbles up, and will try to snag from his friends’ plates if they are not vigilant.  The batch photographed here was made with the last summer zucchini from the farmers’ market (sigh…).  I had been told by someone wise (my brother) that you could freeze grated zucchini to use in future baked goods, so I gave that a shot here.  I grated the whole zucchini, put half into the batter and half into a plastic baggie in the freezer.  I haven’t used my frozen zucchini booty yet, but will let you know how the experiment works.

Ingredients

1 c. flour

1c. whole wheat flour

1 c. rolled oats (not instant)

½ c. brown sugar, packed

1 tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. ground ginger

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

3 large eggs

¼ c. canola oil

½ c. plain yogurt (fat free is fine, just use good quality)

¼ c. milk (same as for yogurt)

2 c. grated zucchini

Directions

  1. Preheat the oven to 350º F.  Prepare a muffin pan with papers, or you can grease the pan.
  2. In a large bowl combine the flours, oats, sugar, cinnamon, ginger, baking soda, baking powder and salt.
Dry ingredients

Dry ingredients

With the oats

With the oats

3.   In a small bowl whisk together the eggs, oil, yogurt and milk.

Dry and wet ingredients before being combined.

Dry and wet ingredients before being combined.

4.   Add the wet ingredients to the dry, and stir to combine.  Add the zucchini to the mix and combine gently.  Do not over mix the batter or you will toughen your muffins.  Not good.

Combining the two

Combining the dry and wet ingredients.

Adding the zucchini into the batter

Adding the zucchini into the batter

The final Zucchini Oat Muffin batter

The final Zucchini Oat Muffin batter

5.   Scoop the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until golden brown on top.  Test your muffins with a tooth pick to make sure they are cooked through.  If the tooth pick comes out wet, give them another couple of minutes in the oven.  Let the muffins cool in the pan on a rack for about 5 minutes, then remove them from the pan to the rack and cool.  They can be served warm.  Enjoy!

Zucchini Oat Muffin batter ready for the oven.

Zucchini Oat Muffin batter ready for the oven.

If you can believe it, I was so focused on getting the muffins out for Little Man’s buddies at the play date… I forgot to take pictures of the final product.  I’ll be making them again soon, though, and will update the post with the final glorious picture of golden brown deliciousness.  Until then… just use your imagination.  🙂

Click here for a printable version of Zucchini Oat Muffins.

A hiking trail behind our campsite at High Point State Park, New Jersey.

A hiking trail behind our campsite at High Point State Park, New Jersey.

25th Post and Counting…

1 Reply

This is my 25th post on The Sheep Are Out…, a blog about our lives on Vancouver Island.  We’ve lived on the island for about 3 ½ months, and are starting to get a feel for the area.  We’ve wrangled sheep (and our toddler), explored the ocean coastline, played in what feels like a myriad of parks and playgrounds, and begun a quest for the best fish and chips in the greater Nanaimo area.  We feel closer to family (at least our north-of-the-border family) and farther from friends; though that equation is starting to shift as we are making friends here now too.

Little Cowboy touring his new acreage.

Little Cowboy touring his new acreage.

As inevitably happens with any move, it starts to feel impossible to have lived anywhere else.  We know where things are in the house… mostly (please don’t ask for anything in any box in the basement).  We know where to go in town for great sushi or for Little Man’s favorite fried rice.  We know which grocery stores carry the foods we want, which gas stations are the fastest to get in and out of, and where we most want to go when we have the rare chance for a baby sitter.  In short, we are starting to find our feet.

We all know who's the boss here, right?

We all know who’s the boss here, right?

In honor of this 25th post, the recipe I am sharing with you is for what I’ve named the Manic Monday cocktail.  Right after the semester started for Dave, there was a Monday that left us both a bit frazzled around the edges.  It was one of those days when it feels like the wheels are just about to leave the track, but you might be able to hold on for just a moment more.  To celebrate that crazy day being over, I made these Manic Monday cocktails and we toasted the survival of our own little tornado of crazy.

End of a long day.

End of a long day.

In the spirit of joyful survival; to all of our friends and family that we’ve found here; and to our friends and family who we would love to come and visit… Cheers!  May your home feel like home.  May your days be filled with family and friends.  And may you come visit us soon!

463

Manic Monday Cocktail

Makes one cocktail

Ingredients

1 ounce dark rum

1/2 ounce orange liquor

1/2 ounce lemon juice

1 ounce mango juice

Ice cubes

Optional: lightly sweetened citrus soda

Directions

  1. Put all of the ingredients into a cocktail shaker and secure the lid.
  2. Shake vigorously until the metal shaker gets nice and frosty.
  3. Strain the ingredients into a rocks glass with new ice.  This is a great opportunity for ice spheres if you have the forms.
  4. Optional: Top the cocktail with about an ounce of a lightly sweetened citrus soda if you want something a bit brighter.  I love the extra sparkle on a hot evening, but if I want to taste more of the mango then I just keep it simple.

P.S. For those of you who would prefer an alcohol free cocktail, and let’s face it sometimes it’s nice to serve a fancy drink without the booze, try mixing equal parts of mango juice, orange juice and the sparkling lemon soda.  Delicious, refreshing and a special treat for those who can’t have or don’t want the alcohol.

Click here for a printable version of the Manic Monday Cocktail.

Floating Like a Mer-Baby

7 Replies

Up to now Dave and I have done a pretty job of ensuring that Little Man is afraid of water.  He is more like his mother who likes warm, tropical waters, than his father who must be part polar bear. When Little Man was 6 months old we dipped his little baby feet into the subarctic waters of Barrier Lake where Dave’s family has a cabin.  Little Man responded as any 6 month old should, pulled his feet up to his ears and wailed his protest.  About a year later we repeated this process at Laguna Beach, California.  Now admittedly the ocean water was a little bit warmer… a little bit… but it was still January temperatures for California and Little Man’s response was the same as his lake water experience.

Most recently, while living on Vancouver Island, we found a lovely area of the Nanaimo River where it is very calm and still.  Winnie the Pooh would describe this part of the river as an area where the river itself was calm and sure about where it was headed, and therefore not in any particular rush to reach its destination.  If there was a little bridge this would be the perfect place for a game of Pooh Sticks.  The river is also, fed by numerous mountain streams coming from heights where even in the warmth of July snow still blanketed the peaks.  While calm, these were not tropical waters.  On this particularly hot day I was able to wade in just past my knees before refusing to go much deeper, while my polar bear husband was splashing and swimming with reckless abandon.  Our cautious two year old dipped his toes in the water, intuited what his sneaky parents had in mind, and did his best to turn tail immediately and head for the hills… literally.  We, on the other hand, thought that we would help him over his fear of the water and brought him in deeper, with Little Man clinging to his daddy like the best koala bear imaginable.  A little bit later with chattering teeth and blue lips we all got out of the water and went home for some well-deserved grilled cheese sandwiches and a warm bath.

Amongst these arctic water experiences we had a couple of pool excursions that were fine, but Little Man was by no means excited about the idea of playing in water.  At this point I was starting to get a little nervous that my own reticence towards water was rubbing off on my son.  I am the first to admit that I am not the strongest of swimmers, but Dave’s family just might be part mer-people.  They all love the water, doesn’t matter how warm or frigid it might be.  My parents also love taking the grandkids to special pools through a time-share that they are a part of, though most of this has been done with my brother’s fantastic children and not with Little Man since we’ve lived so far away.  My biggest concern was that I don’t want Little Man to miss out on special family aquatic adventures just because his mom is more of a land lover and his well-intentioned parents keep dipping him in arctic waters.

Around the same time that I was mulling over this “dilemma” I heard about the Nanaimo Aquatic Center.  I filed the name away, associating it with the sad, little indoor pools that I remember as a child; the fumes of chlorine wafting heavy above the water.  My memories are further soured by a couple of teenage swimming instructors that were too young to understand how to work with a child who was afraid (or at least strongly concerned) about the water.  In my mind, therefore, the Aquatic Center was something that we might try in the dead of winter when no other outside activities were at all possible.  That would have been a horrible mistake.

The Nanaimo Aquatic Center is one of the coolest public access indoor pools that I’ve seen.  It contains multiple pools, some for laps, some for aquatic aerobic and other exercise classes, some for great heated soaking, and a large one for kids.  The “kiddie pool” is the first thing you see when you leave the changing areas, and you come face to face with what appears to be the better half of a schooner suspended over ankle-deep warm waters.  The ship has stairs leading up to its cockpit and a small slide splashing down into shallow waters.  When Little Man first tried this slide he ended up ankles in the air with a stunned fish-like expression.  The shallow waters lead to a small, secluded pool where the water is half a meter deep and protected from the splashing of the other areas, perfect for tired parents or nervous kids.  Both of these areas lead to the larger Wave Pool.

I have not yet seen the actual waves in the Wave Pool, since the machine is turned on later in the afternoon after we’ve had our morning swim.  The pool itself, however, is pretty cool.  On one end you can walk in from a shallow slope until on the far end it reaches a depth of 1.5 meters.  The pool is ringed by a series of low walls designed to look like the craggy rocks lining the shore, with a diorama in the deep end of a few pine trees complete with seagulls.  The ceiling over the pool is festooned with colorful banners depicting artists’ views of the ocean.  My favorite is the one of a person and a dog swimming in the ocean, but the view is from underneath the water looking up like from a fish’s point of view.  The other end of the pool has a small lazy river, or Magic Waters in Little Man’s parlance, and a heated bubbling cauldron of a jacuzzi at its center.  In short, Little Man loves this pool and all of its waters.  So do his parents.

Our first visit there showed me just how well we had trained Little Man to fear the water.  He cried at the shower where everyone starts out rinsing off before hitting the pool itself.  Then when we cleared the changing rooms and he saw the  expanse of water that we were carrying him to his experience told him that this could only end one way; with him being dunked into ice cold water.  His feet zipped up to his ears, his cries echoed off the far walls, and his koala-bear hold on his Daddy near choked Dave out.  It took us a good 30 to 45 minutes of warm, shallow water with him sitting in our laps or clinging like a koala before he was ready to stand on his own.  That first day we considered it a success when he let us hold him and just move around the pool.  The second visit I took him by myself since Dave was working.  That visit went better than the first and Little Man was more comfortable in the water.  He let me pull him through the deeper parts of the pool, ran around splashing in the shallows, and the only tears shed were those of a tired toddler who didn’t want to leave the fun when it was time to go home for lunch and a nap.  Since then, each time we’ve gone back he’s gotten a bit braver and a bit more adventurous, until now he asks to go to the pool.  Dave and I have to use code words like “Warehouse 13” (aka place of wonder) when we talk about the pool at home.  If we forget to use code Little Man will head straight to the closet where we store his swim vest and declare he’s ready to go “float like a mer-baby.”

That term comes from when giving Little Man a bath I wanted to rinse out his curly locks, but he didn’t want to get his head wet.  So when I laid him back to rinse out his hair, I would say that he was “floating like a turtle” referring to one of his favorite bath toys.  Then one bath time he corrected me saying that he wasn’t a turtle, he was a mermaid.  I didn’t want to debate the gender differences here, so instead we used the term mer-baby and it stuck.  From that moment on, floating on his back, letting his curly locks flow in the water, has been called floating like a mer-baby.  Now that’s one of his favorite things to do at the pool, float on his back, with his curls rippling in the water, gazing up at the beautiful banners hanging from the ceiling, and singing softly to himself.  This has become one of my favorite memories of our first few months in Nanaimo.

Since first discovering the Aquatic Center I’ve found numerous other pools like this across the region.  Beban Pool has a similar, if older, version to what we have at the Aquatic Center.  Down in Victoria there are six different pool centers like this, the one described by my friends as the best is the Crystal Pool.  Unfortunately it was closed for maintenance the last time we were in Victoria, but I can’t wait to check it out the next time we get to visit.

When we got home from that first successful day at the Aquatic Center I wanted a simple, but celebratory lunch.  My goal was to continue the great feelings from the pool with something special at home too; linking memories of water to fun comforting times with family.  What popped immediately to mind was a Bacon and Tomato sandwich.  The best Bacon and Tomato sandwiches are made by Dave’s dad, Joe.  In fact, one of Little Man’s favorite books is Up, Down, and Around by Katherine Ayres, this book was first had read to him by Miss Katie, the excellent Children’s Librarian at the Pella Public Library in Iowa, and describes how different plants grow in a garden.  At the end of the story the little boy sits down with his dad, a friend and some animals to feast on the bounty of the garden.  Little Man likes to point out all the different foods being eaten.  The dad in the picture is biting into a sandwich, and when we ask Little Man what it is that the dad is eating he replies “Bacon and Tomato Sandwich.”  Then when we ask him who likes that kind of sandwich, he says “Papa Hopwood.”  So from the mouths of babes, this sandwich is elevated by Joe.  The best one I’ve ever had was up at the cabin this summer.  It’s a simple creation of lightly toasted wheat bread (the whole wheat can be accredited to Ruth’s influences) with a generous slather of mayonnaise, lots of great summer ripe tomatoes and of course the bacon.  The pictures here are of that delicious sandwich that Little Man devoured, and would have licked the plate clean if I’d let him.

Joe's Bacon and Tomato Sandwich

Joe’s Bacon and Tomato Sandwich

For my version of the sandwich I’ve made a few tweaks, all of which Dave objects to since the original is already perfection.  I can’t disagree with that, but I wanted to make this more of my own so I had to mess with it… just a little.  I like to add peppery greens to the sandwich to cut through the richness of the bacon, and arugula or watercress as my two favorites.  I also like to mix a little Dijon mustard into the mayonnaise before slathering it into the bread.  I find that the mustard brightens the heaviness of the sandwich without taking away from any of its bacony awesomeness.  So while this is not, Joe’s Bacon and Tomato sandwich, it is awfully good.

Not Your Daddy’s Bacon and Tomato Sandwich

(Serves 4)

1 lb. good quality, thick cut, smoked bacon

¼ cup mayonnaise

1 tbsp. Dijon mustard

2 large ripe tomatoes

8 slices good whole wheat bread

2 cups fresh arugula, or peppery lettuce

Preheat the oven to 400º Fahrenheit.  Line a large sheet pan with paper towels, and then top the paper towels with a cooling rack.  Lay the bacon slices down without overlapping them onto the rack and roast them for 15-20 minutes.  Be sure to check the bacon periodically to be sure that it isn’t browning too quickly.  Once the bacon is done, remove it from the oven and allow it to cool.  I love cooking bacon this way, since it not only allows me to multitask other parts of the meal, but it also gets rid of the splattering mess all over my stove and therefor cuts down on clean up.  Double bonus.

While the bacon is roasting, combine the mayonnaise with the mustard in a small bowl and set aside.  Then slice the tomatoes thickly, lay them on a plate and sprinkle them lightly with salt.

About 7-10 minutes before the bacon is done, toast the bread lightly.  This should be just enough to give the bread a little bit of a crunch, but leaves the interior nice and fluffy.  Once the bacon is out of the oven, slather one side of each piece of bread with the mayonnaise/mustard mixture.  Layer the tomatoes across four of the pieces of bread.  Top the tomatoes with the bacon, dividing it up between the sandwiches.  Then top the bacon with the arugla or other greens.  Lastly, crown the sandwich with the remaining slice of bread, cut each sandwich in half (if desired) and enjoy.

Click here for a printable card of the Not Your Daddy’s Bacon and Tomato Sandwich.

Little Man, having completely devoured his own sandwich, was now working his whiles to get mine too.

Little Man, having completely devoured his own sandwich, was now working his whiles to get mine too.

Poking at a Wood Fire

13 Replies

To poke a wood fire is more solid enjoyment than almost anything else in the world.
~Charles Dudley Warner

This week I lighted my first fire by myself.  For many this may be a mundane occurrence, something mastered years ago and now done as handily as tying your shoes.  I, however, am a city girl who grew up in a semi-arid desert where fires were not needed, and in fact can be looked at with great suspicion since half the state tends to burn down each year.  I’ve been camping and gone to cookouts where fires were lit, I’ve gathered wood and cooked/flamed marshmallows on fires, and I’ve done my share of poking at a wood fire with a good, solid stick.  Up until this week, however, I have never started a fire by myself.  But now the weather is changing and we need a fire in our basement wood stove.

Since we passed the first official day of fall I’ve noticed our neighbors stocking up on firewood to last through the winter.  The piles of neatly stacked logs are quite impressive, and I want to build up our plentiful supply as well.  I’ve been teased by the gentle smoke perfuming the chill Fall air, curling out of other chimneys.  Our chimney, on the other hand, had no smoke since we had not yet lit a fire in our stove and I wasn’t sure how to fix that situation.  Up until now I’ve never had use or need of a wood burning stove and had no idea how to light one.

I also have to admit that I don’t like feeling incompetent.  I don’t like having to ask people for help, but I’ve trained myself to do so when I must.  And I certainly don’t like being reliant on other people for the basic necessities of life… like fire.  So when the weather got colder and all my neighbors started taunting me with their curlicues of smoke, I broke down and asked both Dave and my landlord how to use the wood burning stove.  The Farmer gave me a bemused look and said that you light a fire in it, as if this is something that anyone can do, like tying your own shoes.  And for many it is that simple, but for me whose most recent experience with lighting a fire literally involved flipping the switch in our room at the resort… Let’s just say that it wasn’t such a simple idea.  Dave’s response was not much better.  He shrugged his shoulders, said he wasn’t exactly sure (he’s a city kid too) but that we’d need kindling, and then he went on to do something else leaving me without answers and without fire.  In Dave’s defense, I think he was acting out of self-preservation.  The man is always hot, and has never been able to wear sweaters even in the coldest of Januaries.  So anyone with ideas of Christmas presents for Dave that consist of sweaters, save your money.  He’ll love them, try one on even, and then break into a dripping sweat and tear the thing off.  I think in our current predicament Dave is concerned that the stove might heat up the house too well.  I, on the other hand, am more of a lizard.  Give me a hot rock and some sunshine (with the appropriate… or excessive… sun protection required) and I’m happy.  I wanted that stove lit, and I wanted it lit yesterday.

First, however, we needed to get wood.  Out here you can order wood to be delivered to your door or you can do what most people do, which is to cut and split your own.  For an insanely reasonable amount of money you can get a permit to harvest lumber from the tops of trees cut down last year by the lumber companies.  Then you fill up your truck, cart the logs back home, and get to work.  For us, that means a chain saw to cut the logs into serviceable size, and then an ax to split them apart.  Our landlord has already made one trip to get timber, and Dave will be joining him on another trip this weekend.  Last night Dave went outside to make sure his chainsaw was in functional condition, and ended up portioning all of the logs with our landlord, making short work of the task.  Little Man and I went outside to visit the lumberjacks, and I was curious to see where the log splitting would be done since I fully intend on being a part of that.  When I asked our landlord about the splitting he eyed my foot gear worriedly.  Apparently pink Uggs are not appropriate wood splitting shoes.  I’ll have to work on that.

The next day I had just put Little Man down to nap and was in the office typing away when I realized that I wasn’t just cold, but even my nose was freezing.  Enough.  I was tired of waiting, and yes, I was annoyed at the idea of having to wait on a man to rescue me.  I was going to get a fire started in that stove, or burn up all our kindling in the process.  There is an anthropologist (who does not deserve to be named here) whose main claim to fame is a theory that men (and I do mean “men,” not the English language’s poor attempt at using a masculine word to define a group of people made up of both men and women) developed bipedalism (the ability to walk on two legs) because of their need to hunt.  His theory goes on to literally leave women at home near the empty cook fire, pregnant, hungry, cold and on all fours, waiting for their menfolk to walk home and feed them.  Yeeeeesssssss…  That is one lonely man…  I digress, but the point here is that there was something about the simplicity of fire equalling heat that galled me since I could not produce it.  I did not want to wait any longer to be granted the knowledge of how to create fire.

So I went downstairs armed with one of those long barbeque lighters (I wasn’t ready to go full Survivorman… and besides, I don’t think we own a flint striker) and approached the stove like one does a beast that you don’t think will hurt you, but you’re just not quite sure.  I opened its maw, put in the log, and then looked at it, trying to remember any tricks about starting a fire from my childhood camping days.  I knew that I needed kindling, so I took all of the splinters of wood that Dave had made and tossed them into the stove as well.  Anyone who knows anything about starting a fire should be cringing right about now.  Then I remembered something that Dave said about using newspaper.  So I found a box of wadded up newspaper that had been used as packaging from our hundreds of moving boxes, and stuffed that into the stove as well.  Then I sat back on my heels and puzzled at my mess.  That couldn’t possibly work.  Eventually I figured out that this should be more of a layer cake affair, with wadded up newspaper at the bottom, kindling laid out on top of that and then the log on top of my pyre.  All the time I’m messing with this I keep asking myself how many PhDs it takes to light a fire.

The set up...

The set up…

Then I lit the newspaper at the base of my pyre, sat back on my heels again and smiled at my accomplishment.  That is until the newspaper smoked up, and the smoke started pouring into the room.  A quick flail at the damper to open it, and soon the smoke was coursing through the chimney, joining the scented offerings of my neighbors.  I sat there for quite some time, enjoying the crackle of the wood and the scent of its burning.  Then I heard Little Man stirring upstairs through the monitor and I closed the stove’s door.  The effect was instant.  I went from having a live, crackling, aromatic fire, to something that looked a lot like the Christmas channel with burning logs but the sound was turned off.  All evidence of “fire” disappeared with the sound and scent dampening of the door.  However, the heat continued to radiate, and while I missed the sound and the scent it was good to know that the fire was safe inside its home while we were safe inside ours.

fire3

I had achieved fire and for one night at least had heated our home.  I would later learn that to start my prized fire I had used a king’s ransom of kindling, as I told Dave of my accomplishment and he stared morosely at the pile where all of his lovely kindling had been.  The upcoming forecast shows a couple days of higher temperatures, and then we will drop down again.  That should give us a chance to restock our supply of combustibles, and I will definitely be more frugal with our supplies.

Our own Christmas Burning Log channel.

Our own Christmas Burning Log channel.

It never fails that the scent of a wood burning fire makes me yearn for cocoa and flaming marshmallows.  One of our neighbors has not only a wood burning stove to heat their home, but also an entire cast iron affair complete with four burners (now I see where that name came from) and an oven all fueled by wood alone.  Their stove is gorgeous and I’m fascinated by it.  It has me looking at our own modest, but eco-friendly stove, wondering what kind of treats I could whip up using its top as a heat source.  A friend recently shared with me that in one of the bad snows a couple of years ago the power had gone out and since she had an electric stove with no electricity she ended up cooking a simple dinner of rice on the top of her wood heating stove.  I don’t need to resort to rice cooking on the fireplace yet, but maybe some popcorn… or hot cocoa… or perhaps a gooey cheese dip for a crusty, toasty loaf of bread…  I’m going to have to give this some thought.  And I would love to hear from any of you, if you have an idea of things to cook on top of a wood burning stove or open flame.

For now, I’m going to content myself with some hot cocoa, and this time at least will make it on our upstairs stove.  The wood burning stove in the basement is so efficient that it heats the area quickly, and I think that Dave would boycott.  The night of “my fire” I made Dave and I a couple of mugs of this awesome cocoa taught to me by my sister-in-law Erin.  Auntie Erin’s cocoa is dairy free, but you will not miss the lack of milk.  It tastes like gorgeous dark chocolate, without being overly sweet or thick like some dairy-based cocoas can be.  Don’t get me wrong, I love just about all food-products that come from a cow, including milk.  This recipe simply doesn’t need it.  If, however, you are dead set on a dairy-based cocoa, I have a suggestion for you below.  You won’t want to miss it.

Auntie Erin's Cocoa in two of the mugs I threw myself.

Auntie Erin’s Cocoa in two of the mugs I threw myself.

Auntie Erin’s Cocoa

(Serves 2)

The resulting cocoa is rich with dark chocolate, but is not cloyingly sweet like some of the premade mixes can be.  You can use regular measuring cups for this recipe, or do what Erin and I do, which is to measure with the mugs that you will be drinking the cocoa from.  That means that everyone gets a nice full mug of this deliciously dark, hot cocoa.  And please note that this recipe calls for real cocoa powder, not hot cocoa mix.  You can use whatever brand of cocoa powder you have on hand, but the better the quality of your cocoa powder the better this drink will be.  The main point is to taste your final cocoa before you pour it back into the mugs.  If you want it sweeter, add more agave.  If you want more chocolate, add more cocoa powder.  The first time you make it, try to be sparing in the amount of cocoa and agave you use.  It’s easy to add more to the drink, but it cannot be taken back out again.  Another trick that I use is after I pour the milks from the mugs into the saucepan, I partially fill the mugs with hot water to keep them warm until the cocoa is done.  I want my cocoa hot, not cooled down by a cold mug.s

I like to measure the milks in the same mugs that the cocoa will be served in.

I like to measure the milks in the same mugs that the cocoa will be served in.

Ingredients

1 mug of almond milk, unsweetened

1 mug of vanilla rice milk, sweetened is fine

2-3 heaping tbsp. cocoa powder

1-2 tbsp. dark agave syrup

Directions

Combine all of the ingredients in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Whisk the mixture constantly so that it does not scorch and all the cocoa powder is slowly incorporated into the milks.  Once the cocoa starts to steam, dip in a spoon and taste for sweetness and amount of chocolate.  If you want more chocolate, add a bit more of the cocoa powder.  If you want more sweetness, add a bit more of the agave.  Pour into mugs and enjoy.

All the ingredients in the pan.

All the ingredients in the pan.

It's important to whisk constantly so that the cocoa does not scorch.

It’s important to whisk constantly so that the cocoa does not scorch.

Now the best part, taste testing to make sure there is the perfect amount of cocoa and sweetness.

Now the best part, taste testing to make sure there is the perfect amount of cocoa and sweetness.

Click here for a printable recipe for Auntie Erins Cocoa.

Now for hot cocoa that uses milk…

Nigella’s Feast Hot Chocolate

For those of you who would like more of a cow-based hit to your drink, the best hot chocolate I’ve had comes from Nigella Lawson’s Feast: Food to Celebrate Life cookbook.  This is my favorite cookbook, and if you haven’t checked it out before I highly recommend it.  Just about every celebratory meal I’ve had a part in over the last five years has come from this book; from an invitation signing party before the wedding (aka how to get your friends to help you with an impossible task by plying them with food), to a welcome home dinner for my fiancé with a Georgian feast as he came back from the Republic of Georgia, to our housewarming party in Indiana, the list goes on and on.

So let me stop here with the gentle nudge to check out the hot chocolate recipe in Feast for one of those nights when you just want to feel pampered.  Nigella’s hot chocolate is flavored with real dark chocolate (save some to nibble on while the milk heats), sweetened with honey and brown sugar, and spiced with a cinnamon stick and vanilla.  Cuddle up with a mug of this and a favorite book and you’re good to go.  Oh, and did I mention that it is laced with a little dark rum?  Silly me for forgetting to mention that…  It’s titled Alcoholic Hot Chocolate and is found on page 420.  Feel free to leave out the rum if you’d rather, but it’s delicious as is.

cocoa5

Taking Things a Bit Too Far…

6 Replies

OK, so I might have taken things a wee bit too far the other morning.  Just a smidge.

We were struggling, as usual, to get the momentum moving in our ever-so-halting quest to start our day.  The plan was to leave the house in about a half hour so that Little Man and I could drop Dave off at work and then we would head to a friend’s house for a play date.  That’s when it happened…  I remembered that I hadn’t made muffins or scones to bring for a snack.  Now, in hindsight my response could have been “ah well, next time I’ll do it.”  Then I would have simply grabbed a couple of extra handfuls of the healthy portable snacks we have around so that there would be extra to share with his buddies.  That would have been reasonable.  That would have been a good use of time.  That also would have been a wise choice leading to marital accord and to not freak out your spouse who is chronically stressed about being late to work (or maybe he’s just stressed about my ability to find things that “must” be done before we leave the house, like unpacking one box just to say that I’d done my quota for the day, or transplanting a seedling of kale to Little Man’s garden spot, or moving the pillows before they get destroyed by cats, the list goes on…).   As you might have guessed, my response to this situation was not the rational one.

Instead, I grabbed my Ipad and started to flip desperately through recipes to see what ingredients we had on hand so that I could whip something up.  I couldn’t do the Blackberry Oatmeal Muffins the batter has to rest for 20 minutes before baking and we didn’t have that kind of time.  No, not the Cheddar Chive Scones; I wanted sweet not savory. And not the Banana Chocolate Muffins; I wanted their appearance to be a bit more wholesome since I was taking them to someone else’s house… and there would be fewer chocolatey hand prints to clean up this way also.  So I decided to wing a new batch of scones that I hadn’t tried yet: Blueberry Cinnamon Scones.  Now set on this path, nothing could sway me, much to my spouse’s dismay.  Little Man, however, was in complete support of my harebrained plan and was singing his scone song in the background.

I start tossing ingredients into the food processor, whirring up oats into oat flour, adding the other flours, brown sugar, etc.  Then when I got to the part of the recipe where I needed to cube up the butter, I glanced into the refrigerator and realized my fatal error.  I was out of eggs.  For my plan of world domination to succeed I needed one egg.  I could have stopped at this point, dumped the flour mixture into a resealable bag, tossed it in the refrigerator and finished them at another time.  No big deal.  Instead, I grabbed my egg collecting basket and booked it out the front door. Oy…  Isn’t that what the normal person would do in the morning?  If you’re out of eggs, what other option but to run through your backyard like a crazed banshee, across the farm lot and to the hen house.  The sun was up, but just, and it was peeking over the cedars behind the barn.  I had a moment to admire the gilded edges of the sunflowers that ring the garden before I was at the hen house door.

I was already dressed to go to my friend’s house, so now I was carefully stepping around chicken poo in my low-top Converse to get to the laying boxes.  The chickens were not happy to see me, primarily since an industrious farmer’s daughter had already been up to visit the birds in order to harvest their plenty.  Having previously been disturbed and robbed, the chickens did not look kindly on me as I prepared to loot their nests again.  Then their looks of dismay turned to scorn as we all realized that where there are normally dozens of eggs, now there were only two single eggs to be found.  I grabbed my booty and headed for the door before their derision turned to outright chicken hostility.

Outside the sheep berated me for not filling their troughs, the pigs tried to get my attention asking why I hadn’t brought out the slop bucket, and as I dodged a particularly large dragon fly, it was all I could do to not break out in hysterical giggles. Who would have thought that my going back to graduate school (where I met Dave and started our crazy adventure) would have led to this.

Once back inside the house I quickly finished the dough and got the scones in the oven.  Dave was still getting ready, trying to convince Little Man to change out of his pjs, and casting me rather bemused glances.  Little Man was dancing around playing hockey, signing, and generally ignoring whatever his parents wanted him to do.  And I had succeeded in destroying our kitchen before even making my own cereal.  Let the games begin…

As it all ended up, the scones were great even though they needed a little extra baking time because of the frozen blueberries.  I was able to get Dave to work almost on time, and Little Man and I had a wonderful time playing with friends.  The only glitch was during the play date when Little Man came up beside me on the couch at our friends’ house with a mouth bulging with blueberry scone and a mischievous smile on his face.  He had already finished his own scone, and seeing his friend leave the table to play with a truck, Little Man struck with viper-like speed.  Then he came to me, not having an ounce of subterfuge in his heart (yet), smiled his blueberry grin, and proudly stated “took scone.”  Little Man is definitely his father’s son.  Just ask his Auntie Jen about the pilfered cherry tomato when we were in graduate school.  She learned quickly to not leave spare tasty bits around like that.  While Little Man managed to stuff quite a lot of the pilfered scone into his mouth, there was still a bit left and I don’t think his friend minded.  I’ll just bring a few extra to leave behind next time.  And perhaps I’ll plan a little bit in advance before I find myself wondering if I have time to go find a cow to milk for my tea.

Blueberry Cinnamon Scones

Blueberry Cinnamon Scones

Blueberry Cinnamon Scones

Ingredients

½ cup oats

½ cup whole wheat flour

¾ cup white flour

2 ½ tsp. baking powder

1 tblsp. sugar

1 tsp. cinnamon

¼ tsp. salt

1 ½ cup blueberries, frozen

6 tblsp. butter, ½ in. cubes

1 large egg

1/4 cup yogurt, plain

3-4 tblsp. milk

1 tbsp. cinnamon sugar

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
2. In a food processor blitz the oats to a coarse meal.  Add the other flours, baking powder, sugar, cinnamon and salt, and then process to combine.  Add the butter and pulse to blend.  The butter should be in roughly pea-sized bits.

Oats in the food processor with the blade attachment in place.

Oats in the food processor with the blade attachment in place.

Coarsely ground oat flour after just a few pulses in the processor.

Coarsely ground oat flour after just a few pulses in the processor.

The dry ingredients.

The dry ingredients.

The dry ingredients with the butter processed into the flour mixture.

The dry ingredients with the butter processed into the flour mixture.

3. Pour the flour mixture into a large bowl.  Add the blueberries and toss to coat.  Set aside.

Lovely frozen blueberries harvested from a local farm with a friend.

Lovely frozen blueberries harvested from a local farm with a friend.

The blue berries get tossed in the flour mixture before adding the wet ingredients.

The blue berries get tossed in the flour mixture before adding the wet ingredients.

4. In a small bowl beat together the egg, yogurt and milk.  Add the wet ingredients to the flour mixture and mix until the dough just comes together.  If it is too dry and powdery to hold its shape, then add more milk a scant tablespoon at the time.  It should look quite dry (see picture), and will not actually come together until dumped out and kneaded.

Yogurt is an unusual ingredient for scones, but I find it works great with the blueberries here.

Yogurt is an unusual ingredient for scones, but I find it works great with the blueberries here.

The dough will look quite crumbly when it is all mixed together. This is your moment of faith. If there is unmixed flour at the bottom of your bowl, add a little more milk and mix again. If not, dump it onto the board and prepare to be amazed.

The dough will look quite crumbly when it is all mixed together. This is your moment of faith. If there is unmixed flour at the bottom of your bowl, add a little more milk and mix again. If not, dump it onto the board and prepare to be amazed.

5. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and  knead it 4-5 times.  This is not like kneading bread dough, but is more of a gentle fold over.  The goal is to not handle the dough too much, since that warms up the butter.  The colder your butter, the flakier your scones.  Once the dough is together and kneaded, pat it into a 8-inch round and cut it into eight wedges.

The dough before being kneaded looks quite dry.

The dough before being kneaded looks quite dry.

After gentle kneading/folding the dough comes together and can be patted into a large disk.

After gentle kneading/folding the dough comes together and can be patted into a large disk.

Here the dough has been cut into 8 wedges and wrapped in one layer of plastic wrap. I recommend two layers of wrap to keep it safe in the freezer.

Here the dough has been cut into 8 wedges and wrapped in one layer of plastic wrap. I recommend two layers of wrap to keep it safe in the freezer.

6. At this point you can bake your scones immediately, or you can freeze the dough to use in the near future.  If you choose to freeze your scones, wrap them well in plastic wrap and put them in the freezer on some form of plate or sheet tray.  Once they are completely frozen you can remove the plate and keep them frozen for 1-2 weeks.

7. When you are ready to bake your scones, preheat the oven to 425 degrees F, and space the scones evenly on the prepared baking sheet.  Brush the scones with milk and sprinkle them with the cinnamon sugar.
8. Bake until golden brown, about 12-15 minutes if the dough was used immediately or closer to 25 minutes if the dough was frozen.  To check if the dough is baked completely, just give a scone a little touch on top while still on the baking rack.  If the scone seems gooey in the center you will feel it, and that means it needs more time.  If the scone is mostly firm to the touch, then it is done and can be cooled.  If they need more time, bake for an additional 3-5 minutes and check them again.  Cool on a wire rack and serve.

I baked these scones from the frozen dough two days after mixing them together.

I baked these scones from the frozen dough two days after mixing them together.

Click here for a printable version of the Blueberry Cinnamon Scones recipe.

scones 2

Taking One For The Team

7 Replies

In a previous post (sometimes it feels like a previous life), I mentioned that I am an archaeologist and that I have worked in Turkey.  It is amazing work; literally digging up the past and holding it in your hands.  I love it, but it is always hard to be away from my friends, family, boyfriend (at the time, husband of course now) and cats.  I can’t even imagine what it would be like if I had to be away from Little Man for that period of time.  Some day… but not today…  For my first couple of field seasons in Turkey as a graduate student we only had access to internet once a week when we went into town for our day off.  The connections were slow, power often shut off randomly and we had to deal with the extra vowels of the Turkish keyboard.  In order to feel connected to my distant loved ones I would jot down stories in my notebook of things that were happening over the course of the week.  Then on our day off we would all head to an internet café and from there I would email my latest story en masse to friends and family.  In a strange way this let me feel connected through the shared experience of reading and writing about events, even when the events weren’t being experienced together.  It feels remarkably similar to what I am doing now with this blog.

 In the move to Canada I came across a folder of printed out emails that I call my Turkey Tales.  I boxed them up (they are around here somewhere…) with the thought that they would be fun to read later on (like years from now).  When I started this blog Dave suggested that I should see if any of the Turkey Tales would work as posts.  It was a good idea, but I’d have to find that blasted box first.  Then on a recent visit from Dave’s Mom she mentioned a particular story that I had emailed during the field season just before Dave and I married.  It turned out that Ruth kept this particular story in one of her email folders and opens it up from time to time when she wants/needs a good laugh.  I asked if she could forward it to me and she did.  As I re-read this “post” I started smiling and chuckling as remembered it through the written version. 

Me and fellow archaeologist/soccer star "Cat."

Me and fellow archaeologist/soccer star “Cat.”

The story itself deals with a soccer match between we archaeologists and our Kurdish workers from a local village near the excavation site.  The match took place during the summer field season directly before my wedding to Dave.  I had forgotten some of the details, but especially now as Dave and I celebrate our eighth wedding anniversary it seems apropos (that’s for you Dave) to share the story here.

 The summer before our wedding Dave and I were apart for about three months.  I was in Turkey excavating for nine weeks and got home one day after he had left for a six week field season in the Republic of Georgia.  He would come back from that field season with a mere two weeks left until the wedding.  When he left for his fieldwork he’d left me two letters; one was the perfect love letter (a note on the outside instructed that I was to read this one first) and the second was a list of things for the wedding that he was supposed to take care of… but didn’t.  Doh!  Around the time he was writing his second letter, I was preparing for this soccer match.

 The Saga of the Soccer Match

Here is the saga of the soccer match…  Last year the dig team played a soccer game against their excavation hands from a local village.  Everyone had such a blast they decided to make it an annual event; the yubangi (foreigners) against the locals.  This year the excavation season has been difficult.  We had all the problems with the workers’ strike, and the village that we had to cut off relations with was the one from the soccer saga last year.  Even though we could not work together at the excavation anymore the team still wanted to have a game, and it was decided that the archaeologists would make up one team, and any of our workers regardless of which village they hailed from could make up the other team.  This decision was extremely naïve on our part, as the different villages and lineages did not necessarily get along and there was a definite internal pecking order that we were oblivious to.

 I was asked to play but was afraid of making a fool of myself so decided to embrace my chicken-ness and play spectator instead.  Another female excavator felt the same way and we plotted to be cheerleaders and not allow ourselves to get dragged into the actual event.

 Game day.  After a full day of excavation we left for the match.  We piled into the van, all of us in various forms of excavation clothes including worn and dusty khakis, torn runners and t-shirts, the women with our Kurdish headscarves firmly in place.  In short, we were unimpressive.  We got to the soccer pitch a little early so our team would have time to warm up, play around with a ball and hopefully not embarrass ourselves too much.  As we pulled into the parking area we saw that the other team was already there, and our jaws dropped.  Not only was the other “team” there but they were all wearing professional uniforms; matching jerseys with numbers and names, striped socks, boots, the entire kit.  Apparently the team of Kurdish villagers we thought we were going to play were actually a regional semi-pro team.  To make it worse they also were only from the one village and had told all of our other workers from the remaining four villages that they couldn’t play.  For a moment our team considered calling the match off, but the strike had left all of us a bit nervy and the chance to run around playing soccer, not doing anything academic, was too good to pass up.  The game would go on.

 Not only was the opposing team different from what we expected, but so was the pitch.  It was carpeted and smaller than a normal soccer field, which was great since if we’d had to run on a normal sized field I think we would have expired.  The sun was going down, as was the temperature, but it was still well over 100 degrees F in the shade.  While we had been doing hard physical labor for weeks, excavation is not largely cardiovascular and every one of the archaeologists was winded within minutes.  The Turkish game was also played differently.  You could play the ball off of the chain link fences surrounding the pitch and the goals were very shallow.

 The fan base was unique as well.  In rural Turkey it is unseemly for women sit with men whom they are not related to, so there were no female fans on their side.  There certainly were no female players; and therefore no Kurdish women making spectacles of themselves.  The same cannot be said for the American side.  The bleachers were filled with the other team’s kinsmen and a handful of excavation workers that had not been “called up” to the team.  And then there was Jenny and myself; hooting and hollering, jumping up and down, and all around acting remarkably unladylike in the Turkish/Kurdish sense.  We apparently scandalized the neighborhood as we would learn the next day.  Good Kurdish women do not cheer or raise their voices like we did.  Nor did they heckle the opposing team with comparisons to various parts of a sheep’s anatomy.  We were obviously not good Kurdish women.

Me in Urfa looking over the Balikligol (Fish Pond) and wearing the same headscarf from soccer fame.

Me in Urfa looking over the Balikligol (Fish Pond) and wearing the same headscarf from soccer fame.

Needless to say, we started playing and pretty quickly the slaughter began.  Our Kurdish cook and driver had agreed to play for us and they were both surprisingly good; much better than any of us.  I’m not sure why we were surprised by this, but we were obviously pretty slow at that point.  They are the only two who kept the “match” from being a wholesale blowout.

 In the last ten minutes of the game our cook was in goal and called for me to come and take his place.  He wanted to go forward in order to try to score a couple goals so we won’t lose so pathetically.  We had stopped counting at this point, but I think the score was something along the lines of 2 to 10.  The ringers had been taking it easy on us at the end.

 Not wanting to disappoint our cook who had miraculously made coming home from the excavation to his meals something to look forward to… I agreed to go in.  You learn early on that to keep an excavation team functioning, you’ve got to keep them happy.  The best way to do that is to keep them well fed.  We don’t have many bells and whistles in the field, but good food goes a long way.  In a future post I’ll share the story of the “hairy red sauce” of the previous field season and you’ll see how important this can be.  Ugh!

 So the cook wanted me to take his place.  We were already short handed on the field, and in order to save my supper (literally) I was going into goal.  There was no way this could end well.

 My “uniform” consisted of a clean (relatively) white t-shirt, loose green palazzo pants, an embroidered headscarf and sandals.  I was hardly something to strike fear into the hearts of those wanting to slam the ball into the net as hard as they could.  May I also add that I have never been in the goal?  Ever.  And that the Turkish ball was different from standard soccer balls, being a little larger and really heavy.  All I could think about was that this ball would leave a mark.

 The sun had gone down and the field’s lights weren’t good.  I was sure that I would be the biggest embarrassment of a goalie ever, but at least my ego would have taken one for the team.  Small enough encouragement.

 I got in the goal and quickly took off my flimsy sandals before I twisted an ankle.  I did not want to repeat an injury to my feet like I shared in the Family Dinner post (posted on 9-12-13.  The soccer match took place one year after the salmon dinner).  A ball was quickly, but softly, kicked at the goal and I ran after it like I was chasing my cat, bent at the waste, bum in the air, arms outstretched.  I had just as much success blocking the ball as I’ve had catching Zadi when she zooms through the room.  I was undeterred, however.

 When the next shot came, I pushed a player from other team out of the way and somehow ended up sprawled across the goal with the ball outside of the net.  Not my most graceful maneuver, but an effective one.  All I could think of was Dave saying “that’s my girl.”  Then a third shot came and I was able to block it pretty easily. I promise you I was not getting cocky, just lucky.  I was sure that any second a ball was going to come with my name on it and I would be nursing a broken nose for the wedding.

Me in Istanbul posing before Dave and I went out for a dinner to celebrate the end of a successful field season. All 10 toes accountd for.

Me in Istanbul posing before Dave and I went out for a dinner to celebrate the end of a successful field season. All 10 toes accountd for.

 And then it came.  I still don’t remember it coming; never saw who took the shot.  All I remember is a stinging fire in my middle thigh region across both legs.  Everyone gasped as the resounding slap echoed off the concrete walls.  Players froze not sure what I would do.  My girl friends on the team said that if they hadn’t loved me before, that sacrifice would have bought their hearts.

 And the ball was just sitting there right in front of the goal…

 And my brain finally realized that I should probably pick it up…

 So I did and then dramatically collapsed in a heap on the floor hamming it up.  Everyone started laughing again and I was a hero, though we still lost 5 to 10.  At least I only let in one.

 And now each thigh has a nicely yellowing half moon bruise that when I stand with my legs together share a remarkable resemblance to a Turkish soccer ball.  I never thought that taking one for the team would smart quite so much.  After the match the winning team served us hot tea, and we eventually went home to nurse our wounds.  I needed an ice pack.

 I’ve since tried to figure out which of the workers took that shot.  My current workmen seem to have developed a convenient case of amnesia and no one is willing to fess up.  One did bring me a nicely woven head scarf beaded by his mother.  I wonder which one of his cousins is the guilty party…

 —

Today –

It’s been just over eight years since that story took place.  What a remarkable ride.  Happy anniversary, Dave!

Dave and I after our first field season together as a married couple having cocktails at the Pera Palace, one of the grand hotels in Istanbul designed in the Orient Express era.

Dave and I after our first field season together as a married couple having cocktails at the Pera Palace, one of the grand hotels in Istanbul designed in the Orient Express era.

These are the buttons you see above Dave's head in the previous picture. High tech at the time, you could push to call a waiter for food, your barman or your groom for your "ride home."

These are the buttons you see above Dave’s head in the previous picture. High tech at the time, you could push to call a waiter for food, your barman or your groom for your “ride home.”

The biggest smiles and relaxed poses always show the end of a field season.

The biggest smiles and relaxed poses always show the end of a field season.

 Cacık (Chilled Yogurt and Cucumber Soup)

Thinking about Turkey made me nostalgic and when that happens I often have to make a Turkish dinner.  Cacık (pronounced zhazhik) is a chilled yogurt and cucumber soup that is fantastic on a hot summer or fall day.  In Turkey this is what I always want at the opening of my meal.  It is refreshing, cooling, and also stimulates the appetite for whatever delicious offering is coming next.  I recently made cacık as part of the meal to welcome Dave’s Mom back to our place after a ferry from the mainland.  Another plus for this soup is that it takes minutes to prepare and can be held in the refrigerator for hours before being served.  If that isn’t enough incentive to try cacık, it’s also a great way to use up any late summer cucumbers that your gardener friends “gift” you with.

 Ingredients

1 tsp. salt

Pinch of sugar

2 garlic cloves, finely chopped

1 tsp. dried mint (or 1 tbsp. fresh)

1 ¾ c. plain yogurt (fat free is fine, just use a good quality yogurt)

1 large cucumber

2 tbsp. cold water

 In a medium-sized nonreactive bowl mix the first five ingredients well.  Set aside.

 Peel the cucumber and slice it in half lengthwise.  With a small spoon remove and discard the seeds.  Then finely dice the cucumber and add it to the yogurt mixture.

 Add the cold water to the yogurt-cucumber mixture and stir.  The consistency should be thin, but not watery.  Depending on the type of yogurt you used you might need to add a little more water to thin it out.  Cover the soup and place it in the refrigerator for 20 minutes or up to a couple of hours to keep it chilled until ready to serve.

 Note: On an exceptionally hot day add less water to the soup and instead float a couple of ice cubes in each bowl.  As the ice melts it will dilute the soup and keep everything refreshingly cold.  Afiyet olsun (bon appetite in Turkish)!

 Click here for a printable recipe card for Cacik.

marie4

Family Dinner

9 Replies

So I can’t say that I married Dave for his Dad’s cooking since I hadn’t had this dish until after Dave and I were engaged.  But it is possible that Joe’s Salmon sealed the deal.  When Dave and I met, dated, and got engaged we were both living far from our respective families.  This led to the interesting position of being engaged without actually having met our future in-laws more than once or twice.  When I first got the chance to meet Dave’s dad, it was for Dave’s sister Erin’s wedding.  No stress there.

In the interest of full disclosure I need to come clean and state for the record that I actually do not remember much of Erin’s wedding or the week leading up to it.  This is not due to a poor memory or excessive celebration (that was taken care of by the wedding party).  My memory loss is likely due to the fact that I just might have been crazy at the time.  So here’s the story…

 Erin and Tyler’s wedding was planned for mid-August.  For archaeologists August is often a touchy month since we may still be in the field excavating, or we will have just gotten back from the field and are not quite fit for polite company yet.  For this particular field season before the wedding… let’s just say that things went wrong… in spades.  The highlight was that I didn’t lose my foot and I mean that literally.  Dave loves to go into embarrassing detail about this not-so-fun memory, but since he’s not telling this story I can give you the abridged version.  Hard field work in far southeastern Turkey led to really bad blisters, which led to a blood infection, which led to lots of antibiotics and blood thinners, all of which eventually led to a fully healed foot with all of my toes still attached and functioning.

 All of this leads up, I promise, to a dinner of Joe’s famous salmon.  Dave’s dad, Joe, was going to make salmon for our first family dinner in Canada the day that I flew in.  With layovers included, I had been traveling by plane and car for over 30 hours, literally traveling from Asia, across Europe, across the Atlantic Ocean, and then across North America.  When I landed in Vancouver I was hopped up on Dramamine and had been mostly immobile for more than a day, confined in those too-small-for-even-tiny-people plane seats.  And then there were my ankles… 

I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I fly my ankles swell a little.  This time, I was coming from Turkey where it was so hot (over 120 degrees in the day) that we had been consuming excess salt just so that we could retain enough water to not be dangerously dehydrated.  I was also still dealing with my damaged foot and lower leg, immobility from the travel, and a cute skirt (meaning exposed lower legs) to meet Dave’s folks.  I didn’t just have cankles (the lovely situation when your ankles swell to the size of your calves); I had thankles (replace “ankles” in previous definition with “thighs”).  My lower legs were so swollen that there was not even a suggestion of where my ankles were supposed to be; in fact the swollen flesh actually lapped over the supposed ankle area.  I was greeted by Dave outside of customs with a kiss, and I asked him to please not look down at my ankles.  He did his best, but man… they were impressive.

 Dave then drove me from the airport to his parents’ home.  It would be another hour or so before I realized that I had left the airport with someone else’s luggage, and therefore had left my own bag complete with dress for Erin’s wedding at the airport.  So we went back to the airport, dealt with snarky customs people, returned to the house, and somehow I was still standing and able to speak relatively coherently.  Ruth and Joe usherd Dave and I out to the deck for drinks, snacks and a chance to get to know each other.  It was only then that they actually had a chance to check me out.  From the knees up I was feeling pretty good.  I’d been working hard at the excavation, had shed my winter weight, and was as tanned as I ever get (which isn’t much, but it was something).  It is also quite possible that I was drooling a bit from the aforementioned plethora of Dramamine I’d taken to survive the flight(s).  Ruth and Joe made me feel welcome and at home, assuring me that I wasn’t drooling or slurring too much (sweet, but not true).  At some point in the small talk Ruth happened to glance down at where my feet were supposed to be.  I think she might have shrieked, but there was definitely a gasp, popping eyes and a gaping mouth.  Like I said, the thankles were impressive.  She then pushed me (kindly) down into my seat, put my thankles up onto their own chair (I’m surprised that I didn’t need a separate chair for each leg), and got me a couple of cool compresses.  And that’s how I ate my first meal with the Hopwoods.  A lovely outside dinner of amazing salmon, just the four of us, and my thankles occupying the fifth chair.

 From that meal on I only have snippets of memory of the festivities for Erin’s wedding.  There was a painful, but effective Thai massage that allowed my destroyed feet to be presentable.  I wore my cute, strappy shoes without the appearance of my feet trying to burst out of the straps, and any stumbling was from my inherent grace not from injury.  I remember bits of the ceremony; as well as bits and pieces of the reception.  Amazing lasagna.  Great wedding speeches.  A memorable Macarena.  Feeling overwhelmed with the number of cousins in existence.  And that’s about it.  After the wedding I think that I slept for about a week solid.

 Which brings me back to the salmon…  With all of my crazy, and let’s be honest that was a lot of crazy, the Hopwoods made me feel welcome in the middle of their own crazy whirlwind of the wedding.  And that is what this salmon dish makes me think of every time I’m lucky enough to have it.  For me, this is love on a plate.  Family.  It is one of those untranslatable feelings “to be safe and at home amongst people who love you.”  We had this meal recently up at the Hopwood cabin as a belated celebration of Dave’s birthday, and that is where these pictures come from.  May you have many “safe and at home amongst people who love you” meals in your future.

portion

 Joe’s Salmon

Serves 6-8

Joe is likely going to chuckle when he sees quantities listed here for the ingredients.  Both Dave and Joe are the kind of gifted cooks who can look at a pantry of food and instinctively combine ingredients into tasty and inventive meals.  I am not that type of cook.  When Joe makes this salmon, or most any other dish, he does everything by “eye ball” measurement.  You just add enough of everything until it looks right.  This recipe is an attempt to recreate Joe’s Salmon, and he kindly allowed me to play journalist/paparazzi at the cabin, photographing every move.  Any discrepancy or difference in taste from Joe’s dish to this one is from my quantities being not quite what he would have done.  But I consider that simply a challenge to keep fiddling until it’s just rightent.  Challenge accepted!

 Ingredients

¼ c. olive oil

¼ c. teriyaki sauce

1 tbsp. soy sauce

1 tbsp. garlic powder

1 tbsp. Montreal steak seasoning (see recipe at end of post)

1 tbsp. Oregano

2 sides of salmon, skin on (weight varies)

 Mix all of the ingredients except for the salmon in a small bowl.  Set this aside for 15-20 minutes to let the flavors meld and the marinade thicken.

Mixing the marinade for the salmon.

Mixing the marinade for the salmon.

There was a suggestion that I needed to add an ingredient to the official recipe; a drink for the cook. This is Joe's preferred grilling beverage, but you can choose your own. I just suggest something cold and refreshing as a reward for you "not so hard" work at the grill.

There was a suggestion that I needed to add an ingredient to the official recipe; a drink for the cook. This is Joe’s preferred grilling beverage, but you can choose your own. I just suggest something cold and refreshing as a reward for your “not so hard” work at the grill.

 Meanwhile heat the grill and check the salmon to ensure that all pin bones have been removed.

 Once the marinade has rested and the grill is hot, put the fillets skin side down on the grate.  Close the cover of the grill and let the salmon cook for 2-3 minutes.

Two beautiful salmon fillets.

Two beautiful salmon fillets.

 Open the cover of the grill and brush the marinade over the salmon.  Close the cover again and grill the fish for 8-10 minutes more, depending on your desired level of doneness.  Since salmon is a delicate protein, you should remove it from the grill when it is just underdone to your liking.  It will continue cooking a little (carry over cooking) after you remove it from the grill.

Brushing the marinade/sauce over the salmon.

Brushing the marinade/sauce over the salmon.

The "sauced" salmon ready for final cooking.

The “sauced” salmon ready for final cooking.

 Once the salmon is done, use a sharp metal spatula and score the flesh vertically to portion it into appropriate sizes (see pictures below).  Then slide the spatula between the skin and the flesh of the fillet, lifting the salmon off of the skin and placing the individual servings on a platter.  You are also welcome to remove the entire fillet (skin and all) to a platter and serve it tableside, but for our family this is what we prefer.

With a sharp metal spatula you want to score the salmon vertically without cutting through the skin.

With a sharp metal spatula you want to score the salmon vertically without cutting through the skin.

Then lift individual portions off of the skin and place them on a serving platter.

Then lift individual portions off of the skin and place them on a serving platter.

present

present2

portion5

Click here for a printable recipe card for Joe’s Salmon.

Montreal Steak Seasoning Recipe

While there are a variety of grocery store brands of this spice blend, it is also super easy to whip up your own.  If you have these spices at home already then it is cheaper to mix your own, and you can swap out or in any spices to your preference.

Ingredients:

2 tbsp. black pepper, coarsely ground

1 tbsp. salt

2 tbsp. smoked paprika

1 tbsp. garlic powder

1 tbsp. onion powder

1 tbsp. coriander, ground

1 tbsp. chili flakes

1 tbsp. fennel seeds

Instructions:

  1. Mix all spices together in a small bowl.
  2. Pour them into a spice jar or small container (glass or metal is best), and store in a cool dark place.
  3. Use the spice blend in your favorite recipes for a little extra heat and peppery flavor.

Click here for a printable recipe card for Montreal Steak Seasoning.

The Importance of Snacks

4 Replies

We are finally getting to the point where we feel a bit more settled in Nanaimo, and this has nothing to do with the number of boxes that have been (or have not been) unpacked.  The basement still looms large with boxes and piles of who-knows-what, but we are getting there.  Little Man calls our house his “Canada Home,” but is also finding new places to be his favorites.  One of these favorites is Oliver Woods Park.

Oliver Woods Park surrounded by forest.

Oliver Woods Park surrounded by forest.

 The park itself is carved (literally) out of the surrounding woodlands.  For someone who has lived in the flat, flat plains (which have their own beauty, don’t get me wrong) for the last few years this park looks magical with its cape of fir and cedar.  It also reminds me a bit of one of the parks from back in Pella, the West Market Park, with its wooden castle and bridges.  Maybe that is one of the reasons that Little Man calls Oliver Woods “his” park.

park1

 The playground is dominated by its large castle-like climbing toy, but that isn’t actually the area that Little Man likes most.  Just beyond the castle is a slightly smaller area that is designed more for the 2-3 year olds.  The slides are shorter, there are no rock walls to climb, but there is a cool pirate ladder of beams suspended on chains that hang just above a solid wooden gangway.  Little Man and most of the other little ones step over the beams onto the gangway below.  He loves it.

 At the back of the playground is a small exercise circuit designed for anyone over 13 years of age.  Little ones run around and play there too, but most of them tend to lose interest quickly as nothing is designed for them and the coolness of the circuit is lost on those who can’t read the instructions.

The "Enchanted Forest" that surrounds the park.

The “Enchanted Forest” that surrounds the park.

 The entire playground and exercise circuit area are surrounded by forest, hence the “Woods.”  For Little Man, this is the Enchanted Forest.  Just behind and to the right of the castle is a little gate that leads out into the Enchanted Forest and a series of nature trails.  We haven’t explored many of these yet, except for the trail on the right.  This is a short downward trail, perfect for little legs and for parent legs that are exhausted after chasing little legs around the playground, that ends at a little dock and the duck pond.

The duck pond at Oliver Woods Park.

The duck pond at Oliver Woods Park.

 Little Man loves the ducks… and their food.  If you are interested, you can get a bag of duck food from the reception desk inside the Community Center.  The last time we were at the park we were making new friends and stayed a little bit later than I had intended to.  That meant that Little Man was late for lunch and apparently quite munchy even after his snacks.  One of his new friends let him take a handful of duck food to feed the already stuffed ducks.  The birds must get quite the feast from all the little kids, and none of them were moving too quickly that day.  Little Man, however, was feeling rather peckish.  So peckish, in fact, that he took his little handful of duck food and like lightning stuffed them into his hungry mouth.  I was not as fast, but managed to fish most of the pellets out of his mouth before he’d swallowed them.  I didn’t want to immediately quash his ability to play with the ducks, so I let him feed the ducks a little bit more.  This was fine for a handful or two, until he grabbed a fistful and stuffed them in his mouth again.  I guess duck food can’t taste as bad as I would have imagined.  More fishing of slimy duck pellets out of Little Man’s mouth ensued.  The very nice woman at the reception desk ensured me that the duck food was an all natural product from a local store with a great reputation, and luckily there were no adverse reactions to Little Man’s ducky snack.  But Mommy has definitely learned that a hungry toddler should not be given access to “snacks” that he’s not allowed to eat.  The ducks still look at him askance when he comes close.  I think they’re wondering if he’s going to make off with their lunch.

Here ducky, ducky...

Here ducky, ducky…

 Now I plan in advance to have a few more snacks at hand when we might be out closer to lunch time, and closer to the duck pond.  I think that this week I’ll make him the same scones that we had a couple of weeks ago when his Tia came out to visit.  The best part of living on the island is that every couple of weeks we get to visit with family, a luxury that Little Man has never experienced before.  When his Tia came over we had a little tea party, with tuna sandwiches, hummus and cucumber sandwiches, and cheddar chive scones.  These scones are great since the dough can be made, portioned and then frozen before baking them.  The dough should last a couple of weeks in the freezer.  Then when you are ready to eat them you simply break them apart, put them on a parchment lined backing sheet, and shortly thereafter you have delicious scones.

done2

 Cheddar Chive Scones

Ingredients

½ cup cheddar cheese, sharp

¼ cup chives, chopped finely

½ cup oats

½ cup whole wheat flour

¾ cup white flour

2 ½ tsp. baking powder

1 Tblsp. sugar

¼ tsp. salt

6 Tblsp. unsalted butter, cut into ½ in. cubes and COLD

1 large egg

4-5 Tblsp. milk (any kind)

 Directions

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

 In a food processor fitted with the shredding blade, shred the cheese.  Put the shredded cheese in a large bowl, add the chives and set aside.  Do not wash out the processor.  Replace the shredding disk and lid with the standard blade and lid.

Cheddar cheese and chives for the scones.

Cheddar cheese and chives for the scones.

 In your emptied (but still a bit cheesy) food processor, put the oats and blitz until forming a coarse meal (oat flour).  Add the other flours, baking powder, sugar and salt.  Process to just combine.  Add the butter and process in pulses until it resembles a coarse meal with some pea sized bits of butter.  Dump the flour mixture into the bowl with the cheese and chives, then toss to coat.

Preparing the oats for blitzing.

Preparing the oats for blitzing.

Cheesy oat flour.

Cheesy oat flour.

The dry mixture with cheese and chives.

The dry mixture with cheese and chives.

In a small bowl beat the egg and 4 tablespoons of milk with a fork.  Add the wet ingredients to the flour mixture and mix until the dough just comes together.  In the bowl it will look like it won’t hold its shape.  Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface.  Fold the dough in half and “knead” it no more than four times.  It should hold together and form a solid mass when you pat it into a 1-inch thick 6-inch round.  Cut the circle into eight equally sized wedges.

The dough combined and messy.

The dough combined and messy.

The dough dumped out onto the floured surface.

The dough dumped out onto the floured surface.

The dough shaped into a round.

The dough shaped into a round.

kneaded 2

Keep the dough relatively thin. Too thick and it doesn’t bake well in the center, too thin and the scones get hard.

 At this point you can wrap the dough tightly in plastic wrap and freeze it, or you can bake it immediately.  Cooling down the dough (in the refrigerator or freezer) can make for a lighter, more flaky (and more awesome) scone, as this creates more flaky layers in the pastry.  However, they are also flaky, cheesy, and downright irresistible even if baked right away.

The dough round portioned into eight scones.

The dough round portioned into eight scones.

The scones ready for the oven.

The scones ready for the oven.

 Space the scones evenly on the prepared backing sheet.  Add a splash of milk to the empty milk and egg bowl.  Brush this mixture over the top of the scones.  Bake until golden brown, about 12-15 minutes.  Cool on a wire wrack and serve.

The scones are golden brown and ready for snack time.

The scones are golden brown and ready for snack time.

 Note: If baking the scones after freezing them, unwrap them from the plastic wrap and proceed with everything as normal.  One note is that you may need to bake them for little longer.  Just give them a little touch when they “look” done.  If it feels mushy in the center, then give them another couple of minutes.  If they feel firm to the touch, then they are done.

Click on this link to open a ready to print recipe card for the CheddarChiveScones.

Ready for tea...

Ready for tea…

A Season of Blackberries

6 Replies

OK, so it’s possible that I might have gone a little overboard with the blackberry love recently.  It’s hard not to on the island.  On Vancouver Island in August it is a common occurrence to see cars pulled over on the side of the highway, not because they are broken down or in need of assistance, but because people are out there picking blackberries.  Then you start to see people with ladders on the sidewalks to get to the higher branches, people buried in bushes at the back of supermarkets, people with berry buckets everywhere.  Once you can recognize what the bushes look like, you realize that the parts of the island that are not covered with forest are instead covered with blackberry bushes.  The bushes line the highways and roads, the train tracks, they pop up next to telephone poles, they grow beside bus stops, and they are all over Vancouver Island University campus.

Bushes 

I started jealously watching specific areas around town where I’d spotted the bushes, waiting for when the locals had decided that the berries were ready.  Then I would pounce… literally if I had to.  It wasn’t until after the family reunion that I started noticing people’s cars on the side of the road with people embedded and ensnared in the bushes greedily picking berries.  Then it took some time for us to be able to coordinate our schedules when all three of us could be out there harvesting.  While Little Man was willing, he is not actually much help picking blackberries… or picking anything for that matter.  When he has “helped” Mommy pick tomatoes in the farm garden he tends to use the precious fruit like a hard thrown bocce ball.  I have to move fast to get the fruit from his little hands into my basket.  And that is without the extra bonus of all the blackberry thorns.  So on each of our forays to pick berries Dave’s primary task has been keeping Little Man out of the road, out of the bushes and more or less out of trouble.  For Dave’s efforts he has been rewarded with blackberry scones, muffins, and yes, a blackberry cocktail.  I’m sharing the blackberry muffin recipe at the end of this post.  For the other two, you’ll just have to keep posted.  🙂

berries 

For our own harvesting, we first tried a spot along the road that takes us down into town.  The area is largely forest, but there is a little turn around area and I’d seen cars and berry pickers there in the past.  While we made a pretty good haul that day, it wasn’t quite what I had hoped since the people I had spied earlier did a good job of clearing out the berries.  Our next attempt was right outside of Dave’s building at VIU.  These bushes were full of gorgeous, bursting ripe blackberries.  So Dave chased Little Man who was chasing the bunnies, and I picked berries as fast as I could.  Blackberry harvesting is not without hazard, the bushes snagged my jeans, my sleeves and my hair.  I would bury myself deep into a particularly nice area of the bushes counting on my clothing to protect me (more or less) from the thorns, just to find that I couldn’t get out again.  But any scratches, and there were quite a few, were well worth it.

Dave

I have to admit that not only do I love picking and eating blackberries, but with every freezer bag I put away I feel like that’s also money in the bank.  Each bag that I freeze for future use is one more bag of berries that I don’t have to buy at the store, and as I mentioned above I use berries in everything from salads to pancakes to baked goods to drinks.  Did I mention that I love blackberries?  Normally this time of year would find me scowling at the stacks of beautiful fresh blackberries in the stores, priced at a level that was hard to justify in our grocery budget.  This year it found me ensnared in bushes, and I am still finding thorns in my jeans.  If you also find yourself in a place where blackberries do not grow wild (and free of cost) but still want to try out the muffin recipe below, please substitute the blackberries with any berry that you do have access to, frozen or fresh.  Blueberries or raspberries would be great in these muffins.  Speaking of blueberries, I’ve been told that they are just now coming into season here…

A couple notes about blackberry picking safety:

  • First, although the berries grow incredibly well along the train tracks, NEVER pick berries there.  Not only is it dangerous with the trains using the tracks, but the tracks are routinely sprayed with herbicide to keep plants from growing there.  That means that the berry bushes have been sprayed too.  Not good eats.
  • Second, although it is tempting, never pick berries low to the ground.  There are animals out and about that like to mark their territory.  Just imagine the height of a neighborhood dog’s hind quarters and remember that urine soaked berries are to be avoided.

Blackberry Oatmeal Muffins

Ingredients:

1 ¾ c. whole wheat flour

¾ c. rolled oats (not quick cooking)

½ c. brown sugar, packed

1 tbsp. baking powder

½ tsp. baking soda

½ tsp. salt

1 c. milk

1/3 c. plain yogurt

1 tbsp. canola oil

2 eggs

1 c. blackberries or other berry, frozen or fresh

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 400º.  Line a muffin pan with papers or lightly oil it.

In a large bowl stir together the flour, oats, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt.  Set aside.  In a small bowl whisk together the milk, yogurt, oil and eggs until well combined.  I tend to use good quality skim milk and fat free yogurt here.  The yogurt adds a richness to the muffins, and replaces the oil that would otherwise be required.

The dry ingredients.

The dry ingredients.

The dry ingredients combined.

The dry ingredients combined.

The wet ingredients.

The wet ingredients.

The wet ingredients combined.

The wet ingredients combined.

 Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and stir just long enough to combine.  You do not want to over mix the batter since that results in tough muffins.  This batter will look a bit more wet than muffin batter usually does.  Don’t worry, it’s supposed to.  Let the batter sit for 20 minutes.  This will let the oats hydrate, soaking up some of the extra liquid.

Everything combined. It will look too wet until after it has rested for 20 minutes. My sushi timer is set, now the waiting begins.

Everything combined. It will look too wet until after it has rested for 20 minutes. My sushi timer is set, now the waiting begins.

 After the 20 minutes of resting, add the berries to the mixture and gently fold together.  Divide the batter amongst the muffin cups, and bake for approximately 20 minutes or until they are golden brown and a tester inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean (except for any blackberry juices it might encounter).

After the batter has rested, add in the berries. Now you are ready to go.

After the batter has rested, add in the berries. Now you are ready to go.

Tasty batter in the pan...

Tasty batter in the pan…

Tasty muffins out of the oven...

Tasty muffins out of the oven…

 Let the muffins rest in the pan for about 5 minutes, and then remove them to a rack to cool completely.  Enjoy!

Cooling muffins on the rack. This is when Little Man realizes a treat is coming.

Cooling muffins on the rack. This is when Little Man realizes a treat is coming.

Little Man in the background asking "'Nack time?"

Little Man in the background asking “‘Nack time?”

 Blackberry Oatmeal Muffins