In a heavy pot, add a bit of olive or canola oil and a Tab. butter. Lightly saute:
2-3 carrots, diced
1 onion, diced
2 ribs celery, diced
1 apple, diced (peeled or not)
1 butternut squash, peeled and cubed (or use frozen, thawed, cooked squash)
Season mixture with:
salt, pepper, to taste
granulated garlic
ground coriander (optional, but preferred)
Add 1/2 c. apple juice, optional (preferred)
Add 3 c. chicken or vegetable stock (or 3 c. water with a dollop of chicken or vegetable base). Bring mixture to a boil, cover, reduce heat and simmer 30-45 minutes, until vegetables and apple are quite tender. Reserving liquid, puree vegetable mixture in blender or use submersible blender. Return puree to pot containing reserved liquid.
Add 1/2-3/4c. goats' milk or half & half --or enough to give the consistency of a thick soup. Stir mixture together and heat, but do not allow to boil.
Bisque may be served hot or lukewarm. Garnish each serving with a dollop of sour cream, if desired, and a sprinkling of nutmeg, optional.
Enjoy!
p.s. This bisque also freezes well.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
RECIPE -- Sun Pickles
Hot, sunny summer days with cukes in the garden means it's time for a batch of Sun Pickles! Following is another wonderful recipe passed down by my Hungarian family. Finding a large (at least gallon size) glass jar might be the most difficult part of this recipe. In a pinch, you might seek one out from your local deli and ask them to save you one (with a lid)...
Fill a large glass jar with pickling cukes which have been washed and slit vertically almost top to bottom. Stuff some fresh dillweed in the jar, along with a few peeled garlic cloves. Heat water with enough canning salt (not iodized) stirred in to cause you to pucker when tasting it. Cool to room temperature and pour over cukes to cover. Place a slice of real rye bread on top and a small dish on top of the bread with a weight (small jar of water?) to keep the cukes submerged in the brine. Tie a clean dish towel or rag over the opening of the jar and place in the sun for 3-4 days (bring in if it rains and at night) until it starts to smell slightly soured. When pickles are done, bring in, remove the rag, weight and bread and store, covered, in the refrigerator. Enjoy them as is, or wrap a pickle in a slice of bread for a delicious sandwich.
Fill a large glass jar with pickling cukes which have been washed and slit vertically almost top to bottom. Stuff some fresh dillweed in the jar, along with a few peeled garlic cloves. Heat water with enough canning salt (not iodized) stirred in to cause you to pucker when tasting it. Cool to room temperature and pour over cukes to cover. Place a slice of real rye bread on top and a small dish on top of the bread with a weight (small jar of water?) to keep the cukes submerged in the brine. Tie a clean dish towel or rag over the opening of the jar and place in the sun for 3-4 days (bring in if it rains and at night) until it starts to smell slightly soured. When pickles are done, bring in, remove the rag, weight and bread and store, covered, in the refrigerator. Enjoy them as is, or wrap a pickle in a slice of bread for a delicious sandwich.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Farm (Part 2)
Sometimes it seems that no matter how much you've read, researched, studied and thought you'd learned about things, reality sets in and you find, in the grand scheme, you KNOW NOTHING. Such was my experience, soon after moving to this little farm.
Water, the essence of life. Clean, clear, plentiful, potable water. Water to drink, water for cooking,cleaning, bathing, water for the animals, for the garden...the list went on. We had our very own well and would no longer have to pay for it, as we did back in the city When I asked the necessary questions of the homeowner before buying the place, I was told that there was plenty of water--except to be careful during the summer because it was possible to run the well dry if it didn't rain much. I didn't realize when I signed the papers that 1988 would later be called The Year of the Drought. The first time I did a walk-through, I'd forgotten to taste the water. I remembered, later and made a point of tasting it when I went back a second time. I hoped it wouldn't have a strong iron-taste, and it didn't--it tasted of chlorine, although stronger than our city water back home. My realtor assured me that a house in the country couldn't be sold if the water wasn't good, and that tests were run and documentation was submitted at closing. I felt safe.
I took the added precaution of having a home inspection, which was just becoming a popular option in buying a home, and the sellers gave me a one year warranty as part of the sale. I felt secure.
The house had no furnace; the sellers had it removed during the oil crisis of the 1970's, and had installed baseboard hot water heaters throughout the house, with individual thermostats in each room. There was a woodstove in the "family" room and a fireplace in the "living " room and a cute little antique pot-bellied stove in what we called the "garage room", because what had previously been an attached garage was now built into a room. I brought an airtight woodstove with me from my previous home and was prepared to split firewood to keep us warm all winter. You know what they say about splitting wood: it warms you three times. Boy, were we going to be cozy!
Things began to go awry during the weekend previous to the move when my relatives came to help me clean the house before the furniture came. We dumped buckets of dirty water down the kitchen sink, but after only a few buckets of water, the drain began running very slow. It seemed a little strange, because there was no debris in the water to clog the drain, only dirty water. The weather began to warm up, so we opened the sliding door to the deck to let in a breeze. As the day progressed, a smell began emanating throughout the kitchen. Since the sink drain was running slow, we dumped the bucket water in the yard, but the smell continued. Where was it coming from? Not understanding how this house worked, yet, I thought that perhaps the smell was from the bathroom's vent pipe and that a breeze was wafting the smell toward the deck, which was off the kitchen.
Two days later, my dear relatives helped us move from city to country, and we settled in. It was hot, it hadn't rained in quite awhile, and the water began to taste strangely. Remembering what the seller had said about wasting water during summer months, we took the precaution of travelling back to the city for visits to my parents with empty, washed milk jugs and filled them with "city" water to take back. Then, we had a problem with the bathroom toilet, so I called the plumber listed with the home warranty. He came out, ended up having to replace the entire toilet as the original one had a crack in it. I mentioned the smell we'd been experiencing through the kitchen door and asked him if it could be the vent pipe from the bathroom, and also about the slow-moving drain in the kitchen. He informed me that the warranty applied only to systems within the foundation of the house, and he attempted to snake the kitchen drain. He thought there might be a break in the drainpipe and quoted me an outrageous sum to fix it. I was beginning to lose it. What was happening to this place? My son and I had watched the movie, "The Money Pit" and loved it, but is this what was happening for real? The plumber offered to "cut (me) a deal" if we would dig a hole under the deck so he could make the repair. As deck planks were removed and the digging commenced, the smell became unbearable. Imagine the stinkiest outhouse you've ever visited and you'll know how it smelled. What we found made me angry: the pipe hadn't broken, it had been cut, when the family room had been built, a few years earlier. Rather than repairing it, then, a "French drain" was built, filling the area with gravel instead of connecting it to the septic tank. Small amounts of water probably drained through, but during our bucket-dumping of dirty water, we'd unwittingly saturated the drain, which backed-up the kitchen drain. I felt this was a blatant cover-up on the part of the sellers and called my realtor (I also think the sellers felt the home warranty would cover the repair, once we'd discovered a problem.). The realtor called the previous owners who claimed no knowledge of a problem, and said they never smelled anything because they rarely used the sliding door to the deck. Since the deck's door was the only source of ventilation for the kitchen (there was no window), I found that hard to believe.
That first summer, the drought ended on July 29 with a glorious downpour during my birthday celebration. We never ran the well dry despite the warning, but we were hauling all our drinking water from the city because it tasted, well, bad. A short time later, I had need to call another plumber, because the pump on the well wasn't working. "Sounds like you got a faulty foot valve", was the plumber's telephone diagnosis, when I gave him details of the need to keep priming the pump. When he arrived and I pointed down the hill as to the well's location, he set to work removing the concrete lid to peer inside. When he came back up the hill, he asked me if I was aware that I had a six-foot deep dug well, and that, as a precaution, he was going to take a sample and have it tested. A few days later he returned with the results which showed the numbers of the contaminants put the water quality beyond raw sewage! I couldn't believe it! How could they sell the house if the well was so bad? The well had "passed" the test; I had the paperwork! Well, that kindly old plumber explained that evidently enough bleach had been dumped down the well in order to "get the numbers they needed", and that when I'd first tasted the water and it was so strong of chlorine, that was probably when it was tested and as soon as the bleach ran out, it was back to getting polluted again, because the well was mostly groundwater runoff. My stomach turned, just thinking about it. He said he was within his rights to condemn our well and that we shouldn't use it for anything: we needed a new well.
Now, the locals in this township claim that there's so much water under the ground, here, that "wherever you dig a hole, it'll fill up with water". In reality, the water table, here, is at about 60-80 feet. My well-driller arrived, did his calculations and decided on the best location to begin drilling. This particular well- driller came highly recommended, and was well respected in the county. After two days of drilling, there was still no water. When drilling a well, one is charged by the foot. I began to wonder if maybe we had a dry hole. No, I was assured, it was down there, they just had to go deep enough to get the best water. By the third day, I wondered if they shouldn't try somewhere else on the property, but when I learned that I'd be paying for the amount they'd already drilled in addition to the new hole, I crossed my fingers, and prayed he was right the first time. Bottom line: he struck water, from the Berea Formation (whatever that was) at 265 feet! Delicious, cold,crisp, clean (eventually) water with nice healthy minerals (which would,eventually, rot out five hot water heaters until we finally installed a softener, years later).
Before our first winter, I called out a chimney sweep to clean and inspect the chimney and to install the heavy cast iron woodstove we'd brought with us. Upon initial inspection, I was informed it was a good thing I had called because there had been a chimney fire previous to our purchase of the house and the flue liner was destroyed. If we had built a fire in the fireplace, we probably would have burned the house down! A stainless steel flue pipe had to be installed with the woodstove attached to it, or else the entire chimney would have had to have been rebuilt. After that, for several years my son and I split and stacked wood and kept the chill off the house, for the most part. We learned to close off rooms which we didn't use, and even spent one winter in two rooms, closing off the family room, which became our "living" room. The (original) "living" room became our dining room. A few years later and now alone, as my son had grown and moved out on his own, I awoke with a start one morning, at about 3 a.m., to the sound of a huge BOOM. I thought a truck had slid off the road and somehow hit the house. Outside, the night was cold and still; there was nothing to see. Awake, I went to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and that was the last time I heard running water for a week. The "boom" was the sound of the house freezing, and with that the pipes had frozen. I finally turned on the baseboard heaters at their lowest settings to save the rest of the pipes, but found the electric bill for running them for 1 1/2 weeks was $300.00! It was time to have a furnace installed.
Is there a moral to this story? "Never assume", comes to mind. For all I'd thought I'd studied and learned beforehand, and armed with all the right questions, or so I thought, I was a city girl, naive and trusting. The experience has strengthened me over the years. I'm less trusting than I was, but the memories of those early years are priceless. Life was a struggle then, but it only made the outcome sweeter and all the more appreciated.
Water, the essence of life. Clean, clear, plentiful, potable water. Water to drink, water for cooking,cleaning, bathing, water for the animals, for the garden...the list went on. We had our very own well and would no longer have to pay for it, as we did back in the city When I asked the necessary questions of the homeowner before buying the place, I was told that there was plenty of water--except to be careful during the summer because it was possible to run the well dry if it didn't rain much. I didn't realize when I signed the papers that 1988 would later be called The Year of the Drought. The first time I did a walk-through, I'd forgotten to taste the water. I remembered, later and made a point of tasting it when I went back a second time. I hoped it wouldn't have a strong iron-taste, and it didn't--it tasted of chlorine, although stronger than our city water back home. My realtor assured me that a house in the country couldn't be sold if the water wasn't good, and that tests were run and documentation was submitted at closing. I felt safe.
I took the added precaution of having a home inspection, which was just becoming a popular option in buying a home, and the sellers gave me a one year warranty as part of the sale. I felt secure.
The house had no furnace; the sellers had it removed during the oil crisis of the 1970's, and had installed baseboard hot water heaters throughout the house, with individual thermostats in each room. There was a woodstove in the "family" room and a fireplace in the "living " room and a cute little antique pot-bellied stove in what we called the "garage room", because what had previously been an attached garage was now built into a room. I brought an airtight woodstove with me from my previous home and was prepared to split firewood to keep us warm all winter. You know what they say about splitting wood: it warms you three times. Boy, were we going to be cozy!
Things began to go awry during the weekend previous to the move when my relatives came to help me clean the house before the furniture came. We dumped buckets of dirty water down the kitchen sink, but after only a few buckets of water, the drain began running very slow. It seemed a little strange, because there was no debris in the water to clog the drain, only dirty water. The weather began to warm up, so we opened the sliding door to the deck to let in a breeze. As the day progressed, a smell began emanating throughout the kitchen. Since the sink drain was running slow, we dumped the bucket water in the yard, but the smell continued. Where was it coming from? Not understanding how this house worked, yet, I thought that perhaps the smell was from the bathroom's vent pipe and that a breeze was wafting the smell toward the deck, which was off the kitchen.
Two days later, my dear relatives helped us move from city to country, and we settled in. It was hot, it hadn't rained in quite awhile, and the water began to taste strangely. Remembering what the seller had said about wasting water during summer months, we took the precaution of travelling back to the city for visits to my parents with empty, washed milk jugs and filled them with "city" water to take back. Then, we had a problem with the bathroom toilet, so I called the plumber listed with the home warranty. He came out, ended up having to replace the entire toilet as the original one had a crack in it. I mentioned the smell we'd been experiencing through the kitchen door and asked him if it could be the vent pipe from the bathroom, and also about the slow-moving drain in the kitchen. He informed me that the warranty applied only to systems within the foundation of the house, and he attempted to snake the kitchen drain. He thought there might be a break in the drainpipe and quoted me an outrageous sum to fix it. I was beginning to lose it. What was happening to this place? My son and I had watched the movie, "The Money Pit" and loved it, but is this what was happening for real? The plumber offered to "cut (me) a deal" if we would dig a hole under the deck so he could make the repair. As deck planks were removed and the digging commenced, the smell became unbearable. Imagine the stinkiest outhouse you've ever visited and you'll know how it smelled. What we found made me angry: the pipe hadn't broken, it had been cut, when the family room had been built, a few years earlier. Rather than repairing it, then, a "French drain" was built, filling the area with gravel instead of connecting it to the septic tank. Small amounts of water probably drained through, but during our bucket-dumping of dirty water, we'd unwittingly saturated the drain, which backed-up the kitchen drain. I felt this was a blatant cover-up on the part of the sellers and called my realtor (I also think the sellers felt the home warranty would cover the repair, once we'd discovered a problem.). The realtor called the previous owners who claimed no knowledge of a problem, and said they never smelled anything because they rarely used the sliding door to the deck. Since the deck's door was the only source of ventilation for the kitchen (there was no window), I found that hard to believe.
That first summer, the drought ended on July 29 with a glorious downpour during my birthday celebration. We never ran the well dry despite the warning, but we were hauling all our drinking water from the city because it tasted, well, bad. A short time later, I had need to call another plumber, because the pump on the well wasn't working. "Sounds like you got a faulty foot valve", was the plumber's telephone diagnosis, when I gave him details of the need to keep priming the pump. When he arrived and I pointed down the hill as to the well's location, he set to work removing the concrete lid to peer inside. When he came back up the hill, he asked me if I was aware that I had a six-foot deep dug well, and that, as a precaution, he was going to take a sample and have it tested. A few days later he returned with the results which showed the numbers of the contaminants put the water quality beyond raw sewage! I couldn't believe it! How could they sell the house if the well was so bad? The well had "passed" the test; I had the paperwork! Well, that kindly old plumber explained that evidently enough bleach had been dumped down the well in order to "get the numbers they needed", and that when I'd first tasted the water and it was so strong of chlorine, that was probably when it was tested and as soon as the bleach ran out, it was back to getting polluted again, because the well was mostly groundwater runoff. My stomach turned, just thinking about it. He said he was within his rights to condemn our well and that we shouldn't use it for anything: we needed a new well.
Now, the locals in this township claim that there's so much water under the ground, here, that "wherever you dig a hole, it'll fill up with water". In reality, the water table, here, is at about 60-80 feet. My well-driller arrived, did his calculations and decided on the best location to begin drilling. This particular well- driller came highly recommended, and was well respected in the county. After two days of drilling, there was still no water. When drilling a well, one is charged by the foot. I began to wonder if maybe we had a dry hole. No, I was assured, it was down there, they just had to go deep enough to get the best water. By the third day, I wondered if they shouldn't try somewhere else on the property, but when I learned that I'd be paying for the amount they'd already drilled in addition to the new hole, I crossed my fingers, and prayed he was right the first time. Bottom line: he struck water, from the Berea Formation (whatever that was) at 265 feet! Delicious, cold,crisp, clean (eventually) water with nice healthy minerals (which would,eventually, rot out five hot water heaters until we finally installed a softener, years later).
Before our first winter, I called out a chimney sweep to clean and inspect the chimney and to install the heavy cast iron woodstove we'd brought with us. Upon initial inspection, I was informed it was a good thing I had called because there had been a chimney fire previous to our purchase of the house and the flue liner was destroyed. If we had built a fire in the fireplace, we probably would have burned the house down! A stainless steel flue pipe had to be installed with the woodstove attached to it, or else the entire chimney would have had to have been rebuilt. After that, for several years my son and I split and stacked wood and kept the chill off the house, for the most part. We learned to close off rooms which we didn't use, and even spent one winter in two rooms, closing off the family room, which became our "living" room. The (original) "living" room became our dining room. A few years later and now alone, as my son had grown and moved out on his own, I awoke with a start one morning, at about 3 a.m., to the sound of a huge BOOM. I thought a truck had slid off the road and somehow hit the house. Outside, the night was cold and still; there was nothing to see. Awake, I went to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and that was the last time I heard running water for a week. The "boom" was the sound of the house freezing, and with that the pipes had frozen. I finally turned on the baseboard heaters at their lowest settings to save the rest of the pipes, but found the electric bill for running them for 1 1/2 weeks was $300.00! It was time to have a furnace installed.
Is there a moral to this story? "Never assume", comes to mind. For all I'd thought I'd studied and learned beforehand, and armed with all the right questions, or so I thought, I was a city girl, naive and trusting. The experience has strengthened me over the years. I'm less trusting than I was, but the memories of those early years are priceless. Life was a struggle then, but it only made the outcome sweeter and all the more appreciated.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Farm (Part 1)
Those two words: The Farm-- has stirred feelings in me from as far back as I can remember. Before my farm were the memories of my aunt's farm, the aunt who started the ball rolling with the shoebox containing the two baby ducks. Over the many years on their farm, they raised dairy cows, sheep, all manner of poultry and fowl,some mules, horses, dogs, cats and huge gardens of vegetables fertilized by whatever form of livestock was being raised at the time. It was a magical place to me as a child and that magic never left me as I grew into adulthood. No one ever denied the hard work involved, but even when that farm was in its most primitive state, it was always tidy. I had no idea just how much work was involved. Yet, I craved it for myself.
When I moved out here from the city, it was a little over a month before my 38th birthday. The time was ripe: I'd felt at the time that if I hadn't made the move then, I never would. I'd spent the ten years in the city, after my husband had died, reading everything I could get my hands on of people chucking it all and moving to the wilderness, modern pioneers, if you will, surviving -40 degree winters and worse in the wilds of Canada, or the north woods of Maine. Reading what these people endured and learned about themselves in the process only fed my obsession until I knew I needed to find that special place for myself.
Living in relative comfort where we were, in the city, we none-the-less began "roughing it", pulling the thermostat down and burning wood instead of natural gas, first in the fireplace, but later with an airtight woodstove (we bought firewood, but had to cut it to size and split it). We'd grown a garden every year, but in addition to the vegetables and fruit trees, I learned about and grew a large variety of herbs. Having raised the ducks for two years, I was becoming somewhat of an expert on this variety of fowl. I felt that all these things were valuable skills to learn for my future.
And so, when the house in the city eventually sold and this place had been found, we moved to this perfectly magical, gently rolling small-acreage on the edge of the woods and I thought I was prepared for anything. I was Woman, I was strong. This was the '80's! Man, was I mistaken...
When I moved out here from the city, it was a little over a month before my 38th birthday. The time was ripe: I'd felt at the time that if I hadn't made the move then, I never would. I'd spent the ten years in the city, after my husband had died, reading everything I could get my hands on of people chucking it all and moving to the wilderness, modern pioneers, if you will, surviving -40 degree winters and worse in the wilds of Canada, or the north woods of Maine. Reading what these people endured and learned about themselves in the process only fed my obsession until I knew I needed to find that special place for myself.
Living in relative comfort where we were, in the city, we none-the-less began "roughing it", pulling the thermostat down and burning wood instead of natural gas, first in the fireplace, but later with an airtight woodstove (we bought firewood, but had to cut it to size and split it). We'd grown a garden every year, but in addition to the vegetables and fruit trees, I learned about and grew a large variety of herbs. Having raised the ducks for two years, I was becoming somewhat of an expert on this variety of fowl. I felt that all these things were valuable skills to learn for my future.
And so, when the house in the city eventually sold and this place had been found, we moved to this perfectly magical, gently rolling small-acreage on the edge of the woods and I thought I was prepared for anything. I was Woman, I was strong. This was the '80's! Man, was I mistaken...
Friday, May 27, 2011
To-Do Lists
It seems that I've been making lists ever since I learned to write. I LOVE making lists. Today, I keep my lists in a steno book. I have some that start with the week and act as a daily planner. The satisfaction of getting a job done, and checking it off is absolutely impowering to me. Of course, with life going on and numerous side-tracks, some weeks don't see a completed list, and those things that didn't get accomplished end up on next week's roster. This is why I sometimes put extremely petty jobs on my list: for that feeling of having accomplished something I'd set my mind to, even if a few major things need to wait another week.
When it's time to garden, a list for planting is made. I should probably be keeping all of those in their own notebook and then I'd have a seasonal journal of what worked and what didn't. I used to be so well organized, but when I moved to the country, that skill seemed to go out the window. Now, I call it "organized chaos". There is just so much to do, sometimes, I feel lucky it's written down in one book, let alone two.
In addition to the jobs to-do list, other notations are marked on that page: reminders, phone numbers, ideas for dinner,,,my life is caught up and displayed on those pages. My shopping list has its own page and, of course, goes with me to the store. If I should ever leave that book behind, I feel as though my brain has been lost! It has happened, and thank goodness I've always managed to retrace my steps to find my precious steno book. Recently, I've taken the precaution of putting my name and phone number on the cover when I start a new book, just in case...
During kidding season, lists are made of does who've kidded, how many kids each doe had, sex and names of the kids, when the does were wormed(usually the same day, after they've kidded). All this information is transferred to my monthly calendar, which is kept forever. All important information about the goats is recorded on that calendar and it becomes a quick reference guide as to when I can begin collecting milk for table.Of course, along with dairying info, daily squares are marked with appointments, important dates to remember, a favorite program not to be missed when one forgets what day it is, and so on. Looking at the notations I put on that calendar further illustrates life here on the farm, year to year. At least, the calendar never leaves the house, so I feel at least a part of me remains grounded...
When it's time to garden, a list for planting is made. I should probably be keeping all of those in their own notebook and then I'd have a seasonal journal of what worked and what didn't. I used to be so well organized, but when I moved to the country, that skill seemed to go out the window. Now, I call it "organized chaos". There is just so much to do, sometimes, I feel lucky it's written down in one book, let alone two.
In addition to the jobs to-do list, other notations are marked on that page: reminders, phone numbers, ideas for dinner,,,my life is caught up and displayed on those pages. My shopping list has its own page and, of course, goes with me to the store. If I should ever leave that book behind, I feel as though my brain has been lost! It has happened, and thank goodness I've always managed to retrace my steps to find my precious steno book. Recently, I've taken the precaution of putting my name and phone number on the cover when I start a new book, just in case...
During kidding season, lists are made of does who've kidded, how many kids each doe had, sex and names of the kids, when the does were wormed(usually the same day, after they've kidded). All this information is transferred to my monthly calendar, which is kept forever. All important information about the goats is recorded on that calendar and it becomes a quick reference guide as to when I can begin collecting milk for table.Of course, along with dairying info, daily squares are marked with appointments, important dates to remember, a favorite program not to be missed when one forgets what day it is, and so on. Looking at the notations I put on that calendar further illustrates life here on the farm, year to year. At least, the calendar never leaves the house, so I feel at least a part of me remains grounded...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
RECIPE --Greasy Bread
When the weather warms up enough to start thinking about outdoor cooking, my family starts drooling in anticipation of a szalona sutes, which means, in Hungarian, a bacon fry. A hardwood fire needs to be built, and some sturdy but thin oak or maple tree branches must be gathered, their tips shaved into a point with a sharp knife. Pieces of cured and smoked pork backfat need to be procured from a specialty butcher(this is becoming the singularly most difficult part of this feast to buy, unless one knows of an ethnic butcher or someone who does one's own curing and smoking. Pigs are being raised, today, to be leaner, and there isn't as much fat on their backs as in the "old days". The resulting "bacon" with rind attached is usually only an inch or so thick, when it used to be about 3". This bacon is pure pork fat with no streak of meat in it).
Other ingredients needed are a loaf or two of good rye bread, spring onions(scallions), a sweet onion(Vidalia is great), tomatoes, salt and whisky. Thinly slice the scallions(white and green parts), and slice the sweet onion and tomatoes. Arrange the rye bread slices on plates or trays, sprinkle lightly with salt and strew some of the sliced scallions onto each piece.
Meanwhile, with a sharp knife, such as a boning knife with a sharp point, make a cut into the bacon's rind to accommodate the stick. Placing the bacon on a sturdy surface to do this can prevent a serious cut to a hand, but be careful, anyway. The stick is run into the side of the bacon chunk as near as possible to the rind and then out the pre-cut hole that was made in the rind. This is to help prevent losing one's bacon in the fire as it fries. Turn the bacon over with the fat side up and make two or three vertical and horizontal cuts into the bacon. Make shallow cuts; they can be cut deeper if necessary, later, to release more grease.
Now, the fun begins! Set the plate or tray of prepped bread nearby, and either stand in front of the fire or sit in a chair and hold the stick over the hot coals, turning the stick constantly. As the bacon heats up, it will start to drip grease. Quickly pull it away from the fire and drip the grease onto the rye bread. Although the bacon will eventually char, you don't want this to happen quickly. Charring makes the bacon bitter. Return the bacon to the fire and remove to drip grease over all your slices of rye bread. Trial and error will tell you when you've put enough on each slice. When you feel you're done frying, carefully remove the stick from the bacon, cut the bacon off the rind in one piece and slice into small slices. Put a slice of tomato on the bread, a piece of the bacon, a slice of onion if desired. Drink a shot of whisky and toast the day. Eat your "greasy bread". Isn't it the best stuff you've ever tasted?
Stories told in my family involved how this was done by farmers in Hungary in the "old days". Everything could be transported out to the fields without the need for refrigeration. And, everyone worked so hard, they weren't afraid of high cholesterol or even what calories were. Today, this is a rare treat, and we only indulge in it once a year or so. Even the whisky had a purpose: drinking a shot of whisky was supposed to coat your stomach so the grease wouldn't stick. Oh, and I'd add a pot of hot coffee to top off this delicious meal as we remember those who came before us.
Other ingredients needed are a loaf or two of good rye bread, spring onions(scallions), a sweet onion(Vidalia is great), tomatoes, salt and whisky. Thinly slice the scallions(white and green parts), and slice the sweet onion and tomatoes. Arrange the rye bread slices on plates or trays, sprinkle lightly with salt and strew some of the sliced scallions onto each piece.
Meanwhile, with a sharp knife, such as a boning knife with a sharp point, make a cut into the bacon's rind to accommodate the stick. Placing the bacon on a sturdy surface to do this can prevent a serious cut to a hand, but be careful, anyway. The stick is run into the side of the bacon chunk as near as possible to the rind and then out the pre-cut hole that was made in the rind. This is to help prevent losing one's bacon in the fire as it fries. Turn the bacon over with the fat side up and make two or three vertical and horizontal cuts into the bacon. Make shallow cuts; they can be cut deeper if necessary, later, to release more grease.
Now, the fun begins! Set the plate or tray of prepped bread nearby, and either stand in front of the fire or sit in a chair and hold the stick over the hot coals, turning the stick constantly. As the bacon heats up, it will start to drip grease. Quickly pull it away from the fire and drip the grease onto the rye bread. Although the bacon will eventually char, you don't want this to happen quickly. Charring makes the bacon bitter. Return the bacon to the fire and remove to drip grease over all your slices of rye bread. Trial and error will tell you when you've put enough on each slice. When you feel you're done frying, carefully remove the stick from the bacon, cut the bacon off the rind in one piece and slice into small slices. Put a slice of tomato on the bread, a piece of the bacon, a slice of onion if desired. Drink a shot of whisky and toast the day. Eat your "greasy bread". Isn't it the best stuff you've ever tasted?
Stories told in my family involved how this was done by farmers in Hungary in the "old days". Everything could be transported out to the fields without the need for refrigeration. And, everyone worked so hard, they weren't afraid of high cholesterol or even what calories were. Today, this is a rare treat, and we only indulge in it once a year or so. Even the whisky had a purpose: drinking a shot of whisky was supposed to coat your stomach so the grease wouldn't stick. Oh, and I'd add a pot of hot coffee to top off this delicious meal as we remember those who came before us.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Spring Tonic
Finally! Spring has arrived. The welcomed sun, the warm breezes, the heady scent of trees in bloom coupled with smell of the freshly-mowed pasture grass, which is my lawn, trigger so many memories.
It was at this time of year Mum would go out to her garden to see whether any of her perennial herbs had come up. She returned to her kitchen with large sorrel leaves somewhat resembling spinach in appearance. After carefully washing the leaves and chopping them up, she would cook them in their own moisture until tender. Then, she made a paste of about a tablespoon of flour, some water, a little sour cream and added it to the cooked sorrel, along with a bit of sugar and salt. It was all brought to a boil and was done. In Hungarian, it is called soska matas, and is served, lukewarm, a dab on your plate, with roast beef or pork. It was considered a spring tonic--a little went a long way! Being one of the first things to come up in the Spring, it was an acquired taste, but something that was anticipated each year. I tried to transplant it to my own garden with no success. I'll have to try to find seeds, somewhere. If I'm desperate for some, I can pick the wild variety in my lawn, as we did when we lived in Europe. They are arrow-shaped leaves, and when tasted, are very sour, with almost a lemony-sour flavor. but it takes a lot more time to gather the wild sorrel leaves, because they are so small.
Another plant we always watched for, in her garden was the Lovage. It came back faithfully, year after year, the size of a 3' bush. The leaves had a very strong celery scent and flavor, and were used to flavor soups and stews. Again, a little went a long way. On several occasions, I took root cuttings and attempted to grow it in my own garden with no success. Such simple plants that are becoming rare and are difficult to find.
These days, I forage my own garden for a spring tonic for my goats. When the comfrey is up, I pick bouquets of leaves for them and take it to the barn where they voraciously devour every last one offered. The kids aren't sure of this new flavor, but watching the adults, they soon learn it is a delicacy not to be missed!
Some people have their secret ramp patches, the French have their truffles. I think our primordial instincts come alive in the spring as we hunt and gather our various "tonics"...or maybe, the true tonic is getting out into the fresh air and breathing the new life rising up from the earth.
It was at this time of year Mum would go out to her garden to see whether any of her perennial herbs had come up. She returned to her kitchen with large sorrel leaves somewhat resembling spinach in appearance. After carefully washing the leaves and chopping them up, she would cook them in their own moisture until tender. Then, she made a paste of about a tablespoon of flour, some water, a little sour cream and added it to the cooked sorrel, along with a bit of sugar and salt. It was all brought to a boil and was done. In Hungarian, it is called soska matas, and is served, lukewarm, a dab on your plate, with roast beef or pork. It was considered a spring tonic--a little went a long way! Being one of the first things to come up in the Spring, it was an acquired taste, but something that was anticipated each year. I tried to transplant it to my own garden with no success. I'll have to try to find seeds, somewhere. If I'm desperate for some, I can pick the wild variety in my lawn, as we did when we lived in Europe. They are arrow-shaped leaves, and when tasted, are very sour, with almost a lemony-sour flavor. but it takes a lot more time to gather the wild sorrel leaves, because they are so small.
Another plant we always watched for, in her garden was the Lovage. It came back faithfully, year after year, the size of a 3' bush. The leaves had a very strong celery scent and flavor, and were used to flavor soups and stews. Again, a little went a long way. On several occasions, I took root cuttings and attempted to grow it in my own garden with no success. Such simple plants that are becoming rare and are difficult to find.
These days, I forage my own garden for a spring tonic for my goats. When the comfrey is up, I pick bouquets of leaves for them and take it to the barn where they voraciously devour every last one offered. The kids aren't sure of this new flavor, but watching the adults, they soon learn it is a delicacy not to be missed!
Some people have their secret ramp patches, the French have their truffles. I think our primordial instincts come alive in the spring as we hunt and gather our various "tonics"...or maybe, the true tonic is getting out into the fresh air and breathing the new life rising up from the earth.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Getting Here
It started with two baby ducks in a shoebox. Little did I know this innocent gift from an aunt who lived in the country would be the catalyst which finally moved me into the direction of which I'd been dreaming for ten years.I knew nothing about raising ducks. I bought a book,"Raising the Home Duck Flock". I learned the basics from that book, but soon found our ducks posed questions not answered in print. Many calls to my aunt brought her sage advice, "Just watch them and you'll learn everything you need to know".
"Guido" and "Luigi" grew into fine, healthy adult ducks. They were of the Muskovy breed, and were, in fact, male and female. I learned, also, that muskovies are very good parents, and soon, we had enough eggs for our table and a growing flock in the backyard. For the most part, no one except for our immediate neighbors knew they even existed. Muskovies don't actually quack. The males hiss, and the females make a cooing sound except when provoked, and then may quack, but not loudly.
We had an inground pool and I feared the ducks would ruin it, thinking they had a pond. But they never swam in it. The only time we found a duck on the pool was when one slid over the edge and landed on the winter cover. When the pool was opened in spring, they kept their distance, content to play in the kiddy pool we had for them. I wondered if this was because their feet couldn't touch bottom? The practice continued after we moved to the country. We noticed the babies enjoyed a swim in the kiddy pool, but seemed to outgrow the urge as they matured. Muskovies, we also learned, are leaner ducks, and are not as waterproof as other breeds. Maybe that was why.
When the flock began to number around 20, babies began to sneek under the fence, and were found swimming in puddles near the street. The word was out; boxes of escaped ducklings began showing up at our gate when we came home from the grocery store. I feared the city would cite me for raising fowl in my backyard. Although no one reported it, it was time. I'd wanted to move to a place in the country for at least ten years: what better time than now?
It took over two years to sell our home in the city for the price I wanted, and all the farms I'd looked at during that time were subsequently bought by others. I felt I couldn't live on less than 25 acres, but when reality set in, my funds dictated the outcome. If the house was in good condition, there wasn't enough land. If the acreage was adequate, the house and outbuildings needed too much work. I was a widow with a teenaged son who wasn't totally committed to this farm-idea as one year dragged into two with no buyers for our house. And then, it happened. Someone bought our house and I found the farm. A "farm", hardly, by any stretch of the imagination but mine. The house was solid; it stood near the epicenter of an earthquake some years back but suffered no damage. But, my dream of no less than 25 acres was readjusted to 4 1/2. The land was gently rolling, on the edge of a woodland with a stream below. It had a barn where the previous owners had kept a horse. It felt like home.
So, on moving day, on the last trip back to the city, we loaded forty ducks into the back of my pickup and turned many heads in passing, as we drove to our farm on the edge of the woods.
"Guido" and "Luigi" grew into fine, healthy adult ducks. They were of the Muskovy breed, and were, in fact, male and female. I learned, also, that muskovies are very good parents, and soon, we had enough eggs for our table and a growing flock in the backyard. For the most part, no one except for our immediate neighbors knew they even existed. Muskovies don't actually quack. The males hiss, and the females make a cooing sound except when provoked, and then may quack, but not loudly.
We had an inground pool and I feared the ducks would ruin it, thinking they had a pond. But they never swam in it. The only time we found a duck on the pool was when one slid over the edge and landed on the winter cover. When the pool was opened in spring, they kept their distance, content to play in the kiddy pool we had for them. I wondered if this was because their feet couldn't touch bottom? The practice continued after we moved to the country. We noticed the babies enjoyed a swim in the kiddy pool, but seemed to outgrow the urge as they matured. Muskovies, we also learned, are leaner ducks, and are not as waterproof as other breeds. Maybe that was why.
When the flock began to number around 20, babies began to sneek under the fence, and were found swimming in puddles near the street. The word was out; boxes of escaped ducklings began showing up at our gate when we came home from the grocery store. I feared the city would cite me for raising fowl in my backyard. Although no one reported it, it was time. I'd wanted to move to a place in the country for at least ten years: what better time than now?
It took over two years to sell our home in the city for the price I wanted, and all the farms I'd looked at during that time were subsequently bought by others. I felt I couldn't live on less than 25 acres, but when reality set in, my funds dictated the outcome. If the house was in good condition, there wasn't enough land. If the acreage was adequate, the house and outbuildings needed too much work. I was a widow with a teenaged son who wasn't totally committed to this farm-idea as one year dragged into two with no buyers for our house. And then, it happened. Someone bought our house and I found the farm. A "farm", hardly, by any stretch of the imagination but mine. The house was solid; it stood near the epicenter of an earthquake some years back but suffered no damage. But, my dream of no less than 25 acres was readjusted to 4 1/2. The land was gently rolling, on the edge of a woodland with a stream below. It had a barn where the previous owners had kept a horse. It felt like home.
So, on moving day, on the last trip back to the city, we loaded forty ducks into the back of my pickup and turned many heads in passing, as we drove to our farm on the edge of the woods.
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