According to my seed-sharing neighbor, Lisa, the odd green produce in the photo below is called an Italian cucumber. I concur that it's definitely a variety of cucumber. The flesh looks and tastes like a cucumber, although the skin is thinner and the seeds are larger than more common cucumber variations. As for it being Italian, I have no idea if this is true, and I have yet to corroborate this fact. For the record, Lisa's parents are of Italian descent and own a vineyard in Napa, so I'm inclined to take her at her word.
Ethnicity aside, our curious cucumber stepped up to plate last night and became the mainstay in a sauce that I paired with salmon fillets that were sauteed briefly in olive oil and lemon juice. Take this recipe, and enjoy. I adapted it from the current issue of Bon Appetit.
Green Gazpacho Sauce (for fish or whatever else you want to marry it to)
1 cucumber (any variety), seeded and roughly chopped, measuring about 1 1/2 cups
3 or 4 green onions, using both white and green parts, roughly chopped
Handful of fresh cilantro, roughly chopped
2-3 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tablespoon of balsamic vinegar
1-2 tablespoons of lemon juice
salt to taste
In a food processor or blender, combine the cucumber, green onions and the cilantro. Pulse until mixture is pureed. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil, the vinegar, 1 tablespoon of lemon juice, and some salt. Pulse a few times until combined. At this point, I advise tasting the sauce. If it seems too dry or the flavors aren't vibrant enough, add the additional olive oil and the lemon juice. Chill for about an hour before serving. Makes enough for 4 as an accompaniment. Great paired with sauteed or grilled salmon. (FYI: The recipe that appeared in Bon Appetit added serrano chiles and omitted the lemon juice. The magazine paired it with seared mahi-mahi.)
August 28, 2009
August 24, 2009
Name That Produce
The greenish things in this photo are edible and were cultivated in our yard this summer. We started the plants in little cups from seeds given to us in the spring by our neighbor, Lisa. Upon seeing the finished product in our yard in July, Lisa nearly cried, her nostalgia for this item was that intense. All of us are familiar with more common varieties of this item, which are readily available at the supermarket or at the farmer's market, but I've never seen this variation anywhere else. If I hadn't known what the seeds were called, I would have been clueless about the resulting harvest.
Care to take a guess? Here's a hint: It has seeds in the center, which can be eaten or removed depending our your preference. The tomatoes in the photo are provided to give you a sense of scale. Prize for the winner....how about some tomatoes?
August 6, 2009
When Does One Reach Tomato Overkill?
Your refusal to comment on whether Dennis and I should install raised planting beds in the front lawn (see previous post) gives me pause. I have to assume that you think the idea is cracked brain, and you worry about our standing in the community. You're loathed to encourage us in what might well be a misadventure, although I doubt it would reach more than minnow proportions. At worst, we might encourage the squirrels and the crows to linge
r even longer at our house, given the possibility they might nip a bite of fruit or pilfer a fat worm. From the humans, some passers-by might roll their eyes and cluck a bit, or we might find ourselves the subject of a little neighborhood gossip for being "different." All are possible.
On the other hand, no one wants to be the one who dampens our spirits and just says, "No." You're not willing to finger-wag and tell us, "No front yard veggie patch. Not now. Not later. Not ever. You live in the suburbs, and not in California's farm belt. Besides, you already have an overabundance of tomatoes. Do your really want more produce? "
I have to admit that the tomato surplus is an excellent point. When does one cross the line with the crops? When does one arrive at too much of a good thing?
For the record, 60 tomatoes of mixed sizes and varieties -- after being skinned, seeded, cooked and pureed -- yield 8 cups of tomato something or other. You could call it a marinara sauce if you like, but it's more of a base, really, on which to build other dishes. One could add meat, or broccoli and eggplant, or shellfish, or just some garlic and mushrooms. I know the yields and quantities from personal experience. I've stood at the stove for hours this summer and processed tomatoes in this way. As I write this, a medium-sized pot of tomatoes, to which ground beef, red wine, and herbs have been added, bubbles gently in the kitchen, evidence of my labors.
Truth is, the bumper crops we experience every year (because my husband, instead of being conservative, gets greedy and installs dozens of tomato plants each spring that explode with full and unbelievable production by August) are a trial. I mean this in a good way. We share the bounty with anyone who expresses the tiniest interest. We eat lots of salads and soups. And I cook tomatoes until my hands are red and my fingers are wrinkled in order to freeze quite a bit of puree for later. Sometimes I reach my limit.
Of course, come this October, when I'm thawing out a few cups of home-grown tomato sauce for lasagna or some pasta, I'll be grateful for the amazing taste and the fact that it didn't come from a can or a jar or a supermarket shelf.
r even longer at our house, given the possibility they might nip a bite of fruit or pilfer a fat worm. From the humans, some passers-by might roll their eyes and cluck a bit, or we might find ourselves the subject of a little neighborhood gossip for being "different." All are possible.On the other hand, no one wants to be the one who dampens our spirits and just says, "No." You're not willing to finger-wag and tell us, "No front yard veggie patch. Not now. Not later. Not ever. You live in the suburbs, and not in California's farm belt. Besides, you already have an overabundance of tomatoes. Do your really want more produce? "
I have to admit that the tomato surplus is an excellent point. When does one cross the line with the crops? When does one arrive at too much of a good thing?
For the record, 60 tomatoes of mixed sizes and varieties -- after being skinned, seeded, cooked and pureed -- yield 8 cups of tomato something or other. You could call it a marinara sauce if you like, but it's more of a base, really, on which to build other dishes. One could add meat, or broccoli and eggplant, or shellfish, or just some garlic and mushrooms. I know the yields and quantities from personal experience. I've stood at the stove for hours this summer and processed tomatoes in this way. As I write this, a medium-sized pot of tomatoes, to which ground beef, red wine, and herbs have been added, bubbles gently in the kitchen, evidence of my labors.
Truth is, the bumper crops we experience every year (because my husband, instead of being conservative, gets greedy and installs dozens of tomato plants each spring that explode with full and unbelievable production by August) are a trial. I mean this in a good way. We share the bounty with anyone who expresses the tiniest interest. We eat lots of salads and soups. And I cook tomatoes until my hands are red and my fingers are wrinkled in order to freeze quite a bit of puree for later. Sometimes I reach my limit.
Of course, come this October, when I'm thawing out a few cups of home-grown tomato sauce for lasagna or some pasta, I'll be grateful for the amazing taste and the fact that it didn't come from a can or a jar or a supermarket shelf.
July 23, 2009
Tomato Watch-- Summer '09
Tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. Mid-summer is here, and we are in full tomato production. In the past weeks, I've made a vat of gazpacho, many bowls of summer pasta, bruschetta, corn-tomato salsa, and caprese salad. Got any other ideas?
We delivered tomatoes to all of the neighbors -- more than once. I don't feel so bad now about never getting around to giving them any home-baked Christmas cookies last December. Flavorful organic tomatoes have to compensate for that oversight. With one neighbor, we've initiated an open-gate, barter policy. They are free to come in our yard anytime to harvest tomatoes. In return, they've granted us full access to their overburdened orange tree. Already this week, we've consumed two big pitchers of fresh-squeezed juice.
Most of the other vegetation is keeping up, too. A couple of red bell peppers are about ready to pick, the basil recovered from its earlier slug onslaught, and the grapes are plentiful and will hopefully ripen in a month or so.
Given the drought, we've been considering expanding our edible garden project beyond the fence and onto the front lawn. The local dry conditions have made it almost unpatriotic to water the grass, and brown lawns are everywhere. Why not remove some of our scratchy dry grass and install a few more raised beds?
But this is how it starts, right, the slippery slope to eccentricity. Soon we'll have a permanent scarecrow standing in front of the house, not just a Halloween decoration, and Dennis and I will be begging the passing dogwalkers and stroller mothers to cart off a rutabaga or two. Neighborhood kids will avoid our house. "Not that street! That corner is where the spinach pushers live." You can see how this idea might get out of hand. But still, it's under consideration.
What do you think? Should we install a few raised beds streetside, yea or nay?
We delivered tomatoes to all of the neighbors -- more than once. I don't feel so bad now about never getting around to giving them any home-baked Christmas cookies last December. Flavorful organic tomatoes have to compensate for that oversight. With one neighbor, we've initiated an open-gate, barter policy. They are free to come in our yard anytime to harvest tomatoes. In return, they've granted us full access to their overburdened orange tree. Already this week, we've consumed two big pitchers of fresh-squeezed juice.
Most of the other vegetation is keeping up, too. A couple of red bell peppers are about ready to pick, the basil recovered from its earlier slug onslaught, and the grapes are plentiful and will hopefully ripen in a month or so.
Given the drought, we've been considering expanding our edible garden project beyond the fence and onto the front lawn. The local dry conditions have made it almost unpatriotic to water the grass, and brown lawns are everywhere. Why not remove some of our scratchy dry grass and install a few more raised beds?
But this is how it starts, right, the slippery slope to eccentricity. Soon we'll have a permanent scarecrow standing in front of the house, not just a Halloween decoration, and Dennis and I will be begging the passing dogwalkers and stroller mothers to cart off a rutabaga or two. Neighborhood kids will avoid our house. "Not that street! That corner is where the spinach pushers live." You can see how this idea might get out of hand. But still, it's under consideration.
What do you think? Should we install a few raised beds streetside, yea or nay?
July 9, 2009
Leadership Vacuum
Dear Citizens of Alaska,
It's all sunshine down here in the great State of California, and I really should be outside harvesting backyard tomatoes right now. Instead, I find myself again drawn to the circus that surrounds your governor, Sarah Palin. It's like rubber-necking at a car accident. You don't really want to look, but it's hard to avert your eyes.
Exactly how do you respond when your governor, a person who acted as if she really wanted the job, ups and quits on you? If she had a really good reason -- like a cancer diagnosis, for example -- you'd undoubtedly wish her the best and turn to someone else for state leadership. But how do you cope when your top state official delivers a rambling exit speech that falls short of any credible explanation and relies on both a dead fish metaphor and a "pass the ball" analogy.
Appearing to sense that these images, compelling as they were, might not be enough to sell you on her premature departure, she closed the speech by playing the mommy card. Mrs. Palin, citing her children's wishes that she spend time in their house instead of the statehouse, even quoted one of her offspring as offering a resounding, "Hell, yeah!" to the idea that Mom throw in the governor's towel. It's unclear if the hell-referencer was Bristol, Willow, Piper, soldier Track, or baby Trig. We'll find out eventually, though, as Mrs. Palin has promised to elaborate later on her family's team meeting, presumably because she thinks we actually care about this stuff.
And maybe we do. Self-absorbed governors give us headlines, water-cooler gossip, and potential jokes for many late-night talk show hosts. They help us to forget the dreadful economy, the over-heated planet, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Citizens of Alaska, I'm writing to you today because we, in California, feel your pain. We, too, have a wacky governor with an outsized ego. And, yes, we only have ourselves to blame. We duly elected him. In fact, we wanted him so badly that we recalled his predecessor, Gray Davis, who was a hard-working bureaucrat, because, as his name foretold, he was guilty of being a shade too gray for our vibrant state. Now the dysfunctional California government is sputtering along on IOUs. But at least our Arnold has stayed on the job and not flaked out on us, as your Sarah has done.
Maybe the task of governing one of these United States is just not that much fun, which seems to be Mrs. Palin's primary talking point. As best as one can tell from her speech, she appears to be quiting because the ethics complaints, the jibes at her family, and the other minutiae are making it too hot in the statehouse kitchen, so to speak. She's not the only governor to flame out, of course. Think Eliot Spitzer, Jim McGreevey, and now Mark Sanford. These fellows all had libido issues to contend with, but a resignation is still a resignation, extra-marital affair or not.
The long-term problem for Mrs. Palin is that nobody likes a quitter, which is precisely what she is. How her recent actions will play in Peoria remains to be seen. At the moment, while her national political future hangs in the balance, Sarah Barracuda, the Wasilla basketball star, has gone home to write her memoir.
Tell me, Alaskans, do you think this book will sell in your state, or are you just too mad at her? Personally, I'll wait for the paperback edition, or maybe the library copy -- if any neighborhood libraries are still operating by the time the Palin memoir is released. It's unlikely that California's local enonomies will function for very long on state-issued IOUs. Upon reflection, perhaps you Alaskans aren't in such bad shape afterall. Our state, too, might be better off if the Govinator termed out a little prematurely.
Mr. Schwarzenegger, isn't that your agent calling? Truth is, given your box-office appeal, you might just boost the state's economy more by taking on a leading role in a new Terminator flic (people love those) than by continuing your leading role in the state capitol. Just an idea.
It's all sunshine down here in the great State of California, and I really should be outside harvesting backyard tomatoes right now. Instead, I find myself again drawn to the circus that surrounds your governor, Sarah Palin. It's like rubber-necking at a car accident. You don't really want to look, but it's hard to avert your eyes.
Exactly how do you respond when your governor, a person who acted as if she really wanted the job, ups and quits on you? If she had a really good reason -- like a cancer diagnosis, for example -- you'd undoubtedly wish her the best and turn to someone else for state leadership. But how do you cope when your top state official delivers a rambling exit speech that falls short of any credible explanation and relies on both a dead fish metaphor and a "pass the ball" analogy.
Appearing to sense that these images, compelling as they were, might not be enough to sell you on her premature departure, she closed the speech by playing the mommy card. Mrs. Palin, citing her children's wishes that she spend time in their house instead of the statehouse, even quoted one of her offspring as offering a resounding, "Hell, yeah!" to the idea that Mom throw in the governor's towel. It's unclear if the hell-referencer was Bristol, Willow, Piper, soldier Track, or baby Trig. We'll find out eventually, though, as Mrs. Palin has promised to elaborate later on her family's team meeting, presumably because she thinks we actually care about this stuff.
And maybe we do. Self-absorbed governors give us headlines, water-cooler gossip, and potential jokes for many late-night talk show hosts. They help us to forget the dreadful economy, the over-heated planet, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Citizens of Alaska, I'm writing to you today because we, in California, feel your pain. We, too, have a wacky governor with an outsized ego. And, yes, we only have ourselves to blame. We duly elected him. In fact, we wanted him so badly that we recalled his predecessor, Gray Davis, who was a hard-working bureaucrat, because, as his name foretold, he was guilty of being a shade too gray for our vibrant state. Now the dysfunctional California government is sputtering along on IOUs. But at least our Arnold has stayed on the job and not flaked out on us, as your Sarah has done.
Maybe the task of governing one of these United States is just not that much fun, which seems to be Mrs. Palin's primary talking point. As best as one can tell from her speech, she appears to be quiting because the ethics complaints, the jibes at her family, and the other minutiae are making it too hot in the statehouse kitchen, so to speak. She's not the only governor to flame out, of course. Think Eliot Spitzer, Jim McGreevey, and now Mark Sanford. These fellows all had libido issues to contend with, but a resignation is still a resignation, extra-marital affair or not.
The long-term problem for Mrs. Palin is that nobody likes a quitter, which is precisely what she is. How her recent actions will play in Peoria remains to be seen. At the moment, while her national political future hangs in the balance, Sarah Barracuda, the Wasilla basketball star, has gone home to write her memoir.
Tell me, Alaskans, do you think this book will sell in your state, or are you just too mad at her? Personally, I'll wait for the paperback edition, or maybe the library copy -- if any neighborhood libraries are still operating by the time the Palin memoir is released. It's unlikely that California's local enonomies will function for very long on state-issued IOUs. Upon reflection, perhaps you Alaskans aren't in such bad shape afterall. Our state, too, might be better off if the Govinator termed out a little prematurely.
Mr. Schwarzenegger, isn't that your agent calling? Truth is, given your box-office appeal, you might just boost the state's economy more by taking on a leading role in a new Terminator flic (people love those) than by continuing your leading role in the state capitol. Just an idea.
June 19, 2009
Summertime Lime
We've waited years to grow a Mexican lime. Smaller than the Persian lime, the Mexican lime (aka "key lime") is used in margaritas, in a number of Mexican and Thai dishes, and in Key Lime Pie. Many seasons ago, we planted such a tree on our property. I don't remember what exactly led us to this flight of fancy. Perhaps others in the neighborhood had lime trees, and we wanted one, too. But keeping up with the neighbors can sometimes be easier than it looks.
In our impulsive quest for limes, mistakes were most definitely made. Our first misstep was in placement. We not only planted our lime tree on the North side of our pro
perty, we placed it within the shadow of the house. I can only think that we were young and foolhardy at the time to do such a thing. Quite healthy on arrival, the tree gradually turned pale and sickly from too much shade. Trying to correct our location mistake, we dug up the ailing citrus, transplanted it in a warmer, more westerly location, and crossed our fingers.
We watched and waited -- years, in fact -- to see if our transplant took. The tree didn't seem to notice that it had been relocated. It stood much the same, neither improving nor getting worse, simply in a state of equipoise. One day Dennis reached his limit. He wrapped his fingers around the thin trunk and gave an upward yank. The lime tree easily uprooted. Clearly, we had waited too long for this damaged tree to recuperate. It was beyond done.
Undeterred, a few months later, we purchased a second Mexican Lime tree. This time we placed it where it would get plenty of sun. While it flowered, and formed tiny limes, they simply dropped to ground before maturing. But this tree looked healthy and was growing taller, so we waited some more. Meanwhile, several neighbors in the immediate vicinity reported good success with their Mexican limes -- even neighbors transplanted from the Midwest, who weren't exactly sure what a Mexican lime even was. Hmmm.
But, as the proverb says, good things come to those who wait. Finally, last winter, our tree produced actual limes, little dark green orbs loaded with powerful juice. Best of all, our tree is still giving us limes six months later. We've been adding slices of lime to our water, squeezing drops of lime on our tacos, and making the occasional quart of limeade. Now that summer is here, it may be time for a pitcher of margaritas and a few friends to partake.
Of course, if we do that, another proverb may be more apt: What soberness conceals, drunkenness reveals. Okay, so we'll go easy on the tequila.... Cheers!
In our impulsive quest for limes, mistakes were most definitely made. Our first misstep was in placement. We not only planted our lime tree on the North side of our pro
perty, we placed it within the shadow of the house. I can only think that we were young and foolhardy at the time to do such a thing. Quite healthy on arrival, the tree gradually turned pale and sickly from too much shade. Trying to correct our location mistake, we dug up the ailing citrus, transplanted it in a warmer, more westerly location, and crossed our fingers.We watched and waited -- years, in fact -- to see if our transplant took. The tree didn't seem to notice that it had been relocated. It stood much the same, neither improving nor getting worse, simply in a state of equipoise. One day Dennis reached his limit. He wrapped his fingers around the thin trunk and gave an upward yank. The lime tree easily uprooted. Clearly, we had waited too long for this damaged tree to recuperate. It was beyond done.
Undeterred, a few months later, we purchased a second Mexican Lime tree. This time we placed it where it would get plenty of sun. While it flowered, and formed tiny limes, they simply dropped to ground before maturing. But this tree looked healthy and was growing taller, so we waited some more. Meanwhile, several neighbors in the immediate vicinity reported good success with their Mexican limes -- even neighbors transplanted from the Midwest, who weren't exactly sure what a Mexican lime even was. Hmmm.
But, as the proverb says, good things come to those who wait. Finally, last winter, our tree produced actual limes, little dark green orbs loaded with powerful juice. Best of all, our tree is still giving us limes six months later. We've been adding slices of lime to our water, squeezing drops of lime on our tacos, and making the occasional quart of limeade. Now that summer is here, it may be time for a pitcher of margaritas and a few friends to partake.
Of course, if we do that, another proverb may be more apt: What soberness conceals, drunkenness reveals. Okay, so we'll go easy on the tequila.... Cheers!
LIMEADE
8 tablespoons sugar
4 cups water
6 tablespoons fresh-squeezed lime juice
Make a syrup by combining the water and sugar in a saucepan. Boil for about a minute and then let cool. Poor the syrup into a pitcher and stir in the lime juice. Serve with ice and mint leaves. Makes one quart.
June 5, 2009
Slug Fest
As you may have expected from the previews, our tomatoes are standing tall. More than 5 ft. tall, actually. One of the red cherry varieties has already produced a tomato or two for tasting, and if the early returns are any indication of the crop to follow, we're in for a very good season.
But the basil plants are a problem, and I can't have a massive crop of tomatoes without a massive crop of basil to accompany it. That's akin to salsa without any jalapeno or sushi without any wasabi. Basil adds the accent. The difficulty lies in the fact that the humans at my house are not the only ones who enjoy a nice bite of basil leaf. My plants are so popular with the insect crowd, their leaves are being shredded before they can get properly established.
I was complaining to my neighbor, an avid gardener, about this conundrum, when she oft-handedly mentioned the beer trick. I'd heard of this remedy before but always discounted it as an old farmer's tale, a sort of urban gardener's myth not to be believed. The idea is to put saucers of beer around the plants at dusk in the hope that, on the way to dinner, the pests will slip into the pub for a quick beer bath and thus, succumb to a maltly demise, well before they can belly up to the day's main course. This approach just sounded so fanciful, it was hard to take seriously, a notion conceived by a gardening Andy Capp.
But these were desperate times. June was upon me, the tomatoes were ripening fast, and my basil was nowhere near ready. So I went to the market and purchased a six-pack of inexpensive beer. Last night, before the sun finally set, I strategically placed a couple of saucers of the amber fluid around the basil plants, and hoped for the best.
This morning, like any eager trapper, I went out before 7 a.m. to check the results. Dead body count: Nine slugs afloat in the two little pools of beer I had set out. This plan was a smashing success. I had achieved slugs corpses without any need for me to do the actual killing. Tonight, I plan to repeat the process. Perhaps some slug cousins will come looking for their missing relations, or maybe they'll just be hankering for a dinner of basil salad. And like the nine souls who predeceased them, let's hope these slugs also get waylaid by the allure of a before-dinner drink.
But the basil plants are a problem, and I can't have a massive crop of tomatoes without a massive crop of basil to accompany it. That's akin to salsa without any jalapeno or sushi without any wasabi. Basil adds the accent. The difficulty lies in the fact that the humans at my house are not the only ones who enjoy a nice bite of basil leaf. My plants are so popular with the insect crowd, their leaves are being shredded before they can get properly established.
I was complaining to my neighbor, an avid gardener, about this conundrum, when she oft-handedly mentioned the beer trick. I'd heard of this remedy before but always discounted it as an old farmer's tale, a sort of urban gardener's myth not to be believed. The idea is to put saucers of beer around the plants at dusk in the hope that, on the way to dinner, the pests will slip into the pub for a quick beer bath and thus, succumb to a maltly demise, well before they can belly up to the day's main course. This approach just sounded so fanciful, it was hard to take seriously, a notion conceived by a gardening Andy Capp.
But these were desperate times. June was upon me, the tomatoes were ripening fast, and my basil was nowhere near ready. So I went to the market and purchased a six-pack of inexpensive beer. Last night, before the sun finally set, I strategically placed a couple of saucers of the amber fluid around the basil plants, and hoped for the best.
This morning, like any eager trapper, I went out before 7 a.m. to check the results. Dead body count: Nine slugs afloat in the two little pools of beer I had set out. This plan was a smashing success. I had achieved slugs corpses without any need for me to do the actual killing. Tonight, I plan to repeat the process. Perhaps some slug cousins will come looking for their missing relations, or maybe they'll just be hankering for a dinner of basil salad. And like the nine souls who predeceased them, let's hope these slugs also get waylaid by the allure of a before-dinner drink.
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