Thank You, Sarah

Dear Sarah,

Please excuse this letter's informal opening, but I feel as if I know you so well, first names are only appropriate. Referring to you as Mrs. Palin would be overly stiff and just wrong, somehow.

So, Sarah, I'm writing today to say how much I've enjoyed your media blitz and to share with you, on this Thanksgiving holiday, some of the many things for which I am grateful.

The recent 24/7 news cycle has been broadcasting non-stop interviews with you of late, which makes me very, very thankful for the First Amendment. Seeing you on TV, or reading about you in the paper, reminds me that, in America, anyone can bask in uncensored media attention, no matter how inane their message is. Because of the First Amendment, Americans have just as much right to listen to vapid speech as they do to profanity, or to sound reason, or to eloquence. Thank you for reminding me of this.

You've also made me thankful for the many women who trail blazed ahead of you and me, winning for future generations of females the right to vote and the opportunity to run for elected office. I'm reminded of the suffragettes and of those first women who secured seats in Congress: Margaret Chase Smith and Shirley Chisholm come to mind. Now a woman with your qualifications, Sarah, can be tapped for the vice presidency, which tells me that our gender no longer needs to be substantially more qualified than their male counterparts in order to be taken seriously. Our foremothers deserve a nod of gratitude on this Thanksgiving day for all of their pioneering efforts.

Finally, I have to hand it to the editor or marketing person who came up with the title for your memoir, "Going Rogue." Until the book's release, I had never thought of you as rogue, given that the dictionary defines such a person as a "villain, trickster, swindler, cheat." But maybe you're hiding some ill deeds that the National Enquirer will soon reveal. While that would be fun, I doubt that you have many more skeletons in your closet. More likely, the book title was just a cynical attempt to position you as an iconoclast of the right, a strategy that may well work. But if true roguishness was your goal, you might consult with your own rogue from Wasilla, Levi Johnston, for some tips. Or better yet, Martha Stewart might give you some pointers. Martha has actual prison time on her rogue resume. Just a thought.

Seriously, Sarah, the rogue thing is at odds with your Alaska-beauty-queen- embracing-home-and-hearth image, which worked so well for you and reminded all of us of the importance of family, especially at Thanksgiving. So in honor of the family values that you previously espoused, I'd like to propose an idea: Rather than spending $25 on your book, people could donate that amount to a local charity that helps needy families. Just to show that I'm fully committed to this idea, I pledge to send $25 to my local chapter of Habitat for Humanity in lieu of owning my own copy of "Going Rogue."

What do you think? If you tell your friends and I tell mine, and they tell all of their friends, we could do some serious fundraising. True, your publisher, Harper Collins, might be a tad annoyed at the idea, but they're a big company and they'll get over it. After all, my idea is for the greater good. Let me know if you're in. Happy Thanksgiving.

With warm regards from Glendale,
Cathleen

GERMINATION!!!

A couple of weeks ago, Dennis finally ripped out most of the summer's tomato plants. A few aging vines that had been tucked into a corner of the yard still remain, but, for the most part, this year's tomato extravaganza can only be relived by pulling a container of puree from the freezer and defrosting.

As you surmised, I was more than ready for those tired, whithered plants to go. But not without a fond farewell. Many of this year's tomato plants showed great aptitude and surpassed all of our expectations. But of late, they were saggy and parched. California summers are brutal, and those plants were weathered, long past their prime.

With the tomato obsession in abeyance, we could focus on a new season. Dennis stirred up the loamy contents of his compost bin and refreshed our raised beds with some dense brown earth material. Meanwhile, I grabbed the graph paper, sketched in our existing planting space, consulted the back of the seed packs, and formed a plan. Then, I carefully tucked seeds just under the dirt's surface -- two types of lettuces, kale, sugar snap peas, carrots, and an Argentinian green called achicoria from a seed envelope that a friend had shared with me.

I carefully studied how much sun each crop demanded and placed the seeds in what I hoped was the best possible neighborhood for each type of plant. Location, location, location -- never truer words than when endeavoring to grow something. I know this from my many past failures, including several of my kids' science fair projects, which went awry because none of us could germinate a simple bean.

Maybe the conditions in our yard are just better now -- more conducive to success -- with the raised beds and the compost and all, because I'm here to report that 20 days after burying tiny seeds, we have germination! Itty bitty little lettuce leaves, minuscule tips of kale, tiny pea shoots, and carrot tops are all breaking through. I'm stupidly proud.

Tomorrow's plan is to thin the young crops, a random and capricious exercise that calls for a devil-may-care approach and great trust that the plants left behind will live long and prosper.

But I'm game for the task. If any seedling gives me the slightest scowl, he's history.

P.S. If you're wondering what's happening with the South Laguna Community Garden (the subject of the previous post), an invitation has been extended to Michelle Obama in the hopes that she'll make a very special appearance at the garden's opening cermonies. No harm in dreaming big.

Space To Garden, Ocean Vu

Let me introduce you to someone, my father-in-law, Bill Rihn. A retired engineer, Bill is one of those people who sees a need for something and then moves forward to make it happen. You might find him tutoring in his local public schools, working in political campaigns, or spearheading efforts to protect the environment in his California beachside community.

Most recently, Bill and his neighbors in South Laguna Beach have rolled up their sleeves (literally) and moved mountains (of dirt). They've taken a patch of land and, with the generous consent of the property owner, obtained city permits, solicited donations for plumbing, constructed raised beds, brought in topsoil, and installed a shed. As a result of their vision and sweat equity, an idle piece of real estate has been transformed into the South Laguna Community Garden. (Bill is pictured above with Shary Seltzer, who painted the sign.)
http://www.southlaguna.org/garden/Photos.html

After a summer's worth of planning and hard work, the group is installing the last few planting boxes now, and plots are being assigned. The garden is officially a project of the South Laguna Civic Association, of which Bill is president. While having an umbrella organization in place probably made some of the start-up aspects easier, any group of dedicated individuals could create such a garden.

Events to mark the garden's official opening are now being planned, and I know this group would like to start things in a big way by welcoming a very special guest. Mrs. Obama, are you interested in a trip to Laguna Beach to meet some community volunteers? You can't beat a garden with an ocean view.

Not Without Its Disappointments

It's not all good health and happy talk, you know. Raising organic crops is no different from most endeavors. Disappointments appear unexpectedly, like your cousin Ted, who knocks, uninvited, on your front door, with sour breath and a sad tale that culminates in his need for a place to crash.

You may recall that at the beginning of the summer, I planted one tiny cantaloupe vine, as an experiment really, to see how it would fare. For much of the summer, the little vine grew and grew, sending out long shoots and broad green leaves. The cantaloupe's vines entwined themselves wherever possible, circling around adjacent plants. At first, only a few flowers appeared, and no real fruit developed from these blossoms. But the vine looked healthy and was visually pleasing, so I left it alone.

By early September, things changed. Dozens of delicate, white flowers developed, from which a few tiny cantaloupes began to grow. I had the audacity to hope and found that the cantaloupe was now engendering warm, smile-inducing feelings in me whenever I checked its steady progress. My giddy reaction was reminiscent of the best days of the Obama campaign, and I liked how it felt.

By the time the new flowers appeared, however, the vine had grown exponentially from its humble beginnings, taking up scads of ground and encroaching on the neighboring herbs. An intervention seemed appropriate. What kind of gardener would I be if allowed the cantaloupe to push everyone else around. So, I gingerly redirected some of its shoots toward a less crowded space in the planting bed, and inserted a tomato cage upon which they could climb. That was it. I swear.

Although I don't know when or how this occurred, my brown thumb must have inserted itself. Within 12 hours of my so-called assistance, the cantaloupe vine was a limp and lifeless corpse. Clearly, I had made a huge mistake, although I'm still not sure what I did wrong. Eventually, I removed the detritus and threw it into the green waste bin. Did I unwittingly uproot it when I redirected a few of its shoots? How delicate can a cantaloupe plant be!

This was not the summer's only disappointment. Remember the grape vines, from which I hoped to make grape jelly. Long story short, the grapes suffered from dramatically poor timing. Unfortunately, they came of age at exactly the same moment that the Station fire erupted just north of our house, the largest fire in L.A. County history. Our local air was so polluted and the temperatures were so high, that we didn't dare venture into the yard for several days. When we finally crept outside to assess the damage, ash covered everything, including the clumps of purple fruit, some of which were already drying on the vine. Since the newscasters were warning us of how damaging the ash was for the paint on our cars, ingesting traces of soot clinging to a bunch of grapes seemed imprudent, at best. I eventually clipped off the entire crop of grapes and tossed the fruit into the bin, leaving my new jelly jars standing empty and idle in the pantry.

Some produce is destroyed by insects and other pests. Other times, human error brings destruction. And, occassionally, mother nature sends in a flood or a fire to devastate what we attempt to grow. Imagine if your livelihood depended on how much and how well your farm produced. It's probably a good thing that I live in the city, where fruits and vegetables are stacked neatly for sale and groceries grow on shelves.

My Gazpacho Garden

Without any real planning or conscious effort, we somehow achieved the essentials for gazpacho -- tomatoes, cucumbers, and red and yellow peppers -- in our summer garden. A Spanish soup, served well-chilled, gazpacho has to be the perfect accompaniment to the sun-baked summer days found in Granada or Seville. Given how heated things had been here of late, with fires devastating the nearby Angeles National Forest and flames close enough to see from our front windows, cold soup seemed like the solution. Raw nourishment served up in a bowl. With this thought in mind, I consulted my Williams-Sonoma Soup Cookbook and set about procuring the one or two ingredients not already in the pantry or growing just outside the kitchen door.

A few days later, when the temps reached over 100 degrees and turning on the burners seemed like a foolhardy brush with heat prostration, I turned to my gazpacho recipe instead. Whatever climate you find yourself in, I provide this recipe below, in the spirit of passing on a good thing. One caveat, however: While I'm a big fan of this soup, the males in my house are, inexplicably, not as enamoured with it. They eat it, but they don't love it. On the flip side, I've served this soup at baby showers and other events where the guests have all been women, and not a drop goes uneaten. Could this be a gender thing? Perhaps a cold vegetarian soup lacks sufficient heartiness to appeal to more manly appetites, aligning it more closely with cold salmon, cucumber sandwiches, salad nicoise, and other so-called ladies' lunch fare. No matter, whatever my guys pass up, means more for me, which translates to cold comfort-- in a good way.

Gazpacho
This soup relies on a food processor, or a good blender, at the very least.

1.5 cups of bread crumbs
1/3 to 1/2 cup of olive oil
1 cucumber, peeled, seeded and diced
1 red or yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped
1 small red onion, chopped
4 cups of fresh tomatoes, roughly chopped
2 cups water, chilled
2 cups tomato juice, chilled
3 to 6 tbsps of red wine vinegar, depending on your taste. (Spanish vinegar is best here).
salt and pepper
Extra cucumber, onion and bell pepper for garnish

Put the bread crumbs and 1/3 cup of olive oil in the food processor. Pulse until a thick paste is formed. (If too dry, add more oil.) Reserving some of the diced cucumber, onion, and bell pepper for garnish, put the three vegetables into the food processor and combine with bread crumb mixture. Once pureed, add the tomatoes and pulse some more. Transfer the mixture to a large bowl, cover and refrigerate until well-chilled. Before serving, with a whisk, combine the pureed mixture with the cold water and tomato juice. Gently stir in salt and pepper and the vinegar. (Note: add vinegar incrementally, tasting as you go, until you arrive at a sourness level that works for you.) Serve with extra diced cucumber, onion, bell pepper, croutons, or diced hard-boiled egg.

It's A Cucumber

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.)

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?

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 linger 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.

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?

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.

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 property, 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.

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.

Collateral Damage

This is a story of unintended consequences, the Internet, and an attempt to un-stick the very stuck. But first, did I mention the rat problem?

Sometime last October, as I was preparing for a trip to Europe, I opened our storage closet, which is really a section of partially finished basement, to haul out a piece of luggage. Quelle surprise! Rodents had set up housekeeping in one of the old suitcases. Their housing efforts were quite an achievement, given that that the storage closet is very near our bedroom and none of us -- not the dog, nor Dennis, nor I -- had detected any incursion. We never heard a squeak.

Mercifully, at the time I went looking for my suitcase, the creatures were either out for the day, or had moved on to other accommodations. After much vacuuming and disposal of old baggage, Dennis and I discussed what to do. Since we were leaving the country in a few days, we decided to wait and see if the storage closet showed any further evidence of squatters upon our return. Several weeks later, the closet was unchanged, showing no signs of rodent life. Problem solved, we hoped.

But sometime in February, Dennis, Nick, and the dog all heard scratching at different times in another part of the house, in the walls behind our laundry area. Clearly, we needed professional help. I made the call, but to get a head start on the exterminator, I set out for the hardware store for some DIY supplies. The helpful woman at our neighborhood, not-a-chain hardware sold me some rat poison and some sticky traps, which carried no risk of crushing one's fingers. I scattered the traps in the garage, and Dennis put the poison under the house where the dog couldn't get it. (Apparently, this type of rat poison is only activated when the rats have a glass of water, and lacking a water source under the house, the reasoning is that they will succumb outside and not under one's kitchen. At least, that's the theory.)

Working with Ernie, the exterminator, we plugged up all possible rodent entry points. During the next few weeks, Ernie checked the traps regularly, but we never ensnared any actual beasts, which I took as a sign that the furry folks had truly moved on. Eventually, Ernie declared us rat-free and took his monstrous traps with him. I, however, left the two glue board traps I had purchased in corners of the garage, just in case.

Meanwhile, as the rat events were unfolding, Dennis and I had both sighted a very adorable lizard, who had taken up residence in the yard. He seemed to be living under the patio table and feeding off the local insect life, which was fine with us. All was harmonious for a time, with the lizard setting up housekeeping outside and the rats blocked from further domicile inside. But the peace didn't last. Following the law of unintended consequences, the lizard ventured beyond the confines of the yard, wandered into the garage, and slithered right onto one of the sticky traps.

Neither Dennis nor I had the wherewithal to cope with a mortally stuck lizard, so for a day or two, we just averted our eyes every time we entered the garage. But eventually, I summoned up my courage, reached into the corner, and picked up the sticky trap with the intention of disposing of our reptilian friend. But then he flicked his tongue at me. Our lizard was very much alive and very much glued in his tracks.

Debating how to proceed, I consulted with Nick, who responded as all people under 30 would: He turned to the Internet and googled "un-stick rodent glue boards." Within 60 seconds, certainly no more than that, we were perusing a diatribe that highlighted the downsides of sticky traps, which mentioned, as I had already learned first-hand, that they don't really kill the prey. That job is left for you. The website also gave advice on how, should one undergo a change of heart, a mouse or rat might be released from this sticky predicament. Bingo.

So picture this, if you will: Nick and I are on our hands and knees on the garage floor. A bottle of vegetable oil and a box of q-tips are nearby. Both of us are applying oil around and, as we are able, under the lizard's belly, feet, tail, and throat, trying to counter the adhesive effects of the glue. Eventually, the oil did the trick, and we freed him. He slithered off under his own power, heading into the dark cover of the garage to recover from his ordeal.

Several days have gone by since this event, and no lizard sightings. I'm still hopeful that this glue-boarding incident, while definitely torture, did not lead to his untimely passing.

Beet Trial

A Spanish-style tapas restaurant has recently opened in the neighborhood, and, for reasons I don't fully understand, been named Three Drunken Goats. Is there some significance to three goats in Spanish literature or culture? And why are the goats inebriated?

Maybe the restaurant's name is just a quirky marketing thing, but no matter. Although the owners are charging too much for a glass of wine, the food is well prepared and arrives on smallish plates, which are accompanied by appropriately smallish prices. As Dennis and I have reached the age at which unwanted weight affixes to our frames by merely inhaling good food, we need small portions in order to stay fit. So the other night, we visited the goat place and ordered a salmon dish and a salad with yellow beets, arugula, and, yes, goat cheese.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I am no beet eater. But I've been feeling like branching out lately. Also, I have to keep up with my husband, who, after a life-long aversion to mushrooms, recently tucked his fork into my order of porcini pasta. Eyes wide with amazement, he instantly regretted all of the fungi he had passed up, and, making up for lost time, has since asked me to prepare rissoto with porcinis at every opportunity.

So you can understand why I was hopeful about tasting the beets. Maybe a little too hopeful. Sadly, my reaction fell decidedly short of Dennis's porcini nirvana. Not that I want to disparage those simple yellow beets, but I found them underwhelming, just harmless roots that served as a foil to the much sassier arugula that accompanied them.

So, I'm following the lead of my President, who apparently asked Michele to skip the beet crop in the new White House garden. No reason to devote limited square footage to raising beets at my house either. Besides, I have to arm-wrestle Dennis for every inch of planting space. Although he has taken full advantage of the new raised beds we installed for his tomatoes, he still tries to sneak a tomato plant into every spare corner. At this point, he has 23 tomato plants in place and is angling for more, but I'm holding firm.

Aside from the tomatoes, we've installed some cucumbers, a yellow squash, and a few red and yellow bell peppers to accompany the perennial herbs and concord grapes. Happily, the strawberries are holding their own against the pests. So all is well. Only one little barren patch remains, which might be ideal for a melon of some sort. Time for me to research the needs of honeydews, cantaloupes, watermelons, and the rest of the melon cousins. I'll keep you posted.

Nest: Devoid of Offspring

On the road with back-to-back trips (one for school, one for soccer), our son, Nick, has been gone for the past 12 days. He returned home from his senior retreat toward the end of last week, but was only in the house for a scant seven hours. He had barely enough time to shower, pack his cleats, and catch a few minutes of sleep before boarding a flight to Dallas for a week-long soccer tournament. His absence, although only temporary, has served as a pilot episode, if you will, of the long-running series scheduled to begin this September when Dennis and I will find ourselves with both of our kids away at college. Empty nest looms large on the horizon.

With our older son, Joe, already a college junior, I know from past experience that, although you miss your kids, you're mostly glad to see them spread their wings. The question remains, however, of how to spend the hours that one re-gains each week when teens are no longer dwelling under-roof.

For example, during Nick's absence, we noted fewer dirty cooking vessels in the sink, a paucity of competition for the washer/dryer, and a reduced need for groceries of all categories -- deli meat, juices, quick prep frozen foods, baked goods, etc. One notable food group exception, the broccoli inventory seemed unaffected by his departure. We also realized a downturn in trips to the drugstore/office supply/bookstore for (fill in the blanks, really) toothpaste/printer paper/the novel assigned two weeks ago in English class.

While the recent days have been restful, I can see that the life awaiting us this fall is going to take some getting used to. Twenty years of parenting is a long haul, and it's hard to remember what we did back in (do I dare say it?) the 1980s. This was before we occupied ourselves with pre-school fundraisers and playdates, and then Cub Scouts and Little League, followed by Boy Scouts and serious soccer. I suppose I could look for a full-time job now, but with such a perfect excuse in the floundering economy, seems like a wise person would milk the under-employed thing as long as possible. All the more reason I should get my hands dirty, and justify my lack of full employment by growing something edible.

To this end, we added a Santa Rosa plum tree recently, which is now bearing dozens of tiny green orbs -- baby plums in the making. About 24 tomato plants are also tucked in their beds, along with some basil and red and yellow bell peppers. The strawberries have many new flowers, which means some excellent fruit ahead if I can snatch the berries before the pests get to them. The grape vines have rejuvenated themselves after their winter siesta and are climbing vigorously.

As I write this, Nick is on his way to the Dallas airport, happy to be headed home, and we'll be happy to have him back. But his many days away have foreshadowed the not too distant future -- a life that will be both changed and ripe with possibility.

Presidential Garden

Dear Mrs. Obama,

While I know that my suggestion here to convert the South Lawn into crop-producing acreage had nothing to do with you green-lighting the project, many thanks nonetheless. I was so pleased to read a couple of weeks ago that you turned 1,100 square feet of grass, visible to those traveling on E Street, into an organic vegetable garden.

Apparently your husband doesn't care for beets, so they've been banished from the plant list, but you've put in an impressive variety of produce. In addition to the old standbys of carrots, broccoli and spinach, I read that your list of seedlings included fennel, shell peas, onions, several types of lettuce, chard, and rhubarb, plus an herb garden and a berry patch.

What is it about beets? While my father ate them with gusto, my mother had a distaste for beets, too, that she unwittingly passed onto me. In retrospect, I'd probably relish a freshly grown beet, although I'm still skeptical of the canned variety that adorned my father's plate. Is it possible that President Obama never ate a fresh beet, either, and was only exposed to canned beets swimming in deep red liquid? He seems like an adventurous eater. Maybe the White House chef could put together a dish that would change his beet opinion. Just an idea. He has already has more than enough on his plate. (Puns are just so hard to resist.)

Anyway, many thanks for stepping in and showing us how to be a little more self-sufficient. Looking forward to following the garden's progress.

Who Is To Blame?

Someone has been eating my strawberries! What cheek!

A few weeks ago, our first strawberries started to ripen. I planted them in a raised bed a few months ago, and have been keeping a close eye on the developing fruit, watching it turn from white to pink and, finally, nearing a gorgeous shade of red. Noticing one good-sized berry at seemingly maximum color depth, I bent down to admire it more closely, considering whether it was time for a pre-season taste. While the fruit appeared fine from a distance, closer scrutiny revealed that heinous crimes were being committed in my strawberry patch. A small hole, a nick really, had been carved in the berry's underside. Outraged, I checked some other berries, those that were not quite as ripe, and, yes, a couple of those also had small holes.

This development was really annoying, because just the week before, I had captured two huge grasshoppers, in two separate incidents, in the vicinity of my bok choy. Those freeloaders were leaving holes, some as immense as a 50 cent piece, in the leafy green leaves. Of course, disposing of offending insects presents a conundrum for me about how to deal with such criminals. A relocation program for bad bugs -- as in flinging them into my neighbor's pool and see if they sink or swim? The death penalty delivered quickly and surely-- as in off with their heads? The death penalty delivered slowly but perhaps not as painfully -- as in stick them in a jar and wait for suffocation?

I'm not good at killing anything bigger than an ant or a house fly. Even spiders that wander into my house are relocated outdoors. (Black widows must die on sight, of course, but they are the arachnid exception.) For the record, I opted for the slow death method with the grasshoppers, whom I imprisoned in a glass jar with a tight-fitting lid. After they were corralled, I conveniently forgot about the ugly critters, leaving the jar on the patio table for several days. This system allowed me with a good conscience eventually to toss the jar and its dead contents into the trash. Thus, I only played an indirect role in their demise, which somehow seemed better than taking a garden clippers to them, as my husband does. Also, tossing them next door was an imperfect plan, because grasshoppers do indeed hop, meaning they were capable of jumping back over the fence and returning to the scene to eat some more.

But, refocusing on the crime at hand, who was eating my strawberries? I eliminated a gang of grasshoppers from the potential suspect list. The holes were too tiny for those hulks to have been behind them. But a bird's beak could have made such a hole. I headed to the nursery for some netting to drape over the berries and stave off any birds. This inexpensive solution was easy to install and fell within my organic requirements.

For a few days after laying down the netting, I happily assumed that birds were the culprits, and I smugly believed that I had bested them, until I again bent down and looked closely. Burrowed deep inside a luscious-looking berry was a small worm. I pulled him out and tossed him in the rubbish bin. But now I don't know what to do.

How can I preserve my crop and keep the worms away without using toxins? What's an organic farmer to do?

Adjacent to the Rose Garden

Dear Mrs. Obama,
I know that it's only your first week on the job, and that you and the President have a lot on your plates. But maybe, if you haven't already considered and rejected the following idea, you could take a tiny minute to think about it.

We all know that your new house has an expansive lawn, which, although symbolic, is still a really big, water-sucking patch of grass. Given all of the concerns about global warming, coupled with the rising unemployment rate, perhaps your house -- America's house --might serve as a model for how people can be more self-sustaining. Perhaps when the weather warms up in Washington, you could direct the White House gardeners to rip out a portion of the lawn, and install an organic vegetable garden instead.

I'm not taking credit for this idea, because it wasn't mine. I read about it somewhere when your decision to retain the Bushs' chef was announced. At the time, I didn't give the idea more than a passing thought, but I was reminded of it again this week, when an article in The New York Times brought it up. Hearing the suggestion a second time, a White House vegetable patch seemed like such a smart idea, I decided to weigh in.

According to the current news article, famed restaurateur Alice Waters appears to have joined forces with former White House chef Walter Scheib in a effort to convince you of the garden's merits and get the idea off the ground, or, rather, in the ground. I'm not privy to what Waters and Scheib are actually thinking, but, brainstorming on my own, you'd probably want to involve Malia and Sasha to draw the interest of kids and their parents. I'd get a camera crew to document the garden's development, and send the finished DVD around to public television stations, schools and community centers as a teachable moment.

The country faces so many problems right now, this idea may seem too trivial to pursue. But it's undeniably on message and dovetails perfectly with so many of our national woes. By serving as a model for the country, a White House vegetable garden will demonstrate that locally grown food lessens our dependence on foreign oil, since food isn't transported from distant farms. In bad economic times, homegrown produce stretches finite grocery dollars. In the midst of a healthcare crisis, eating a diet rich in pesticide-free fruits and vegetables is simply a good way to avoid the doctor and stay healthy.

Finally, your leadership on this has the potential to trigger action in local elected officials. In theory, if the Obamas were growing their own produce at the White House in a visible way, local leaders might be inspired to find empty patches of land and work with the property owners to designate them as community gardens. The overages could be traded in neighborhood food co-ops or donated to food banks. In your case, you could share your over-production with the White House staff, especially the employees who just had their salaries frozen.

I know this idea flies somewhat in the face of the traditional feel of the White House lawn, but just say you'll think about it. This summer, when fresh melons and golden corn are growing right outside your door, you'll be glad to have them. But if this notion doesn't pass all of the necessary approval levels, here is another idea: Would you consider installing some solar panels on the South lawn? A little home-based power source would go a long way toward curbing White House air conditioning costs this summer. Just an idea.

Salad Days

Lettuce. Yes, lettuce. I know what you're thinking. Stop her before she starts carrying on about leafy, green salad-bowl produce. Your eyes are rolling. Your index finger is reaching for the keyboard to switch to another website. But bear with me for just a tad. As part of an experiment, I planted a few bunches of romaine, which steadily matured in the yard with very little human intervention. After a few weeks, they grew straight and tall, all without pesticides or other chemical growth aids.

So, I cut a bunch of leaves off at the stem, rinsed them well, and tossed them in a salad. Who knew? Unlike romaine lettuce from the supermarket, my fresh-picked leaves were actually flavorful. They paired nicely with some olive oil and balsamic, but the supporting liquids weren't really necessary. The home-grown lettuce could even stand alone, undressed.

I felt like Luther Burbank happening onto a great botany discovery. Keeping my science brain engaged, I continued along this vein. Travel must be arduous for the delicate lettuce leaves, I thought. They have to endure all that bouncing around in the truck, so far from their roots without even a canteen of fresh water for refreshment.

Then I had a another revelation, which was grander still and placed me squarely with the conspiracy theorists. With certainty, I understood that everyone controlling the lettuce industry -- the growers and the sellers -- were all aware of that lettuce lost flavor enroute to market, but they never wanted us to find out. Instead, they wanted us to buy the cardboard lettuce shipped from Salinas or from Mexico, and keep us in the dark about any other salad way of life. Finally, I concluded that, given how easy it was to grow, buying lettuce from the supermarket was not that much different from calling an electrician to replace a burned out light bulb or sending one's sheets and towels out to be laundered, acts that were so indulgent, even if one engaged in them, one would never fess up.

That was a few weeks ago. In the interest of full disclosure, I have since purchased lettuce from the supermarket -- okay, more than once. The problem is space. I didn't really devote enough garden space initially to achieve a daily supply of home-grown leaves. But at least now I know that growing my own salad is not only possible, it's incredibly easy and tastes so much better. Best of all, after you pick a head, it rejuvenates itself and grows again, which means I have more lettuce on the way.

You have to try this. Plant some lettuce as soon as your local climate permits. You won't be disappointed. You'll finally understand the expression "salad days" and why it means "the best time of life."