These mysterious mini cucumbers were sitting all lonesome on the organic farmer girls’ table, so I adopted them as pets – pets that I will pickle and eat in salads and on sandwiches.
I Guess I Never Will
Category Archives: compote something
A Dollar And A Half
Foraging for food interests me, especially now that I can walk again and know better than to just pick up stuff and nibble. That is terrible, do not do that – or at least call me first so I can watch. Anyway: foraging for food makes a lot of sense to me, so when a guy who used to write for Sadly, No! put up on Facebook a post-thingy about foraging for fake capers that are really pickled dandelion buds, I was hungry for details!
He said the tight buds can be picked, rinsed and quick-pickled. “Hmm,” I said. “Hmm!” The next day, I took a close look at weeds in my tiny, 100% dog-free backyard and found dandelion buds, seen here resting after a thorough rinse and cursory cleaning. Though I’ve pickled beets, onions, cucumbers and peppers, all of those things are much larger and I was working from specific recipes, so I guessed at a brine and dropped in the little flower-things.
These taste nothing like green Tic Tacs.
The funny forager said that a person could go back to the same place the next day and pick more buds, so I tried that out, too. For four days in a row, I picked the backyard clean, tinkered with my pickling liquids and dated the containers. I found that I wanted to leave the buds in brine longer than originally suggested, but for your purposes, Poor Impulsives, a real recipe will help.
My mother asked if I’d like to pick dandelion buds in her backyard. I’m wondering if her street’s run out of kids with lawnmowers.
For the Rest Of All
I find a rustic rosemary bread recipe. And the angels sing.
A Sweater Like That
For December Holiday, I got Pete a waffle iron. Small waffle irons are things of genius.
Do you really need toast?
Things Are the Things
This cooling but still hot mess is chocolate bark, which I had never made before last week. Turns out bark is ridiculously easy to make. You might be making it RIGHT NOW.
Give You My Prime Time
Tomatillos infusing vodka because Christmas really is coming.
Point To the Fact That Time
After a day in the kitchen, my back has had its ass kicked and I am bushed. A friend suggested I try baking for a living. That was a kind thought, but I still cannot bake a pie without a spotter.
Or Take Me For A Ride
I think about writing. I do. Every day, all the time, I think about writing because I am a writer. It is one of the basic things I know about me, like that I am left-handed and that no one will see my natural hair color without a court order. I’d also need another six hours every day to be all the other things I know about me.
Pete is thinking about bread. We get up in the dark every day now and get on our bicycles before the mornings lose their blueness. It is interesting for him to contemplate breads he will later bake while we dodge drivers oblivious and homicidal. Tomorrow: miniature flatbreads, but we could use a better bike path.
Several of my annual projects are close to completion; I may have mentioned it. Perhaps I didn’t, but thought I was boring you senseless about project x, project y, project z and group efforts 1, 2 and 3. This happens, sometimes. One summer, I thought I was complaining ad nauseum about a family wedding, but it turned out I had zipped my Love That Red lips. Only one person at my job remembered hearing I’d be celebrating crankily, while everyone else scratched their heads. I’ll take pictures. Also: do not scratch that.
The Feeling That I’m Under
Rustic!
My super-duper stepmommy from the Land of Canadia stayed with us since last Tuesday and left last night. Her car was promptly smasheroood by a New Jersey driver. Darla is okay but confused by an insurance company that would not take an accident report because of a missing letter in her Canadian insurance policy. This should not matter because she is not to blame, but here in the wilderness of You Want A Piece Of Me, even the insurance policy numbers start with F.
It’s all a matter of fucking perspective, my dainties.
You Run When You Know
We’re finally finished making our winter marinaras, which is great because last winter’s basting ourselves in the blood of virgins wasn’t a big hit with the roused local rabble.
Poor Impulse Control 