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Julie’s nose is held aloft over the soup as she stirs the beet borscht, wafts of dill and coriander curlicue up in a rainbow steam. It’s royal, red and bubbling. Sunlight floods the kitchen-- so there really is-- a rainbow, and it’s, as if, the spectrum of vegetables cut and chopped by Daniel created it.
I’d made a quick vegetable stock earlier in the morning: onions, garlic, beets, carrots, dill stems, cilantro stems, endive, celery and coriander seed. It simmered for an hour and then was set off the heat, and allowed to infuse for another three. Daniel and Julie added diced beets, potato, onions, an apple, and carrots to the strained stock and cooked everything until fork tender. Then with Daniel’s immersion blender they pureed it until velvety smooth out on the front porch, where the splatters didn’t matter. We added salt to taste and pickle juice left over from kosher dill brining last summer. I had a half- gallon in the back of the fridge and kept thinking that its day would come, and it did. It was the perfect sour spark to the sweet lively vegetables. When the first spoonful hit Julie’s tongue her face went into revelry. Last night it was served as the first course, after the zakuski, at our Russian literary feast. In little bowls, with our salmon Kulebiac on the side. We didn’t even pass the sour cream because it was so, just right, as it was. Text of Audio
Almandine Audio: Fruit Laden Summer’s evenings July 2015
The summer’s heat of Saturday afternoon made me drowsy, I just laid around read, and couldn’t concentrate on any ‘should dos’, so just kept refilling my glass with ice cubes and mineral water. We’d gone out at sunset on Friday night; Art with a wooden ladder slung over his shoulder holding my hand, while my other hand held my grown son’s. We were headed towards Libby’s cherry trees up by the library, but those cherries were past their prime, the sky now turning first pinks. So, we went down to Joseph and Liesel's neighbor’s house, whose cherry tree was still loaded. It was almost 9 pm when Art banged on the door to get permission to pick. I was embarrassed, and wander out into the football field, watching the sky darken to a blush. No one answered the door, so we’d turned to go, when the door opened and the poor man confused in his underwear and t-shirt, looked out with a scowl. When we told him that we just wanted cherries, he was gracious. “Yes, yes pick the whole tree, they’re just about done.” They were delicious. Art stood on the ladder’s top rung, while my son, Pan pulled down high branches for me to pick. We walked home with our basket more than half full, the sky now Bing Cherry red. When Saturday finally cooled, and the evening breezes began Art dug our bikes out from the shed, and pumped up our tires. Me, on a one-speed Schwinn with a front basket, and he with a thick-tire mountain bike that looked too small for his six-foot frame. I rode up and down our street, while waiting for him to finish pumping up his tires. I swerved in and out, in a curvy ‘S’ pattern. I was back to being 8 or 9, on the streets of my childhood, feeling the power of wheels and wind. Finally, we started off, and wove through the Uptown blocks, past churches and shops, into neighborhoods, until we could look out to the sea and mountains. I knew where I wanted to go, and he followed. I took us to an abandoned lot where two walnut trees hung heavy with nuts. Then it was his turn, and he took us to a friend’s golden plum off of ‘F’ street. We rode towards the sunset, and parked our bikes under the tree. Both of us plucking, and slurping up plums, letting the juices run onto the ground, hands sticky. Plum heaven, plum sweet, with the bitter edge of plum skin. As we ate the fruit straight from the tree I said, “ Isn’t it good when we both agree that our idea of a really fine time is riding our bikes around, and looking for ripe fruit?” He nodded and kept eating. Other Posts to Enjoy: Curiosity Thursday Posts Local Food Friday Posts Connection We'll have a different relationship to the carrot pulled from the ground than the one bought in plastic. Carrot seed sprinkled into the row, sprouting up thick and needing to be thinned; showing a child for the first time the magic of what’s not seen, underground, and then becomes visible and sweet to eat, delight; buying beets, red and rosy from the hands of the farmer at the market; conversation at a potluck over this year’s weather, and if someone’s tree is especially heavy with cherries. All of these bring us into a closer relationship with life, and all because we're eating local. We live in an extended gift economy, where there are some things more important than the dollar...Read more on my now finished!!! Local Food Friday Page
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