Watching a bewildering world from the middle of nowhere
I have carefully protected the four native persimmon trees that volunteered around the edges of the yard. They’re about eight feet tall now. This year, two of them are bearing. There are lots of wild persimmons along the edges of local woods, but they’re usually so surrounded by undergrowth and tangle that it’s hard to retrieve the fruit. I can mow around these four trees. They’ll be easy to get at.
Something else to fight the raccoons for.
For years, fats have been so demonized that I avoided cream. Now I confess that I keep cream in the refrigerator all the time. Cream makes a great base for a quick sauce for fish or vegetables. And of course there’s peaches and cream.
I buy organic cream from Whole Foods. Most of what is sold as cream these days is full of adulterants.
Unfortunately, I didn’t grow those peaches. I had a great peach crop coming along, but a raccoon got into the trees and stole every last one of them. No doubt it was the same raccoon that also stole all the corn and made a wreck of the garden in doing so.
I can’t bring myself to shoot a raccoon — at least not yet. I need to make a winter project of making the garden and orchard fence raccoon-proof. There are spots where they can get under the fence. With those spots fixed, and some work around the gates, a raccoon-proof fence should be possible. I might even throw in a low run of electrical wire to discourage meddling.
One of the many reasons I don’t eat out much is that there aren’t many places to go. One comes across places that you really want to like — like Tuggle’s Gap restaurant near Floyd, Virginia, near the Blue Ridge Parkway — but almost always you’re disappointed.
As late as the 1970s, there were still good roadside restaurants. They had honest foods cooked from scratch. Some of them are still in business. They’re nothing like they used to be. I’m not sure why this is. One possibility is that the food service industry has pushed a lot of labor-saving institutional food off on them, and now every place is the same. The individuality and adventure is lost. Another reason, I think, is that in these parts restaurants compete on price, not quality. When I was in San Francisco, friends visiting from back east were often shocked at the cost of eating out. But there is a big difference. In a good food city like San Francisco, restaurants compete on quality, not price. Price doesn’t matter. In these parts, that’s too small a niche. Take pizza, for example. I had a visitor in San Francisco who, upon taking the first bite of home-delivered North Beach pizza, raved about how good it was and said she’d never had such good pizza in her life. Yep. That pizza probably cost 22 bucks. Around here, pizza is worse than pathetic, because the price point is closer to 10 bucks that 20.
Southern eateries rarely — very rarely — produce edible homestyle Southern cooking anymore. Again, I think this is partly because of the intrusion of the food service industry, partly the fact that they have to keep prices low, and partly because there just aren’t as many good cooks as there used to be. One exception is Hillbilly Hideaway near Walnut Cove, which has done a pretty good job of keeping its standard up. I’ll review Hillbilly Hideaway sometime.
But back to Tuggle’s Gap. Tuggle’s Gap ought to do better, because its closeness to the tourist traffic on the Blue Ridge Parkway allows it to get away with charging higher prices. But I had an enchilada plate there yesterday that was pathetic. The enchiladas were hard and bland. The plate was decorated with sorry-looking iceberg lettuce and sorrier tomatoes. The rice wasn’t seasoned, it was just red. Have I mentioned that Southerners are terrified of spices other than pepper and cinnamon? And you’d think that they’d at least be able to do pinto beans right, but the beans were undercooked. Doesn’t every Southern cook know the blow test? If you blow on a spoonful of beans while they’re cooking, if any of the skin curls, the beans are NOT DONE. The skins must be completely softened, and there will be a soupy broth that is starting to thicken. How thick you make the broth is a matter of personal preference, but it absolutely must not be watery.
I should have known better than to order Mexican, but I was deceived into thinking that because Tuggle’s Gap aims at a fancier standard, they’d know what they were doing. Wrong. It is a common syndrome in these parts. You can get Chinese food that obviously was cooked by someone who has never eaten Chinese food. And you can get Mexican food cooked by someone who obviously has never eaten Mexican food, someone who has never eaten more than 20 miles from home. So what you get is a kind of white trash concept of what those foods would be like. At $9 a plate, there is no excuse.
By the way, when I use the term “white trash,” I speak proudly of my own ethnicity. I’m also thinking fondly of the White Trash cookbook, which I fondly recall was part of the countertop reading at the Lighthouse Restaurant in Sausalito, California. The lighthouse usually had cooks trained at the Culinary Institute of America (or, CIA cooks, as they call them). If you know your stuff, you probably also know stuff about white trash cooking.
Anyway, if you go to Tuggle’s Gap, order a burger with fries or onion rings. They can understand that. They weren’t trained by the CIA. They don’t understand anything else.
Last summer, I somehow resisted the temptation to make fried squash, partly because it makes a mess in the kitchen. But tonight, after coming home peckish from a county commissioners’ meeting and needing a snack, I opened the refrigerator, saw one of those beautiful yellow squash, and decided to fry it.
Fried squash is a Southern classic. Some people fry it in batter; some people roll it in a beaten egg and then in seasoned flour. Some people add their secret mix of spices; some people use just salt and pepper.
The mess in the kitchen wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Yes, I fried it. And I’ll probably do it again.
As for the county commissioners’ meeting, there’s a whole nother issue we’re now fighting here in Stokes. Someone in the western end of the county wants a permit to start a “bioremediation” facility for toxic waste. Why would we allow that, in a beautiful county like Stokes in which tourism is an important part of the economy? People are drawn to the county’s mountains, state park, and rural beauty. Toxic waste doesn’t fit in with that plan.
If you set out to fight evil in this world, there’s plenty to keep you busy. Fried squash is as good a compensation as any.
I shouldn’t act as though it’s some kind of feat to can food, because of course people have been doing it for years. But today was the first time I’ve ever tried it. It also was the first time I’ve ever had a good enough garden to support canning.
These were red beets, mixed with chioggia beets, which are striped. That’s why the color varies. And for whatever reason, the beets lost color in the pressure cooker. Something the vinegar does, maybe? I pulled all two rows of beets from the garden. The voles had ruined a third of them. Ken is already tilling the now-empty rows that the beets were in to plant more beans and corn. Later on in the season, I plan to can as many green beans and tomatoes as I possibly can. I’ll freeze the corn.
Strangely enough, the canning itself is not the most tedious and time-consuming part of the process. It’s the preparation — pulling the beets, hosing them down to remove the dirt, washing them again in the kitchen sink, boiling them for a while so that the skins will slide off, and then, finally, skinning them and slicing them. From the time I started pulling beets this morning until I took the cans from the pressure cooker was about six hours.
To keep the heat and steam of the pressure cooker out of the kitchen, I put it out on the deck, using a propane-fired cooker. The temperature hit 90 degrees today, and the air conditioning still hasn’t been used so far the season. So keeping the heat out of the kitchen really helps.
Now I just hope they all seal properly…
The garden, this morning
It’s been over a month since I posted. The abbey has been caught in a whirlwind of spring projects, spring farm work, and community organizing. I really appreciate the emails from those of you who have written to make sure everything is OK. Retirement is not supposed to be like this.
I think I’ll try to catch up with a bulleted list of items, stealing a bit from the way the late Herb Caen used to do things in the San Francisco Chronicle.
But in the important ways, I don’t think I have ever misunderstood Ken or the deal we have: Acorn Abbey is about leveraging his freedom, not about tying him down. It’s a place to write, a place to winter over, even a place to be needed — but not needed so much that leaving feels like shirking a responsibility. Ken is an adventurer. I have always understood that. I believe his next project will take several months and stretch into the fall. I’m sure he’ll talk about that on his blog when the time comes. But I do hope he’ll be back and that Acorn Abbey will be his home base as he starts the publicity tours for his book after Thanksgiving.
Chioggia beets, red beets, lettuce
The first broccoli
The spring chickens
Peaches
Apples
Patience starts her morning stroll. Note the lushness of the orchard grass. It’s all about feeding the earthworms.
New rose trellis (built from scratch by Ken and David)
The first day lily stalks. They’ll start blooming soon.
The water tank, which contains branch water for irrigation
The basement project
Two spring chickens
At the anti-fracking meeting
The virgin pressure cooker, waiting for beets
It seems I regularly fret about how to get more variety into breakfasts, but I forget about banana bread. I had not made banana bread in months. As with many traditional American basics, I start with a recipe from Irma Rombauer’s 1943 edition of The Joy of Cooking and modify the recipe to make it healthier. This is whole wheat banana bread with vegetable oil instead of butter.
The Ingle’s grocery store in Walnut Cove regularly carries organic bananas at prices only slightly higher than regular bananas. I find that the organic bananas always have a much nicer, more old-fashioned taste. Bananas have changed over the years. They tend to be too big these days, and lacking in flavor. Organic bananas are more like bananas used to be.
Commodities traders at the Chicago Board of Trade
If you asked a few Americans about the causes of food inflation, what answers would you get?
Ask a right-winger, or a so-called libertarian, or anyone else who lives in an ideological fantasy world, and you’ll be told that it’s the government’s fault, that’s it’s all about monetary policy. Totally wrong. Yes, monetary policy is loose, but we are still in a liquidity trap. And besides, real inflation is always accompanied by wage inflation, and wages have barely moved in years and years.
Ask someone who is better informed and you’ll be told that it’s climate change, droughts, floods, crazy weather, increased demand in Asia, the high price of oil, the drain of growing biofuels, and the waste involved in feeding crops to animals to produce meat. Partly right.
The biggest cause, it seems, is — Wall Street. Here are links to two articles that follow the money, publications that Americans don’t read. One is from the German newspaper Der Spiegel. The other is from Foreign Policy.
Speculating with lives: How global investors make money out of hunger
One of the compensations for the bleakness of winter is that the oranges start pouring out of Florida and California. As far as I can tell, in this part of the country, the winter trucking of oranges north from Florida works pretty much the same as it did when I was a child in the 1950s. U.S. 601, which runs through the Yadkin Valley, was a major truck route that came up from South Carolina and continued northward, connecting with routes that went from Ohio toward Chicago. To this day, there is a tradition of roadside produce stands along U.S. 601 that sell trucked-in produce from Florida, South Carolina and Georgia. Here in Stokes County, which is crossed by no major highways (U.S. 52 touches the southern corner of the county), there is no tradition of these roadside produce stands. I’m guessing that oranges have been shipped around the world for centuries. If historical novels can be trusted, then from Winston Graham’s novels we could learn, for example, that oranges from Spain have been shipped to the British Isles during the winter for hundreds of years.
While visiting family yesterday in the Yadkin Valley, I bought a box of oranges from a produce stand on U.S. 601. These oranges are better, fresher, and cheaper than the oranges that can be had in the grocery store. Not only that, most of the time, the grocery stores carry California oranges. I love California oranges — if I’m in California. But here in the Southeast, Florida oranges are the way to go. I’m guessing that Florida had a good crop this year. The box of oranges cost $18.50.
Since my hippy days in the 1970s, I’ve known about the magic of oranges. This mainly came from reading Jethro Kloss, who believed that oranges are a powerful medicine.
I can testify to the power of oranges. When I was in my 20s, I had to have wisdom teeth surgically removed. My dentist referred me to an oral surgeon who did the work. Two of the teeth were impacted and had never emerged from the gum. They had to be removed by making an incision in the gum, breaking the teeth apart, and bringing them out piece by piece. About two weeks after a brutal round of oral surgery, I had a regular appointment with my dentist. While poking around in my mouth, he asked me what the oral surgeon had decided to do about the wisdom teeth. I told him that we’d taken the first two out two weeks ago and that Dr. Westrick had removed the stitches last week. My dentist didn’t believe me at first. He said he couldn’t see any sign of oral surgery. In fact, he checked with my oral surgeon to see if I was telling the truth. The dentist later told me that he had never seen anyone heal so fast and that he didn’t think it was possible. “What did you do?” he asked. I said, “I juiced a dozen oranges every day.”
So I don’t just eat an orange or two. I juice them in generous quantities. I don’t know what it is that gives fresh oranges their virtue. As far as I’m concerned, orange juice in bottles and cartons is just another dead, sweet drink. All of its virtue is gone. I don’t drink it. Fresh orange juice is alive. If you can handle the calorie load and the fructose, try sometime drinking the juice of 10 or 12 fresh oranges every day for a week. Your skin will glow.
My hens abruptly stopped laying back in the summer after two years of laying strong. I had no eggs at all during August, September, October, November, and much of December. I still have a great deal to learn about chickens. The only theory that I could come up with was that they had already reached henopause, so now I would have to support them and pasture them, as promised, for their remaining Golden Years.
But then all of a sudden, in the last week, they started laying huge, beautiful eggs. I am mystified. The only theory I can come up with is that they cannot tolerate hot weather. I have definitely found that my chickens, types that are said to be cold-weather hardy, are much more uncomfortable in the summer than they are in the cold of winter.
By the way, I am down to two chickens — Patience and Ruth. Chastity died during the summer. I have no idea why. She was fine in the morning when I let them out, but I found her lying dead in the grass during the afternoon. It was not a hot day. There were no signs that any kind of predator was involved. Chickens, I understand, sometimes choke to death. So that’s the only theory I was able to come up with.
During my eggless months I bought a dozen eggs only once — good eggs, supposedly, from Whole Foods. I almost threw them out because they were so pale and pathetic. Clearly, if you want good eggs with deeply colored yolks and great flavor, they’ve got to come from pastured hens.
