Tall Clover Farm

The Bargain I Didn’t Bag

Vashon Living

Tom

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December 18, 2011

Bye, bye, Mr Bargain Hunt Guy, drove my pickup to the thrift store but the bargains weren’t nigh. And silver hair grannies were drinking cocoa and chai, the day the bargains died.

On a recent trip to our island thrift store, Granny’s Attic, I stood in awe of an audacious offering: bagged fibers for $3.00. And my dear crafter pals, before you chastise me and share the various and awesome projects one can undertake employing used fiber, hear me out. This zip-locked treasure was seemingly the byproduct of an islander’s last load of jammies and hiking socks; yep, it was dryer lint in a sandwich bag . And while I can’t identify dog hair accurately, I’d venture to say the launderer shared quarters with a Siberian Husky (or grizzly bear).

At first I thought, hmmm, maybe it’s a wee bag of special fiber, combings from the rare Andean vicuna, the underbelly shedding of free-range chinchillas or even vestiges of a high-end knitting or felting project. As I looked closer, sliding my glasses forward down my nose, I inspected the bag’s contents with greater scrutiny (if that’s possible). One light touch secured my further disbelief. It was even worse than I thought; they were selling man-made fiber in bag. Acrylic, there I said it.

Uh, price check on aisle five…

In all fairness, I suspect someone in the back sorting room was just having a good laugh planting the curious bag for would-be bargain hunters to find. No doubt peeking through the door at the puzzled guy poring over a bag of unnatural fibers. So Merry Christmas Granny’s Attic, you got me. And may I salute your hard working (and cheeky) crew, and the fact that as a nonprofit thrift store you issued $50,000 in grants to island charities. I believe I’m personally accountable for one quarter of that figure (bags of dryer lint notwithstanding).

Soup’s On! Ham, Hominy and a Pumpkin on the Edge

Recipes

Tom

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December 16, 2011

12

Soup’s On! Ham, Hominy and a Pumpkin on the Edge

Pumpkin Hominy Soup – good for what ails you

I’m a leftover kind of guy; let me rephrase that, I like leftovers. Some days, my dinner plate resembles a puupuu platter of the week’s greatest kitchen hits. And on the very tip-top of my leftover food group pyramid (in addition to pie) resides soup, the pot of homemade goodness that ladles up its best flavors the next day.

My Australian butter squash was beginning to spoil down under.

This soup recipe was born out of my determination to use things on hand (and my aversion to leaving the house). The pumpkin, an Australian butter squash, was beginning to blemish, soften and go the way of the compost heap. It would have been a real tragedy to let it spoil, so I cut out the soft spots and put it to good use in this soup. The ham bone hailed from the fridge and a spiral cut (and recently devoured) ham, while the hominy and creamed corn called to me from the pantry, “Dude, do you ever check expiration dates?” So I did, and invited those aging canned champs to join the mix. The result, an exceptionally delicious soup, nice on texture, rich in flavor, and easy as it gets to make. From one ham bone to another, here’s the recipe:

Recipe: Ham-Bone Pumpkin Hominy Soup

Ingredients

1 ham bone/shank (too good to toss)
small pumpkin (or acorn/delicata squash)
1 can of whole hominy
1 can of creamed corned

Preparation

Place ham bone in stock pot
Add pan drippings (optional)
Cover bone with water or chicken stock
Simmer until meat falls off bone, usually a couple hours
Add 1 can of rinsed whole hominy kernels
Add 1 can of creamed corned, stir
De-seed and remove pumpkin skin
Cut pumpkin in to bite size cubes, add to soup
Simmer for about 20 minutes, lidded
Remove lid and simmer for another ten minutes

Soup is on at my house, and while I like my leftovers and love this soup, I’ll freeze the remainder of the soup after day three on the menu. I do have my limits.

Slurp and sop it up , soup divine.

WJ’s Sweater: A Gift of Warmth

Remembrances

Tom

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December 13, 2011

22

Not sure if Boz is cuddling up to me or the cashmere.

Last September, summer’s extended stay gave notice to the night with a persistent chill insinuating itself on our outdoor gathering. While my friends Nancy and Scarlett had decorated their gazebo and garden table in floral and fabric finery, dinner guests came prepared, outfitted in wraps, jackets and fleece. I, on the other hand, was dressed for a Palm Beach croquet match. (Think beefy Thurston Howell III.) Human furnace that I am, I relied on my personal layer of insulation to keep me warm. In the Pacific Northwest, grilling and Gore-Tex, s’mores and snuggies go hand in hand. One willow whip of a friend returned from the house resembling a little bonbon encased in multiple layers and double dipped in a chocolate brown down jacket.

When I finally admitted I too was cold, my friend Catherine came to my rescue offering up a wool blanket for my lap and a cardigan for the upper half. (Bless her.) I was now ready for an Atlantic crossing in November (or a Seattle cookout in September). With a quick zip, the gray cashmere sweater locked in the warmth and upped my dapper factor post haste. Then, its simple two-letter monogram caught my attention.

“Catherine, who’s WJ?” I asked.

“My father, you’re wearing my Dad’s sweater.”

“Well, your Dad has some excellent taste in outerwear. Nice sweater.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” she said, her big smile framed by candlelight and friends. I asked her to tell me more about the man responsible for my newly-found comfort, and no doubt for her lifelong sparkle.

Catherine revealed her friendly family secrets and shared generous recollections of her Dad. With he in the Midwest, she on the West Coast, you could see in her eyes how each story fostered a fond and immediate reunion with him. Later, when I stood up to return the sweater, Catherine stopped me and said, “Please keep the sweater. Dad would be happy that you like it so much.”

She would not take no for answer, so I left better dressed and warmer than when I had arrived. Driving home on the dark, hilly roads of Vashon, I felt honored by the impromptu and heartfelt gift. And while I had no trouble filling WJ’s extra-large sweater, I venture to say that would not be the case had I been handed his shoes.

Months later on this frosty December morning, my wooly gift continues to warm me, keeping me comfortable in a house at home with drafts and chills. And now when I look down at those initials, I only think it fitting that the letters WJ are stitched right over the heart.

Thank you Catherine, thank you William.

The Spirit of Christmas Drove a Pickup Truck

Vashon Living

Tom

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December 10, 2011

20

The Spirit of Christmas Drove a Pickup Truck

As Christmas time nears, I like to retell this story, a simple post about my new home (at the time), new friends, and the beginning of many fine old memories in this fine old house.

Boz and Gracie prefer dry paws and wood heat.

Each year I wonder if, when or where I’ll cross paths with the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps in a person, sometimes in a moment, always when I least expect it, the spirit of the season will reveal itself.Usually as an observer, a bystander to generosity, whimsy or a simple act of kindness, I tuck the memory away like a fondly held Christmas card. But this year the spirit had a more direct approach, arriving early and in a pickup truck.

Last Sunday, as Boz & Gracie lured me downstairs with their ramped up barks, I could see a tall constitution of a man peering through my front door window.A friendly smile told me it was my neighbor, Dan.I’m chainsaw-challenged and most of my firewood is green and not split. Dan, a keen observer and a man of few words, pointed to the dry, split firewood in his pickup and said, “Merry Christmas, Tom. “ The spirit of Christmas overwhelms quickly and tends to leave its beneficiary tongue-tied. Add a bundle of pencil-thick kindling to the mix, and I am without words.Yes, the spirit of Christmas knocked on my door that day, and in the process reminded me that it’s a regular visitor.

Toasty toes and pampered paws enjoy a fireside warm-up, courtesy of the Christmas spirit (and most generous neighbor).

Just the Moon, Mount Rainier and Me

Nature

Tom

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December 7, 2011

19

Departing from the south end of the island, the less-traveled Vashon-Tacoma ferry between Tahlequah and Point Defiance is a step back in time and a welcomed respite. The M/V Rhododendron chugs across the south sound with the charm of a child’s vintage pull toy. Heading home after a fine time at a friend’s open house, I took the pole position on the car deck of my favorite ferry, the aforementioned Rhododendron (which unfortunately is to be decommissioned soon). Exposed and just inches about the water, my trusty, rusty beater was elevated to king-of-the-world status on the vessel’s bow.

The 15-minute movie that is the crossing is best experienced in 3-D, outside and in the elements. I bundled up, grabbed my camera and braced for the chill of a maritime breeze. The moon welcomed my arrival, Mount Rainier bid adieu after tucking itself in under a glow of pink, and the warmth of a day sustained me. Other drivers and passengers safe in their sealed cocoons, leaned downward, focusing on the duties inherent in a portable handheld device. I was tempted to tap on a couple windows and point to sky, for when beauty is parked right outside your window, it’s only polite to look up.

Orcas and Encounters of the Third Kind

Nature

Tom

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December 2, 2011

16

Orcas Close to Shore on Vashon Island, WA

Orcas! And just where was I the day all three Puget Sound Orca pods, J, K, L, swam by my island, cavorting so close to shore that their race toward Point Defiance caused some sizable waves. Perhaps just as delightful as this Pt Robinson promenade was the enthusiastic response of the lucky onlookers.

My closest encounter with an orca came from the opportune viewpoint of a Washington ferry: When Delight Swims By, Look Up.

Home Improvement: Embracing My Mudroom and Inner Ungar

Home Sweet Home

Tom

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November 28, 2011

40

Home Improvement: Embracing My Mudroom and Inner Ungar

Boz, prefers to keep his distance while supervising my DIY antics.

As a self-admitted Oscar Madison, I’ve battled my inner Felix Unger for years, knowing somewhere inside there is a neatnik, a man who could learn to hang up his clothes, finish dishes the actual day he dines on them, treat his vacuum as a friend rather than foe, and mop a floor before dust bunnies annex his bedroom into their personal warren.

When a friend dropped by to return a borrowed tool, he chided me, “Uh Tom, the house is not looking very blog presentable. If readers only knew.” Oh that hurt, not so sure he gets to borrow my sawzall any time soon. He was right, though. I may have to change Tall Clover Farm to Casa del Disarray. Fortunately I do have an excuse. In my world, home improvement trumps house cleaning. The minute the tools come out, my interest in cleaning takes a holiday. Why spruce up the place when drywall dust and paint cans will rule the roost until further notice. Here’s a snapshot of what I’ve been working on:Before: My mudroom was aptly named, a catchall for boots, tools, wet dogs and general clutter.

After: I removed old drywall and exposed original surfaces, then primed, painted, fashioned a fir floor and then rechristened the space as a sun-room.Before: A little storage on the back porch.After: A lot of storage on the back porch, thanks to some salvaged fir doors on new slider tracks and new shelving.

Nothing like an old sink to bring utility and convenience to the mudroom.

Allowing my outer Oscar equal time, I offer a view of home improvement collateral damage: my kitchen–part workshop, part cooktop.

Stay tuned for part two, when I unveil the old kitchen nook as the new Cloud Room. And against my better judgement I may also share a few snapshots courtesy of my less presentable self, Oscar Madison.

Leftovers, Line the Corners of my Plate…

Celebrations

Tom

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November 25, 2011

22

Leftovers, Line the Corners of my Plate…

Last night, before I waddled into my carbo-induced coma and awaiting bed, I heard the song, The Way We Were. And this morning I’m still hearing the song, The Way We Were. Since I can’t eject the ditty from my internal soundtrack, I have decided to put my time to good use (since I moving slower than a slug in the summer sun), and alter the lyrics a wee bit, in honor of the day after Thanksgiving and the way I was.

Divine dollops, tasty trinity: creamed spinach, bread pudding & savory dressing

Leftovers (as sung to the melody of The Way We Were)

Leftovers
Line the edges of my plate
Globs of gravy-covered memories
Of the food I ate…
Scattered giblets
Platters heaped with home-cooked love
Morsels too rich to finish eating,
Of the food I left behind

Could it be that it was all so tasty then,
Or has tryptophan rewritten every bite?
If I had the chance to eat all again,
Tell me, would I? Could I?

Leftovers
May be delicious and yet,
While I ate too much to digest,
I simply have no regrets

For its all the trimmings,
I will remember
Whenever I remember,
The leftovers on my plate,
The leftovers on my plate,

A special thanks to Lisa and Erik for inspiring my in-head singalong, and for the kind of hospitality that makes a friend feel like family.

No Boz, your doggie bag is in the fridge.

Thanksgiving Pacific Northwest Style

The menu

Appetizers

Cheese plate, spanikopita, cheese puffs

Dinner

smoked chicken
roasted chicken
grilled salmon
wilted chard, pine nut salad
roasted winter vegetables
sweet potato souffle
creamed spinach
buttered mashed potatoes
savory, fruity bread dressing
homemade sourdough bread

Dessert

pumpkin pie
Brioche bread pudding and whiskey hard sauce

Even though I’m plopped on the sofa unable to move from my post-gorge inertia, I’m thinking a little bread pudding with my morning coffee may be in order. (Just a little, really.) Warm wishes and full plates to you all.

What was on your Thanksgiving menu?

Travel Log: Big Board, Small Question

Tomagrams

Tom

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November 14, 2011

52

One Gigantic Fir Board to Go, Please…

While searching for fir floor boards at Forest Stewards mill yard, I came across the most amazing rough-cut board, a fir behemoth about four inches thick, 18 feet long, and heavier than a middle-age man’s back should endure. Cole, the mill manager, said he’d give me a deal on it as the board thickness was inconsistent. Alright Cole, consider it sold!

As we wrangled the trunk into my truck, Cole, asked me the million-dollar question, “So what are you going to do with it?” I assured him, I’d come up with something worthy of Mother Nature’s handiwork. He smiled, and said, “I’m sure you will.”

Here are few of my ideas (caveats included):

Harvest table (just add legs and lots of friends)
Seesaw (sand before first use)
World’s longest coffee table (my shins would suffer bruising)
Home-built trebuchet (though not sure I’m zoned for medieval weaponry)
Foot bridge (may just invite trouble with local trolls)
…now it’s your turn

What do you think I should do with this big beautiful board?

A Salute to My Favorite Veteran

Tom

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November 11, 2011

21

Captain Dad and his trusty steed (F-100) on the flightline.

I grew up loving a veteran: my Dad, a larger than life man who flew jets from the time I could finger paint until the time I could vote. His Air Force career spanned three decades and covered the globe (sometimes with us, and sometimes without). Our lives were interwoven into his sense of duty, patriotism and honor. As his family, we were along for the ride, or flight (as the case may have been).

While other kids met their Dad at the door each day, we would assemble on the flight line to reunite with a man we hadn’t seen in months. There was no complaining, no whining, and no grousing about time lost, missed birthdays and anniversaries. We would pick up where we left off and embrace our lives together, for however long that would be until the next assignment or remote tour.

Behind Dad was my mother. A veteran in her own right, she was the glue that held our family together during long absences and uncertain times. They were (and are) a team. When we’d say grace, we’d also pray for the safe return of my father. When my father was back at the head of the table, my mother would amend grace to include a pray of thanks and gratitude.

On this Veteran’s Day, I would like to salute the men and women of the armed forces for their service and to their families, for they don’t undertake this sacrifice and journey alone. Every day, our lives are touched by those who serve and have served our country. Every day we are likely to unknowingly encounter someone who has lost a loved one or a family member to the horrors of war.

Heroes are among us, living their lives quietly and without the recognition they so often deserve. Each veteran has a story, a story that plays out on the pages of our nation’s history and character.

From my father, to my three uncles who served in World War II, to my friend Leo who’s kind smile and quick laugh belie what his eyes have seen as a young soldier in Iraq and Afghanistan, I thank you all for your service. As a nation, know we not only hold you in high esteem this day, but every day.

Home from overseas (Japan), and a few years before my brother joined the family.

I shared this post last year, and thought the message was worth repeating.