Yesterday, I stood on my porch grousing about the legions of dandelions encamped on my lawn. Hours later, my goddaughter Isabel stood among them, delighting in their presence. Where I saw weeds, she saw limitless bouquets. Where I decried a villain, she beheld a beauty. Sometimes all you need is a bouquet of perspective to transform the irksome into the acceptable (but I’m still getting out the mower), and truthfully, sometimes the road to wisdom is a longer route for some of us.
Front porch sages Boz and Gracie provided further insight, advising it’s a better day for napping than mowing anyway ( a truth I can readily subscribe to).
Summer is a powerful elixir for most Seattleites. We drink in summer (i.e., July and August) like a tonic that cures the ailments brought on by the previous ten months. We cling to it. We exhaust it. We mourn its loss and revel in its memory.
On one such summer evening, I was enjoying a barbecue with friends in my old neighborhood Green Lake. Hosts John and Beth had assembled us on the front porch of their handsome Victorian for the fine sunset and apparently a little more.
John appointed Becky as our front porch croupier, securing post-its, pens and pocket-change bets. As the sun finally retired to the west side of the Olympics, the show began. John directed all eyes to the chimney across the street. One by one, diminutive creatures squeezed out of a hole in the mortar and took rapid flight in our direction. The crowd cheered, and the counting began. The person coming closest to guessing the number of flying chimney sweeps claims the kitty. The final tally was 21 bats, so my guess of 19 bats was enough to secure the win.
This fall or winter or spring, when the smell of wet wool and damp dogs consumes my truck cab and psyche, and the windows are too fogged up to see if the ferry has docked, loaded or left, I shall revisit the memory of this summer night, a summer night when the winnings exceeded the sum of the wagers. Thank you, John and Beth. (And next summer, same bat time, same bat station?)
As good as it gets: homemade ketchup from homegrown tomatoes via some lessons learned.
My culinary redemption is complete. As some of you may recall, my last attempt to make ketchup did not end so well; my kitchen looked like Freddy Krueger had stopped by for lunch. (Witness the tomato carnage in How Not to Make Ketchup.)
The good news is confidence has been restored and validated. My homemade ketchup recently placed first in the Savory category of the Vashon-Maury Island Heritage Museum’s annual Strawberry Festival Jam Contest. Yep, there’s a shiny wide blue ribbon pinned to my kitchen door jam, after being told wearing it as a lapel pin was not a good look. (Runners-up can be a bitter lot).
When asked if I would share the recipe, I replied, “Heck, yes.” No one should hoard recipes, and besides the beauty of making ketchup is the end result is always different, revealing the tastes of the maker one spice at a time.
And to my Northwest garden pals, relax; the following tomato photos are from 2009. My current tomato harvest would barely fill a thimble with gazpacho.
To make a richer more deeply flavored ketchup, I roast garlic, tomatoes, peppers, and onions.
Boz oversees quality control and is quick to point out that ketchup is no apple butter. (Duly noted, Boz.)
Vindication can be as delicious as a well made batch of ketchup. (The red ribbon is my second place showing for peach-bourbon jam.)
Behind every blue ribbon is a path paved with tomato sauce and kitchen mishaps.
How to Make Ketchup — Great Homemade Ketchup!
I want to emphasize how forgiving this ketchup recipe is; add a little more of what you like and/or a little less of what you don’t. Don’t bother peeling tomatoes; it’s a big old waste of time. I use a mixture of paste, slicing and cherry tomatoes, basically whatever is coming out of my garden at the time. I usually make ketchup in September when I’m tripping over tomatoes and flush with jars. Another tip: because it’s a rich ketchup, I use pint jars. Quart jars scream commodity; this is anything but.
RECIPE: Tall Clover Ketchup
Ingredients:
10 pounds tomatoes
3-4 sweet bell peppers
4 onions
2-3 heads of garlic
drizzle of olive oil
1 cup cider vinegar
1 cup balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 teaspoons kosher or sea salt
2 teaspoons ground pepper
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon celery seeds
1 tablespoon of fresh grated ginger
1 teaspoon of ground cloves
1 tablespoon mustard powder
dash or two of Worcestershire sauce
Preparation:
Quarter tomatoes, onions and peppers
Leave garlic heads whole but cut tips off to expose fresh garlic
Place veggies on baking sheets, drizzle lightly with olive oil
Roast tomatoes, peppers, garlic and onions at 400 degrees F
Remove from oven when ingredients become pasty and lightly carmelized
Peel roasted peppers
Remove garlic and onion skins
No need to peel tomatoes (a little texture is good)
Place roasted veggies in large non-reactive pan
Add all remaining ingredients, mix well
Simmer very very slowly, watching at all times (trust me on this)
After about 15 minutes on low simmer, turn off heat, add a lid and let it rest until cool
When cool, puree in the pan or in a blender. I use an Immersion Hand Blender right in the pan.
It will be chunkier than storebought ketchup
Return to heat and simmer slowly, always watching.
I turn the heat off after 15 minutes and let it evaporate
Repeat step 15 and 16 until ketchup is as thick as you like
Seal, process in a water bath for 15 minutes (using pints)
It also freezes well.
Makes about 8 pints depending on how meaty your tomatoes are.
Blue-ribbon redemption for these tomatoes and this humble (most of the time) cook.
This apricot jam recipe is golden on all levels, a mixture of simple ingredients creating a whole greater than the sum of its parts. As my favorite jam, it’s a dollop of sunshine I can count on any time of the year.
I have given up trying to grow apricots in the Maritime Northwest (my first public admission). They’re fussy little trees that are beacons to any imaginable plant or insect problem nature can dispense, blooming well before pollinators appear, succumbing to peach borers and rotting at the roots where standing water prevails.
Don’t think I’ve tried; I could make a log cabin in dead apricot trees. Nope, this boy has seen the light. Apricot Eden is only two hours east of the Cascade Mountains, and they deliver.
Introducing Alsatian Apricot Jam
This apricot jam comes from the Alsace region of France, which borders Germany and Switzerland, a culinary destination known for lip-smacking rich food and fine wine. The recipe does not disappoint, transforming fresh and dried apricots, wine, vanilla and orange zest into a lavish spread of sensory overload. (Hyperbole? I think not.)
Chop dried apricots, place in bowl, add Gewurztraminer (you want a fruity white wine, Riesling works, too), soak overnight
In a new bowl, quarter fresh apricots, remove seeds, chop to a bite size bit
In nonreactive pan, add fresh apricots, sugar, orange zest/juice, and lime juice
Split vanilla beans in two and scrape seeds in to apricot mixture
Also add the beans (remove before canning)
Simmer about 10 minutes, mixing all ingredients together until sugar dissolves
Remove from heat, cover, refrigerate overnight
Next day, add dried apricot mixture to fresh apricot mixture
Stirring, simmer until thickens, and remove vanilla beans
Put the jam in jars and seal in water bath
I tend to simmer only for a short time and shut off the heat, letting the jam cool. When convenient, I reheat for a short time again to thicken the jam through evaporation. This jam sets up nicely and without much fussing. (Photos are from my latest batch–one of many.)
What friends won’t tell you, tensile strength and gravity will.
When the universe speaks, it’s good to listen. Should you ignore the headsup, you may find yourself bottoms up, doused in your favorite beverage. (Truth be told, I managed to keep my sweet tea upright both times.) I could say these motel chairs are old and the metal weak, but denial is a quick road to pretzel-shaped lawn furniture. (Notice there are two chairs, that tells you something right there.) Sure, I could choose to loose a little weight, I just didn’t think a motel chair would be the messenger.
Guess I better go check the hammock hooks…and health of the trees.
Raspberries beat the pants off just about anything I grow. Strawberries are whiners; peaches beyond picky; apples moonlight as pest magnets; and grapes grouse to be pruned. I love them all, but the raspberry is the most effortless of the bunch. If you fear there’s little green in your thumb, the raspberry may be a good plant pick for your edible garden.
The Top Ten Reasons I Grow Raspberries
Easy to grow–they just want good drainage
Birds prefer blueberries and cherries
Minimal thorns (if any)
Sweetness–flavor and perfume that can’t be beat
Self-pollinating–no need to worry about planting two varieties
No bending over to harvest–can’t say that about a strawberry
Easy to prune–just remove last year’s dead canes
Easy to pick–fruit yields to pull when ripe
Prolific harvest–a small patch returns a lot of berries
Freeze well–freeze single layer on cookie sheet, then place in ziploc bags
Okay, so I went over with my alotted top ten, but I assure you once you start growing raspberries, you’ll be adding to my list. By the way, my favorite variety for the Puget Sound area is Tulameen.
Oh, and just one more reason: Good help is easy to find.
Added July 26, 2010: My pal Deb in Juneau, Alaska had some ten-digit deliciousness to show off as well. Her photo technique is ingenious. In my photo-edited pic, I’m all left hands, but Deb proves a more resourceful photographer. She wrote, ” I shot with my chin, used the tongue of the boat trailer to hold the camera.” Yep she’s part great gardener, part gifted MacGyver and all good friend. Thanks Deb — raspberries in Juneau–impressive.
Boz looks concerned. I promise Boz, your dinner time will never be fashionably late.
My pal Annette over at Sustainable Eats (along with a couple of her blogging compadres) started Simple Lives Thursday, a blog hop that shares what others are doing in the realm of agriculture, real food, producing more and consuming less.
And since I’ve never met a deadline I didn’t stretch, I’m debuting her Simple Lives Thursday on Fashionably Late Friday. Hopefully, Annette will forgive my faux pas, and I promise to be on-time next Thursday, or a jar of jam is in her future. (Bribery in canned goods, this is a bad trend.)
When it comes to the Vashon Strawberry Festival (going strong since 1909), islanders reside in two camps: those who love it and those who hate it. My tent is tethered to the first camp. (I have my suspicions that the other camp may also prefer handshakes to hugs, avoid puppies and Popsicles, and be quick to profess they never watch TV. Just a theory.)
Sure we import the requisite carnie folk, funnel cakes and midway rides to the island, but Strawberry Festival is really more about the homegrown events and venues unique to Vashon. You can run the other way or you can embrace the crowds, craziness and corndogs. Umm, deep-fried food on a stick…I choose the latter.
Why I love Vashon Strawberry Festival.
1. It’s an event where farming is fashionable.
2. I get to shore up some bragging rights.
2. The talents of neighbors and friends are on parade.
Mt. Rainier tops the view of Tramp Harbor and Maury Island.
Summer showed up yesterday with a hearty and heated hello. With temperatures on the island reaching 95 degrees, Boz hit the pool, Gracie found some shade and I pondered taking a plunge in Puget Sound. My only complaint about Vashon Island is the absence of Lake Washington, undeniably Seattle’s best place to cool off.
It’s ironic that I live on an island and there’s really no place to swim. Let me rephrase that. There are places to swim, but with Puget Sound water temps rarely exceeding 53 degrees, the choices are limited.
While close to my house, Tramp Harbor and KVI beach (top photo) maintain water temperatures cold enough to make a baritone, a soprano. A longer drive takes me to Dockton Park beach where a four-mile inlet warms incoming tides just enough for me to keep my tenor status. Bracing, refreshing and the quickest cooldown known to man, a dip off the dock can make all right with the world. My clumsy cannonball garnered high marks, claps and laughter from the younger crowd, a fine reminder that no matter what the age, keeping cool has nothing to do with looking cool.
As for Boz and Gracie, they opted to stay home (to forego the embarrassment) and save up energy for the refilling of the wading pool.
Boz, British Bulldog and expat, says “All is forgiven, Happy Fourth!”
The Fourth of July comes abruptly to Vashon Island. Anyone on the island with an open window and who’s not on life support cannot escape the approaching drone of the hydroplanes circumnavigating the island like furious wasps. It’s a Vashon tradition I love–if nothing else, but for the letters to the Editor that the 5 a.m. wake-up call elicits.
Then the Vashon Fourth of July settles in quietly around the island, taking in more backyard barbecues, croquet matches, bocce ball, horsehoe sets and fire-pit jam sessions than any other parcel on Puget Sound. Tables will be laden with apple pie, pesto, potato salad, kimchi, sushi and salsa (along with requisite gluten-free experiments) and the faces around the table will be a varied as the dishes served.
It’s a time for friends and family to slow down and embrace any vestige of summer that suits our fancy. It’s a day when we share the gift of laughter, knowing that today’s joy was secured by yesterday’s sacrifice. We may not speak boldly, but that does not mean the moment escapes our hearts. When the fireworks begin over Quartermaster Harbor, the night sky will ignite in celebration, as will our gratitude and thanks for the generations before us. Your hopes and dreams are alive today in us. Happy Fourth of July from Vashon Island.
This photo was taken on the Seattle – Bainbridge ferry in 2003, a year before I moved to Vashon Island. Maggie and I never missed a Fourth of July on Bainbrdige Island, another local celebration well worth attending.
