I’ve often joked that if my parents were to have a blog it would be all about food. What they had for lunch, who shared a steak dinner with them, the salad at the culinary school they live near, the dessert platter my dad started dinner with, the way they ate steak leftovers for lunch…and as I was thinking about what I would write about today my topics had a great deal to do with food. So, I’ll just admit that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree (see, even my idioms are food related) and press on…
While I was visiting my sister we went blueberry picking. I don’t think I can accurately describe how delightful it was. Quite frankly if you had told me 10 years ago that I would be super excited about standing in a field, picking berries, knowing that they hadn’t been sprayed which meant the kids could eat them right off the bush, I would have thought you were crazy. Yet there I was, picking the largest, most delicious blueberries I’ve ever seen, with a ridiculous grin on my face and exclaiming the whole time, “I can’t believe how great this is!” (Disclaimer—I am well aware it was enjoyable because I wasn’t trying to support my family with my pickings, and I knew I could quit at any time.) The weather was lovely, the kids were bribed with a piece of gum for every pint container they filled, and each berry seemed juicier than the last. I can’t believe the satisfaction I had eating something I had brought from the bush to my home to my plate. Every time I offered the berries as a snack I practically shouted (OK, I probably did shout a few times) “Would you like some blueberries, THAT I PICKED WITH MY VERY OWN HANDS?!”
While I was visiting my sister we went blueberry picking. I don’t think I can accurately describe how delightful it was. Quite frankly if you had told me 10 years ago that I would be super excited about standing in a field, picking berries, knowing that they hadn’t been sprayed which meant the kids could eat them right off the bush, I would have thought you were crazy. Yet there I was, picking the largest, most delicious blueberries I’ve ever seen, with a ridiculous grin on my face and exclaiming the whole time, “I can’t believe how great this is!” (Disclaimer—I am well aware it was enjoyable because I wasn’t trying to support my family with my pickings, and I knew I could quit at any time.) The weather was lovely, the kids were bribed with a piece of gum for every pint container they filled, and each berry seemed juicier than the last. I can’t believe the satisfaction I had eating something I had brought from the bush to my home to my plate. Every time I offered the berries as a snack I practically shouted (OK, I probably did shout a few times) “Would you like some blueberries, THAT I PICKED WITH MY VERY OWN HANDS?!”
Then we went to my sister’s house and had some delicious cherry jam. Jam, that she canned herself. Hold on a minute. My sister is way more Martha Stewart-esqe than I, but really—canning? Canning always struck me as a huge mystery. Something only grandmothers knew how to do. And here she was, with her Ball jars and cherry jam. Well, you don’t have to be a math wizard to put 2 plus 2 together. After my first slice of jam soaked bread I was figuring out a way to talk her into making jam with blueberries—blueberries I PICKED WITH MY VERY OWN HANDS! Thankfully it didn’t take much convincing.
Now, let’s say you’ve got some blueberry jam (homemade or otherwise) and you’re wondering what to put it on. Might I suggest you check out this book: Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/. It has changed my life. Well, I might exaggerate a bit, but it has changed my kitchen. This is seriously good bread peeps. And once you get the hang of it, it is really fast. They aren’t kidding about the no kneading part either—I don’t even bother with getting out my fancy Kitchen Aid mixer with dough hook attachment (too heavy). Nope, a wooden spoon is all I use. This weekend I whipped up a batch just before lunch. It was ready at dinner, we rolled it out, slapped it on the grill and made pizzas. Pizza topped with tomatoes and basil from the organic farm--good grief, what a hippie I sound like. I feel I must tell you (and I have no shame in telling you) that P’s pizza had pepperoni, salami and Canadian bacon on it—we’re not that much of a hippie household here! It was so, so good.
And finally check it out:
You are such a dork. :-) This is the first year in a while that my mom has made raspberry jam from berries she bought (at Costco). We usually have to pick them, and the novelty wore off on that adventure when I was six.
ReplyDeleteAt the point that your self-procramined hippie behavior results in you deciding to forego a razor on certain body parts, I will be required to intervene. Up until then, pick berries my friend, pick berries!
ReplyDeleteLoved this!