Lazy, Hazy, Crazy

You GUYS!

I've been averaging one post a WEEK around these parts lately. What is up with that?! I'd blame the usual summer craziness for that little trend, but honestly, in years past I've managed way more posts during this time of year so I'm really not sure why gives. I think in this particular instance, laziness, not craziness, is the true culprit. Like most things in life, it all boils down to priorities.

It's not that I've meant to neglect this little blog. Every day I think of things to post about, but somehow, right about the time that I think I'll sit down and actually write that post, something else calls my name and suddenly it's bedtime and another day has come and gone sans post. C'est la vie.

Our weather has finally cooled off a bit (not that it was anywhere as hot as elsewhere in the country, but 90+ degrees is HOT for almost Canada northern Minnesota) and we're enjoying temperatures in the 70s and low 80s. It's nice to feel human again  and also have the energy to actually do something in the evening. Andy and I have been trying to get out and fish before sunset: the fishing's great . . . the catching, not so much.

Also, remember earlier in the summer when I was all "meh, blueberries?" Yeah, scratch that.

Have now picked five gallons of berries and am planning to head out to pick my sixth (and final . . . I swear) gallon this afternoon yet. That is, if I can get my arse off this chair.

So what does one do with six gallons of blueberries? Two gallons stay in the freezer to be used in muffins, pancakes, fruit salads, et al. throughout the year. Another gallon is given away. Then I've made two different batches of blueberry infused vinegar (including Paula's recipe and another one which uses basil and lemon zest from the Ball Canning cookbook) and a big batch of blueberry butter.

Butter is a term for fruit that's been cooked down slowly to a spreadable consistency over low heat. The spread uses half as much sugar as blueberry jam, resulting in a soft spread that purplier and more berryful (yes, neither of those are "real" world . . . just doing my part to keep the English language alive) than jam. I used Marisa McClellan's slow cooker recipe from Food in Jars, which is seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and lemon zest. Basically, it's like eating blueberry pie on toast.

The garden's starting to churn out produce lately and it's happy coincidence that berry season is drawing to a close just as the garden kicks it into high gear. (Because really, I can only do so much.) Just look at the haul we made last night: 

I foresee many a stir-fry

Have you ever seen such beautiful kohlrabi, broccoli, and kale? Oh, and there are green beans in the bottom of the purple container too. I went grocery shopping yesterday and I just love when we hit that time in the season when I can walk down the produce aisle going:  "Oh, we've already got some. Tell 'em we've already got some!" (Name that movie.)

I wasn't sure how I felt about kale, but luckily - considering the quantity it's producing - both Andy and I have found it pretty darn delicious and it's the first ingredient I've found that really pairs well with the venison chorizo we made last November.

So that's life around these parts: living locally and deliciously.

How are you spending the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer?

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Blueberry Bulletin

When that whole made season comes around . . .

Ladies and gentlemen, can I please have your attention. I've just been handed an urgent and horrifying news story. I need all of you, to stop what you're doing and listen. . . . 

Ripe blueberries!

Considering how very early the ice went out this spring, I wasn't exactly surprised to learn a couple weekends ago that people were already finding ripe blueberries on the trails around these parts. But just because I wasn't surprised doesn't mean that it isn't crazy early for there to be ripe blueberries in northern Minnesota. Usually I figure on picking my first quart or two of blueberries around July 20.

If you're a long time reader of this blog, you know in the past years I've moved up the ranks as a berry-picking fanatic blueberry picker. You know you're a true berry picker when you measure your berries in gallons rather than cups, pints, or quarts. Over the last two summers, I've picked approximately 7 gallons of berries each year.

Honestly, I'm not feeling quite up to the challenge this year. Seven gallons of berries a year is a lot, you guys and I'm struggling to wrap my head around the idea that berry season is already upon us. (Is it just me or did June absolutely whooooosh by?!)

Maybe it's because I know the picking will likely be the hardest it's been in years. Between the super early/really dry spring, followed by a gully-washing start to the summer, the poor berry bushes don't know which end's up. As a result, the fruit set is spotty this year. While I'm sure there are plenty of patches loaded with berries, I'll have to scramble up granite cliff faces and over pokey, burnt trees to access them. Just thinking about it makes me feel a little tired. *yawn*

Granted, we hardly need 7 gallons of blueberries. We still have about a cup of frozen berries in the freezer, plenty of dried berries to zip up oatmeal and granola bars, and one quart jar of pie filling left over from last year. Of the 7 gallons I picked last year, a good 2.5+ gallons were given out to family members and friends.

After all, this is supposed to be fun, a pleasant pastime if you will. But in the past few summers, I've attacked the berry patches with such aggressive determination that it's started to feel like summer labor.  So this year, I think I'll take it easy when it comes to berry picking. I'll do it as long as I'm having fun. I'll be less motivated by quantity.

That said, something tells me I'll lose my current berry picking ennui once the humidity cracks and temperatures dip below the low 90s and high 80s.

Watch berries, here I come!

 

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Breathing Room

This sounds kind of dumb, but sometimes I forget that I'm a writer. You know what I blame? All the writing.

I'm not sure what I expected when I signed on to "be a writer." Maybe mornings spent in front of the laptop, calmly sipping my tea while rearranging the characters and plots of my imagination? Maybe long, leisurely walks spent searching for inspiration?

One thing's for sure; I didn't expect I'd be hauling my arse out of bed long before my mind wanted to be awake to plunk in front of the computer to tackle the latest writing assignment: trying to feed myself breakfast with one hand while typing with the other, frantically shaking the words in order before it was time to get dressed for my "real" job.   

It's been quite the month or so, now.  There's been one freelance assignment on top of another to deal with. Good news for my portfolio. Bad news for those awful black bags under my eyes. Then throw in some pretty impressive humidity to top it all off and it's been kind of tricky to catch my breath.

But this morning I sat down at the computer and realized I had no lingering writing obligations hanging over my head. No commentary, no article, no guest post to write. For the next week and a half, I'm assignment-free.  These morning moments at the computer are mine.

Actually, more than just these morning moments. For a little while, I'm blessed with total control over my "non-work" hours. A very good thing indeed, since a certain favorite berry is ripe and ready for the picking.

Here's to the lazy, carefree days of summer. May your berry buckets grow full and heavy. May there be plenty of room to stretch and take a nice deep breath.

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Knock Yourself Out Mark Zuckerberg

We watched The Social Network the other night and it got me thinking about a lot of things; namely, Mark Zuckerberg. Before watching the movie, I'd heard a statement that Zuckerberg's goal for the year is to eat only things he kills with his own hands. Huh?

Now we all know by now that I'm a little idealistic when it comes to trying to live locally and sustainably. I love the idea of cracking open a can of my own locally grown canned goods or pulling some local cut of meat out of the freezer. I feel that if we all ate a little closer to home, the world just might be a slightly better place.

But I also live in northern Minnesota, where eating locally means some wild rice, a lot of blueberries, and a bit of meat when you can get it. And there's just only so much venison with blueberry sauce that a 21st century palate can take. While we eat a fair amount of meat which Andy has shot, the majority of the meat we consume at the cabin isn't even organic.

Why? Well, it takes a lot of food to feed two people for an entire year.

The venison Andy got last Novemeber was all gone by April and we only used about a pound of the meat a week. During grouse season, Andy and I went out hunting nearly every night and while we managed to get enough poultry to provide one or two weekly dinners, we never even stockpiled enough grouse to have any in the freezer for "later." Believe it or not, all that's left of last year's blueberries is less than a cup of berries, rattling around in a gallon bag in the back of the freezer. Even what, at the time, can appear to be massive amounts of food can disappear quickly.

Then there's the price issue. In a world where time is money, we can't afford to spend every waking moment scrounging for food. And much as I'd like to eat only organic, that ideology is a little rough on my pocketbook.


Just yesterday I came back from the grocery store with a nominal amount of food in my (reusable) bags and one honking total on my receipt. "That's it," I declared. "No more fresh produce for us." Forget the yummy red strawberries at $3.65 a pound; next week I'm just going to pick up some cans of Flavorite fruit cocktail in lieu of all the (expensive) fresh fruit salad ingredients I picked up yesterday.

Now, I'm not sure what Zuckerberg means when he says he's only eating food he shot with his own hands. Is he counting produce too? Because let me tell you, as Andy and I ran around last night covering up the gardens to protect them from the latest frost advisory, I realized even a little garden can demand more of you than you ever expected.

With his unlimited funds, maybe Zuckerberg is in a better position to succeed at this "with your own hands" eating game. But while I may consistently cry "busy", I have a feeling Zuckerberg has a couple more obligations and commitments than I do.

Mark, if you figure out how to do this: 1) You're a better man than me and 2) Let me know how you did it.  

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Thank Goodness for Mailboxes and Pies

I forgot it was going to snow yesterday. Maybe because Wednesday was sunny, glorious and subsequently cold: so cold in fact, that Andy and I spent a good portion of the evening watching the outside thermometer dip down below zero. But when I got up yesterday and saw the temperature had risen to 20 degrees outside, I knew something was up. Sure enough, all yesterday I looked out the window and saw nothing but white: the far shore of the lake disappeared in a howling swirl of wind and snowflakes.

On Wednesday, I also had a great writing day with Rose & Co. As we sat around the table working on our writing prompts, Rose set about writing a short story about “woe.” In the story, she artfully described all the ways we keep ourselves miserable during the winter months. You know: no exercise, too much chocolate, dwelling on the darkness and cold, staying up too late and subsequently starting our days too late.

The story struck a chord.

After a blah, blah, blah snowy November, I’ve tried avoiding woe this December. That means throwing myself into work, adopting a nearly daily exercise routine and not “eating my feelings.”

But oh when it’s blustery and cold and snowy, it’s hard to make yourself go outside.

Luckily, yesterday I had to go outside. The wintery weather had pretty much depleted our wood rack inside and I needed to fill it. And then there’s the mailbox, the hallowed mailbox. The possibility of mail waiting for me in the mailbox each afternoon is so alluring, it gets me outside making the mile-long round trip out to the mailbox even on days like yesterday when I was so bundled up you could just see my eyes peering out from between my hat and my scarf.

I finished my work hours for the week early yesterday and this felt like a major accomplishment. (Never mind the gazillion other “to-do” commitments I need to address before the week’s done). When I got back from filling the wood box and getting the mail, I couldn’t stand the thought of parking myself in front of the computer again. So I thought to myself: “I’m going to bake a pie.”

Regardless of your feelings about the overall quality of the movie Waitress, I adore the idea of
baking pies as therapy. And yesterday baking a pie full of blueberry loved seemed like a really good idea.

It was a good idea.

Sometimes life needs to be simplified if we’re to escape woe’s clutches. Things like Christmas cards arriving from faraway friends and or making a flakey pie crust while filling the house with the wonderful smell of baked goods are perfect antidotes to winter woe.

Just one more reason why life is better with butter.

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Take A Taste

The rain came this week and with it went most motivation around the cabin. When you wake up at six in the morning to the creak of the wood stove door opening, the crackle of kindling being split in half, and the thunk of birch wood inside the stove, it’s pretty easy to snuggle a little deeper under the comforter to catch just a couple more minutes of sleep. So much for those fall goals, eh?

Still, we’re slowly hecking towards progress around here, despite an increased inclination to curl up at night with a good book or a bit of knitting and Ken Burns’s National Parks documentary. Last night Andy stayed out until well after dark, shingling the shed. On Wednesday, I went through all my bins of “stuff” stored at my parents, sorting out what I actually want to keep and what’s ready to find a new home. I ended up keeping 5 bins while 5 more bins are ready to go. Hello garage sale . . . . Tuesday was a decent writing day, although the week as a whole could have been much, much better. There’s been no easing into fall 2010, it just came in a rush through the door and I think we’re all still a little flabbergasted that summer is O-V-E-R.

One sure sign of fall here on the Gunflint Trail is the Taste of the Gunflint Trail event. Last year, I spent the days leading up to “Taste” baking a dozen loaves of “bubble” bread for Andy’s work place. Last night I came home and baked two blueberry pies to take to the pie and ice cream social hosted at my work place this year.

Taste of the Gunflint Trail is a cookbook that relates the history of all businesses, both past and present, that have existed along the Trail. Every fall, several businesses along the Trail cook up a recipe or two from the cookbook. Today we had over 200 people in the museum to see the exhibits and get a piece of pie. A success to say the least.

It seems the cooler weather makes us all increasingly domestic. Andy keeps going on about wood stoves, I found my mother in the midst of making applesauce when I stopped by on Wednesday, and I’ve found incredible enjoyment in rolling out pie crusts and updating my Ravelry account. Nothing wrong with any of that, but every once in a while I have to remind myself that homey projects are meant to be an addition to my life, not a distraction from work at hand.

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Things Get Obnoxious: Wordless Wednesday

There's doubt that there are berries out in the woods this summer.

But maybe we've gone just a little overboard. Enough, enough now.

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Gonna Make A Pie

Baby don't you cry, gonna make a pie
Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle
--Waitress

After the great disappearing blueberry pie phenomenon of  last Saturday night  (when I made a pie with a lifespan of approximately 15 minutes), I knew I wanted another shot at fresh blueberry pie this summer. When I heard that my parents, grandparents, and a couple uncles were planning to come to visit the museum and have dinner at the cabin, I knew I’d found my excuse to pick another six cups of blueberries and make a pie. Yesterday at work I kept humming the little ditty from the quirky (but cute) Adrienne Shelley film Waitress: “Gonna make a pie, gonna make a pie.”

To be honest, I haven’t always had such a casual relationship with blueberry pie. When I lived in town, I always devoted an afternoon or two to heading up the “Trail” and picking blueberries. In college and during the winter I spent in the Cities, I usually had about a gallon of berries in the freezer. One of my best friends (and by far, my best roommate, ever) always gave me a hard time about my stubborn unwillingness to use any of the berries for a pie. Of course, I brought the hard times on myself by one time going on a rant of “I don’t know why people would use six whole cups of berries when the berries are tiny and take forever to pick.” During those days, I used my berries sparingly: in muffins and pancakes.

Now that I live in veritable blueberry paradise, berries are never in short supply and the task of gathering six cups of blueberries takes just over an hour and can, more often than not, be accomplished in the backyard. Kind of like how I spent 20 years of my life pretending I had straight hair, eventually you get over your inhibitions and start throwing all your berries into one pie crust and letting your hair crinkle, curl and kink as humidity see fit.

To say I still feel some guilt twinges about using so berries in a single bakery item wouldn’t be quite the truth, but I am still very conscious of the large amount used, so I try to make sure the final pie is worth the effort and sacrifice. In other words, it better be good. This means I turn to my secret ingredients:

Yep, lard and the freshest blueberries possible.

I’ve been using butter to make my pie crusts for years, but since I now frequently keep company with those with lactose intolerance, I decided to try out lard last week. Honestly, despite having a co-worker who swore by the virtues of lard, the substance kind of revolts me. But after the success of the lard pie crust a week ago, I may be becoming a lard convert. I’ve never made pie crust that was so easy to deal with.

I made this blueberry pie last night and having successfully fending off Andy from nibbling at it, now the pie rests on the counter, waiting for company and vanilla ice cream.

Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle.

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The Two-Gallon Challenge (Wordless Wednesday)

Never knowing what my schedule might do next, I thought it best to devote my free day yesterday to the pursuit of berries: 32.5 cups worth of blueberries to be exact. Sweet success!

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What in the World?

We can officially put productivity aside: berry season is upon us. As I headed out this evening for my daily gander for strawberries, I spotted something blue.

A berry that's blue? A blueberry?! On June 22nd? Unbelievable!

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Pythagoras and Black Flies

I’m a fan of the smelly stuff. I’m not into expensive perfume, but I do like to start my days with just a touch of lovely smelling body spray. I’m just anal enough to have a winter scent and a summer scent. I once had a coworker kindly describe this personal quirk of mine as “sophisticated.” I think that “eccentric” and “crazy” are probably more apt descriptions, but nonetheless, when snow starts to melt, I reach for my containers of cherry blossom products. When the autumn nip returns, the cherry blossom stuff gets shelved and the vanilla scented products come out. But what I really, really need to learn to do is to stop reaching for the smelly stuff during the summer.

If you’ve spent any time in northern Minnesota in the spring, you know where I’m going with this. Biting insects are fans of the smelly stuff too. “Mmmm,” the little black flies and mosquitoes think when they smell me coming. “What is that . . . a bit of cherry blossom mixed with . . . what’s that? Ohhh, my favorite: BLOOD!”

The black flies made their spectacular entrance into Summer 2010 this week. As I dig in the garden or shovel around gravel in the backyard, the black flies get all riled up and hungry. Right now I’m itching away behind my ears, one of those lovely little spots (ankles are another great place) where the blood is close to the skin and black flies belly up. I know the black flies pollinate the blueberry plants, but I wish they would take a lesson from their fellow pollinators, the bees, and only take a nice chomp out of me when I’ve actually committed a crime against them.

Since I feel the need to spritz myself with a bit of body spray every single morning (if only I could be so consistent with taking my multivitamin) maybe it’s time to replace the smelly products in the bathroom with a big ol’ basket of bug spray.

It seems smelly stuff + black flies = bug bites is theorem nearly as infallible as a2+b2=c2. We’ve been testing out Pythagoras as of late around here. That’s because Andy’s building a shed in the backyard. So far my job in the project is grunt worker and mathematic consultant. Since I took a class entitled “Logic” to complete my analytical reasoning requisite at college, this is pretty terrifying. But it turned out my distant memory of a2+b2=c2 was pretty useful when it came to setting the shed’s corners. Those diagonals can be really helpful!

That’s good, because it’s pretty much all on Andy to turn this into a shed.

I’m sure he’s up to the challenge. I’m happy to help where I can, but I’ve probably pretty much exhausted all and any assistance I have to offer.

It’s been absolutely gorgeous up here, with highs around 80 for the last three days. Kind of a strange time to finish up a sweater, but there you have it.

I’m still trying to gain my equilibrium with the new job. I’d gotten pretty good at the self-employment gig (well, should probably have been making slightly more money) and now it’s time to figure out what this new challenge I’ve taken on is all about.

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Spring Times Two: Babies and Wildflowers

The old adage in northern Minnesota when it comes to seasons is that we don’t really have seasons. Rather, we get “winter, mud season, and a week of summer.” But really, it seems we have two sorts of springs up here in the Northwoods. The first spring comes with a trickle of water, a nub of pussywillow, when the snow begins to recede. With a chilly promise of green and growth, the first spring ushers in the dreaded mud season when the outside world become a mess of muck and dead grass.

Then, a month or two later, the second spring materializes. When things are actually green. When wildflowers start to peep out from the forest’s floor.

Gradually, we’ve been entering into that lovely second spring when it starts to seem like summer might really be coming after all. The strawberry and blueberry plants have been flowering for a couple weeks. I know people have been seeing violets up here for a while now, but I didn’t stumble across my first one of the year until Andy and I were out punting about for morel mushrooms on Sunday.

(No morel luck: not even false ones. Despite getting a bit of moisture last week, things remain pretty crispy out in the woods and on Sunday, I crunched my way through what was last year a very fruitful field of blueberries.)

If you spy a blooming violet, chances are your gaze will fall on a clump of wood anemones. These equally miniature spring wildflowers (violets and anemones are probably only about 4 inches above the ground) are out in full force. I love finding wildflowers and pointing them out to others, but goodness “anemone” is a hard word to say. I always feel like I’m trapped in Finding Nemo when I yell out to Andy that I found “an anemonemone. Amnemonemomne.”

As we drove home from the ill-fated morel hunt, we spotted a yearling moose beside the road. That must mean that Mama Moose has had this spring’s baby (or babies – they seem prone to twins.) When the new babies arrive, the yearling moose who have been hanging out with Mom all winter get the boot so Mom can devote her time to her infant(s). Oh, the joys of being an older sibling.

With this second spring promising summer, Andy’s been busy getting the gardens all set for the summer planting.

It’s looking really good.

Meanwhile, I’ve done a second seed planting inside to hopefully make up for all the seeds that didn’t sprout the first go-around. I’ve always had a soft spot for Four O’Clock flowers, so of course everything else I planted sprouted while the peat pots with the Four O’Clock seeds have just sat there and rudely sprouted a couple strands of grass and nothing else. We’ll just give that a second try, shall we.

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