Agave Sweetened Mint Limeade

Part of this week's Iron Chef challenge (AKA Whatever is Delivered by Farmhouse Delivery) are keylimes. You know... the tiny, grape-sized limes that cuted their way into the citrus family. Since I hadn't done anything with them yet, dear husband suggested that I make a variation on the lemonade recipe I crafted/stole last year from the Babycakes cookbook: lemon juice, agave nectar, and water. That's tasty stuff. At the time, we had a rather thriving orange-mint plant, so I added mint to the recipe. Breakin' the rules! Oh the delicious anarchy! The green concoction was met with rave reviews.

But back to my new enemy: key limes. Sure, hubby, I say! Great idea! We're cutting back on drinking these days, and a nice minty limeade truly does sound like a perfect Fourth of July beverage. For forty-five fucking minutes, I cut these little dudes, try to pry out the tiny seeds, scrape out any pulp that wasn't selfishly hanging on to the skin, and squeeze until my fingers were shriveled like dead worms. I end up with, I'm not joking here, less than a half-cup of pulpy lime juice, and this is of course before I have to pick out all the seeds I missed, which much have displaced a good one-fourth cup themselves. Needless to say, this exercise was about as productive as milking a guinea pig for cheese. I realize this was a fool's errand. I should have given up. But what the hell else were we going to do with the limes? Make one of those key lime pies everyone talks about? I don't even know how those exist at this point. Why aren't these pies rare and costly?

But I'm done bitching. On to some instruction! After harvesting a tiny tit's worth of lime juice, I muddled about a dozen large mint leaves from our herb pots in the bottom of the bowl. Next, realizing that there was no way this would be enough lime, I added some lemon juice we had in the fridge. Awful stuff. I don't know how you can make "real" lemon juice taste processed, but evidently you can. A tear might have dropped into the mixture as I tasted the new formula only to find that the lemon stuff completely masked my 45 minutes of limey hell. From here, there's really not much more to say than add a crap load of agave nectar--keeping in mind that it's sweeter than sugar, so don't go too overboard--and a crap load of water. Just keep tasting and modifying to your liking. While the beverage itself is healthy and delicious, I can't say it wins in the ol' aesthetics department. At best, it looks like a urine test gone horribly wrong... so make sure you enjoy such a libation with friends who are open-minded, as our dinner partners are tonight.

If a tree falls in your backyard and no one's around to hear it...

Bryan and I are both tree lovers. We don't just hug trees. We say nice things to them, ask advice from them, and let them guide our daily meditations. After all, the Buddha didn't become enlightened until he stuck it out under a bodhi tree for 49 days. And it wasn't from the Shrub or the Cactus of Knowledge that our Judeo Christian God forbade Adam and Eve to eat. Tress are important. Like others, I've always gained a certain peace from trees and hold them in reverence. My childhood is peppered with tree-themed memories... planting them, climbing them, picking pears and peaches from them, hanging upside down in them, falling from them. My parents even let me choose "my tree" when we were clearing the plot of land upon which we would build our ranch. I spent hours on my swing set under "my tree." My beloved cat Murfee was buried underneath it. This year, I was excited to find that Texas vanity plates now offered a delightful "Texas Trees" option alongside the bizarrely popular "Fight Terrorism" and the just plain confusing "Louisiana State Alumni Association."

So yeah, you get it. I like trees.

Which is why I'm saddened to have two wonderful trees cut down in our yard. They were old and sick and started dropping large limbs. They were a danger to our house, our fence, our neighbor's house, our neighbor's fence, and not to mention the kids and pets who play near them everyday. Though I insisted initially that this was something Bryan and I could do ourselves, Bryan pointed out that even on my most coordinated of days, climbing to the top of a tree with a chainsaw is just an ER visit waiting to happen. So we could either pay that bill or we could pay a professional several hundred dollars to do the job. We chose door number two. If you've never seen anyone cut down a tall tree, take the opportunity if you get it. It's a fascinating system of levers, pulleys, unlikely acrobatics, and large power tools dangling on wires. There's definitely an art to it, as I suppose there's an art to embalming the dead. And just in a few hours, the lanky, twisted tree that took 70 years to stretch taller than a two story building lays in tidy piles in the backyard. RIP, Sweet Tree. We hardly knew ya'.

Corn and Pablano Chowder

3 pablano peppers
2-3 cups of chicken stock
Butter
1 chopped up onion
5 cups of corn kernels
Sour cream

Put the peppers on baking sheet and broil in the oven. Turn them after the skin has gotten nice and black. Let cool, and then pull the skins off and de-seed. I heard on a show one time that, though it's tempting, one shouldn't wash the skins off in the sink. Washing them mutes the flavor. Whether this is true or not, I don't know. How would I know what the pepper would have tasted like otherwise?

Saute the onion in the butter. Add the corn, peppers, and chicken stock. Bring to a boil and then simmer until everything is tender.

Puree with an emersion blender. Serve with a big dollop of sour cream!

Sourdough Bread

Betty Crocker's Crusty Sourdough Bread for the Bread Machine

1 cup of sourdough starter
1/2 cup of warm water
3 cups of flour
2 tablespoons of sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons of salt
1 teaspoon of quick active dry yeast

Put ingredients in bread machine. Take bread out when beeper goes off.

Anarchist Homemaker's Crusty Sourdough Bread for the Bread Machine

I use the recipe above. But wait! I typically use a mix of whole wheat and unbleached white flour. The bread is denser, but who doesn't love roughage? Instead of sugar, I use turbinado or honey. Turbinado is less processed, therefore retains more nutrients. It also contains less calories, which I don't give a crap about, but it's a fun factoid nonetheless. Our sourdough starter is a bit of an heirloom, and I encourage anyone to find a good starter with some history. Not only does it taste better, but you can't help but think of its heritage as you slice a fresh loaf or enjoy a salty waffle. Ours came from Bryan's dad Bill who received a jar of starter in 1978 when he moved to Amarillo as a gift from a friend. We have honored this delicious legacy for four years now and have almost killed it several times, but those little buggers keep pluggin' away. Sometimes, they show their displeasure at our neglect by turning out a flat pancake, but even those are good... and the little dudes perk up after a nice meal of flour and milk.

Richard Packham has provided a wonderful resource for sourdough neophytes.

Yum-Ho

I wonder if my children will know who Betty Crocker was or if they'll say things like "Just call me Rachael Ray" when they've have a particularly successful day in the ol' cocina. I have nothing against Rachael Ray--I got one of my best recipes from her--except that I find her ubuiquity bizarre and unsettling. Why'd she have to become an empire? Why'd she have to have a talk show and a magazine in addition to two shows and a line of cookingware? It's only a matter of time until Yum-O is trademarked if it isn't already.

Of course, one should be reminded that Betty Crocker wasn't even a real woman. She was a brand invented by General Mills--reinvented several times as evidenced by the many incarnations of Betty. (In fact, in 1945, Fortune magazine named Betty Crocker as the second most popular woman in America behind Eleanor Rossevelt.) I guess that there's not much difference between Betty and Rachael. Rachael just happened to be alive before she became a brand.

All this said: Just call me Betty Crocker! I've been kicking some serious kitchen ass. (I shall post recipes and links in separate posts for easier searching.) The other day, Bryan and I remembered when my only cooking appliances were an electric wok and a couple of butter knives. I made everything in that wok, yet only one recipe was Asian: pad thai. Drunk macarroni and cheese graced the wok more than any other dish, and when I say drunk, that describes the cook, not the meal. I've loved being crafty my entire life, but it's only in the past year or so that I've really started working my way around the kitchen... taking risks... using real butter... having fun. Last year, Bryan and I started making our own cheese after reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Then, we started brining chicken after reading Omnivore's Dilemna. And we procured a bread machine somewhere in between. The cooking life just seemed so rich, and it certainly is what it seems. We've always been foodies, loving fine dinners out (though if one more restaurant describes their cuisine as Asian fusion or American electic, I just might give up "fine" restaurant dining entirely). We still talk lovingly of our first "expensive meal" that we enjoyed together on Bryan's 22nd birthday in Taos--a delightful place called Joseph's Table. (They catered Julia Roberts' wedding, so the rumor goes!) The restaurant closed down for a while, but another rumor says it's back. Whatever the case, it ignited a wonderful longing in us for slow, beautiful meals. Listen up, kids: they aren't just for Europeans anymore!

And I'm rambling. The point is that a commitment to good homemade food has been stewing--ba bing!--for a while. And in some ways, it's becoming second nature. I say this with full recognition that Bryan and I are blessed to be in positions where we can devote time to these kinds of things. When I was working in an office, I couldn't plan a dinner the way I can now. In the office, my short breaks consisted of chatting someone up the breakroom or running to Walgreens for tampons. Today, my breaks consisted of throwing a pablano pepper in the oven to broil and shucking a few ears of corn. By the time work was through, all of my ingredients were ready to throw in a pot for a badass fresh summer corn chowder. Hate me. It's okay. I understand. But perhaps it will make you feel better to know that the sourdough bread I was making came out too doughy in the middle.

No?

Well, maybe a few fun recipes will lift your spirits! Put on your aprons and consult your trademark lawyer 'cause we 'bout to say "Yum-O!"

QueerBomb and Kitchen Antics

Let's get started, friends! It's been a hell of a weekend!

Friday night, dear Bryan and I got to know the streets of Austin intimately by marching with Queer Bomb, "an assembly of LGBTQIA with the community who have found the current strategy and structure of Austin pride to be non-inclusive, capitalist, heteronormative, safe, and unchallenging." Whew. As our Texas marriage license suggests, Bryan and I are not gay, but we both believe strongly in gay marriage, hospital visitation rights, and just basic equality. Seems like a no-brainer to us. Our friend Michael invited us to the event, and we went to lend to our voices to the cause. And he and several hundred others were letting their freak flag fly. Your average QueerBomber might be sporting a simple diva wig, a strap-on, or just their God-given boobs. (Evidently, it is not illegal for women to be bare-breasted in Austin.) I'll be honest. I felt uncomfortable at times, but this was my own doing. While I supported whole heartedly Queer Bomb's message of balls out inclusivity, I felt that I stuck out like a sore thumb in my contrasting squareness, and that my somewhat preppy straightness might be symbolic of the culture against which they were rebelling. But that wasn't the case at all. I was welcomed happily as a supporter, and I was proud to support. Plus, I got a lot of education, starting with the alphabet soup that is LGBTQIA. The QIA is a new addition for me: Q standing for Queer or Questioning, I standing for Intersex, and A standing for Asexual or Ally. Ally. That's me! Many thanks to QueerBomb for spreading a message of love and inclusion.

I've spent a lot of time in the kitchen this weekend, friends. For dinner Saturday, we enjoyed summer squash casserole, buffalo sliders on fresh biscuits with rosemary and caramelized onions, and for dessert, cupcake-sized blueberry pies. Then, for dinner tonight, turkey-stuffed cabbage rolls. If you're like Bryan, you may not have been salivating at the phrase "cabbage roll," but honey, you should be. They turned out divine. As part of my revolution, I've turned into an aspiring Iron Chef. Since moving to Austin, we have become members of Farmhouse Delivery, a delivery service that brings us local, farm fresh veggies, fruit, and meat every other week. It's a great way to support local farms and try out foods I wouldn't normally buy... such as cabbage. The Farmhouse Delivery offerings are pre-set, so it's up to me to make sure nothing goes to waste (like summer squash). And if I'm lucky, transform the mystery ingredients into a non-gag-worthy dish (like summer squash casserole). Sadly, a lot has gone to waste, but it's a learning process. So far I've learned that if you don't know what to do with it, put it in chicken soup. Everything tastes good after soaking in salt and stock. But probably not cabbage, thus the rolls... stuffed with poultry... so I suppose this advice holds to some extent. Now if I could only figure out how to enjoy beets. Evidently, Austin is home to a couple thousand beet farmers as they consistently plague our otherwise tasty basket of offerings. To borrow from Stewie Griffin's jihad on broccoli, "The answer is simple: the beets must die."

Tomorrow:
Basil: It's what's for dinner! and Chefery: Putting your ADD to work

Welcome back.

I started this blog in December with very specific ideas about how to create a better life for Bryan and me, to suck out the marrow if you will. Then, within a few weeks, we entered what has been the darkest period of our lives so far. And just how our world was shaken in an instant in mid-February, it has now become happy and hopeful again... and all in one little weekend. (Coincidentally, or not so much, Mercury came out of retrograde this week.) We finely dined. We drank coffee and stayed up too late. Bryan studied. I did house work and cooked. Oh, how I cooked. We got massages. We went to a few bars, danced to bad hip-hop, and stayed out past 2:00. And, fair reader, I did a little shopping. I bought funky sandals and yoga wear. Gasp. My aspirations to revolutionize the way we live are certainly in tact. However, I vote to break the rules in the name of self-preservation. Rules are for certain times and places. And in 2010—the wretched year that it has been so far—is not the time and place. I officially declare it the year of "if it feels good, do it." Now, this is not a motto rife with irresponsibility. Overconsumption does not feel good. Staying up every night past 2:00 does not feel good. But feeling spontaneous and playful does. We need that now. In the immortal words of Sinead O'Connor, "Girl, you better have fun no matter what you do." That's the plan.

So I'm not sure how this blog will evolve. Blogs need a focus, and I don't have that right now. I guess I'll just keep writing and let the focus find me. Besides, isn't focus just another rule?

Getting Back to It

February was a horrid month, a fact which will hopefully serve as an adequate excuse for not writing you, dear reader. My father-in-law died tragically, and the past few weeks, my little world has been crushed. There's nothing profound to say about it. Though as I write that, I think of what my friend Jon said to me when he asked how we'd been doing. I told him how much love we felt around us, and he said, "Well, if that's what's there, that's what will come out."

I doubt I'll really be able to write about his death for a while. I've found comfort in talking about it, but putting words to screen in an attempt to tease any sort of meaning out of the tragedy seems to be a futile exercise at this point.

But some observations:

• Our detailed plans seem silly now. We've tried for years to plan our lives to the month, and I've stressed over it more than I care to think. When you have trouble catching your next breath, you are forced to live in the now. Perhaps Eckhart Tolle should have suggested asphyxiation.
• I went shopping the other day, granting myself a free day from anti-consumerism since we are, in fact, in a mourning period and the JCrew spring collection is like sartorial ganja to me. I couldn't have cared less. And not in this depressing way: "Oh nothing matters... not even pima cotton can make me face this wicked world." It just seemed boring. Amongst a tornado of gingham and raw silk, I just really wanted to read and pet my cat. (Does it count as a stance if you don't even want to do the act against which you're rebelling?)
• Pets are seriously the best thing ever. Seriously. On a RadioLab podcast, I learned of a theory that a certain parasite propagates itself by making cats extremely attractive to humans (gross oversimplification, dear science nerd readers). My infection might be fatal. My dog might be hosting a colony as well. Whatever the case, my furry men are the best little dudes to have around when you're grieving. They know when to distract, and they know when to say nothing and just be. Cathy always said that her funeral would be "pets welcome," and that's possibly the best damn idea I've ever heard.

And another breath...

Axis IV: Educational problems, occupational stress

It's been almost two weeks since my last post.

I'm studying for my comprehensive departmental exam for professional counseling. Two to three years of material in a neat and tidy 200 item multiple choice exam.

So there's not much time to post right now, but I sense that I'm nearing mastery as everything around me seems to relate to some concept I'm attempting to retrieve from a class two years ago.

That asshole on 635? Explosive Disorder. In the multi-axial system, an Axis I.

"Hate It Here" by Wilco. Classic sublimation. Poor guy channeling his socially unacceptable depressive state into the socially acceptable task of cleaning.

The test is next Wednesday. In the meantime, knitting is on hold, though I have finished a scarf and am 90% done with a kickin' hat for Bryan. We've been overall successful at non-consumerism. We've had to buy a few things that might be considered cheating, but does it count as cheating if it's nothing fun? Proper pipe insulation is not something I've lusted after for a while. (A couple of towels with a yoga mat taped around them was ruled insufficient by Bryan.)

So that's where the homemaker is right now. I'm more at the mercy of the anarchy than the maker of it.

Classic denial.

A Bizarrely Happy Wreck

It's here! And it's been awesome! I'm 30 today!

It seems that too often people feel amazing outpourings of love during life's tragic events, but what luck!... everybody has been so kind and loving and giving... and nobody even had to die! Never have I felt so supported and nurtured by those in my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Out of pure inspiration and hope and raw girly emotion, I've cried no less than five times today:

1. While watching The Cosby Show episode in which Rudy (still little and cute) and her chubby friend Peter break Cliff's juicer. I lost it when Claire told Rudy how much she loves seeing Rudy's face across the dinner table each day. Yeah... I know... what the hell?
2. And while watching the following Cosby Show episode about Cliff's parents' 49th wedding anniversary - You know the one. They commission a painting for the grandparents of when they were young. The family puts on the adorable lip-sync performance. The episode closes with the sob-worthy quote by Cliff, "You know, the 22 years I've been married to you have been the happiest one-day-at-a-time of my life." (Smooch, Bryan.)
   
3. When getting in the car to go to the gym and Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" was playing. In high school, whenever I felt sad or stuck, I'd drive around and blare this song. ("I'm an American girl! I ride horses!")
   
4. When getting out of the sauna at the gym, only to be greeted by, like, the most soul-wrenching birthday song ever: "What's Up?" by Four Non-Blondes. ("I'm totally still trying to 'get up that great big hill of hope'!")
5. When unwrapping my present from Cathy tonight to find ANARCHIST HOMEMAKER coffee mugs! (Super shout-out to Cathy, Tim J, and his amazingly talented girlfriend for ensuring that I'll always be inspired to raise hell... even during a relaxing cup of Joe.) They're the coolest things ever! And they hold a lot of appreciative tears!

Another list for the ol' 3-0 (ol' heave ho, ol' Steve O...) Today, it occurred to me that there are a few things I've changed my mind about over the years, things I once spoke adamantly about, and now I know I'm just plain wrong.

1. In high school civics, my little H-dub-lovin' self would rally against affirmative action. "Special treatment!" I'd croon over my politically-listless classmates. "Don't take special treatment! I would never want a job just because I'm a woman!" Now that I've been working for a good 12 years now, I see that, alas, I was wrong. I want a job because I'm cute.
2. Saunas are not bacterial mating grounds soothing only to those who can't work up a sweat on their own. I really don't know what to say here. I was young, I was stupid, and I could evidently sweat at the drop of a hat. There are few things that give me more pleasure than those slick stone benches and the dusty smell of Dallas water steam.
   
3. "Smooth" by Rob Thomas and Santana is actually a pretty enjoyable song. Yeah, I don't know. It just is.

Maybe when I'm 60, I'll have changed my mind about Uggs being stupid and Designing Women being awesome. But then who will I be if I don't have that?

Impatience and Positivity

"When you embrace Lady Liberty, life becomes easier, cheaper, and much more fun," so says Tom H. in Freedom Manifesto. The path to liberation in 2010 has not been so easy so far. It's not because our abstinence from the world of consumption has been difficult. Other than momentarily coveting my friend Allison's new slouchy brown boots, I've not really cared about purchasing new things. But for whatever reason unplugging hasn't happened fast enough for my taste.

For example, I come home from a lovely dinner this evening to find a sopping wet phone book on my door step. While I appreciate any good litigation lawyer's attempt to woo me with his floppy oversized telephone book cover while I'm trying to find a decent dentist, I resent having to peel the gooey plastic off the book, wait for it to dry, then put it in the recycling bin. This is a dumb rant, I recognize, and Lord knows I don't want this to become a ranting blog ("And what's the deal with phone books?!) but it's an example of the minutiae from which I'm trying to unplug. Is it even possible to do so? Well, one step at a time. I just went to http://www.yellowpagesgoesgreen.org and requested that I never receive telephone books again. Hooray, I saved a tree! Now you go save one too! Stick it to those jerkwads who name their beautiful businesses things like AAA Cheesemaking and Aardvark Framers just to secure a front page seat!

But as I was saying, not consuming has been pretty easy. (I've started getting whiffs of early spring trends, and there's not a piece I've seen so far that can't be snuffed out with a vintage-inspired cotton fabric and a Vogue pattern. Suck it, Ann Taylor!) Just gotta snip each tiny tether one by one.

On the eve of my last week as a 29 year old

It's likely that my loyal followers have placed bets on my first drunk blog. Well, it's your lucky day, those of you who put money on January 19 between 11 and 11:30 pm. Booya!

This long weekend was one of those weekends littered with annoying problems/life issues that only get more annoying when you realize that you're wasting time being annoyed with stupid shit when people in Haiti don't know where their next meal is coming from. That kind of annoying. What the fuck do I have to be worried about?

Well, I'm gonna say nothing. At 11:19PM January 19, I've got a whole lot of nothing to be concerned about. I'm perfectly inebriated after a delightful night with one of my BFFs. I've got my kitty cat. Seinfeld is on. I just talked to my husband, and let's face it, he's the coolest fucking guy on the planet. Man, he's cool. Today's my mom's birthday, and she's witty and smart and beautiful. Bottom line: I've got a ton to be thankful for.

When Bryan and I get down and grumpy, as we were for part of the time this weekend for various bullshit reasons, I make us list out things we're thankful for. Our pets always make the list. Our home. Each other. Lately, knitting has been a big one for me. Acupuncture for Bryan. And how cool is that?

As I approach thirty, which I've done with a lot of anxiety admittedly, I think about what a teenage me would have said about the 30-year-0ld me. I think in some ways she would have disappointed. Disappointed that I wasn't a big actress or an accomplished novelist, but let's face it: though teenage Heather rocked in her own teenage ways, she was fucking stupid in a lot of ways. She was great at taking long walks and making time for friends, but she worried a lot, and she didn't get the beauty of the moment, and dare I say, a stitch in time. Ha! (More later on the Tao of Knitting...) And that's what I'm focusing on now. I'm better at understanding the beauty of the moment, though maybe I can't always savor it. Shit. Is it possible that I'm as happy as I aspired to be back then?

Totally, dude.

Knitting

With my renewed commitment to sustainability came an interest in knitting. I've always been crafty but had no good reason or motivation to put any of my skills to use. However, a year or so a go, a woman in my Sunday School class casually mentioned a politically liberal knitting blog that she follows. Now it's not that I assumed that knitters didn't have political opinions, but the idea of a progressive knitting subculture wasn't something I'd considered before. But oh how it delicious it sounded. Chirping about health care reform while whipping out a little JCrew (sans sweatshop)- inspired number? Well, I was reminded of the classic Seinfeld episode where George aspires to eat and have sex at the same time.

So I just got back from my second lesson with the aforementioned woman. Her name is Lucy. She rocks. She's one of the smartest, most articulate people you'll ever meet. And turns out she's one hell of a knitter. And one hell of a teacher.

We had our first lesson right before Christmas, which provided me with enough instruction to experiment with a scarf. She also suggested a few books, but I settled on Stitch n' Bitch, a hipster knitting instruction manual by the founder of Bust magazine. (For those who don't know, Bust is a third-wave feminist magazine. It's an important periodical, but I've never been able to get into its vibe. Philosophically, I identify more with second-wave feminists, but that's a different posting.) It's a great book, though I'd recommend using the book along with a great teacher.

So! If I was in knitting school, my report card would show that I have demonstrated competency in the following areas:

• casting on
• knit stitch
• perl stitch
• frogging
• tinking
• garter stitch
• stockinette stitch

Tonight I learned:

• rib stitch
• increasing (yarn over, bar increase, and make one)
• decreasing (k2tog, ssk, and skp)
• I-cord

Let's hope my next report card is as positive. I'm giddy.

Too Much

Today's one of those days where I'm completely overwhelmed by the minutiae of life. The details are getting to me, better known as the "small stuff" we've been commanded not to "sweat." Currently, I'm sweating the broken pipe outside my house. It froze and burst last week when I was out of town, and according to the City of Dallas, 15 gallons of water per minute spewed out of our poor neglected PVC. All I could think of was a harrowing documentary called Flow that Bryan and I watched last year. Flow focuses on the world water crisis and shows scene after scene of impoverished villagers scrambling for a few drops of water out of a rusty communal pump. Meanwhile, I feel incredibly inconvenienced having to wait on the plumber who is two hours late. And guilty for sweating over two extra hours. And guilty for wasting enough water to quench hundreds of mouths.

But perhaps Bryan's right when he justifies our accidental waste: our homemade geyser fed the hydrosphere.