Weekend At Bearnaise

Local Goodness, Baked Until Bubbly

The farmer's markets around here have been slowly coming alive, and the one that I'm probably most excited about is a small strawberry farm around the corner from our house, no more than a minute or two away by bike. We've been closely monitoring the plants and we knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd be selling the bright red fruit. And a few days ago, they finally did. Except it was harder to get them than we thought; the place opens up at 1 pm and if you get there at 20 minutes after you might be S.O.L. We figured, after we missed them for two days straight, that they must be something special. So the following day, Bryan was there at five minutes before 1 and we were finally rewarded. Five bucks buys you a quart of berries - and when I tell you they're probably the best strawberries I've ever eaten I'm not exaggerating. Most of them in our container were probably no bigger than a quarter - many no bigger than a penny - and they exploded with flavor. We stood in the kitchen, popping them like candy and staring at each other, wide-eyed. So THIS is what a strawberry tastes like! Nothing against the good folks at Driscolls, but these berries do not even closely resemble those slightly dry, hollow pieces of fruit that tend to have too many seeds. N, I'm going to convert you, I swear!

As it turns out, this farm also sells rhubarb, and we couldn't resist. Who could? These were gorgeous stalks, green tipped and deepening in color to a vibrant magenta. And everyone knows that strawberry and rhubarb are meant to be together anyways. And so it's with this in mind that I made that most classic of combinations, the strawberry-rhubarb crumble. I've probably watched my mom make crumble of the apple kind about 5,000 times over the course of my life (and I have been commissioned to make it during Thanksgiving several times), so I decided to try my hand at it with our ruby-red fruit. I winged it a bit and added a few rolled oats to my crumble, but the result was well worth the 45 minutes of hand-wringing and stooping in front of the oven to make sure the thing wasn't dripping molten liquid all over my oven floor.

Is there anything better than stewed fruit covered in a luscious topping principally made of butter and sugar? If there is, I don't wanna know about it.

If you want to give it a try:
Oven at 375
1 quart of berries, cut in half if too big, and about 1 lb of rhubarb, chopped
3/4 cup flour
1 stick of very cold butter, cut into smallish cubes
3/4 cup sugar, plus 1/2 cup extra for fruit
1/2 cup rolled oats
Pinch salt

* Put your flour, salt, oats and 3/4 cup sugar into the bowl of your food processor and pulse a couple of times to get things mixed. Add your butter and pulse until clumps begin to form pea-sized pieces. If you don't want to drag out the machinery, rub the butter into your flour mixture with your fingers until you get your butter-peas.
* Put your cut fruit into a large oval baking dish (I used ceramic, but glass works ok if that's what you've got) and toss with the remaining 1/2 cup sugar.
* Sprinkle crumble mix over the top of this, and press slightly onto fruit to help it adhere. Bake about 45 minutes or until it looks brown, bubbly and done to your liking.
* Weep with joy as you try not to burn the top layer of skin off the roof of your mouth as you taste.

And the Living is Easy

Ahh, summer. I don't want to jinx anything, but the weather in western New York has been ridiculous the past few days, people. Low- to mid-80s and sunny, without a cloud in the sky, save for a smear of white on the horizon every now and then. Needless to say, Bryan and I have been enjoying it -- with lots of white wine from the winery across the street and hours spent on our front porch, rocking idly and listening to the birds chirp.

One of our most recent awesome discoveries has been a park maybe three minutes from our house and right on the lake. Filled with giant oaks, evergreens and blanketed with soft green grass, this place is the definition of serenity. Late in the afternoon, it's the perfect place to watch the sailboats glide by and the sun dip into the water, the sky ablaze with color.

Endings and Beginnings

Even though I played the scenario out in my mind's eye dozens of times over the past several years, I have to admit that it still felt like a swift punch to the stomach when Bryan and I realized last week, with shocking clarity, that Little Alex was really and truly nearing the end of his life. It's like a switch flipped; one day he was his crotchety old self, walking around the house, barking at us as we walked by his bed, begging for food -- and the next? Struggling to breathe, unwilling or unable to get up from his bed, losing interest in the doggie treats he's eaten with gusto for the past 20 years. 20 years! A literal millennia in dog years, and yet, Alex lived it. He was so old that I cannot remember a time when he wasn't a part of my life -- except now, of course. It's hard to reconcile, but somehow Alex slipped away from us last week, almost when we weren't even looking.
You know, I spent a lot of time over the past few years complaining -- ok, outright bitching -- about how much of a pain the dog had become. But, just like anything else, you never know what you have until it's gone. And when I think of his fuzzy little face, the click of his nails on the hardwood floor in our apartment in Queens signaling his approach around the hall corner, him tearing around the house on Como Avenue, I get a pang so strong it threatens to take my breath away.
So I hope, little dude, that wherever you are, you're young again, and able to run around on strong legs. I hope whatever pain you felt toward the end -- and which you tried so hard to hide from us -- is a fading memory. But most of all I hope you know that we loved you. Thanks for showing us just how strong a little doggie can be -- and for the rewards that come with caring for something so completely dependent on you until the very end. You taught us a lot, and the lessons will be hard to forget.

You know, endings are always hard, but you know what they say: one door closes and another opens up, wider than the last one you slipped through. Even though little Alex is gone, we've got so much around here to occupy our attention. And it's true that his memory is already becoming a bronzed, fuzzy-edged picture in my mind's eye. I can tell that the sharp jabs of pain will be softening in the days to come.
So! Lettuce! We have baby greens. I think in about another two weeks or so we'll be able to pluck enough tender leaves to make a proper salad. The radishes aren't too far behind, but when we'll see the zucchini, cucumber, green onions or bell peppers is anyone's guess. Of course, I'm assuming that the chipmunk I've seen casing our vegetable garden won't totally devastate the baby plants.

Here are a couple gratuitous flower pics to brighten what is an otherwise depressing-ass post. My pansy pot is going crazy right now, that's for sure. Below that is a shot of the "Cosmos" that I planted around the large rocks at the base of our driveway. And I'll be damned if I know what that last flower is, but I know that it's an annual and I know it's doing pretty well in my little garden!

Cherry Tree

Not a Beaver, But a Woodchuck

So says our neighbor's son from across the street. This dude is living in the shed - which by the way is the original structure from 1879 - and popped his head out from a hole in the floor when Bryan went in to check things out. We think it's what's been leaving piles of walnut shells all over the place, but we're not sure.

Fun Fun Fun....

Til Bryan takes her John Deere away.

Our flying friends

The redwinged blackbird is one of our many new flying friends we have met here at the farm. Its song is no joko loud and quite frequent. The funny thing is that when time came for us to pick a plush toy bird that plays the real song for my little cousin, we chose the redwinged blackbird because it reminded us of Johanna's god given voice. Can you hear the similarity? Click here to see if you can.

Definitely Not a Beaver

People, I've been boldly claiming for a while now that we do indeed have a beaver inhabiting our creek. My mother's all "You better call the Beaver Department and have them come get that beaver. Beavers will dam up your creek and then your land is going to flood. Beavers. Are. No. Good." But today after taking it to the web, I've got some bad news: It's a muskrat, which looks alarmingly like that creature up above. Bryan's been trying to get a picture of this thing for the better part of a week, but you get the idea.

Why the hell I ever thought that thing could be a beaver is beyond me! Christ.

29 Going On 65

Check out the orange kitchen wall (the color is actually called "baked squah," but when you're near the wall it's almost like being inside a giant creamsicle). We painted all the trim and the doorframes and the wainscoting bright white, but now we think we've got to tone down the orange a little bit. So we're going to re-do some of the white with "butter cookie."

Propane! This stove runs HOT I tell ya.

In other news, in an inexplicable turn of events, today Bryan and I found ourselves at a restaurant. A restaurant, of all places!! AND. We were there specifically to partake in the $12.95 early bird dinner special. Soup, salad, entree (choice of potato, butter and sour cream included), dessert and coffee. Due to our 5:15 arrival, our entrees were at the table by, oh, I don't know...5:45? I've never seen so many canes in one room in my life. But the coconut cream pie was delightful!

Little Pink Houses

Even though we live way out in the middle of nowhere with only a few houses on our street, the fact that this is a small, small town is becoming more and more apparent every day. To wit: Last Friday we had to drive to the local post office so I could send the federal government my life savings. In the parking lot is the car belonging to our neighbor from across the street. Sure enough, we get inside -- on line behind her -- and chat for a few minutes. "What a coincidence," Bryan and I muse on the way home. "Tra la la, how cute -- running into a NEIGHBOR at the POST office. Let's go frolic in our pasture and look at the duckies in the crick." Who cares, you're undoubtedly thinking right now. Neighbors EXIST. But wait, it gets way smaller -- or weirder, however you want to look at it.

On Saturday, we go into "town" for some odds and ends at the hardware store. Next door to where we get some caulk is a cute little antique shop. A woman in there is buying a table (we bought a cool old chair for 24 bucks). She starts talking to us and asking us where we live. People, when someone in the country asks where you live, they don't mean the county, the town or even the general vicinity. They mean your flipping ADDRESS.
Me: "Oh, we just bought a house in *."
Antique Shop Lady: "In *, huh? Whereabouts?"
Me: "Um....between * and *."
ASL: "Yeah but what street is that?"
Me: "Um....Old Coomer."
ASL: "Yeah, but what house is that?"
Me: "The yellow one about halfway down the block."
ASL: "Oh, how cute."
Me: "......"
ASL: "You know, my husband's a plumber, so if you ever need one, here's our card."
Me (silently shocked): "Your husband fixed our toilet last week!"

Yep, that's right, we ran into our plumber's wife at the antique store. But the next part's the best.
ASL: "You know, I've always loved that area. Next time I'm down that way -- we live in Ransomville dontcha know -- I'll just stop by. I'd love to get a peek at the inside."
Me (puzzled and frightened): "How....nice!"
ASL: "See ya soon!"

Then YESTERDAY at the coffee shop that has the only Internet signal for miles around, this woman starts talking to me. Turns out she's the owner. Our conversation was very much the same as with ASL.
Coffee Shop Lady: "You just moved here? To where?"
Me (giving in): "In * on *."
CSL: "Oh yeah? My husband's sister owns a vineyard there and is opening a winery this spring."
Me (shocked): "You mean Ann? Yep, they live across the street from us."
CSL: "Well then you're practically family! I'm sure I'll see you around sometime!"
Me: "Teriffc!"

The weird thing about the city is that you're one among millions, and even though you're surrounded by people, you only interact with those you know for the most part. The weird thing about the country is you're one among only dozens. And whether Bryan and I like it or not, everyone and their mother in law now knows that we moved to a house in * on * -- and that our toilet broke on the first day we moved in. I get the distinct feeling that we're being watched.