alanaclaire

We are, most of us in this country, I assume, doing some some sort of celebration today. Whether it is an excuse to drink beer early in the day or an occasion of deeper meaning, July 4 is upon us. I’ve got to admit that I like this one quite a bit- I always have. While the present challenges me, our nation’s history entrances me, and the patriotism around the fourth is one that I can certainly get behind.

That, and the picnics.

So in the spirit of independence (fancy liquor made at home!), and of picnics, let’s talk about elderflower vodka, the base of a most luxurious and resourceful afternoon party drink.

I sort of wish I could have fries every day.

My husband mourns my infrequent cooking of potatoes on a regular basis… “more potatoes!” he cries.

Yeah, I don’t feel so bad for him. He eats pretty well for a guy who was raised on taco bell with a side of pizza. When we met, I cooked a lot of tofu, and now I don’t. Now I have a half a pig and a whole lamb in my freezer. I’m open to input, especially when it keeps the marriage smooth (er).

I’m not going to try to hide this from you. To freeze spinach is to take a whole lot and to make it into just a tiny bit. But that tiny bit? Fabulous.

The other day, I ripped out a whole bed of spinach. It was a lot of spinach, and I froze it all, and the whole process from first pick to last sweep in the kitchen took me all of two and a half hours. There were several necessary tasks that I was avoiding at the time, and all the while, I insisted to myself that the world would stand still for my spinach processing – that this was the most important thing I could possibly be doing with my afternoon. Squirreling away greens for my family that I would pull out in the dead of winter? Nothing could trump that one. When I finally emerged with dirt on my face and spinach roots in my hair, I had exactly 3 half-pound bags of spinach to stack in my freezer.

Yup, I’d be shying away from the obvious if I didn’t admit that I was a bit looney to engage in the process at all.

After all this waiting, they’re finally here.

Last year there was barely a strawberry season to speak of. Remember the summer of cold and rain? The blight that would never dry out? Although I secretly love a cold summer so that I can keep wearing jeans and drinking hot coffee, I had enough mushy, moldy crops last summer to last me a lifetime (I guess none would be enough moldy, mushy crops, but you know what I mean, right?). Anyway, this summer, I’m ready for the heat. Two strawberry-less summers would be too much for me to bear.

As consolation for last summer, the strawberries around here are coming to their red perfection a full two weeks early. And man oh man are they here.

Ah, Memorial Day weekend. Starter pistol to the summer. Up here in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, Memorial day marks the beginning of traffic, and hour long waits for the pizza place, and a dazzling schedule of thrilling cultural events to which I am either too busy or too poor to attend. A few years [...]

Oh, boy. It’s been quite a week. I could add in a couple of expletives, but I’m still on good behavior.

On election day, in between sign holding and pacing around the house and making everyone dinner so that we wouldn’t forget to eat, I sat down for a minute with my mother and brought up that topic that seems to be revisited quite a bit these days.

“Am I totally insane?”

I have been thinking about this cake all week.

After my dinner party on Saturday, I kept finding treats in the fridge. My co-chef Jen had filled her car with produce from her farm, and a few bundles of this or that found their way into my crisper drawer. There was the most beautiful bunch of rhubarb, and on Sunday morning, as I peaked into the fridge in a bleary “stayed up till two cleaning up and drinking wine after I spent the morning going door to to door for my campaign” sort of state, I saw that rhubarb and I said,

“Screw it all. I’m going to make rhubarb cake.”

I will be entirely honest with you. In this week before the local election in my little town, I am so happy to close my mouth for a few minutes and to write in silence. My voice is needing a break. I have been spending these days answering question after question. In a small town like this one, after your face is on the front of the local paper, the sidewalk is full of questions. The little market where I go to find my harder-to-find ingredients is full of questions. The liquor store where I stop to get my husband some beer as an appreciation for practically single parenting lately- more questions.

Really, I am happy for the questions. I want to talk to people, and mostly I want to ask them questions of my own. I want to know what they think about what is going on around here.

Sometimes I feel like a real hypocrite.

I make the craziest things. I get excited about making things like cheese and puff pastry, and I feel so proud that I can stick to the raw material aisles at the store. I bypass all those bags and boxes of processed things with my head held high.

Most of the time.

It turns out, that when it comes to my liberation from expensive little packages of food that make my life run smoothly, I have a nemesis out there.

I’m talking about the car snack.

The last few weeks have been a little bit exciting around here. It all began with a run in with a few particularly persuasive friends of mine.

“There are two open seats on the selectboard! We need someone young in there who’s thinking about families in this community. Run Run Run!”

And although perhaps I should have run in the opposite direction, I didn’t. The thought of participation as the ultimate activism hooked me in, and before I knew it, my name was on the ballot at the caucus.

There are four people running for two seats. It’s me and a bunch of old men. And all of the sudden, I’m a politician.

I’m learning a lot. And if I live through the next two weeks before the election (you wouldn’t think a small town election would be so intense, but let me tell you!), and then I actually get elected, I’m feeling like I think I could serve this little town well.

I’ve been talking to a lot of people. Every day. And sometimes I end the day feeling so optimistic, and sometimes, well…, on those nights, only the garden can save me. I’ve been out there when I should be doing other things- I just can’t seem to come back in. Finally when it is so dark that I cannot see my little weeding tool in my hand, I come inside.