tall clover farm

Our Queen for the day, make that everyday

The day was as sunny as our birthday girl. 

If I told you Le Ida was twice my age at 102, I’d venture to guess you’d wager heavily against my shared truth. While my dear friend does not look a day over eighty, it’s my presence in the mathematical equation that becomes easy fodder for quick reproach.  “So if she’s twice your age, wouldn’t that make her 122?”  (There’s one in every crowd.)

Last Sunday, we gathered at my house to cheer Le Ida’s big 1-0-2. I fashioned a crown, throne and scepter as we planned to royally celebrate. Ever the good sport, she posed for photos in her regal togs. I said, “You look smashing.” She offered her own list of adjectives.

Tom as Grill Master…imparting a smokey aftertaste…cough…hack

And how lucky for me that her favorite people are my favorite people–all with cooking skills that can transform a simple potluck supper into an epicurean feast. We laughed and dined under the trees, and embraced a woman who embraces life. What is Granny’s secret?  If gifts were any indication, one would assume tequila and chocolate. For me, I think it’s her plucky nature and keen sense of humor, for loving to fish when the halibut weigh more than she does, for growing the best tomatoes and raspberries around, for sharing almost all of the ingredients to her enchilada and Beef Stroganoff recipes, for sitting across from people at a dinner table (whether on Vashon, in Seattle or Montana) who love her.  

Secrets to a long life: tequila, chocolate and red wine

Now that I think of it, the day was almost as sunny as our birthday girl.  Happy Birthday, Granny.

Boz was not very happy about his earlier seating assignment.

Black locust trees anchor my house. They are a much a part of its history as the wavy glass windows and half-wrap porch. Even in a photo taken in 1900, they were relatively large trees.  Where three once stood, there are now two. A large weathered stump tells the tale of a sapling’s fate—its robust nature ill-suited for a spot so close to the house.

When I moved into the house five Mays ago, I was surprised to see the locust trees bare, massive limbs exposed and skeletal while the surrounding trees were drenched in spring green. Weeks later, they made a late entrance that was well worth the wait, unfurling lacey leaves positioned below racemes seemingly stolen from the wisteria. Their fragrant white petals rode the wind when spent–a flurry that lasted for weeks and a scene too dreamy for me to grouse about clogged gutters.

At the peak of bloom, and at sun’s first light, the tree began to hum, like a pulsing current of energy.  It took a while for me to understand what I was hearing and where it was coming from. (Heavy-breathing bulldogs tend to drowned out decibel levels just shy of an operating jet engine or stone crusher.) Walking toward the din of activity, I discovered that every bee on the island–bumble, honey or otherwise–was scurrying for position at this inviting nectar bar.  Locust trees must possess the most delicious nectar around because the bees were focused, frantic and loud, uninterested in anything other than what was before them (much like me at a Sunday brunch).

I’d have to say my other favorite, the madrona tree, belongs to fall and winter. When the days are short and the light fleeting, the tree commands your attention. But when the sun is high, the breeze cooling and the daylight without end, there is no finer place to reflect the day (or place a hammock) than beneath the furrowed  branches of the black locust tree, especially if a kind soul planted a few for you 120 years ago.

Related links: Robinia pseudoacacia, a time to plant – and a time to wait

One down, five to find. Judging by its contents, some creepy crawlers take their coffee with cream and sugar, too.

I like old coffee cups, the chubby ceramic kind well suited for a beverage called Joe. When daylight and I are on the same schedule, I usually take a brief stroll, coffee cup in hand as I remind Boz and Gracie that there is a purpose to this abbreviated walk. I’ve yet to find a word (and there are quite a few available) that connects my voice with their brain and elicits the intended response. Good thing they’re cute.

So today when my cupboard was bare of coffee cups, I had an inkling of where to look: down the lane on any number of old cedar fence posts–each a perfect coffee table and place to plead one’s case that sniffing is not the only thing on the morning agenda.

Fresh-from-the-garden shares a plate with grilled-perfection

Happy Father’s Day, Dad

Here’s to the Dad who relinquished his grill to a second grader, to the man who trusted the family’s ribeyes to a boy. As a mentor, he kept it simple: salt, pepper, then throw the meat on the hibachi, a very hot hibachi. Coals weren’t ready until all white and the key to a good steak was searing the outside. As for the inside, you knew it was ready when the juice just reached the surface. Here’s to the Dad who never relegated his kids to hot dogs, unless he (and my mother) found it on the menu as well.

From the art of grilling to mastering the marinade, to finessing the flank steak and surmounting the smoker, I’ve come a long way on the barbeque path. The only thing different is I like my steak is rare, a state of being handily shared by this grill master’s father.

For ribs, a few briquets to start, then it’s cherry wood all the way

Summer returns to Vashon; the Olympic Mountains sign off for the day

I began my day in a sweater (cotton) and my day ended in a sweater (wool), a fitting and not unlikely costume change for the first day of summer in the Pacific Northwest. The varying degrees of chill here require you to choose your fibers wisely. And, I can report that by noon I was resplendent in my weekend uniform: a v-neck tee and shorts (clean t-shirt I might add).

Solstice goes pretty pagan here on the island though I’m not sure if pagans had potlucks and pinot noir. I spent my evening with friends on the north end of the island. It’s high-bluff geography jutting out into the middle of Puget Sound like the bow of a boat—a vantage point that challenges the wind and affords its guests and residents an unequaled view of Colvos Passage and the Olympic Mountains to the west.

I often think of this range as the world’s largest sundial. Its southern flanks host and hide the sun during the long dark winter months. Then beginning in spring, the sun is shepherded across the entire ridgeline of the range, marking the culmination of summer at its northernmost reach. It’s a moment when most islanders slip into a state of denial. For the longest day and farthest reach signal a return path to opposite extremes. Inevitably, we recognize that the sun—like most island commuters—is not immune to the reality of a roundtrip.

The evening culminated with a rousing two-minute display of fireworks, crackling bon fire and chorus of kind voices trying to recall the words to many fine campfire songs. It was fitting tribute to Solstice, and on the drive home, I enjoyed an extended warmth not provided by sweater, bon fire, or reluctant truck heater. Welcome summer

Leaving the island, a no less fiery display

 Pink oriental poppies capturing the first light of day

I get up at the crack o’thirty to begin my commute into civilization from the island, an odyssey that cross-utilizes every form of transportation known to man (at least in King County): my beater truck (the shortest leg of the trip), a Metro bus, a Washington State Ferry, and a county vanpool. In the darkness of winter it really can seem like a journey to the River Styx , but in summer, um, um summer, it is a magic show of haunting beauty and changing light. 

So this morning, on my way to said vehicles and long commute, I was halted by a particularly arresting play of light as the sun broke. Pretty to me is like shiny to a crow.  Did I have time to: (1) run back into the house to grab my camera; (2) remind B&G I had only been gone for 12 seconds while reassuring them that indeed I would return; (3) bribe them with a biscuit; (4) lock up again; (5) capture the moment with my Canon ELPH; and (6) still the make the bus, my key domino in the adventure that is my daily commute. As you can see, I did; but that is only thanks to Alexis, the best (and sweetest) bus driver in the world who kindly keeps an eye out for any frazzled commuters in beater gray trucks.   

 And this time of year, the sun is obliged to follow me home.

(Fringetree: Chioanthus Virginicus  in foreground)

What I was blogging about a year ago: Too Much Rhubarb Means Too Much Good Jam

 Boz and Gracie lounging al fresco among the carnage

I must have been drugged or under the control of space aliens to have allowed one particular oversized sofa a resting place in my home.  Secured at our island thrift shop Granny’s Attic, the sofa was as comfortable as it was ugly, an olive drab mastodon that some happy family on the island was cart wheeling over to have unloaded. My supposition is they lived closer to Granny’s Attic than the dump.

On the plus side, it could support one man, two dogs, a smattering of newspapers and magazines, and the occasional brave guest unfazed by dog hair and dust. (I must be good company.) With a little creative draping of a Hudson Bay blanket here, a Pendleton duvet there, the sofa’s makeover was complete.  It’s 80’s faux Bauhaus roots hidden; it’s barge-like silhouette not.

Yep, Tom’s “media” room was open for business. The run was short. Unfortunately Boz and Gracie preferred the sofa’s ultra suede undercarriage to my stylish wool cloaking devices, quickly laying claim to it as their favorite all-day sleeping casbah.

Cushions on the porch? Gracie begins to suspect something is up.

Four years (and a myriad of sofa covers) later, I’ve resorted to equipping the room’s light fixtures with 15 watt bulbs so I don’t have to look at the thing. There’s likely enough popcorn in the cushions to satisfy a double feature. The fabric now resembles Jackson Pollock’s early work and in the words of my friend John, B&G really see the sofa as their napkin. So today when I spied a handsome slip-covered sofa at my friend Alexis’ garage sale, I knew the green suede monster would soon be slain and removed from its second floor lair.  

May I just say when you reach 50 that your labor pool of heavy lifters is pretty shallow. It didn’t help that the sofa was accessed by a stairway wide enough to suit bean poles and minarets. A friend’s back is too important to abuse, so I halted the ill-fated exercise after a couple of telling grimaces (on both their faces and mine). With the sofa wedged on the upstairs landing, my friend Tamara said, “Too bad you just can’t cut it into pieces and throw it out the window.” (Smart girl.) Once they left, I made a beeline for my reciprocating saw. (I wanted no witnesses for this episode of Tom’s Home Remedies.)

Boz ponders, “What does this all mean?”

Fresh from a quick run to the hardware store for premium sawsall blades, I attacked that thing like a Thanksgiving turkey. I’d considered hurling each piece out of the upstairs window for dramatic effect and quick gratification, but I find the satisfaction of such gestures is short lived when the end (and inevitable) result is harm to me and damage to my house.

After learning that coiled box springs can’t be cut without reverberation that removes the arm from the socket, I rethought my dissection from halvsies to lengthwise at the seatback seam—a very wise choice in avoiding steel springs and chipped teeth. Boz and Gracie were downstairs unwittingly enjoying their last wallow on the sofa’s cushions.

When it was all said and done, the outdated, clumsy carcass littered my drive, frayed fabric and foam core innards exposed and destined for the dump. B&G held a vigil circling the beast like a fallen friend. Several passes later their march ended in favor of comfort. While still respectfully mournful, my two beasts sprawled in repose atop the cushions like Roman nobility awaiting peeled grapes. Real closure came the next day when the new sofa was christened with a couple Milk Bones and a few poorly aimed popcorn kernels. All is well again with this set of couch potatoes.

 What I was blogging about a year ago: Summertime, and the Hammock is Ready

If my garden was a theater, Pacific Coast Iris (Iris douglasiana) would be the overlooked understudy or supporting actor that unexpectedly steals the show. It’s presence is subtle if not negligible for most of the year, until a couple weeks in May when it pulls out all the stops and produces flowers that would make a watercolorist pant.  While this stellar performance is brief (2-3 weeks), it is memorable enough for me to seek an encore–an encore that usually requires a trip to the local nursery to add cast members to this colorful troupe of players in anticipation of next year’s return engagement.

Related links: Native Irises, Sunset: Pacific Treasure, BC Iris Society, Dunn Gardens Seattle

What I was blogging about a year ago: Souvenir de Madame Leonie Viennot
A rose by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet

Proverb for May 23, 2009:

He who hogs a sofa, will make no qualms about doing the same on a hammock. 

Then again, he who can adjust the hammock’s height wields all the power.

Truth be told, the view is too good not to share.

Sometimes beauty reveals itself in unexpected ways, other times it’s a familiar friend on my daily path. For the madrona trees that have stood witness to the lives and loves of this house over the last century, it’s both. As I’ve said before, they are truly living sculptures.  

Towering and twisted, they reach for the sky, shedding any branches starved for light. A few Sou’westers, and the ground becomes a battlefield of branches, driftwood spears released by the wind’s slightest provocation and gravity’s standing invitation.   (I recommend not standing under a madrona during a wind storm or anchoring your hammock to its bough.)

The rustic branch fence at Olana (Hudson, New York)

I was inspired to make a fence out these branches after visiting Olana: the home of landscape painter Frederick Church in the Hudson River Valley. On the historic estate, I studied a stunning rustic fence, intrigued that by using one type of tree branch (cedar, I believe in this case), the randomness of the individual branches formed a greater harmony and formality when fashioned in the whole. The fence created movement in the static.

When I arrived home, I knew the piles of madrona branches were destined for something more artful than a burn pile. The madrona (like Olana’s cedar branch fence) unlocked its fluidity and quirky formality when brought together collectively. I built a fence that fell from the sky–a fence that grows and snakes along new territory after each storm.  

A blanket of snow outlines its fanciful form 

Welcome this uncommon and fruitful tree into your garden.

I first encountered the edible quince Cydonia oblonga at my friend Kurt’s farm, where it stood like a garden prop, perfectly shaped, petit and laden with fuzzy gold orbs the size of papayas. With fruits doing double time as well-placed ornaments, the tree was showy and productive. In other words, it had me at hello.  

Years later, my quince is in bloom and I’m no less smitten. The blossoms sit high on each twig cluster like individual nosegays. After the buds unfurl in shades of pink and white, the airy (and large) blossoms point skyward.  Yep, it’s mighty pretty and the good news continues; the tree is pest free, self-fertile and fruitful.  And while the quince’s fruit is rock hard when harvested, it becomes fragrant, tender and delicious when cooked, but I’ll continue that part of the story this September.

Related links: The Quince’s Delicious History, Botanical Quince Print, David Lebovitz: Recipe Quince Tart Tartin, Simply Recipes: Membrillo (quince paste) Recipe.

What I was blogging about a year ago: Renee, I Have Your Rhubarb.

There’s broccoli and there’s sprouting broccoli, a cousin to the bulked-out broc we tend to knock. After some British friends of mine sang its praises, I planted it for the first time last summer. Surprisingly, it overwintered and I harvested it this spring. Two words: tender and delicious. The stalks are pencil thin with little broccoli mop tops crowning the beautiful and prolific brassica. Because of its branching habit, the more you harvest, the more new shoots are encouraged to replenish the plant. (And thus, the secret to its name: sprouting broccoli.

To cook, I simply blanch the sprouting broccoli quickly and drain the water, dob a bit of butter, pinch some salt, take a couple turns at the pepper mill, and enjoy thoroughly.  Grow some this year in your garden or pick it up at your local farmers market. You’ll never look back at big-guy broccoli again.

Some related links:

•  Seed sources: Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds, Kitchen Garden Seeds
• Recipe: Purple sprouting broccolit with proscuitto & poached egg 
• Recipes from readers at the Real Epicurean

What I was blogging about a year ago: Wheelbarrow or What 2.5 Hours Looks Like?