When Plan B works out fine

Maggie's wedding was over. Mary had gone back to her life in Brooklyn. And then Jack left for graduate school in Berlin.  It had been such a joyful time hosting Maggie and Nate's wedding, and all of a sudden, Ed and I found ourselves left alone to adjust to our once-again quiet life at Farm Dover.

We decided a trip was in order. We thought about flying out to Portland to visit family and then driving down the west coast into northern California so I could see a Redwood tree or two. Just as we were about to book our flight, we checked the weather and discovered we were in for a solid week of cold rain. Suddenly, it didn't sound like such a fun trip.

Plan B: Throw our tent and sleeping bags in the car and start driving east. Stop when we want to stop. Go when we want to go. Come home when we've seen enough.

That's just what we did. Last Tuesday, we closed the gate on the farm and headed east toward Asheville, North Carolina. Once on the road, we Hotwired a hotel and ended up at the Hotel Indigo, a modern hotel located in downtown Asheville. We walked around the cooler-than-cool downtown, visiting two used bookstores and a craft brewery. For dinner, we scored two seats at the bar of the highly popular Cúrate, for some traditional Spanish tapas.  I'm still thinking about the rossejat negro: ink squid pasta garnished with aioli and salsa verde.

The next morning, the weather forecast looked dry and so we went looking for a camp site. After exploring the tiny town of Brevard, we picked out a camp site at the nearby Davidson River Campgrounds, in the Pisgah National Forest. It took us five minutes to set up our tent and then we were off for a 4-mile hike around the Daniel Ridge Loop, ending at the 150-foot Jackson Falls. Dinner that night was brats and corn on the grill. Almost as good as that ink squid dish from Cúrate!

The next day we lunched at Rezaz, a Mediterranean restaurant in the Biltmore Village recommended by Maggie and Nate, who heard about it from friend Patrice.  From there we drove north along the Blue Ridge Parkway, stopping just before dark to set up our tent at the Linville Falls Campground.

And since we were right by it, the next morning we hiked over to see the falls. Glad we did. It is a spectacular three-tiered waterfall plunging into the Linville Gorge, better known as the "Grand Canyon of the southern Appalachians." Because we got such an early start, we had the falls to ourselves. Very nice.

We continued to make our way east, breezing through Blowing Rock and Boone, before stopping mid-afternoon in Winston-Salem. Neither of us had ever been to Old Salem, the living history town that recreates the Moravian settlement of Salem from 1766-1840, so we picked it for our afternoon adventure. Good choice. We wandered up and down the streets, checking out the gardens, bakery, tavern, college and cemetery.

We liked it so much that we came back the next morning for the Farmers' Market and to tour the MESDA (Museum of Early Southern Decorative Arts).

From there, you guessed it, we headed east – as far east as we could go and still be in North Carolina. The Outer Banks, here we come. While Ed filled the gas tank, I searched online for a place for us to stay the night. I was warned that 95 percent of the rooms available on the islands were already booked. In a slight panic, I called one of the motels that looked very nice on my ipad and was assured that they had a room we could have. I couldn't believe my good luck! I told the motel owner to hold it and we would be there before dark. We pressed on.

We both started laughing when we saw the sign. It looked like something straight out of the 1960s -- a motel that had not been updated since shag carpeting made its debut.

Oh well, it was (pretty) clean and the bed was more comfy than I expected. Sunday morning we attended the Roanoke Island Presbyterian Church and then went looking for the Lost Colony (didn't find it) before heading to Kitty Hawk and the Wright Brothers National Memorial, another unexpectedly great outing.

We stayed for a National Park Service Ranger presentation that had me in tears by the end. The Ranger's message was that Wilbur and Orville considered the "impossible" merely a challenge -- and we should to. I really want my four flying nieces to see this memorial and hear this message, but the Ranger reported that the visitors' center is closing for two years for renovations. Maybe some day...

We stayed our final night at the Cape Hatteras Campground. We walked on the beach until it got dark and then headed to dinner at a seafood dive just up the road. The next morning we looked at each other and agreed it was time to head home. Matthew (the storm) was headed our direction and it was time that we turn west and make our way back to Shelby County. We had two choices: backtrack all the way up the Outer Banks or take a ferry to Orcracoke Island and then another one to the mainland. We chose the ferries. Another good choice.

We spent one final night on the road, stopping in Durham and finding an old-school BBQ restaurant for dinner. Can't say much for the decor, but the BBQ, collard greens, and chess pie were mighty fine.

It was a good trip, full of surprises (good and not-so-good). I'm glad I have a partner to go along on such unplanned adventures. Not everyone would like them as much as we do.

And, as always, it was great to back to Farm Dover...

Foraging for Sumac

It’s dusk. Ed and I are breezing down the narrow lane that connects our road to Highway 53 in our pickup, windows rolled down. Feels like summertime, but I can tell fall is just round the next bend.

“Slow down just past this fence post,” I say to Ed. “No, no, not that one; maybe the next one.” “Yes, that’s it. Pull over just a bit.” He glances in the rear view mirror to make sure no other cars are behind us. None coming – no surprise on this rarely travelled road. 

I reach out the window and snap off a few red tops of the wild sumac growing along the roadside. I’d been scouting sumac all summer and had spotted these earlier in the evening as we were on our way to wildlife identification class put on by the county’s extension service. I’d been thinking about them ever since, when I should have been paying closer attention to the discussion of how to tell a coyote’s pawprint from a bobcat’s.

Anyway, I was delighted with my long-sought bounty. I've had in my mind that I want to make some sumac spice, ground from the berries. In fact, my desire to forage for this spice ingredient led us to plant 40 sumac seedlings last January. Whenever I spot one in our woods or along our paths, they seem to be flourishing – but I think it will be a few years before they are mature enough to sprout the needed red tops.

Back home, I set the crimson drupes (called sumac bobs) out on the porch to dry in the sun. Two days later, I work the red fuzzy seeds off the bobs' stems and throw them into the blender. My fingers are coated with a red dust that tastes remarkably like lemon. After a bit of a whirl, I dump the blender’s contents into a clean flour sifter and then sift the red powder from the yellow seeds. Voila! I’ve successfully made sumac spice.

But no. I am not content with this new culinary spice that I can put on just about anything – from yogurt to fish to roasted vegetables. No, I demand more. I demand za’artar, a spice blend used throughout the Middle East. A quick search of 101 cookbooks – one of my favorite blogs – leads me to the recipe.

I dry some fresh thyme in a low oven, mix it with some toasted sesame seeds, a bit of salt and a teaspoon or two of my freshly made sumac. Not only was the finished product beautiful, but my whole house smells of thyme.

Now that I've got my own stash of homemade za'atar, I see all kinds of new creations coming out of my kitchen: flatbreads, roasted chicken, chickpea salad, eggplant fries, popcorn, sweet potato soup, roasted butternut squash, and pita chips. I'm on a roll. 

Trying to Remember that Kind of September...

I’ve been missing you. Over the past three months I’ve only blogged a handful of times, but I’ve thought of you, my readers, nearly every day. I’ll see something I find remarkable, cook something memorable, or hear something worth repeating, and I’ll think: I should blog about that. But then I find it impossible to carve out the few minutes of quiet that it takes to share these happenings with you.

Mostly for my sake, I need to be better about it. Sometimes I wonder that if I don’t blog about it, did it really happen?  You know, like the tree that falls in the forest: does it make a sound? These days I forget more than I remember, and I often refer back to my blog to confirm events that I know happened, but I can’t remember when, or the important details.

So today, I thought I’d commit to telling you about one of the most significant events to ever happen here at Farm Dover. I’ve been reliving it all week in my mind, and don’t ever want to forget a single detail, because, it gives me such happiness to recall it.

On Saturday, September 10, our daughter, Maggie, and her long-time partner, Nathan, were married in front of the guest cottage in our backyard, as those dear to them looked on and listened as they made the most serious of commitments to each other. Nate’s grandfather, Norbert, read from 1 Corinthians 13 and then offered the couple some insights about what it means to take this step. Afterwards, we celebrated.

.......................................

But let me back up a bit and give you some background. Back in mid-March, Maggie and Nate asked Ed and me to meet them for Sunday brunch at a neighborhood cafe. They arrived on their bikes, with big smiles on their faces, and an engagement ring on Maggie’s left hand. (Maggie and Nate met in 2009 during Maggie’s last year of college at the University of Wisconsin and have been together ever since – although sometimes living in different cities.)

The morning after their joyful announcement, Maggie boarded a plane bound for Los Angeles for an intensive three-month accelerator program for medical startups. Before she left, she and Nate agreed that they wanted to get married at Farm Dover in the early fall and requested that I plan the wedding, keeping it relatively small and simple in nature. I could do that!

So, between mid-March and early September, life went on, but was just a bit busier. Ed and I continued to do some traveling and kept up with all the normal parts of a busy season here on the farm. From Brooklyn, Mary designed the wedding invitation and Jack came home from China in early August and went to work getting the farm “wedding ready” as well as learning some new pieces on his accordion. Maggie and Nate stayed busy with work, renovating their home, and planning with Nate’s mom and dad a night-before-the-wedding backyard dinner at their place.

And then, before we knew it, it was time. Well, actually, it was pouring down rain when it was time. So we just delayed the ceremony for a bit and instead began the reception. Soon enough, the rain let up and Jack began to play the prelude. Daughter Mary, Maggie’s maid of honor, walked down the stone path from the house, and stood with Mike, Nate’s best man and brother-in-law. Preacher Doug Slagle stood beside Nate. Once the prelude was finished, there was a pause, then Jack began playing the processional cantata. Ed took Maggie’s hand and together they made the walk down the path.

The pictures really do a wonderful job of telling this story. If you follow me on Instagram you may have seen these already. I trust you will agree that they are worth preserving here in this space. (Note: unless noted otherwise, these photos were taken by the incredibly talented Ashley Glass of Ashley Glass Photography.) 

Sandy's sunflowers and Mary's hand-painted sign let our guests know that they had arrived.
Photo by sister Sherry.

Maggie and Nate were so relaxed, not thrown off by the rain one bit.

Her mother, on the other hand, kept peering out the door toward the brightening horizon. 

Guests dropped their wet umbrellas at the door and made their way inside.

The rain stopped and Jack began playing.

The bride, waiting at the top of the stairs.

The father-of-the-bride holding tightly to Maggie's hand as they make their way down to the cottage.

That look says it all. Photo by sister Sherry.

The ceremony: short and very sweet.

Introducing Maggie Galloway and Nate Pinney
(Yes, she is keeping her name: once a Galloway; always a Galloway)

My girls. My sister Kathy made Maggie's bouquet; it included blackberry brambles and crabapples. 

Nate's restored El Camino served as the beer truck.

Pies, instead of cake.

Jack and Nate's sister, Amy, performed a duet.

Listening to the heartfelt toasts.

The stars came out.
A bonfire was lit. Somores and Bourbon consumed.
Many of the guests camped out. 

The next morning dawned beautifully.
Breakfast for the campers was hosted by Karen and Julie.
A perfect end to a perfect weekend.

Resources and Thank Yous

• Invitation design: Mary Galloway
• Ceremony music: Jack Galloway
• Post dinner duet: Jack Galloway and Amy Pinney
• Photography: Ashley Glass of Ashley Glass Photography
• Officiant: Rev. Doug Slagle
• Catering: Farm to Fork Food
• Pies: Flour de Lis Bakery
• Wine, Beer and Bourbon: The Wine Rack
• Flower arrangements: Kathy Brooks, Jason Jennings and Lynn Kunau
• Sunflowers, zinnias and wildflowers: Sandy Topy
• Detailed “to do” list: Patrice Paton
• Lunch on Friday: Jackie Bickel
• Table setup: Patrice Paton, Glenda Bumpas, Amy Pinney, Lisa Pinney, Sherry Leavell and Julie Ensor
• Lunch on Saturday: Patrice Paton
• El Camino beer truck: restored by Nate Pinney, driven to Farm Dover by Doug Pinney.
• Party in northern Kentucky hosted by Connie and Jeff Schaaf (Nate’s godparents and aunt and uncle)
• Party in Louisville at the Gralehaus (same night as the Bardstown Road Zombie Walk!) hosted by Jackie Bickel, Lynn Kunau and Robin Seiler
• Party on Friday night at Maggie and Nate’s hosted by Lisa and Doug Pinney
• Morning-after breakfast at Farm Dover hosted by Karen and Julie Wunderlin; food provided by Wiltshire Pantry

As you can see, this was an effort by lots of people who joined together to support Maggie and Nate on this, their very special day. We are grateful to them all.

When life gives you hot peppers...

Last week I harvested a handful of banana peppers and, as I always do, stuffed them with cheese and ran them under the broiler. One bite later, I realized that I had made a terrible mistake: I planted HOT banana peppers, not the mild ones that I normally grow.

And the plant was producing peppers like crazy. I was in a pickle about what to do with them. Then I remembered that I was almost out of our Wild Carrot Farm pepper butter, the secret ingredient that I put in my pimento cheese. I had been meaning to stop by my neighbor's farm, just up the road, and buy a case of his locally famous pepper butter. Instead, I decided to make my own.

A quick google search revealed a number of recipes, none of which included butter, but most of which did included a tablespoon or two of flour. A few of the recipes mentioned that one should probably not use flour in recipes that are canned, but they did so anyway. I have a mortal fear of killing my beloveds with foods that I home can, so I researched some more and found a recipe that uses something called Clear Jel, in place of flour. I ordered a bag of it, picked my peppers, and set to work chopping the peppers and discarding the stems and seeds. I added two red pimento peppers to the mix, just for their pretty color.

I pureed the peppers and then added them to a pot and simmered with some white vinegar, mustard, sugar and a bit of salt. I added in the Clear Jel and let the mixture thicken before filling small jar and placing them in the canning pot of boiling water for processing.

I'm quite pleased with the results. The pepper butter is tangy and not too hot. I added a teaspoon to today's lunchtime chicken salad and it gave it just the right amount of oomph. I may even try a dab or two on our pork chops tonight.  And I'm planning to use another scoop of it tomorrow to make some pimento cheese for our Meatless Monday lunch.

So, the next time life gives me hot peppers, I'll know what to do with them. In fact, I may intentionally plant some next year just so I can restock my pantry with homemade pepper butter.

Consequences

Late winter finds me flipping through seed catalogs, dreaming of my summer garden. In early spring, I can't wait to plant the first peas and radishes. Once the weather warms, I go all out, planting cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, okra, an assortment of squash, two kinds of potatoes and a bunch of herbs. Early summer, I mostly just admire how beautiful the garden looks.

But now, I spend my days dealing with the consequences of earlier efforts. The harvest (and the weeds) grow exponentially by the day.

I haul in buckets of squash, zucchini, and cucumbers.

My basil turns into bushes and I scramble to turn the bushes into pesto.

Carrots, beets, shallots, onions and garlic are eager to be pulled from the earth, but then demand that I do something with them. The pumpkin and sweet potato vines are out of control -- like things from Little Shop of Horrors.

Just this week, the tomatoes are beginning to redden. The first few off the vine are celebrated with fanfare. But then the pace quickens, and I'm left to find creative ways to use hundreds and hundreds of tomatoes. (There are only so many BLTs that our family can consume.)

I'm not really complaining. There is nothing more that I love than going out to the garden and seeing what can be turned into dinner.  Tonight we are feasting on a Nicoise Salad, which uses up the last of the green bean harvest, some tiny new potatoes, a handful of cherry tomatoes and some lettuce before it bolts. It's topped with a grilled tuna steak and garnished with eggs cheerfully provided by friend Jackie's hens.

My garden work is made easier these days with help from Jack, thankfully home from China.

And he's quite appreciative of his mama's cooking. Makes it all worthwhile.