Making Wine with Green Walnuts

I can often be found in the kitchen brewing up an assortment of strange foraged concoctions such as milkweed or elderflower cordials, elderberry gin, blackberry syrup or various herb vinegars. Ed joined me recently, taking the lead on the latest libation: vin de noix, otherwise known as green walnut wine. 

He was inspired by the main character in a detective novel. Bruno is chief of police in a small village in the south of France. He lives in a restored shepherd's cottage, shops at the local market, and makes his own vin de noix. What? Makes his own what? 

Turns out vin de noix is a home decoction obtained by macerating green walnuts in wine and vodka for 40 days and then bottling it and waiting until December 1 to partake. Known since the sixteenth century for its therapeutic qualities, today it is consumed as an aperitif or digestif. Sounds like our cup of tea!

The one thing we have plenty of at Farm Dover is walnuts. We've planted a field of 100+ black walnut trees and there are hundreds (maybe thousands!) of native ones growing all over the farm. The walnuts for this recipe need to be picked while they are still green and milky with very tender kernals. In France, the green nuts are traditionally picked on the Fete de la Saint-Jean-Baptiste, celebrated on June 24. 

So Ed picked the green walnuts back in late June and set to making the liqueur. For the past 40 days, the inky black infusion has been stored in a dark cabinet in our laundry room. Every couple of days, we'd give it a stir. 

Turns out versions of this drink are produced throughout Europe. Italy has a walnut liquor called nocino, made with alcohol, but no wine.  And Jack's girlfriend Kasia sent me a secret recipe from her grandfather in Poland who makes a vodka-based version, that includes caramel. Next June we will put it to the taste test.

Back to our walnut wine experiment... Last week, Ed strained the walnuts out of the liquor and bottled it. Stay tuned for the uncorking on December 1. It is recommended that it be served ice cold with a mandelbrot, biscotti or buttery cookie. Especially nice in front of a crackling fire. Sounds tasty, doesn't it?

Vin de Noix
Makes 6 liters

recipe from Cathy Barrow

40 young, green walnuts
1 liter vodka
5 bottles of red wine 
2 pounds sugar
Zest of 1 orange
Quartered lemon
4 cloves
1 vanilla bean, split

Gather the walnuts in late June when the nuts are well formed, but can still be pierced with a needle. Soak the nuts in cool water for 1  hour.  Drain, dry and quarter.

Place all of the ingredients in an non-reactive container with a lid.  Stir well to begin to dissolve the sugar. 

Store in a cool dark place for 40 days, stirring occasionally.

Strain through cheesecloth into a very large non-reactive bowl or food-safe bucket. Taste, and adjust the sugar if you want the drink to be sweeter. It will be a little harsh tasting, but will mellow as it ages.

Funnel the wine into quart jars. Store in a cool dark place until December 1st.

Growing Like a Teepee Vine

We've been sequestered at Farm Dover for more than half a year, 23 weeks to be exact. But that doesn't mean things have come to a standstill. In many ways, just the opposite. Ed's beard grows long; the ragweed and goldenrod in our fields grow tall; and granddaughter Hazel grows up. 

Back in May, we created a teepee for Hazel to play in.

Neighbor Sandy provided the 8-foot bamboo poles, which Maggie lashed together. I cut some willow branches and soaked them in the pond before weaving them horizontally through the bamboo.

We planted some beans, cucumbers, marigolds and cosmos around the base. 

And then we watched and waited...

Ed (with assistance from Hazel) faithfully watered the tiny seedlings.

And we watched and waited some more...

Slowly the vines started to grow. And so did Hazel. 

She turned from a toddler who wobbled unsteadily as she ran to her teepee into a confident explorer of the world of Farm Dover. 

She made her teepee into her own special spot, sharing books with Roo and snacking on green beans picked from the teepee's vines. 

Hazel and her teepee have been a bright spot during this strange time, a reminder that life goes on. Growth continues. We all need a special place in this crazy world –  a place where we can explore and grow. A place to which we can retreat and feel safe. A place of beauty. May you find yours....

Seeking Marital Bliss

It's a good thing Ed and I get along, or this 130+ days of sheltering in place would get even older than it is getting. We rarely quarrel, but I must confess that there is one thing that we can't seem to agree on. And it's causing angst in our marriage.



The problem is: I love a good fruit crisp. One with lots of fruit and a fairly thick layer of crunchy oats, brown sugar, and almonds, bound together with some butter. One like the one found on page 689 of Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone.

I love to make crisps with the gallons and gallons of wild blackberries that we pick each July. And every time I make one and bring it to the table. Ed says: "This is good, but some people prefer a cobbler." He is one of them; I am not.

What was wrong with him? I continued to make crisps. 

But then I started to wonder if perhaps he was right and that maybe I could learn to love a good cobbler. Was I just being stubborn? So I turned to page 691 of the above-mentioned cookbook and made a cobbler. Ed was thrilled; me less so. I just don't like the cakey topping.

I then conducted a survey. I asked Jack which he preferred, secretly trying to line the kids up on my side. Without hesitation, he said, "I prefer a pie."

And that got me to thinking. Perhaps the solution for our impasse was to find a solution we could both agree on. So, today I made a clafoutis, a 19th-century french dessert that traditionally uses black cherries. My version featured Farm Dover wild blackberries nestled in a thick flan-like batter. (Technically, when other kinds of fruit are used instead of cherries, the dish is properly call a flaugnarde.) It was super simple to make.

I'm planning to serve it tonight, but snuck a bite out of the skillet while it was still warm. Not as good, in my opinion as a crisp, but much better than a cobbler. I think it might work for us and allow us to get back to our normal state of marital bliss.

If not, I could always try a Brown Betty, a buckle, a grunt, hand pie, slump or pandowdy.  I'm willing to work on saving our marriage thru baking and Ed says he is willing to give it a go as well. Wish us luck.

____________________

Farm Dover Blackberry Clafoutis
(loosely based on recipe by David Lebovitz)

ingredients

Enough blackberries (or other berries) to cover the bottom of a 11-inch cast iron skillet or other similar sized shallow baking dish
3 large eggs
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon almond extract (optional)
1/2 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar
1 1/3 cup whole milk
Soften butter, for preparing the baking dish

procedure

1. Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Smear a 2-quart shallow baking dish or cast-iron skillet liberally with butter. 

2. Lay blackberries in a single layer in the baking dish.

3. Using an immersion blender, mix the eggs, flour, vanilla and almond extracts, 1/2 cup sugar and milk together until smooth.

4. Pour the batter over the blackberries and sprinkle fruit and batter with 3 tablespoons of sugar.

5. Bake the clafoutis until the custard is just set; a knife polked in the center should emerge relatively clean. It will take about 45 minutes. 

Celebrate, when the time feels right

I never liked celebrating my birthday. It wasn't that I minded turning a year older. It wasn't that I don't like to be showered with attention and thoughtful gifts. It wasn't even that I don't like cake. It was none of that.

Rather, it was the timing. You see, I was born on January 19th and the very thought of celebrating so soon after the holidays just made me crazy. All I wanted to do in mid-January was hibernate.

And it wasn't just me. No one in my family or dear friends really wanted to figure out another gift or eat more celebratory food. All they wanted to do was hibernate.

A couple of years ago, I was grumbling about this unfortunate birthday business and curmudgeonly joked to Ed that I thought I should just change my birthday to July 19th. Then, I thought no more about it.

Fast forward to that July 19th, a Thursday. Like every Thursday two years ago, we drove to Louisville for Ed to check in at work and go to Rotary and for me to visit with my Dad and run in-town errands. Ed suggested we stay in town for an early dinner. As we pulled up to Holy Grale, Maggie appeared from around the corner, with gift in hand. And Ed magically pulled out a present from the back seat. They had colluded to celebrate my birth that night. A tradition was born, a wonderful, embraceable tradition.

This year, my week of celebration began on Thursday, with an alfresco lunch with girlfriends, continued on Sunday with dinner with Maggie and family and calls from Mary and Jack, and culminated today with a very early morning outing to Bernheim Forest for a hike to experience "Forest Giants in a Giant Forest," an art installation by Danish artist Thomas Dambo. The installation is comprised of three large structures placed throughout the arboretum built using recycled wood from the region.  I can't tell you how cool (and gigantic!) they are. They won't be there forever. So, get yourself down to Clemont, Ky. and see for yourself.

Mama Loumari

Little Nis

Little Elina

Sunrise over the Big Prairie at Bernheim

My favorite forest giant

Friends, willing to celebrate my birthday on the date of my choosing

Help from Hazel; wild blackberry pie by Maggie

So, thank you to all who made my birthday so happy. I am truly grateful.

When time is on your side

More than 100 days into the Time of Corona, we are still hunkered down. Yes, we venture out, but only occasionally. When we are away from Farm Dover, we find ourselves anxious to get back home – back to where we feel safe. Fortunately, I like it here.

Other than a handful of takeout lunches, our meals are created from whatever we have on hand or can harvest from the garden or forage from the woods and fields. Since I'm not cooking for a crowd, our meals tend to be quite simple. Sometimes only anchovy butter on sour dough toast, or carrots roasted and served with a carrot-top pesto, an Ottolenghi omelette, or asparagus from our patch cooked every which way I can think of. 

Most nights I wander into the kitchen while Ed watches the local news. If I don't have a pre-conceived notion of what I want to fix for dinner, I putter around until I come up with a plan. Rarely do I spend more than an hour cooking dinner; most nights, half that amount. It's time I enjoy, creative and stress-free for me.

One of the many strange outcomes of this strange time is that my notion of cooking has shifted ever so slightly. Because I'm home all day, it seems I'm more willing to invest in dishes that require time, in some cases, lots of time. But they don't necessarily require my constant attention; they mostly transform into something delicious on their own over a matter of hours, or even days. Call it kitchen alchemy, a seemingly magical process.

Let me give you some examples. Three come from a blog post: The 20 Greatest Recipes of All Time. Granted this was just one person's opinion, but the list intrigued me. I had already made a handful of Ms. Rosenstrach's nominations and I agreed that they were awfully good. I chose three new ones to try – each requiring a significant commitment of time. I was curious to see if it was worth it. And, as you know, I had lots of time on my side.

The first was Marcella Hazan's Bolognese Sauce, reprinted in the New York Times, which notes a total time requirement of four hours. But then I read through all the reader comments and discovered that the real magic happens sometime between hours 5 and 6, when the classic meat sauce turns sublime. All the recipe requires of me is to let it cook at "the laziest of simmers" and to give it a stir every hour or so. I almost never follow a recipe exactly, but both times I've made this, I have followed it to a T and can't think of how I might alter it. It is perfect, as is.

The second was David Chang's Bo Ssam, a dish from his famous New York restaurant: Momofuku. It's a slow-cooked pork shoulder with an insane caramelized crust, served in lettuce wraps with Korean-inspired condiments. I know, sounds weird. The recipe calls for marinating the pork for six hours in a sugar/salt brine and then cooking it for six hours. I did not follow the recipe exactly as I did not have any fresh oysters or cabbage kimchi. I did made some pickled radishes to go along with the sweet chili sauce and ginger scallion sauce and I did serve it in lettuce wraps. Maggie, Nate and Hazel were out visiting and I served it for dinner. It was a hit! Delicious and fun to eat. I placed the pork in the middle of the table on a giant cutting board and we each customized our wraps. Next time, I think I could cook the pork roast in a crock pot for the first six hours and finish it in a 500-degree oven for the last 10 minutes to get a crisp, sweet crust. I only made this once, but it will be on repeat whenever we can host dinners again.

The third entrée was a classic Japanese fish preparation made famous by the chef Nobu Matsuhisa. The recipe calls for soaking a black cod filet for three days in a four-ingredient miso marinade. It does require some specialty Japanese ingredients, which Maggie fortunately had in her pantry: sake, mirin, and white miso paste. But, it only takes 10 minutes to cook. I used sea bass instead of black cod, but any high-fat fish would work. I served it with some bok choy and rice. So simple. Foolproof and very impressive.

There are some other recipes that I have made in the past 100+ days that also require some time commitments. In particular, this Shockingly Easy Foccccia and this Homemade Naan were ones I'll make again and again.

I had always shied away from recipes that required marinating, yeast, or long stove-top cooking times, but, if anything, this time at home has taught me that sometimes really good things come to those who wait and, with a little kitchen alchemy – and plenty of time – seemingly magical things can happen.

Dad Hugs

We need four hugs a day for survival. 

We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. 

We need 12 hugs a day for growth.

-- Virginia Satir, family therapist 

On March 9, I went to visit with my Dad who lives in a memory care community at The Legacy at English Station. While he doesn't remember much these days, he always knows when one of his four girls come to visit and is always happy to see us. That Monday morning I found him at breakfast and afterwards we marched around the courtyard, while he called out "hup, two, three, four" in military cadence.  He then gave me an Army salute in front of the flag pole.

I didn't stay long, promising to come see him as soon as I got back from our trip to Mexico.

My Dad, on March 9, 2020

Two days later, the facility was closed to all visitors, rightfully to prevent the spread of COVID-19. We talked on the phone and even Facetimed once or twice, but I knew Dad was missing the hugs he so liked to give and so needed to receive.

Fast forward 98 days. On Monday, June 15, I went to visit my Dad and give him a hug. Granted, it was through a modified clear plastic shower curtain. The Legacy had set up a hugging station and was scheduling hugging sessions. I met sisters Sherry and Julie there. We signed in; filled out short medical questionnaires; had our temperatures taken and then were escorted back to the corner of the common room where we found our Dad, patiently waiting for his hugs.

One by one, we slipped our arms into plastic sleeves and then wrapped our arms around Dad, giving -- and receiving -- great big bear hugs.

Was it as good as a skin-to-skin hug? No, but it was enough.

There is a balm

I keep thinking I should tackle a blog about this time of the coronavirus, these weeks of sheltering in place. How will I remember it? And what effect will it have on my family and me in the weeks, months and years to come? How will the world change because of it? I find it nearly impossible to capture this era in words, mostly because my reaction to it changes from morning to bedtime, from bedtime to morning; a loop of uncertainty and fear followed by hope and charity. But here's my attempt...

I am keenly aware that my circumstances are about as good as they can possible be. Ed and I are healthy. We are not out of a job. We have 38 acres to wander around and tend to, with food from our garden and edible plants along our wooded paths. We have each other.

I do worry a bit about the kids – Mary, Brian and Saltie (their dog) in Brooklyn and Jack and Kasia in Berlin, even Maggie, Nate and Hazel just across the state line in New Albany. But I know that they are as good as they can be, each resilient in face of adversity, creative in resources, and hunkered down with those they love. They worry about us too, calling far more often than usual, just to check in on their elderly parents.

I worry about my 89-year-old dad, obliviously going about his life in a memory-care facility, wondering why his four daughters don't come visit, but otherwise seeming in good spirits. I know he misses our hugs.

I worry that Hazel will forget how much I love her and how much we adore her visits to Farm Dover. Already she gets frustrated when she has had enough of FaceTiming, putting up her little hand over the camera and demanding No No! when she wants her mamma's full attention. I don't take it personally, but lament the time we are apart.

Having said all this, I also can say with certainty that I have loved being at home for days and days on end. Ed and I never were much on leaving the farm for social eventing, so being here is easy. It is comforting and safe.

All things considered, the timing was good for us. We had just gotten home from a week in Mexico and the farm was beginning its springtime revival. Before this intense time of watching the day-to-day changes in our landscape, I would have thought about the passage of a year on this place in terms of the four seasons. Now, I've come to realize that we have 52 micro-seasons, each week bringing change to flora and fauna.

And we've been here to witness it. Every day we've spent hours  outside – working in the gardens, combing through the woods in search of invasive plants, mulching the tiny trees, walking out to get the mail. We've seen the first of the daffodils bloom in late February, the middle ones in March and the very last ones in April, all offering up their sunny faces for our delight. Then, one by one, we've watched their blooms fade.

We've seen the pussy willow and viburnum bloom, followed by the magnolia, the service berry, wild cherry, crabapple, peach and apple trees. We peer down at the mayapples unfurling their umbrella leaves and discover morel mushrooms pushing up from leaf debris on the forest floor.

We've watched as the bluebirds and tree swallows have taken up residence in our bird boxes and the red-wing blackbirds, robins and brown thrashers have built exquisite nests and hatched their chicks. Nearly everyday we spy the dreamsicle-colored orioles feeding from the hickory blossoms. They even showed up on our back porch earlier this week.

In our big garden, I've planted fava beans, peas, onions, beets, chard and shallots. This week, I'll add pumpkins, squashes, cucumbers and tomatoes to the mix. In my herb garden, the mint and lemon balm, the lavender and the sage, the rue and tarragon are all spreading tuffs of green. The bees have found the nectar in the bee garden, drinking freely from the blue blossoms of wild indigo and eastern bluestar.

Because we were here and paying attention, we saw the praying mantis cases release hundreds of baby mantises. Seems like every time I'm out and about, I see an interesting bug to photograph to send to Hazel (as part of my ongoing mission to help her love bugs).

While new life bursts forth on every square inch of Farm Dover, heartache comes with it. Just outside our study window, robin eggs are smashed in their nest by an unknown predator, hungry rabbits chew down to the quick the coreopsis in the back garden, kale plants are uprooted and absconded in the big garden, and cruelest of all, a May freeze turns the buds crisp and black on the big-leaf and cucumber magnolias, hickory trees, sassafras and tulip trees -- and most tragically, the pawpaw flowers.

When I am saddened by the current state of the world, I go for a ramble along our patchwork of paths. Walking these green pathways is my balm; it heals my soul and replaces my despair with hope. Paying attention to the miraculous unfolding of the seasons, cures my wounded soul.

When the children were young, we rotated who said the blessing before dinner. Mary, our youngest and fiercest, would always include a blessing for "anyone sick or not well." Jack would challenge the sense of that category, arguing that it was redundant. Mary would adamantly explain that it was possible to be unwell, even if you were not sick. That's how I think about these days. I ask blessings on all who are sick or not well. May we all be healed.

We are only visitors

Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. 

But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship
from a one-way street into a sacred bond.

– Robin Wall Kimmerer

Fifty years ago tomorrow marks the first Earth Day. It was organized as a teach-in on college campuses by Gaylord Nelson, a junior senator from Wisconsin, who had long been concerned about the deteriorating environment in the United States. Today, it is the largest secular observance in the world, marked by more than a billion people committing to a day of action to change human behavior and create policy changes. Well, at least that was the case before a pandemic swept over the earth...

Since we are sheltering in place, I will spend Earth Day 2020 much as I've spent every day of the last six weeks. I'll rise and go for a walk along the paths. I may collect some edibles along the way. I'll probably toil in the garden until Ed finds me to go out into the fields and woods, hunting down and destroying invasive plants. Later, we might stop at some of the 1000+ trees that we've planted to clear the weeds from their bases, fertilize and mulch them. We might divide some perennials in the Bee Garden, or add a new layer of wood chips to tamp down the weeds. The grass needs mowing and the fences need weed whipping. The list, as always, is unending.

Ed and I have been grateful to have this work this spring. Our days pass quickly; we fall into bed well before 10 p.m. with a duel sense of achievement and exhaustion.

We are the caretakers of this patch of land; we understand that we do not own it. Sure, we possess a legal piece of paper that says it is ours, but we know...we are only visitors.

The Moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Margaret Atwood