November 2020 – Fleur-de-Blog

An array of files, moved from the office to make remote working easier, enclose my space in the emptied dining room. Cartons are scattered about the house—not a home, just a skeleton of a house, with little of the comfortable clutter collected over the years.

In the basement, boxes from 440 Hottenstein Road, 10 years and never unpacked. Boxes of books and dishes, baby clothes, art projects and History Day mementoes. Scrapbooks and yearbooks. Boxes labeled “Stuff to Keep” or “Fragile Don’t Place Anything Heavy on Top”—can’t you give me a clue? I think I’ll just take a quick nap on the sleeping couch—zzzz—and worry about it later.

I went through my parents’ old files, now it is time to go through mine. Don’t need Fleur-de-Lys Farm Market sales receipts from 2008 or 2009. Don’t need the manual for the Kencove poultry fence. Don’t need the Merchandise folder, the Consignment Folder, the Catalog folder. But wait. This brings back memories…

Two sheets of paper pinched together by a clothespin. Talk about a homespun filing system. The first page, a scribbling of thoughts—fresh cut flowers, Italian sweet basil, heirloom tomatoes, garlic, Saturdays 10-6, Sundays Noon-6, June through September—a sketch of my business plan. The second: Possible Names, notes from an important night in the kitchen of 440 Hottenstein Road.

Paul (my now ex-husband) and Pete and Terese (friends, Marina’s godparents, and marketing magicians) were sitting on stools on one side of the kitchen island. I was standing on the other side—my work and comfort zone. There was a least one bottle, no, probably two bottles, of wine involved. We were brainstorming names, branding, and logos for an emerging farm business. The year, 2002.

I go down the list: Blue Bridge Farm (my favorite), Chicken Meadow Farm, Carriageworks (carriages were built in one of the outbuildings in the 1800s) Farm, Coffeetree (Kentucky Coffee Trees tower above the farm stand) Farm, Goldfinch Meadow Farm, High Water Farm, Meadowbloom Farm, Neverdone (how true) Farm, Saul (the early owners of the property) Farmstead Market, Schoolhouse View Farm, Simple Pleasures Farm, MaRi (combination of Marina and Richard) Meadow Farm, Lavender Hill Farm, Periwinkle Farm, Hot-to-Trot Farm (omg, spurred on by Hottenstein—maybe we were on our third bottle of wine by then!), French Blue Farm …” And on it goes.

Then, as I recall, Paul went upstairs to the bathroom.

When he returned, we told him the good news. The quest was over. We had struck gold: “Fleur-de-Lys Farm.”

Paul made a bit of a deal about not being there for the suggestion and decision, but merde, fleur-de-lys is French (his father’s homeland) and the Lys spelled with a “y’’ not an “i’’ follows the spelling of his family name: Lynch. Two streams on the property, trout lilies and water irises. The name made sense. And, the fleur-de-lys symbol is easy to reproduce without artist fees. (I am no artist.)

And, so it was. And is. Now those two sheets of paper, the silver lining of shedding and shredding, can go to recycling. (I’ll save the clothespin.) Laurie Lynch

Beams Break Through the Clouds: Due to the Pandemic, travel to Belgium has not been possible for me but there have been a few bright moments. My Belgian belle Marina was able to come here for an extended visit. Plus, modern technology allows me to get glimpses of Richard’s 6 ½-year-old daughter Lais. He calls her the Muse of Raclette, reports a wiggly baby tooth, and I witnessed her latest triumph, performing roues de charrette (cartwheels) via WhatsApp. Now, if only my granddaughter would lose that tooth and win a visit from la petite souris (tooth fairy).

October Optics: While it may not be ideal to plant my garlic cloves in containers, that is the only alternative this year. And that small act came with a silver lining too. The containers are on the deck, where I pass them several times a day. When the garlic was planted in the garden, I might visit it once a week or less during this time of year. But, as it is, I noticed within two weeks of planting that some of the garlic cloves were sending green shoots out of the soil. I didn’t expect to see them until November or so!

Written on Slate: “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” Belgian-born Audrey Hepburn

We’ve all heard of Southern hospitality, but Southern serendipity?

I got a package the other day from Wally and Michele. I had asked for their Shrimp and Grits recipe. The package included a two-page printout from the website allrecipes for Old Charleston Style Shrimp and Grits, with a post-it note of recipe modifications, a muslin bag of grits, and the novel Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens.

I headed to the kitchen to see if I could re-create the delicious meal I had with W&M—and was successful. It reminded me a lot of cooking Italian polenta. (I followed the recipe for Charleston Creamy Grits on the bag of grits and took Michele’s advice for the main recipe, not to add the shrimp until the very end. “You don’t want to overcook them.”)

When I lived in the Lowcountry, I let the Southerners cook the grits—mostly a breakfast staple. I remember taking my Uncle Ray to a favorite diner and he ordered scrambled eggs with bacon. Lo and behold, when they brought out his platter he took one look at it and said, “I ordered scrambled eggs, not sunny-side up!”

The scrambled eggs and bacon were there but the dish was dominated by a slurry of grits with a central pool of melted golden butter, that, yes, did look like a giant egg with a runny yolk. Uncle Ray was always a kidder. The yolk, so to speak, was on the waitress and me.

I did a little research on grits and polenta. Both are made of corn—not the sweet corn (Zea mays convar. saccharata var. rugosa) we devour in late summer but “field corn”. Field corn can be either dent corn (Zea mays indentata) with a dent in each kernel when dried, or flint corn (Zea mays indurata) which many of us know as Indian corn. Both are harvested when mature and the kernels are dry. The hard kernels are milled into cornmeal, flour, grits or polenta.

A few days after my Shrimp and Grits meal and leftovers, I was several chapters into Where the Crawdads Sing. Kya, the coastal North Carolina Marsh Girl herself, came out with this doozy right there on the page: “I don’t know how to do life without grits.” Well, I declare!

Even if you don’t like grits, you’ve got to read Where the Crawdads Sing. It is a gem, especially for land-locked Yankees. Laurie Lynch

Stone-Ground Grits: Don’t fall for instant or quick-cook grits. Instead, order a 2 lb. muslin bag filled with authentic stone-ground grits at www.foodforthesouthernsoul.com Stirring reduces stress.

Souper Sunday: My friend Chris doesn’t let football stand in the way of her declaring several “Souper Sundays” during the year. She loads up her pots with ingredients for making homemade soups in bulk. Then, she ladles the delicious concoctions into quart containers and delivers them to friends and family in need of a little comfort food. And don’t we all need a little comfort food on occasion? Play it forward.

Minding His Own Beeswax: My chef-phew Wille, always cooking up something creative, has launched a sideline, beeswax candles in scents of lemongrass or anisette biscotti. Read all about it on his Nov. 1 blogpost Pandemic Passion: Beeswax Candles at the honey-filled site www.bee-america.com