Fleur-de-Puff

When I moved back to State College 10+ years ago, the Centre County Master Gardener group gave me a ready-made community. Sure, I miss my Lehigh Valley MGs, but I still keep in touch and it was nice to expand my MG connectedness locally.

Norm at home in his Magic Garden

At one point along the way I was invited to dinner at the home of Pam and Norm with my mom and another MG. Norm is a master vegetable grower and we traded garlic bulbs and vegetable stories in my early years of returning to State College.  Sorry to say I can’t remember the meal Pam prepared, but I remember the conversation. One of Pam’s favorite stores was my mother’s gourmet kitchenware shop, The Country Sampler in Boalsburg.  She talked to my mother about her memories and favorite recipes from the shop.

Pam and Norm live on several acres and a beautiful home not far from Colyer Lake, one of the most scenic spots in Central PA. They moved there from Park Forest (which gardeners disparagingly call “Dark Forest”), a neighborhood in State College that challenges even the best vegetable growers. 

Now they have Sun, with a capital S. Wide-open views. Soaring birds of prey. And their closest neighbor, neigh-neigh, is Magic the Horse.  

Norm planted apple, pear, and cherry trees. Not far from his patio, he has an 8-foot-high chain-link fence (to keep the deer out) around a vegetable garden that’s the size of a tennis court. The patio is a staging area for transplanting seedlings from cold frames and seeding trays.  There is another vegetable plot along the road in front of their house, Norm’s “low-rent” garden.

The closest Pam gets to any of Norm’s vegetable gardens is when she’s on the lawn tractor, mowing the grass that surrounds the beds. Once the vegetables are harvested and brought into the kitchen, that’s another story. Pam takes over. 

For years Norm has grown vegetable plants for giveaways to Food Bank customers as part of our MG Homegrown Project, which Norm and my friend Jan co-chair. But what about the actual vegetables grown in Norm’s garden, the excess that Norm and Pam can’t eat or preserve? Well, for a few years several Food Banks made produce pickups at Norm’s place.

Fast-forward to spring 2021. Norm and Jan create a hybrid called the Food Bank Farm Team.  The FBFT was initiated to assist Norm with the planting, weeding and harvesting of crops bound for local food banks. Norm is the vegetable production brains; Jan is the Sign-Up Genius brains. She recruits and juggles the womenpower assisting Norm in the garden, makes sure each bin and box is weighed or counted, and generally organizes everything.  Norm calls her “The Countess”.

Meanwhile, what does the rest of the team do? A little bit of everything. 

Norm’s Golden Rule of Soil Care: Don’t step on the planting beds, that’s what paths are for. Even leaning on the soil in a bed with your hand is verboten.  Norm has a 4-foot-long plank to lay between rows especially for that purpose.  Norm’s Magic Garden is his pride and joy, the soil fueled by well-aged and abundant horse manure, courtesy of Magic.

Early on I bragged that my specialty was pushing the wheelbarrow, after years of caring for ponies and horses, llamas and chickens. So, I steer the barrow filled with garden debris to compost piles. When the wheelbarrow is filled with hefty butternut squash or pumpkins, I let Norm take the lead.

We transplant romaine, oak leaf and Bibb lettuce, and then plant some more. We weed around garlic, carrots, and peppers. Over the summer I probably pulled my weight in purslane, Norm’s No. 1 weed. And, no, I did not give The Countess that number. We pick tomatoes, beans and eggplant; pull up red onions, white onions, and blueish-black skinned red beets.

Pam, bless her, welcomes us to use the house bathroom (despite our garden crud), and treats us to snacks of Melitzanosalata (Greek eggplant dip) on toast, coffeecake, or Sungold tomatoes. 

We make it fun. Norm cuts off heads of cabbage and lobs them over the 4-foot-high fence surrounding the low-rent garden.  I catch and stack them in the garden cart. Barb tugs a tangled web of cucumber vines as she recalls teaching English in Hungary when the Berlin Wall came down.

If I notice a wimpy lettuce seedling in the garden, I tease Jo that she must have planted that one. (Jo is an interior decorator; she normally plants for blossoms, not for vegetables, and doesn’t mind a little ribbing.)  Hours spent side-by-side with Jan, Phoebe, Lisa, Sharon, Chris, Kate, and Laura are as colorful as the monarchs that balance on the Tithonia and the goldfinches that snack on sunflowers.

Throughout the summer we see the garden ABCs: apples, broccoli, cantaloupes, cherries, cauliflower, and cabbages, ah, Norm loves cabbages. All the way to the end of the alphabet and into fall, three of us spend two hours stripping and unweaving pole bean vines from the X, X, X’s of the chain-link fence. WhY, I got a lot of Zzzz’s that night!

After one work session, Pam came out of the house and mentioned they had weekend visitors and she made my mother’s “Puff.” 

What a rush of memories. My dad would pour coffee from the French press into Hadley mugs while my mother brought The Puff to the atrium, placing it in the middle of the white wicker dining table.  She made The Puff in a fluted brown Dansk casserole.  Daughters, sons-in-law, and probably a handful of toddling grandchildren were ready for breakfast. The Puff was more than a dish, it was entertainment, as my mother squeezed a lemon inserted with a spout over the puffy golden pillow dusted with powdered sugar. 

A quick email to Pam and a recipe arrives electronically. To commemorate The Country Sampler’s 25^th anniversary my mother gave packets of favorite recipes to her customers. More than 25 years later, Pam still has hers.  I’m sure my mother is smiling. Laurie Lynch

Norm’s the Man: To mark the end of our season, we gave Norm one of my old Fleur-de-Lys Farm slates. “What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it.” by Charles Dudley Warner, 1870. On the flip side we wrote: “And the Food Bank Farm Team FBFT” with each of us signing our name.

Pam’s the Star: On my last visit with members of the FBFT, I brought Pam a special treat.  One of my homegrown Meyer lemons to squeeze on her next Puff.

The Countess Countdown: This growing season 4,500 pounds of produce from Norm and Pam’s place were packed into pickup trucks driven by Food Bank volunteers, bound for Philipsburg, Port Matilda, and Centre Hall.

The Laurie Countdown: Besides his vast knowledge, Norm shares his garden bounty with helpers.  Among my favorites are a personal-size Savoy cabbage, asparagus, rhubarb, and knobby gourds for fall décor.  He also gifted me with calla lily bulbs for containers, and lupine seed pods, and black-eyed Susan, Sue, and Suzannah, for next year’s flowerbeds.

Happy Thanksgiving

Fleur-de-Sumac

 Years ago, I planted cut-leaf Staghorn sumac (Rhus hirta or typhinia) on the hill between the house and barn on Hottenstein.

I thought its suckering nature would keep the bank intact, provide beauty with its torch-like burgundy berry bunches, brilliant fall foliage, and, perhaps most importantly, eliminate mowing on a treacherous slope. Never did I think of making sumac-ade. 

Sure, over the years I’d read about making sumac lemonade, but the thought didn’t appeal to me. Sumac has hairy berries.  The young branches are also hairy, like the velvet on deer antlers, thus this sumac’s common name: Staghorn. 

Then I read about a (live, in-person) foraging series at the Arboretum at Penn State.  One of the classes was How to Make Sumac Lemonade. Time to branch out.

Now, before you poison sumac worrywarts get too excited, telling the difference is simple. Poison sumac has berries of white, quite a fright; its harmless cousins have edible berries of red, let pink lemonade fill your head. Still, a cautionary note:  All sumacs are members of the Cashew Family (Anacardiaceae), which also includes mangoes. If you are allergic to cashews or mangos, best to steer clear of sumac-ade.

Sumac often grows at the edges of fields and roadsides throughout the country, but you want to harvest berries from plants you know haven’t been sprayed with pesticides.  For my class, we ventured into the arboretum’s Childhood’s Gate Children’s Garden with permission to pick sumac berries. The berries start turning red in August and September and persist through winter into spring. 

Use the finger test to see if the berries are worth picking. Gently run your finger across the fruit and then lick your finger. If it tastes sweet and tart, that is the berry cluster to pick.  Remarkably, it is the hairs that give the berries their flavor.  If you went out the day after Tropical Storm Ida dumped 5 inches of rain on Centre County, chances are the hairs, and flavor, were washed away.

Gently break apart berry clusters from the twigs, rinse to remove insects or other plant material, and then place in a jar. Pour cool water over fruit and allow it to sit overnight. The next day, strain the fruit, pouring the liquid through cheesecloth. Add a few ice cubes, and enjoy your Sumac Lemonade. If you like it a bit sweeter, add honey to taste. Laurie Lynch

Pottery lizard (by a much younger Marina) and spider plant guarding my cold brew.

Hot Sumac Tea: You can also make a hot brew and it will be a brighter red than the cold brew.  Follow the same instructions above but pour boiling water over the berries and let steep for 20 minutes to an hour, press fruit with a wooden spoon if you like, and then filter. DO NOT boil the berries in water because they will release bitter tannic acid.

Sumac Surrounds Us: Native Americans used Staghorn sumac not only made tea from the berries but various parts of the plant were used as medicine and fabric dyes, and the leaves were mixed with tobacco and smoked.  In the Middle East,  Za’atar is an herbal mix (containing the hairs of sumac berries) used on vegetables, chicken and olive-oil dipped bread.

Looking Back: This year’s garden was a last-ditch effort.  When I bought the place, the raised bed garden in the side yard was buried in snow. But I was able to plant, despite the move.   Six months later, what makes me glad I did? Green Zebra tomatoes, Sun Gold tomatoes, Poona Kheera cucumbers, basil, basil, basil, tarragon (moved from my mom’s home), Shishito peppers (MFMMH), chocolate mint, and pole beans (trellis MFMMH). 

Yet to Come: A Meyer Lemon tree that is chock full of green-waiting-to-turn-yellow Meyer Lemons. Richard gave me the plant years ago. It flowered and wafted its wonderful fragrance through the atrium, but the teensy fruit always dropped off.  This year, despite a change in location, the plant and fruit are thriving on my front deck. Fingers crossed that they’ll ripen … or else I’ll make Meyer Limeade! Ha, ha. 

Yet to ripen Meyer lemons and my favorite rain lilies.

Fleur-de-Lodi

The house smelled of applesauce for days. 

“Almost heaven, Pleasant Gap…” I’m singing in my best John Denver voice.

I’ve mentioned my neighbors Jack and Sonja. They not only fill me in on local history, but they’ve taken to perching in their chairs overlooking my raised-bed garden.

“There’s a big, green bell pepper ready for picking.” (“I’m waiting until it turns red, it’s called Scarlet Knight.”)

“Either you missed three beans high up on the vine or they grew huge overnight.” (“Well, they do grow quickly but I probably missed those.”)

“So, you dug up some potatoes already?”  (“I was hungry for potato salad.”)

“We saw some white butterflies near your squash.” (“Hmmm.”)

In the meantime, I’ve shared lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, tried to share garlic but they don’t eat it, and neighborly life goes on.

Then, one day while taking Sandy for a walk, an octogenarian ambled toward me from his yard. 

“Do you want some Lodi apples?  They make great pies and applesauce. I’ve seen your garden when I visit Jack and Sonja.”

This was my formal introduction to Stellard, Sonja’s brother. He handed me a beautiful yellow-green apple that Sandy and I consumed on our walk.

“I’ll pick some more when it’s not so hot.”

The next day Stellard left a peck or more of Lodi apples at the side door, under the carport. 

Then, the work began.  Lodi apples are not good keepers, I read, so you won’t find them in a supermarket. The early season apples were developed about 100 years ago by the orchardists at the New York State Agricultural Experiment Station who crossed a Yellow Transparent with a Montgomery Sweet.

Temperatures that day reached the mid-90s, so all of the windows were closed and the AC turned on. My mom’s gifted handyman, Bobby, was at the house for the morning, attaching a second railing at the basement stairs, fixing a leak under the kitchen sink, and fiddling with the bathroom shower and vanity light.  

So, as he fixed and I pared, cored, and sliced, we chatted and caught up.  His third child is due next month. Besides building his wife a greenhouse, they also have goats, chickens, guineas, ducks, and soon, turkeys. Midway through the morning, a certain four-legged thief stuck his head in the bag of apples, grabbed one in his mouth, and ran into his “cave” under the bed.  We followed him.  Bobby dropped to the floor on both his good knees, pulled Sandy out and pried the apple from his mouth. There isn’t much Bobby can’t or won’t do.

Soon it was applesaucing time. 

By then, Bobby was off to his next job and I was alone in the kitchen, almost afraid to turn on the flame for the gas stove on such a hot day, but I didn’t want the apples to spoil either. 

I had prepared 25 apples and had the following recipe for applesauce: 

1/2 peck (5 pounds) or about 16 Lodi apples
1/2 cup water
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar, plus more to taste

I adjusted for the extra apples, which I placed in a large soup pot with a pinch of salt and 3/4 cup of water. This doesn’t seem like a lot of water, but it worked perfectly. I turned the heat to medium, and cooked the apples, stirring frequently with a long wooden spoon.  As the apples softened, I kept stirring to keep them from sticking or scorching. After about 25 minutes I brought out the heavy-duty equipment: a metal masher. I pressed the larger slices into sauce, stirring the rest, and then mashed some more.  I like lumpy applesauce, so I didn’t go crazy.  Within 30 minutes from turning on the stove, I had a batch of applesauce. I turned off the flame, added ¼ cup of sugar and a little more, and let everything cool to room temperature.  Then I ladled the applesauce into containers and packed them in the freezer. 

The next day I still had Lodi apples left in the bag, so I made two Norwegian Apple Pies (a simple, no-crust recipe from my sister Lee Ann), one for Sandy and me, the other for Stellard and his wife. Laurie Lynch

Name Double, Almost:  Stellard was named after his father, but Sonja is not sure where her father’s name came from.  When I was a youngster, I found a telegram to my mom (from when she was pregnant with me) sent by her father. If the baby is a girl, he asked, please name her “Stella” (after my mother’s mother). Obviously, my mother did not take the suggestion, and Laura, it was.  As a kid, I was always thankful. It seemed like such an old-fashioned name. But now, I kind of like it. Heck, it’s Latin for “star”.  Stellard is certainly my Lodi Star.  

Starry Night:  The other night I was a ticket-taker at an Acoustic Brew concert. Van Wagner, a PA-raised environmentalist/teacher/singer-songwriter, was the featured performer at the Boal Mansion Museum’s outdoor amphitheater. He ended the evening with a sing-along, “Goodnight, Irene”, first sung by Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter and then The Weavers, and through the years, many others.  It is a folk concert favorite and my mother and I often sang it to each other.

If you’re not familiar with the refrain: “Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight. Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.”

Guess who made a guest appearance in my dreams later that night? Not Irene—Marie.

Fleur-de-ToDo

The iPhone generation loves to take photos of food.  Marina sent me one of her garden creations, a still life of borage and chive blossoms, sorrel leaves, and dill atop a luscious quiche:

Richard sent me a photo of a fruit drink served in a simple jar with a stunning wedge of pomegranate and a mint sprig that gave me an unquenchable thirst:

Why is it that when I try to do the same thing, I get a To Do List?

My dinner, a simple bowl of pasta from Fasta and Ravioli Co. of Pleasant Gap (best pasta this side of Milan), with grated Asiago cheese and home-grown green onions.

But picture the sides:

A stack of seeds to plant

A borrowed Makita sander to prep a roadside castoff

The label from my flex-hose to purchase another for our community garden

Leftover strip from the backsplash of my very first gas stove

A book to drop off at my favorite Little Library

Sam’s Club renewal form

The packaging from curtains to buy a matching set

Lipstick plant cuttings from my mom’s house to root for a friend 

A cracked dryer vent to replace

A $5 Ace Rewards card

And yes, a glass of wine, much needed with a list like that. Laurie Lynch

Name Game:  Spotted from abroad, Dr. McClean, an immunologist in Dublin, Ireland.

Cold Brew:  Every other day I put 4 scoops of ground coffee beans from Café Lemont in a quart jar, fill it with water, and stick it in the refrigerator. The next morning, I filter the cold brew in my French press, and fill my Yeti coffee mug with a pour of chilled-brew coffee with a sprig of slightly crushed chocolate mint, ice, and half-and-half.  The rest is saved for day No. 2. Try it, you will fall in love. 

Written on Slate:  I don’t need an inspirational quote, I need an iced coffee! 

Fleur-de-Grits

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

Pennsylvania mushrooms not practicing social distancing.

Fleur-de-Famiglia

About two months ago I got an email from a fourth cousin.  In this year of 2020, Chris decided to update the Genealogia della Famiglia Marcon that his father, John, completed in 2002.

That first family tree, printed out and taped together, measured 12 feet wide and 6 feet deep. Quite the monster.  Chris, who is retired and living in St. Louis, is 48% finished with the update.  In the three-dozen or so emails we’ve exchanged, I’m learning more and more about my family.

The Numero Uno Marcon recorded on our family tree is Andre, born in 1690.  Nine generations span three centuries.  In those years, the Marcon family has seven sets of twins (the first ones, Luigi and Giovanni in 1837) and one set of triplets.

Top 5 Female Names:

1. Maria, Marie, Mary, Marilyn, Marylyn
2. Ann, Anna, Angel, Angela, Angelina, Angie
3. Elizabeth, Elisabetta
4. Patricia, Patria, Patriza
5. Rosemary, Rosa, Rosamond, Rose

Top 5 Male Names:

1. Michael, Michele, Micheal
2. John, Jonathan, Giovanni
3. Antonio, Anthony, Tony
4. Christopher, Chris, Christian, Cristophe, Christoforo
5. TIED:  Peter, Pietro and Robert, Roberto

As Chris goes along collecting and updating names, offspring, etc., he’s finding and attaching photos, obituaries, copies of passports, and other memorabilia to the final document.

While respecting stay-at-home orders in Missouri, he has traveled the world via Google Earth Airlines. He flew east of Hyderabad, India, around Australia, Canada and the United States.  Off he went to the roots and routes of the Veneto region of Italy. Then, to Belgium, France,  and the United Kingdom, finally heading south to Lima, Peru.

“Too bad I could not get frequent flier miles for those ventures,” Chris writes. Meanwhile, I’ve been helping collect and correct our limb of the family tree, traveling while staying in place, and getting to know mi famiglia.  Laurie Lynch

Read All About It! I immersed myself in a book of my father’s that I found at the house: “Unto the Sons” by Gay Talese. This is the biographical story of the author’s Italian ancestors migrating to the U.S. and those who stayed behind in Italy.  It is the perfect accompaniment to Chris’s family tree.  And, who knows, maybe the next project Chris tackles in retirement will be writing the narrative of the Marcon experience.

Settimio Pomodori:  On my grandfather’s side of the Italian side of my family (my grandmother was a Marcon) is Settimio Azzalini, a cousin of my father’s. I met Settimio and his family after Marina graduated from Vesalius College and she, Richard and I travelled to Venice, with a side trip to Treviso to meet the Azzalini family.

In the years since, Settimio sent me a selection of tomato seeds he saved, packaged in Barilla (the company he worked for) recycled teabag envelopes. Each was hand-labeled by Settimio: Pomodori Misti(mixed), Cuor di Bu(oxheart), Blu (blue) and Ciliegino (cherry). Settimio died a few years ago but somehow it seemed fitting to start his saved tomato seeds this spring during the world pandemic.  This morning, the plants went into our Central Pennsylvania garden.

Mangia:  When we ordered produce from Tait Farm the other day, we decided to try something new:  kale florets.

Dear Google, what to do with the buds and flower stalks of kale?  I found directions and a recipe, added a few of our favorite ingredients, and voilà, a current family favorite.

First, you need to blanch the kale florets (chopped to about 1” lengths).  Do this by adding ¼ cup salt to a quart of water.  Get your salted water boiling rapidly and then toss the florets in, boiling for one minute.  Immediately drain and place florets in an ice bath. This process keeps the green greens from turning gray.

While the florets are swimming, start baking the turkey bacon until crispy and heat a pot of water to cook your pasta in.

In a large pan over medium heat, add olive oil and sauté 5 cloves of minced garlic, 4 scallions sliced thin, and chili pepper flakes. Add cubes of bread cheese and stir until they melt, at which time you add your kale florets to heat them through.  Once the pasta is done, drain, and then add the yummy mixture and bacon bits. Stir, serve, and mangia!

Beware of Lyme:  We had quite a scare this week. Sandy 4.0 had an upset stomach and was lethargic. Off to the ER vet early one morning.  We figured he ate something that didn’t agree with him.  Next morning, he couldn’t stand.  I took him to his regular vet for blood tests. Turns out he has Lyme disease.  And … he had a Lyme vaccine and booster several months ago.

Within 24 hours we had our lovable, frisky, fluff monster back. I picked some flowers for the vet and helpers, placed a few limes in the vase, strapped on my mask and dropped it off at the pet hospital with a note:  “The only lime we like. Sandy 4.0 had an amazing recovery!”

Fleur-de-Selfie

Road to Fall

There’s a reason why millennials are taking selfies and those of a certain age are not.

The sun was warming my back with clear blue skies overhead, the oranges and golds of fall around us. My hands were grubbing through the cool, moist soil, as my eyes darted down, searching for knobby jewels.  I was in an old pair of sweatpants, knees grinding into the ground, elbows down there too, which meant my butt was at the highest elevation, certainly a sight no one would want to see.

I laughed to myself. “Now I know what it feels like to be a groundhog.”   Don’t picture this.

Ah, the bittersweet days following the first hard frost.  The basil plants that flavored so many meals this summer, blackened.  The screaming yellow mums soften into a crown of browned butter.  The Canada geese honking as they ride the currents into winter.  But never mind, when fall temperatures dip, they also sweeten the tubers of Jerusalem artichokes.

I’ve written a lot about Jerusalem artichokes (aka sunchokes in supermarkets), botanically known as Helianthus tuberosus, a North American native sunflower.  The golden flowers are on the small side, about the size of a daisy, but they grow on towering stalks, 7 or 8 feet tall, blooming in August and September. Right now, my grove of Jerusalem artichokes looks pretty dreary—brown, hollow stalks that snap easily as I pull them to unearth their purple-and-white tubers.

Bucket of Jerusalem Artichokes

Truth be known, I much prefer the Dutch name for the plant, aardpeer, which means “earth pear” and its tubers certainly are crisp pears of the earth. But don’t make the mistake of biting into them raw—the tubers “cause a filthy, loathsome, stinking wind within the body,” said the Englishman John Goodyer in 1617.  The flatulence is caused by their high concentration of inulin, according to Sally Fallon’s cookbook “Nourishing Traditions.”

Fallon suggests peeling the tubers and plunging them into boiling filtered water. Cook for about 15 minutes, adding a squeeze of fresh lemon juice to the batch in the last five minutes. Drain, then slice and sauté in olive oil.

I’ve sautéed JAs, and I’ve pickled them.  This year I plan to try Clotilde Dusoulier’s recipe for Jerusalem Artichoke Soup, substituting turkey bacon for the lardon. (Clotilde is the author of  “Tasting Paris” and writes a blog, Chocolate and Zucchini.)

2 ½ lbs. Jerusalem artichokes

1 medium potato

½ tsp. baking soda

3½ ounces bacon, cut into matchsticks

1 clove garlic, chopped

4 cups vegetable or chicken stock

Freshly ground black pepper

Small bunch of fresh chives, snipped, for garnish

Peel the Jerusalem artichokes and place in a bowl of cold water to prevent oxidation.  Peel potato.  Rinse both in two changes of water, cut into chunks and place in medium saucepan. Cover with cold water, add baking soda and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. As soon as the water simmers, remove from heat and reserve in cooking water.

While the vegetables are heating up, place a soup pot over medium heat, add bacon and cook until browned. A minute before bacon is entirely browned, add garlic and cook for a minute until softened, stirring frequently.

Drain vegetables and add to the soup pot. Pour in hot stock, stir, and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook for 15-18 minutes, until the vegetables are cooked enough that a knife and be easily inserted, but not so much that they fall apart.

Purée soup with an immersion blender (or pour into blender).  Divide among 4 to 6 soup bowls and sprinkle with black pepper and chives, and serve.

Bon appetit.  Smakelijk.  Laurie Lynch

Tune In … Maybe: We just completed our third year with the MG-Limerock Court community garden.  Jan and I asked our two stalwarts, Judith and Janet, what they’d like to try next year.

“Potatoes.”

I remembered hearing a segment of Mike McGrath’s “You Bet Your Garden” on WPSU radio about growing potatoes in something called a Lehigh compost bin.  But, I didn’t remember the particulars.  So, earlier this week I emailed YBYG to ask for instructions. I got an immediate response, saying that Mike would like to have me on the show for a more detailed answer. Within an hour or so, I was on the phone with Mike asking me questions about my first car, the weather, and who knows what else to make sound adjustments to my voice.

Then, I was being recorded!

Pardon the Mike-speak, but if you cats and kittens would like to listen to horticultural hijinks with Laurie from State College (who did a fair amount of stumbling over her words) and learn about growing potatoes in a compost bin from Mike McGrath, tune into You Bet Your Garden, WLVT, PBS 39, Saturday Nov. 2 at 10 a.m. (In State College, I’m guessing the segment will run on WPSU Sunday Nov. 3 at 11 a.m.)

“Laurie’s” mug

It’s the Little Things:  With weekly physical therapy, medical bills, and no bike riding, my visits to Café Lemont have gone from almost daily (pre-November 2018 ankle surgery) to maybe monthly (post-June and -September surgeries).  Yesterday, the stars aligned and my mom and I stopped in for a special treat.

Seth remembered. He brought my mom a Hazelnut Latte topped with a creamy fern-like design and a spoon (because “It’s always too hot to sip.”)  For me, a Chai Latte in “my” mug.  The blue with gold floral swirl mugs are my favorites.  When Marina came for a visit, she also fell in love with them.  So, I contacted the potter in San Francisco and she shipped Marina a set for her new home. It takes a special barista to know the history and find the clean mug when the right person walks in the door.

Fleur-de-Binge

Thank goodness (and Benjamin Franklin) for public lending libraries.  I have been on a book binge.

The end of summer-early fall repeatedly took me to Denmark and France, as well as crisscrossing the U.S. It seems I read a book, enjoy it, and the authors’ notes would list books they’ve written or read, and off I go. Or, fate keeps circling around.

In mid-August, I was in search of a happiness fix and read Helen Russell’s The Atlas of Happiness. Then I traveled to Denmark via her earlier book, The Year of Living Danishly.  I went political and breezed through Peter Buttigieg’s  Shortest Way Home.  Finished with that and a friend lent me a copy of Nickel Boys, promising that the novel by Colson Whitehead would bring me down from my happiness spree, but necessary, nevertheless. Next was the true adventure memoir  Find a Way.  It takes place in the waters between Florida and Cuba with Diana Nyad, a childhood idol, who continues to amaze me in my mid-60s.

It was the cover of Paris by the Book—a French bookstore—that drew me to Liam Callanan’s novel, which, in turn, led me to the children’s book The Red Balloon (I still am looking for the movie, which came first).  Paris by the Book also helped me find Rosecrans Baldwin’s memoir, Paris I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down, and Kate Betts’ memoir My Paris Dream.  Whew, done with that whirlwind, I logged into the Schlow Centre Region Library website, scanned the new book section, and I snatched up Hungry with my greedy, computer-request keyboard strokes.  The full title: Hungry—Eating, Road-Tripping and Risking It All with the Greatest Chef in the World. 

In Hungry, author Jeff Gordinier pulled me back to Denmark. It brought me even further back to memories of my chef-phew Wille talking about Chef René Redzepi whose Copenhagen restaurant Noma has been named Best Restaurant in the World four times in the last 10 years, and this year is No. 2, but most likely trying harder.

IF you can get a table at Noma, a 20-course meal for one is several hundred dollars (wine pairings are a few more hundred dollars). There, diners sample the likes of plankton mousse, bear steak, birch water, sea snail broth, kelp butter, apple-pine juice, fermented blueberries, and pickled flowers.

Noma, Redzepi, and his kitchen crew are all about foraging, fermentation, fandom and friggin’ food Instagrams.  Hungry details the quest for excellence and the pitfalls of the restaurant business as Redzepi takes Noma on the road to Australia, Japan, and Mexico, and then rebuilds a new Noma, returning to Copenhagen with three seasonal themes: game, ocean, and plants. Eating or cooking a la Noma is not in my future, although I respect the philosophy behind the extreme local flavors and artistic presentation. The recipe in the book that really made me hungry was one that Redzepi’s father, an Albanian Muslim who migrated to Denmark, ate almost every day of life and has never been served at Noma.  Redzepi’s wife Nadine makes it for her chef-husband at home—true comfort food. I plan to try it during the brisk autumn evenings of Central PA.

Home-Sweet-Home Beans

Soak beans overnight. Heat in chicken broth on low for several hours (4 times as much broth as beans).  Add a few peeled cloves of garlic and tomatoes.  The secret part, about 20 minutes before the beans are finished, drop in three bags of chamomile tea.  Steep and remove before the teabags break apart.  Season beans with salt, ladle into bowls, and crown with herbs and a “lizard’s tail” of red chili oil.

Written on Slate: “… The best moments have happened when something in the present connects with stories from the past. …When past and present merge, something new happens.”  René Redzepi’s Journal Entry

Photograph Explained:  The Dianthus tucked into a little alcove at our front door started blooming in the spring, pushed out flowers throughout the summer, and is one of the last flowers still blooming in October. And I love its gray foliage.

New Fruit:  Richard was shopping at Wegman’s and brought home a bag of grapes that were new to us: Moon Drops. They’re purple-black rods, about 2 inches long. Seedless and so sweet!

 

Fleur-de-Done

I harvested garlic on Bastille Day.

I harvested more garlic on the 50^thanniversary of Walking on the Moon Day.

I harvested the last of my garlic on Mick Jagger’s 76th birthday.

I’ve smuggled some into the kitchen to make pesto—the slow way.

This week I cleaned 39 garlic bulbs with 258 cloves.  I peeled, sliced, and dehydrated them (in the garage) to make more than a quart of garlic dust for the long winter ahead, in Pennsylvania and Belgium.

The largest bulbs of each type—Asian Tempest, Georgia Fire, German White, Kettle River, Metechi, Music, Quiet Creek, Spanish Roja, and Zemo—are hanging in the barn awaiting planting.

I’m done. No more little maps with numbers planted, numbers harvested. No stakes. No almost-straight rows.  What gets planted this fall will come out of the ground in 2020, unnamed and unrecorded.

I’ve kept track of each garlic variety I’ve grown since State College in the late 1980s. I moved to the Lehigh Valley in 1989 and added a few varieties in our Coplay garden. Went to this garlic festival and that, and added a few more varieties and subtracted some as we started growing garlic in Kutztown at Fleur-de-Lys Farm. Then, back to State College, the garlic travelled in the bed of my pickup truck. Lemont Farmers Market. Growing for friends, family, and co-workers. Thirty years of October plantings, rows and rows of cloves, thumb-to-pinky finger apart. Snapping off garlic scapes in May and June, harvesting and sorting in July. Curing in August.  Slicing, chopping, sautéing, roasting, pickling, mashing, pureeing, eating, eating, and more eating.

This October, I’m freeing myself from all of that. Garlic seasons will still come and go, just on a smaller, no-name, no-numbers, scale. It’s time to lighten the baggage, even in the garden. Laurie Lynch

Deck Weather:  We’ve been spending a lot of time on the deck, especially watching the bees and autumn butterflies harvest nectar from the Brazilian vervain  (Verbena bonariensis).  I love that it is a volunteer (it just appeared in the garden) and its willy-nilly ways are a stark contrast to the rigid lines of the trellis behind. And one night, having dinner on the deck, we heard the whooshing flame of a hot air balloon.  It drifted in the sky, between the treetops, a perfect ending to a perfect day.

Another Perfect Ending:  My friend Jan spoils us with dinner invitations that always include a scrumptious dessert.  This one is an absolute favorite, must be made a day ahead…and is GLUTEN FREE.

Lemon Angel Pie

4 eggs, separated

1 ½ cups sugar, divided

¼ tsp. cream of tartar

¼ cup lemon juice, about 1 large lemon worth

1 Tbsp. finely grated and chopped lemon zest

¼ tsp. kosher salt

2 cups heavy whipping cream

Crust Directions: Preheat the oven to 300° F. Place egg whites in a mixing bowl and beat until white and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Gradually add in 1cup sugar and cream of tartar.  Beat another minute to combine. Scoop into a buttered glass pie pan and bake for 50 minutes, until puffy, lightly browned, and beginning to crack. While crust is baking, make the filling.

Remove crust from oven and let cool completely.  The crust will begin to crack and fall as it cools.

Filling directions: While the crust is in the oven, whisk together egg yolks, ½ cup sugar, lemon juice, zest and salt. Microwave for 3-4 minutes, stirring every 45 seconds.  Let cool.

When both crust and filling have cooled, whip cream into peaks and whisk ½ whipped cream into lemon mixture.  Spoon lemon mixture over the crust and spread with a spatula.  Scoop dollops of remaining whipped cream over lemon filling and smooth with a spatula.  Refrigerate 12-24 hours before serving Pie keeps in the refrigerator for 2-3 days (unless you eat it all in one sitting).

 

Fleur-de-MissHer

As soon as 2019 arrived I started getting “friendly reminders” that my iCloud storage was nearing capacity.

I got to work. I trashed duplicate or fuzzy photos over a couple of weekends. Then, daily, I deleted messages in my email inbox. It was a trip though the past decade, slow work. I’d get distracted by this or that email, go drifting into a daydream filled with memories.

Threaded through the days of deletions were years of friends sharing stories, catching up from far away, checking in and keeping me up to speed with their lives. Then, on Feb. 10, just four days after her 64^thbirthday, I got an email from Karen.  Stage 4 Cancer.  Hospice. The suddenness, the sadness, ran through me. I couldn’t delete her stories.

Karen wrote about her kids, her travels, her garden, anything French or Italian, politics. She sent a photo of her son’s special wedding and another son’s handcrafted wooden bowls. She suggested books like the The Hare with Amber Eyes and I headed straight to the library.  She shared her family’s favorite birthday dish—Paul Prudhomme’s Cajun Chicken Diane—and for her garlic-loving friend, Provencal Garlic Soup.  A true Renaissance woman, just a year ago Karen sent a poem she had written … on stinkbugs.

As autumn leaves turn, bracing for the winter ahead, or, as a spring tonic, readying me for the road ahead, Provencal Garlic Soup is my comfort dish. You will find the recipe at the end of this blog post.

Karen

And, the friendship. I remember evenings in her backyard when I lived in Kutztown, sipping wine and learning about her favorite climbing rose.  Or venturing into her pantry to admire her home-preserved sauces, fruits, and pickled vegetables. There were chats on the phone, a weekend visit when I watched her peek into the oven or set table with china collected over the years as she prepared a dinner club soirée, and, our emails. I remember one, in December, when I was dumping my dementia-caregiving woes on Karen—and feeling guilty. The response came back in ALL CAPS, saying, in effect, Listen up Laurie. Remember this and don’t forget it:

YOU CAN ALWAYS TALK BITCHY TO ME BUT I’LL NEVER THINK YOU ARE A B#%*H.

A true friend, what more could I ask for?

Karen died March 17.

Laurie Lynch

Small World, Email Style:  I was talking to a dental office receptionist the other day to set up an appointment for my mother.  I gave her my email address for a reminder and she said, “Oh, I’ve been to Fleur-de-Lys Farm.”

“What? When?” I asked, my voice full of incredulity

“My son and Nick (my nephew) were in a baseball tournament in the Lehigh Valley and you had the team over for a cookout.”  I had almost forgotten.

Update on Books:  The first in The Irish Country Doctor series by Patrick Taylor captured my heart with scene setting—and what a setting, the Irish countryside—and lovable characters. The doctors, old-timer Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and just-out-of-med-school Dr. Barry Laverty, amused me with a Irish schoolboy version of name that tune, as one spouts a quote and the other replies with the author—Shaw, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Kipling. Settle in under an eiderdown comforter with cup of tea and one of Taylor’s books as you read about the personalities and ailments of a small Irish village, complete with a heavy dose of Ulster dialect: eejit( idiot), knackered (tired), and lummox  (stupid creature).

Forget homespun calm when you open Bill Clinton and James Patterson’s The President Is Missing.  This book creates adrenaline-pumping, non-stop tension as high-tech meets terrorism.  I couldn’t put it down. Highly recommended, thank you, Valerie.

Now, I’ve started My Struggle.  Stay tuned.

Provencal Garlic Soup

8 cups water

¾ cup peeled garlic cloves

¼ cup olive oil

1/3 cup sliced onion

1/3 cup sliced celery

1/3 cup fennel

½ cup white wine

4 fresh thyme sprigs

½ tsp. fresh rosemary leaves

5 cups chicken stock

2 ¼ cups half-and-half

1 slice coarse country bread, day old or lightly toasted

1 Tbsp. salt

1 tsp. pepper

In a large pot, combine water and garlic, and bring to a boil over high heat.  Reduce to medium and simmer, uncovered, until garlic is translucent, about 5 minutes.  Drain and reserve garlic.

Return pot to medium heat and add olive oil. Heat 30 seconds, then add onion, celery, and fennel, saute until just tender, 2-3 minutes. Add garlic, reduce heat slightly and sauté, stirring frequently, 2 more minutes. Do not allow to brown.  Add wine and cook until reduced by half.

Add remaining ingredients. Stir well, reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally until reduced by one-fourth and creamy white, about 40 minutes. Remove and let cool 10 minutes.

Blend, reheat over medium heat, and serve immediately.

I