One Reason Among Many I Love Having a Garden

Yesterday I went into the vegetable garden to water some volunteer tomato plants we had recently transplanted to a better spot, and a couple of basil seedlings that I FIIIIIINALLY got in the ground. While I was out there, I thinned a few carrots and also yanked a couple of kohlrabi plants that were starting to bulb but were too close together.

Cubby had come with me to inspect his own tomato plant, and when he saw the tiny carrots and junior kohlrabi* I was holding, he asked, "Can I have those so we can have a feast in our fort?"

Well, I guess if you want to bring fresh vegetables into your hideaway under the spruce trees and I won't be seeing you for many minutes while you also consume the best possible vitamins and minerals money can't buy, it's all right with me. Twist my arm.

I could have made their feast complete by letting them harvest some of the peas that are almost ready, but I'll save that exciting treat for another day.

You want kids to eat their vegetables? Let them loose in a vegetable garden. Works every time.

* I did save one kohlrabi for myself--over Cubby's objections--because man, I do love fresh kohlrabi. And I'm treating the leaves of the kohlrabi the same as the radish greens: clean them and cook them immediately. Even those few plants I pulled yielded a couple of servings of cooked greens to go with my eggs tomorrow. Bonus.

An Alcoholic Raincheck

I'm not much of a drinker. (Um, many posts to the contrary. Cough.) I don't stock bottles of wine to drink with dinner, or beer for those lazy evenings that are so frequent with small children around.

Snort. (Anyway, I very much dislike beer.)

But I do love my cocktails. I love to try different combinations. I love to incorporate things I've made into them, to create something that could never be purchased at a fancy bar, even if I had access to such a place.

I just really like sitting down with an icy cocktail topped off with seltzer and drinking. Drinking one, anyway. Okay, so it's usually a double, but still only one.

Alas, even that one is unwise when I'm in the middle of one of these frequent pregnancies of mine.

Most of the time I don't even care. As I said, not a big drinker. But there are times. Times like the Fourth of July, when a gin and tonic seems like the perfect way to celebrate a holiday and a long summer day.

Hello, Fourth of July! I will not be celebrating you with a gin and tonic this year.

But next year . . . by the Fourth of July next year, I should be recovered enough from Baby #4--meaning not so punch drunk from exhaustion that ingesting alcohol seems superfluous--that I can toast Our Great Country with gin.

God bless America. And not being pregnant. Someday.

Stalking the Wild Strawberry

One of my great interests and joys in life is foraging for food that tastes just as good as--or better than-- anything that can be purchased, but that is, of course, free. Free is what foraging is all about, after all.

One of the best high-value forageable foods is berries. Here in the north, there are wild red raspberries and blackberries, which I've been impatiently waiting for. We're still a few weeks from ripe raspberries, I think, but this weekend A. casually mentioned that the kids had found wild strawberries in the grass by the house.

HOLD UP. Wild strawberries? SHOW ME IMMEDIATELY.

I've had a great desire to try a wild strawberry for some years. I've read about them in various books, but I had no idea they grew here. At Blackrock, there was a plant that grew something that looked like a strawberry, but wasn't. A. called them mock strawberries. He informed me that it's easy to tell them from the real wild strawberries. The mock berries hold the fruits straight up on the stalk, whereas the real strawberries bend towards the ground on the stalk.

I didn't verify this information, but since I have to assume he'd be loathe to poison his pregnant wife, I took his word for it and went out to pick some bendy wild strawberries.

Unfortunately, it had rained that morning, so the berries were sort of waterlogged. This dilutes their flavor, which I wasn't blown away by. They definitely tasted like strawberries, but they didn't have the intensity of flavor I was hoping for. This is true of any berry after it rains. It's best to pick them on hot, sunny days.

Nonetheless, I continued to pick them. And dude, that is definitely a commitment. Wild strawberries are TINY. They're about the size of a wild raspberry, and they look kind of like them too. That familiar, almost heart-shaped strawberry shape with the tapered bottom is not what wild strawberries look like. And unlike raspberries, they don't grow clustered on canes that are conveniently up off the ground. They grow spread out and low down to the ground, and many of them were covered by long grass.

Of course, they also don't have thorns, so there is that in their favor.

In the end, I got about a quarter-cup of strawberries after picking for 15 minutes.

Immediately after taking this photo, I covered these eensy weensy berries in sugar and heavy cream, as is their God-given destiny.

The children of course wanted some strawberries, too, so I sent them out to get their own. I figure they're lower to the ground than I am; it's easier for them to pick strawberries, right?

Right. Plus, after all the effort, I didn't feel like sharing.

I was excited to finally try wild strawberries, but I think I'll stick to buying quarts of tame ones at the Amish farm. All of a sudden $3.50 a quart seems like a very fair price. 

But when the red raspberries get ripe? Then the foraging is on for real.

Let the Easy Livin' Commence

Okay! School has been successfully concluded*, as has the family visit. We've taken the first of the summer road trips to Blackrock and returned yesterday. I've done the accumulated laundry, started some bread, and noted the weedy state of the garden, but haven't yet taken any steps to correct it.

Now we just sit back and cruise through summer vacation. Well, as much as three small boys, constant weeds, cooking, and laundry, and more road trips will allow us to cruise, anyway.

Happy summer, my lovelies! Doing anything fun?

* Complete with Class Leadership Awards for both Cubby and Charlie. A., whose own grammar school days featured more deficiency reports than awards, still can't get over the fact that he has children with school behavior so exemplary that they receive certificates in recognition of that fact. I guess that means I can take all the credit, right?

Embracing Low Standards

I never buy cereal. Never. Ever.

It's not that I don't like it. In fact, I like it quite a bit. So do my children. It's more that they (and I) will eat great quantities of it and still be hungry an hour later.

What a waste of money. And time, because then I have to make more food for them.

But we have guests arriving today, and I thought possibly I should have something in the kitchen that could just be opened and eaten without any prior preparation.

(This, by the way, is A.'s fondest and most-unattainable dream: Finding something in the kitchen he can just put in his mouth.)

So I bought some Cheerios.

They've been sitting in the pantry all week, but I remembered them when I realized I had bananas, blueberries, and fresh strawberries we found at an Amish farm yesterday, but sadly no yogurt. What else could I do with those fruits for breakfast?

OH, I KNOW.

Hey, kids! Big treat for breakfast this morning! Cheerios with your choice of fruit, WHEE!!!

"YAY!" said Cubby.

" YAY!" said Charlie. "This will be my first time eating Cheerios at home."

I know, son, I know. You can tell your future therapist all about your deprived childhood.

They each had two bowls.

This could be an advertisement for Cheerios, except that I started out by saying they were a waste of money, so I don't think General Mills will be contacting me for an affiliate deal anytime soon.

Speaking of those guests, we're expecting my sister, brother-in-law, and niece. Finding room for three more people to sleep in this two-bedroom house is significantly more difficult than at eight-bedroom Blackrock.

No worries, though. I've got it covered. As long as guests are willing to sleep on the floor of a kids' bedroom with stacked-up bed frames.

Eat your heart out, Pinterest people.

And on a fold-out couch in the downstairs playroom that has no door to shut out the noise of three small children and two adults that wake up way too early.

I will at least clear out a few stuffed animals and a few dozen building pieces. Because I am ever the gracious hostess.

And as long as my kids can manage to all camp out in the laundry room for three nights and actually sleep.

Really, who wouldn't find this relaxing and conducive to deep slumber?

Eh. Sleep's overrated. Bring on the good times, family-style.

A Journey to Find Roots (and Soda)

My dad discovered shortly after we moved here to the Canadian border that his great-grandfather actually immigrated to the U.S. from a community in Quebec that's only about 40 minutes from our house. We found this a funny coincidence, and A., who is more into family history than I am (probably because he actually knows all of his family history, as his family on both sides has lived in the same place for hundreds of years) wanted to go take a look at the place.

So we went on Saturday.

It was a very spontaneous trip. We didn't even leave until after Jack woke up from his nap at 3 p.m. We did find my ancestral village. It's actually pretty trashy and creepy, and I think A. said it best when he remarked that it was a good thing my ancestors left. We found the cemetery with some gravestones of people with the family name, although I'm not sure exactly how they're related to me.

Charlie is not in this photo because he was sulking in the car after staging a really spectacular post-car-nap meltdown. He didn't miss much.

Up to this point, none of the children had been too impressed with our journey to find our roots. They were bored. And hot. 

So we went to the beach.

With ten square feet of sand and everything.

What we actually did was drive a few minutes to see the St. Lawrence River, and then stumble upon a public park with a small beach. Perfect. A. had mentioned before we left that we might go to the river, so I of course brought extra clothing for the children. Because any time you bring children into close proximity to water, you'd better have extra clothing.

Except I forgot Cubby's, so after we were done at the beach, he had to sit in the car in his T-shirt and underwear while I hung the Classy Flag of Drying Shorts out my car window on our way to a restaurant for dinner.

The restaurant we stopped at was one just on the Canadian side of the border very close to our house that's well known for their French fries. And, of course, poutine. Because that's what French fries are for around here: drowning in cheese curds and gravy.

I myself am not a fan of poutine--why sog up perfectly crispy French fries?--but I am a fan of French fries. Because this was our big day out, I even got a can of soda for everyone. Usually I'm totally Unfun and get the kids water or juice, or, if they're really lucky, one soda to share. Because does a two-year-old need 12 ounces of corn syrup? No. 

But this time they each got their own 7-Up. Based on the excitement this generated, you would have thought they'd won the lottery.

Turns out, it's just that easy to make lasting memories. When I asked the kids what their favorite part of the trip was, they unanimously said the beach and the soda.

Sand + 7-Up=Good times, kid-style.

What Dad Really Wants for Father's Day

Actually, I have no idea what your dad wants for Father's Day. Not even sure what my own dad wanted for Father's Day.* But I know what A. wanted.

Biscuits: These.

Quality time with his scythe:

Cutting and stacking hay is where it's at for summer fun.

And Mass: Coming right up.

Happy Father's Day to A. He's not like any other dad I know, but he sure does do up this fatherhood gig in his own inimitable style.

Three cheers for Dad!

* What he got? A lame e-card and probably a phone call later. Celebrating in style as always, that's me.