I know, it seems rather over-economical and grandmotherly, doesn’t it? Even though my own grandma mostly baked – I don’t recall any pickles, unless I’ve blotted them from my memory in favour of butter tarts and marmalade cookies.
I’ve been home for 4 days, in the kitchen a lot, but without much to show for it.
I know I told you already that I was in Saskatchewan last week, but I don’t think I showed you this. Doesn’t it make you want to take a drive through the countryside? Perhaps in search of the ultimate peroghy? Seems like a reasonable research topic, don’t you think? I want to lie in this field.
Or maybe frolic through it.
I came home to a wild garden – much of it beaten by hail or ravaged by whatever hungry things live back there. My cabbage was enormous, but had been eaten down to a skeleton – inside, all that was left were the ribs. Had it survived, it could have fed a village. This is not an optical illusion-it was almost big as W.
The weeds did just fine, and escaped any damage. Some were as tall as me.
The chard survived, but there’s a lot of it. August might become Chard Month.
We reached into our first-planted potato condo and brought up a handful of thin-skinned baby spuds.
Which got simmered, then tossed around in a hot cast iron skillet after a flat iron steak had its turn. Then the chard.
We went to the food truck launch on Stephen Avenue on Thursday, along with several thousand other people. Which meant unfortunately there wasn’t any eating at said launch. (For us, anyway.)
We went to the dog park to walk in the river, and brought s’mores from Crave.
We went to check out Aviv’s new Sidewalk Citizen kitchen, which, by the way, is OPEN TO THE PUBLIC on Fridays and Saturdays. And if you go, you’ll find freshly baked things like these nearly two-foot-long breadsticks made from croissant dough, cheese and nigella seeds. Oh my.
There. You’re caught up on the past four days, more or less. There were also plenty of eggs, fried in the cast iron skillet once the wilted chard was pushed aside. With sourdough toast.
And each time I sauteed a batch of chard in a skiff of canola oil with a dab of butter and a few sliced garlic cloves, I kept the stems to pickle. I had these in mind for a certain pickle party that crept past as I was frolicking in the above field, eating fresh lentils straight from their pods.
If you do a lot of pickling, you may not even need directions; just cut your chard stems into lengths slightly smaller than your jar and pour your choice of pickling liquid over them. Pickling is the new jamming, it seems. Not a bad thing – perhaps if I make less jam and more pickles, I won’t eat quite as much bread and butter.