Peppermint Bark

I hesitated to come in here with this, comically late with such an obvious Christmas treat, and especially after my long absence in this space, but since I am loathe to let this holiday end, here I am.

Late.

With a Christmas recipe.

Holidays this autumn were a bit sketchy, you see.  Over the past three months, we have celebrated Princess Hazelnut's third birthday, our tenth wedding anniversary, and my own, um, (let's see, I was born in 1973...) 37th birthday, but there was also a funeral, a frightening and unexpected vacation in ICU for The Carnivore, and the general mayhem that goes along with such life-pausing events (a few of which happened concurrently).

So it was with great relief and pure delight that our Christmas was cozy, warm, simple, full of light and love, and devoid of illness and stress.  There were handmade and secondhand gifts under the tree and homemade treats shared with family and friends.  We did not travel, we did not shop at the mall, we did not spend very much money, and we enjoyed every easy, lovely minute of the season.

And there was snow.  In Georgia!  On Christmas!

But most importantly, there was Peppermint Bark.

This treat is new only to me, I suppose, since everyone I know seems to have heard of some permutation or another of bark candies, but it was a revelation to me.  I had never had Peppermint Bark before, not in any form, and it rocked my world in the way that Pain au Chocolat does the first time one bites into it while walking down the street on a first visit to Paris, or the way, from what I hear, one feels when they skydive for the first time.

Not that I would ever jump out of a plane.  For any reason.

This Peppermint Bark recipe came from a nearly-vintage issue of Bon Appetit, but found it's way to me via Orangette (even though I paid little attention at the time) and Soule Mama (who had to write about it two years in a row before I sat up and took notice).  I might have even passed over it again, but I was on the lookout for a gift that would travel well through the mail, would not run counter to various dietary restrictions, and would not weigh much.

That's right.  I was worried about shipping weight, but not about the weight the recipients might adorn themselves with after, ahem, scarfing down a few handfuls of decadence cut neatly into triangular shapes.  It is Christmas, after all, or at least it was Christmas, and everyone knows you're supposed to go overboard in some way or another during the holiday season.  And as I kept the spending under tight control, I felt the calories should have free rein to run amok.

I made two batches of this bark on the first attempt, something I am generally loathe to do, but this recipe came well-pedigreed, so even though peppermint is not usually my flavor of choice, I felt certain I could trust this would make a good gift (and that I would want a little extra to keep around for personal snacking purposes).  As it was, the recipients should consider themselves lucky to have gotten any at all.  It was truly that good.  So good, in fact, that I am highly tempted to buy more ingredients for another batch when the world thaws out tomorrow.

Either that, or I will not have the self-control to avoid dipping into the two containers I am holding onto for the lame friends who were unable to get together to play last week.

This candy is what love would taste like if I were in charge of assigning specific flavors to emotions.  Though white chocolate can be cloying at times, the layer of dark chocolate ganache in the center of the candy tempers the overall sweetness, and the level of mint flavor is spot-on.  I kept the finished candy refrigerated, for textural reasons mostly (I prefer for my chocolate to not get too soft), and I loved the way the warmth of the mint played off the chilled chocolate.

The bark was not terribly difficult to make, despite the layering, the un-sanctioned use of candy thermometers and the awe-inspiring beauty of the finished product, so I feel a little silly that I was so intimidated by the recipe initially.  The whole thing came together in the latter part of an afternoon, and with the exception of the mess that I made when crushing the peppermint candies, there was next-to-no hand-wringing involved.

Christmas may be officially over, but I do not intend to stop celebrating yet.  More bark is coming, of that I can be certain.

*****

PEPPERMINT BARK (adapted from Bon Appetit), makes 36 pieces

• 17 oz good-quality white chocolate (make sure cocoa butter is in the ingredients), finely chopped
• 30 red-and-white striped hard peppermint candies (about 60 candies), coarsely crushed (ideally, there will be large and small pieces, and plenty of peppermint dust as well)
• 7 oz bittersweet chocolate, chopped
• 6 Tbs heavy cream
• 3/4 tsp pure peppermint extract

1. Turn large baking sheet upside down and cover with foil.  Mark 12x9-inch rectangle on the foil (perfection not required).
2. Put white chocolate in double-boiler or in a heat-safe bowl set over saucepan of barely simmering water (bowl should not touch water in pan).  Stir until chocolate is melted and smooth and candy thermometer registers about 110 degrees F.  
3. Pour 2/3 cup melted white chocolate onto foil.  Using offset spatula, spread chocolate to fill rectangle (imperfection at the edges should not be cause for alarm).
4. Sprinkle with 1/4 cup crushed peppermints.
5. Chill until set, about 15 minutes.
6. Stir bittersweet chocolate, cream and peppermint extract in heavy saucepan over medium-low heat until just melted and smooth.  Cool for about 5 minutes, until barely lukewarm, and then pour it in long lines over the white chocolate.  Quickly spread it in even layer over the white chocolate, and then chill until cold and firm, about 25 minutes.
7. Re-warm the remaining white chocolate to about 110 degrees F again.  Quickly pour atop bittersweet chocolate layer and spread to cover (a little swirling will occur here and, again, panic is not necessary).  Sprinkle with remaining crushed peppermints.  
8. Chill just until firm, about 20 minutes.
9. Cut bark crosswise into 2-inch wide strips, and then remove foil (if you don't take it off now, it can be difficult to peel it off the individual pieces).  Cut each strip crosswise into 3 sections, and then cut each piece diagonally into 2 triangles.  If these directions seem constricting, feel free to cut in whatever fashion you prefer.

Project Food Blog

The following post is an entry in the first challenge of Project Food Blog.  My profile can be viewed here.

There have been moments recently in which I have found myself in a position to define myself, namely in the realm of food, and it has been simultaneously challenging and focus-sharpening.  Difficult because I am not concise and I often contradict myself, but centering in that I have now had a chance to think a little more carefully about where I stand on the issue of food politics.

To wit: I have obsessed and run these things over in my head until I felt I could finally state my case.

Two weeks ago, while standing in line at Athens Locally Grown to pick up my market order, a young journalism student from The Red and Black approached me to ask some questions for an article she was writing on local food.  If you know me well at all, then it should come as no surprise that I stared at her like a deer in the headlights and began to panic.  I am socially challenged on a good day, and that fact, coupled with the knowledge that she would ask me questions like, "Why do you think it is important to buy locally-grown food," and knowing full well that I would be unable to express myself succinctly without writing my thoughts down first, were enough to put me in full freeze mode.

She took pity on me, in her blessed innocent inexperience, and said shyly, "You can say 'no' if you want," and I, with immense relief, finally exhaled and thanked her and sent her on her way.

This is Exhibit One on why I write rather than speak publicly.

It was on the drive home from the market that day, that I began to give more thought to my personal reasons for eating locally.  A few years ago, my premise was entirely different from where I stand currently, and much resembled the tenets set out by Michael Pollan in The Omnivore's Dilemma and by Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, books that influenced me greatly in the decisions I now make regarding the food I purchase.

Like many others, I was disillusioned with industrialized agriculture, and by the environmental and public health effects of the mainstream food market, but was overwhelmed by the ethical decisions I seemed to face in every single food purchase from that point of awakening.  Thankfully, my feelings have clarified a bit over time to where I am now able to state my case with a single bullet point.

My goal, in food purchasing, in gardening, in cooking, and in writing about food, is to educate my children on where food really comes from, and to instill a sense of pleasure in real food.

Vegetables do not come from Wal-Mart.  Cakes and brownies do not come out a box with a picture of the finished product on the front.  Beans and fruit and soups do not come out of cans, and salsa does not come from a bottle.  Cookie dough is not unwrapped.

"Eggs" that can be purchased as a liquid in a cardboard milk carton are inessential.  Chickens running around on a small farm, pecking and scratching at the ground, are not.

Milk comes from a cow, and butter, yogurt and cheese are made from milk.  Flour is made from wheat, and that flour is used to make bread, brownies, cakes, and cookies.  Farms are beautiful places, and farmers are some of the most intelligent and interesting people I have met.

Children should know the pleasure and the joy of going to the farm to pick up a box of vegetables and to pet the llamas and smell the flowers while we are there.

Children, I maintain, should know what a butternut squash looks like, should know the joy of eating blueberries straight from the bush, and should know that if mama has butter and flour and sugar on the counter, then something good is about to happen in the kitchen.

When Grandma brings us a bag of cucumbers from her garden, we can make our own pickles.

We can go into the front yard and pick blackberries in the morning, and have homemade jam by lunchtime.

I want my children to know that one goes to the store to buy ingredients, not meals.  Dinner does not come from a box.

I want everyone to know this, and this is why I blog.

Homeschool Jungle Freaks

For a time now, I have wanted to put into words the reason why our family has chosen to homeschool.  It is a troublesome task though, developing a creed such as this one, because my reasons change daily.

On the first day of the local school year, my first grader slept in until 8:30 and finally straggled out to the living room in his underwear to watch a morning cartoon and then eat a leisurely breakfast.  On that particular day, when I said my oft-repeated phrase, "This is why I homeschool," it was because I felt gratified that I could let The Boy Wonder have a relaxing morning instead of the stressful one we would have suffered through if he had needed to be at school, already fed and alert, at 7:30.  I want to cuddle and play with him in the mornings, not yell at him to hurry up.

Last week, when we finished reading Charlotte's Web, I checked the movie out of the library, made buttered popcorn on the stove, and snuggled up with the kids amidst a pile of pillows on the living room floor to watch the movie and discuss the differences between the two mediums.  On that day, THAT was why we were homeschoolers.

Friday evening, as we curled up at bedtime to read and then compare and contrast two very similar folk tales from Japan and Germany (Issun Boshi and Tom Thumb), and The Boy Wonder wanted to get out of bed to find the countries on the globe, THAT was why I was grateful to be homeschooling.

I homeschool because I do not see the benefit in a 6.5-hour school day when the state requires only 4.5 hours of instruction time.  I teach my children at home, for now at least, because many of the curriculum standards that are adhered to in the early grammar school years are things mama is more than qualified to teach.  We have chosen to do our learning at home, at the zoo, at the park, at the nature center, at the botanical gardens, in our kitchen, on the front porch, at church, and at art classes because I want to curate the curriculum according to my own peculiar child's individual interests, needs, strengths, and weaknesses.

I desire to teach my children a love of learning, an appreciation for the natural world, the hunger for knowledge and the ability to seek out the answers to their many questions.  I hope to give them the time and the space to discover who they wish to become, and to give them the opportunities to acquire the skills they will need to get to where they wish to go.

Childhood is a time for play, for exploration, and for learning.  Learning so much about so many things.  If my six-year-old wants to immerse himself in everything to do with outer space, we can create unit studies to weave in math and handwriting and reading and crafts and creative thinking that revolve solely around outer space.  When we are driving down the highway and we pass a horse trailer with a camel on board, we can come home and spend the afternoon on the computer finding out as many ridiculous camel facts as we wish to know.  We can learn anything we want, and we can spend as much time as we want on any given subject without having to adhere to a constrictive, arbitrary schedule.

And childhood is short.  So very short.  If the weather is beautiful and there are frogs sitting on the lily pads in our pond, handwriting practice can wait.  If math worksheets have grown tedious and sitting at a table is becoming torturous for all of us, taking a walk or a bike ride is an option we have.  If no one has had enough sleep and grouchiness is making the beginning reader feel frustrated enough to cry, an impromptu trip to the library to pick out storybooks for mama to read aloud can be the best solution.

We can take a Tuesday off from school to make ice cream and play with Legos.  We can do lessons in our pajamas.  We can spend six days in a row on nothing but science experiments.

We are fortunate to have this opportunity, and we intend to make the best of it.

When it comes down to it though, my reasons for homeschooling are stated nowhere near as articulately and as eloquently as in the now-viral graduation speech from the valedictorian of Coxsackle-Athens High School.  And during those times, those all-too frequent times, in which I think this whole homeschooling thing just might kill me, I read that speech again and remind myself that I felt much the same way as I completed a senior year that could have been better spent pretty much anywhere other than within the four walls that held me hostage while I finished one remaining real high school credit amongst a padded schedule of mostly pointless electives that filled up the extra required time needed of a student who had already fulfilled all the other college-prep requirements.  And I recall clearly how absurd it seemed when I achieved honor graduate status after a year of goofing off and showing up only when I was sure I would get busted if I were not there.

Simply put, my goals for my children are not the same as the goals of the American public education system.  I have no need to normalize my children, to create middle-management worker bees, or to uphold the societal status quo.  And that, I think, is the most compelling reason I can think of to homeschool my children for as long as we are able.

The Pesky Trees

Lately, I haven't been able to see the forest for the trees.  All the little things begin to pile up, and then the feeling of being overwhelmed entrenches itself firmly, and then, finally, I go to pour another cup of coffee, but find the carafe is empty, and the thought of having one more thing to do, of having to do nothing more than make another pot of coffee, is enough to make me want to curl up in a ball and watch bad television.

And the fact that making more coffee will probably take only a minute or two is So Not The Point.  Because truly, since I became a parent, nothing gets done in the amount of time specified in the sense of normal reality.  I will have to stop what I am doing because the 2-year-old needs to use the potty and we all must run pell-mell towards the bathroom together so that the proper pomp and circumstance are paid to the occasion.  Most likely, even after that has been dealt with, there is a better than average chance that a fight could break out between the 2-year-old and her brother on the way back to the kitchen.  And if I open the coffee canister, almost certainly I will find that I need to grind more beans, which will involve opening up the dishwasher (which I have not yet emptied) to get out the grinder (which will still be wet and will need to be dried).  But of course the kitchen towel won't be where I left it, or it will be crumpled in a heap on the floor, sticky with an indeterminate substance, so I will take the dirty towel to the laundry room where I will promptly notice that I need to hang out to dry the load that is festering in the washing machine.  Before I can hang out that load though, I must bring in and fold the load that is already hanging outside, which is still wet because I forgot to bring it in before it rained...

And if I don't get another cup of coffee REALLY STINKING SOON, I might just lose it for good.

Then, as these sorts of things go,  it all starts to come together finally.  We finish The Boy Wonder's lessons for the day, the most urgent household tasks somehow get accomplished in a good enough fashion, dinner gets prepped, and the kids play quietly in another room while I sit, alone, with that blessed cup of coffee and a little blog reading.

It is there that I gain sight of the forest again.  On Beauty Everday, I see this quietly glorious photograph, and I smile, and consider it for a few moments.  Then I turn to look at that bouquet of zinnias from Farmer Boo that has begun to look rather dismal and which I had just been thinking of composting, and I stand on a chair and reach up high on top of the cabinets and pull down some of our vintage glass bottles, and I take apart the bouquet, and trim the stems of the flowers, and recreate the lovely image from my computer screen.

And all is again, indeed, quite well.

Green Beans with Onion Vinaigrette

I fear there aren't that many green bean fanatics in the world, and that this post will serve as no more than a recipe archive for my own personal files, but this easy little recipe just has me so very excited.  Seriously excited.  I mean sure, they are just green beans, hardly the sexiest veggie in the world, but who can blame me?  They are one of those ingredients that can only be enjoyed in season, before they get smushed up and muddled by any sort of freezing or canning sub-par method of preservation.

They just don't store well.  I advocate freezing and canning where appropriate, and have gone a wee bit mad this past week with adventures and experiments in freezing pesto and salsa, roasting and freezing peppers, and canning Burn Sauce and pear preserves, but green beans just don't take to that sort of treatment.

It is with that knowledge that I go a little nuts about green beans every summer, when they can be found fresh-picked at the farmer's market and in the CSA box, crisp yet delicate, with pretty little curved tips and a sweet green scent.  My favorite beans are always a bit on the slender side - the ones that cook the fastest and cry out for the least adornment, though a few of our regular recipes can tend towards the assertive side when additional flavors are added to the dishes (as with Italian Dijon Green Beans or Green Beans with Garlic and Shallots).

I prefer to cook the first ones of the season as lightly as possible, and I love, love, love to serve them a little chilled, if you can believe it, so it was with no small amount of glee that I clipped a recipe for Green Beans with Sweet Onion Vinaigrette from one of those sadly final issues of Gourmet magazine last summer.

And boy, do I miss that lovely, thoughtful magazine with the sensual photographs and real reporting and poignant stories that could bring a tear to the eye.  A thousand and one curses on the heads of the decision-makers at Conde Nast.

Onions figure fairly heavily in our dishes, especially when Vidalias are in season, and this recipe just sounded so utterly perfect for the sweltering heat wave we have been mired in so thickly for the past few weeks.  The flavors are supremely evocative of summer, and the idea of a cold side dish (now that salad greens have no chance of surviving our brutal temperatures and have long since left the garden) - well, it is just spot on, if you know what I mean.

These beans are nearly addictive, with the bright flavor of red wine vinegar and the simple but lively herbal quality of fresh flat-leaf parsley.  I like these perfect, crisp little beans served alongside a cheesy, creamy omelette or frittata, but I imagine they would do just as well paired with spicy grilled fish (or meat, if you swing that way).  Sweet onions lend a delicate piquancy to the dish, but I have used regular old white onions in a pinch and been just as happy with the finished balance of flavor.

*****

GREEN BEANS WITH ONION VINAIGRETTE (adapted from Gourmet, serves 8)

• 1 cup finely chopped sweet onion, such as Vidalia, or white onion
• 1 Tbs red-wine vinegar
• 1 Tbs whole-grain Dijon mustard
• 2 1/2 lbs green beans, stem end trimmed
• 2 Tbs extra-virgin olive oil
• 1/3 cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
• coarse salt & freshly-ground pepper

1. In a large serving bowl, stir together the onion, vinegar, mustard, 3/4 tsp salt, and 1/2 tsp pepper.  Marinate for at least 10 minutes.
2. Cook beans in large pot of well-salted boiling water, uncovered, until crisp-tender, about 4 to 6 minutes, depending on size of beans.
3. Transfer beans to an ice bath to stop the cooking.  Drain, and pat dry.
4. Whisk oil & parsley into the onion mixture, then add the beans and toss to coat.
5. Taste & adjust for salt.

From the Garden: Fresh Salsa

Honestly, I feel as if I have been waiting an entire year for tomato season to arrive.  And though I see the ever-so-slight absurdity of that statement, after making the first batch of fresh tomato sauce this past week, and then whipping up our first giant bowl of salsa today, it seemed as if it had been years since we had last feasted on these seasonal delicacies.

I know most people salivate over their first tomato sandwich, or even just their first sliced tomato of the summer, but we are a little weird in our tomato-loving ways.  Neither I nor The Carnivore really get into fresh tomatoes on their own.  I mean, we'll go utterly nutso over tomatoes in many dishes, but solo and unadorned?  Not so much.

If I see quartered tomatoes in my salad at a restaurant, I generally push them to the side, though to be fair, those tomatoes tend to be out-of-season and therefore not really tomatoes at all, if you know what I mean.  The same fate befalls tomato slices in my sandwich at a deli - unceremoniously pulled out and left forgotten on the plate.

But fresh salsa?  Be still my beating heart.

We have tweaked our favorite recipe over the past few summers, finally settling on an entirely raw recipe that incorporates the tomato peel.  The peel is incredibly nutritious, you see, and I was raised on a fairly strict waste-not, want-not philosophy so it distressed me to discard it, as is done for aesthetic reasons in so many recipes.   

I also go pretty heavy on the onions and cilantro in our recipe, and add just enough jalapeno peppers (seeds and all) to give just enough heat to nearly bring a tear to your eye, but to stop short of actually making one cry.  The flavor is quite lovely really, with a bit of salt and lime juice to brighten it all up.  It tastes fresh, spicy, and best of all, very summery.

It is a fine line, I believe, to achieve that elusive balance of acidity, heat, and tang, but I have provided some loose generalizations in the following recipe because everyone's tolerance and balance is a little different.  Now that we have found ours, I have sworn off any further tinkering.  This is our favorite recipe, and it has been for a few summers now so I have taken an oath to Hereby Leave It Alone.

My dream is to fill a pantry shelf with jars of salsa come August some year, but since we have been known to dispose of an entire quart in just one day, I'm not getting my hopes up just yet.

*****

FRESH TOMATO SALSA (makes about 2 quarts)

• 2 lbs tomatoes, quartered (for chunkier texture, squeeze out and discard excess seeds and juice)
• 3 garlic cloves, minced
• 2 tsp ground cumin
• 1 tsp ground cayenne pepper
• 1 1/2 tsp coarse salt
• 3 jalapeno peppers, minced (for less heat, discard the seeds)
• 1 medium onion, diced
• 1 bunch cilantro, chopped, about 1 cup (or use less, to taste)
• juice of 2 limes (use more or less, to taste)

1. Combine the tomatoes, garlic cloves, cumin, cayenne, salt, and jalapenos in a food processor, pulsing until desired texture is achieved.  We prefer ours fairly thin, as you can see from the photo.  If end result is too watery, strain out and discard a little of the liquid.
2. Stir in the onion, cilantro and lime juice.  Taste and adjust for salt.

Homemade Hair Care Products

I am totally uncomfortable with this post, mostly because it feels dangerously akin to my dispensing beauty advice.

If you know me well at all, you recognize how comical that would be.  Especially since this post is about hair care, and for the most part, I walk around either with pigtails or looking like I styled my hair with a fork.

That said though, I have alluded more than once here recently to removing myself from the shampoo/conditioner/styling product machine, and I'm deriving such gratification from this tiny bit of consumer anarchy that I decided to suck it up, take a couple of photographs of my hair, and learn how to put this into my own words.

Disclaimer: this is not beauty advice.  This is just a little more discord sown into your shopping list by the self-styled shopping list whittler.

The upshot is that commercially-produced shampoo and conditioner are unnecessary, and there is more than ample evidence that sulfates and silicone-derivatives are harmful.  One Green Generation is, I believe, where I first read (in recent, less-hippie years, that is) about the baking soda and vinegar hair care revolution, and from there I followed links all over the internet, more than a little surprised at how mainstream the concept had become.

I was skeptical about trying it myself.  Vanity is a construct of letters fairly well ingrained in my vocabulary, and besides, I have long hair.  Years ago, when my hair was short and platinum blonde, I went a year without using shampoo, and no one even noticed.  With long hair though, and a lifestyle that is a little more socially-acceptable than it once was, along with family members who wrinkled their nose at me when I first suggested my interest in going no-poo, I went back and forth on this subject for months before trying it.

And I continued to buy crazy-cheap, relatively safe shampoos and conditioners from big box stores.  If, after all, I had so little money invested in this anyway, and it wasn't that difficult to find sulfate-free shampoo even in mainstream stores, well, there just wasn't much impetus to change my ways.

But here's the rub for me: after way too many years in journalism- and business-school, where I concentrated heavily in classes in economics, marketing, advertising, public relations, management case studies, and the like, I recognize all too well that much of what we do in this current climate is a direct result of what we are told to do by Those In Charge.  Essentially, advertising dictates what we buy, and our shopping lists are abysmally cumbersome.

To wit: we buy educations for three-, four-, and five-year-olds, because it has been ingrained that others will do a better job than we will at raising and teaching our own children.  We buy clothes dryers because subdivision covenants disallow clotheslines, we buy cake/brownie/pancake mixes because we think it's too much trouble to measure and mix ingredients, we buy paper napkins/towels/tissues in order to avoid having to wash something, and the list goes on.  And on.  And on.  From the simplest item, see baking powder, to much more culturally complex decisions, like how many vehicles a small family really needs to own, we have ceded personal decision-making to large businesses whose sole purpose is to make money.

Let me be clear that I have nothing against profit-generation, and I do not subscribe to the belief that Big Corporations are inherently evil.  In the same vein though, I also do not subscribe to the theory that these Companies In Charge have my best interests at heart.

Johnson & Johnson is not selling shampoo and conditioner as a matter of public health.  Bisquick was not invented to provide superior nutrition.  Ford does not manufacture vehicles the size of small living rooms because safety is their first priority.

I am unplugging myself from the matrix.

I am Keanu Reeves.

(snort)

What I am really doing is continuing to shorten my shopping list.  And, well, let's be honest, it just so happened that I have never been happier with my hair since I gave up shampoo and conditioner, and that's really what this is all about.  If I had hated the baking soda and vinegar routine, I would have kept on keeping on (read: buying shampoo and conditioner from the store).

A short time back, Jessi wrote about going no-poo, and that was what it finally took for me to take the leap.  Jessi is someone I like a lot, someone I actually know, and someone who is (oh, she's gonna LOVE this) fairly normal.  "See," I said to my mother who had looked at me rather askance the first time I mentioned wanting to give up commercial shampoo, "Even Jessi has given up shampoo."

So I did, too, and though it took a week or so to adapt to the new routine, I found almost immediately that my hair texture improved, my ends ceased looking so frazzly, my hair was shinier overall, and my hair was just as clean and went just as long between cleanings as when I used commercial products.  And in a completely unexpected twist, styling products became unnecessary.

Crazy, right?

Here's the routine: Every couple of weeks, I mix up a solution (see below) of baking soda and water, and another solution (again, see below) of vinegar and water and a few drops of essential oil, and keep them in the shower in plastic bottles.  Some people make only as much as they need for a single use, but I find that insensible.  These solutions keep just fine, so I like to keep enough in the shower to last a few weeks at a time.  Easy peasy.

Following the advice I got 10 years or so ago from a hairstylist friend, I cleanse only my scalp (not the ends), and condition only from the nape of the neck down through the ends (not the scalp).  I wash no more often than every other day, and when I get out of the shower, I use the tiniest amount of coconut oil, smaller than a pea-sized amount, as a styling product.

Have you looked at the ingredient list on bottles of commercial shampoo and conditioner?  Mind-boggling, it is.  The shampoo strips your hair of natural oils, the conditioner adds synthetic products back in, which then build up and make the hair dirty, which requires the use of shampoo to remove.  'Tis a silly cycle.

Two months in, and I have now eliminated the following products from our household shopping list: shampoo, conditioner, shine spray, and styling cream.  And though I have added coconut oil to the list, I have found that it, in turn, also replaces eye cream, lip balm, The Carnivore's pomade, and first aid ointment, thus removing those four items from the shopping list as well.

'Consumer anarchy' sounds so much more palatable than 'Going the way of the hippie,' yes?

*****

HAIR CLEANSER

• 1 part baking soda
• 3 parts water

1. Shake well before each use.
2. Massage mixture onto dry scalp, concentrating on hairline and part.
3. Leave in for one minute.
4. Rinse.

HAIR DETANGLER AND MAKE-SHINIER

• 1 part white or apple cider vinegar
• 4 parts water
• 5 to 10 drops essential oil (vanilla, peppermint, lavender, whatever) per cup of solution

1. Shake well before each use.
2. Massage into hair from nape of neck down to ends.
3. Leave in for a minute or so.
4. Rinse.

In Our Kitchen

Our kitchen is always a busy place.  It is where the whole family gathers together at least once a day for a meal around the table, where the kids and I linger every morning over breakfast, where the children color and paint, and where I get a chance to play.  Days begin and end in this room, with children sitting on counters to help roll out pasta dough or press buttons on the food processor, with mama perched at the menu desk, poring over cookbooks and sipping coffee, and with all of us just sitting at the table and watching the birds outside the bay window.  More time than usual was spent at home last week, and most of those hours were passed in this cheerful red room of ours.

:: Granola was made early one morning, using dried dates and local pecans, and resulting in our favorite batch yet.
:: There were three blueberry-picking excursions resulting in some 14 pounds of berries being consumed.
:: Basil was picked and made into pesto.
:: New cookie recipes were baked.
:: We made our first batch of cold-brewed coffee for Iced Coffee Concentrate.
:: More and more Dark Chocolate Cashew Clusters were made and devoured.
:: Vegetables from the individual gardens of three generations of women in my family were assembled into a dinner of Summer Vegetable Fried Rice.
:: Homemade play dough was formed by little hands into pretend cookies and cakes.
:: Kisses were exchanged, flowers were arranged, music was played, and time was shared.

This is my favorite room in our house.

From The Garden: Fresh Basil Pesto

The first wave of harvests from the garden ended with a bit of a whimper.  My onion plants were all ripped right out of the ground by thieving wild animals, and the snow peas collapsed in a miserable, shriveled up heap before they really gave us anything.

The radishes did well, and the lettuces did splendidly for about six weeks, but the very last salad, the harvest that I had let build up for a few days so that our final salad would be a spectacular one, was nothing short of heartbreaking.  On that fateful afternoon about a month ago, when I traipsed outside with a colander and an appetite and my heart on my sleeve, I stood in horror as I surveyed the completely barren garden bed where the lettuce had been.  There was nothing there.  Not even the base of the stems.  Rabbits had come in and mown the whole bed clean.

I have never felt quite so murderous towards another living being.  Those rabbits will be sorry.  Maybe not those exact rabbits per se, but at least their offspring.  The sins of the fathers will be visited upon their sons.  I will exact my revenge.

My first set of tomato plants disappeared mysteriously one night, ripped out by their roots (not sure whether to blame the rabbits again, or deer), but now that there are tomato cages over the second planting, they seem to be doing well so far.  I am cautiously optimistic about those tomatoes, along with the pepper plants, the watermelon, and the butternut squash, but only time will tell.

As far as I am concerned though, the second harvest has commenced.  While I have been pinching small sprigs of basil and flat-leaf parsley for the past two months, and bringing them in to use in small amounts at dinner, in dishes such as grilled potato salad, lemon-herb bruschetta, and other sundry recipes, it was only this week that I went outside and found the basil plants had literally exploded.

Exploded in a good way, that is.  I brought a little more than a pound inside one evening, and rather excitedly whipped up three batches of fresh pesto.

We love pesto.  Every year, whether from plants in my own garden or that of my mother, or even from our former beloved CSA, we enjoy at least a few dinners of pasta with fresh basil pesto (there has even been arugula pesto on our menu in seasons past), and there have been years in which I have managed to freeze enough batches to see us through the winter.

There is nothing, it would seem, that can evoke summer in January so well as the bright, sharp peppery flavor of pesto made from fresh basil.  And to our utter delight, pesto that is frozen keeps its fresh flavor in a way unlike any other herb preservation technique.

I find pesto is best served over a substantial pasta.  The light, slippery sauce is a bit lost on angel hair, and it can be a bit clumpy when used as an accompaniment to orecchiette or penne, where it can lodge itself into the crevices and make a nuisance out of itself, so we tend towards homemade whole-wheat fettucine.  The heft of the whole-wheat makes for a more filling meal, and the width of the fettucine noodles provides a nice foil to the delicate sauce.

And I love making fresh pasta.  Rolled out thinly enough, the ribbons of pasta get an almost silky texture that will spoil you in a hurry.

We have tried countless variations on basil pesto, sometimes using nuts, other times omitting them, occasionally varying the ratio of olive oil to basil, and employing different cheeses as we see fit.  This time I went with a recipe from How to Cook Everything, and we were crazy about it.  A small amount of toasted nuts were included, which added a little richness to the texture and provided a welcome ever-so-slightly smoky flavor.  The flavor of the basil was still bright and clear though, allowing the fresh herb to shine in the best of ways.

This will be our new go-to version for sure.  One pound of basil, weighed while still on the stem, was enough to make three batches of the sauce, two of which were frozen for future use, and now, only three or four days later, the plants have already leafed out again.  I decree this a perfect year for herbs.  And for pesto.

Especially if I take up rabbit hunting...

*****

BASIL PESTO (adapted from How to Cook Everything), makes enough to serve with one pound of pasta

Note: if freezing, omit the Parmesan for now and stir in after thawing.

• 2 cups packed fresh basil leaves, stems discarded
• pinch of kosher salt
• 1 to 2 cloves garlic, crushed
• 2 Tbs walnuts or pecans, lightly toasted in a dry skillet
• 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, more if needed
• 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan, plus more to grate on top of the finished dish
• Freshly ground black pepper

1. In a food processor or blender, combine the basil, salt, garlic, nuts and oil, and process until basil is finely chopped.  More oil can be added if you prefer the sauce to be thinner (or an extra drizzle of olive oil can be added to the finished dish).
2. Stir the Parmesan in by hand.
3. Toss with cooked and drained pasta, finishing the dish with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of Parmesan, and adding a couple grinds of black pepper if desired.

Dark Chocolate Cashew Clusters

The simplest solution is not always the best one, and complexity ought not to be feared as a general rule, but there are times in which life just seems so messy, so convoluted, so arduous, that I lean full-on into searching for ways to strip away the excesses and find the center.

Summertime tends to be conducive to that sort of thing, of course.  Afternoons at the pool have supplanted homeschool lessons and chores and the like, and dinners constructed from fresh-picked vegetables are the norm.  It just seems right to lighten the load a little.  Less time spent taming the hair with a blow dryer, smaller mountains of laundry to conquer, fewer errands and activities on the schedule.

Less can be more, after all, and as much as I tend to shy away from corny truisms such as that one, it has been Just.  So.  Hot.  lately that I can't help but appreciate the thought of sitting by a fan, putting my feet up, and sipping an iced coffee while pretending to be genteel and unencumbered by the demands of life and parenthood and all that.

You can picture it, right?  Me perched on the porch in a white dress, the Spanish moss dripping from the massive old oak trees, a ceiling fan spinning languidly overhead, and perfect peace and quiet whilst my immaculately-dressed, well-mannered children play a game of croquet together on the manicured lawn?

It could happen.

Until then, though, I will search for simplicity in more realistic places.  Like dessert.

And we have discovered the mother of all completely simple, utterly perfect desserts.  Even better, and easier and faster, than those beloved Peanut Butter Cookies.  Two ingredients.  Less than five minutes.  No oven heating up the house.  Total Perfection.  

Honest.

When I asked The Carnivore what he might want us to make for him for Father's Day, I was prepared for a complicated answer.  Something along the lines of Pralines or Blue Cheese Meatballs.  Instead, he suggested I make use of the copious amounts of cashews stashed away in our pantry and the dark chocolate chips that he knows I keep no-longer-hidden in the back of the fridge.  "Like turtles," he said, "Except without the caramel."  

"Like nut clusters?" I asked suspiciously.

I thought the idea was a little loopy at first.  It just didn't seem quite right that I could melt a bit of chocolate and stir in some nuts and end up with nice little nut clusters.  Corn syrup seemed like a necessary ingredient, or possibly a candy thermometer would be required.  It just had to be more complicated than he was thinking.  So I did a little recipe research (partly to prove him wrong) and found countless recipes that included excessive quantities of ingredients and overly-cumbersome techniques, but then I came across an utterly simple one and with a little bit of tweaking, we have found our new go-to candy.

By the second batch, I had the nuts-to-chocolate ratio spot-on, and we were head over heels in love, these clusters and The Carnivore and I.  We are partial to cashews around here, and I love and adore any combination that marries salt with dark chocolate, so this kind of thing is right up my alley really.

The simplicity is nearly overwhelming (contradiction in terms notwithstanding).  The recipe goes like this: melt dark chocolate chips in the microwave or on the stove, stir in nuts, drop by spoonful onto wax paper, refrigerate until hardened.

Crazy, right?  These little drops of heaven are mainstays for us now, and we haven't gone a day without a batch in the fridge for going on two weeks.  When we start running low, The Carnivore looks a bit worried for a moment, and then I throw another batch together while doing the dinner dishes. They're THAT easy.

We like them very heavy on the nuts, with just enough chocolate to hold them together, and I'm not above using even the salty nut dust in the bottom of the cashew canister to make them even more dense. I prefer them a bit on the thin and flat side, so that they are easier to bite into, and so that the edges are a bit more delicate to the tooth, but they are just as delicious when piled high and messy-looking. 

The salty-and-bittersweet taste is utterly pure, which is easy to imagine given the short ingredient list, and can be a bit addictive, but since they are so easy and so quick to assemble, and the ingredients can be kept on hand at all times, addiction is nothing to fear in this case.  

*****

DARK CHOCOLATE CASHEW CLUSTERS, adapted from Cooks.com (makes about 20)

• 11.5 oz package dark chocolate chips (I love the Ghirardelli 60% cacao)
• 1 1/2 cups cashew halves (or the less expensive halves-and-pieces mix)

1. In a medium-size mixing bowl, melt the chocolate chips in the microwave (about 2 minutes).  Or, melt the chips in a small pan set over low heat on the stove, stirring almost constantly.
2. Stir nuts into the melted chocolate.
3. Drop by small spoonful onto waxed paper, and put in refrigerator until hardened.