Finally got to go to the PHX Farmers' Market yesterday [This was actually several days ago at this point, but bear with me. --Ed.] [Who is this Ed person and why is he commenting on my blog? --Heather], which was one of the things I had missed the most during our extended stay in the TUX (along with sleeping in my own bed and not having to furiously disinfect my hands all the time). It was a strange sensation to be shopping when the giant industrial air conditioners weren't completely necessary, and the Market is even starting to get interesting again, having moved beyond the point where all greens spontaneously combust and the only things that properly grow are chiles and sadness berries.
I'd been itching for some time now to attempt some pickles. Not just any pickles: lacto-fermented pickles. I've become entranced with the idea of idle wild yeasts being harnessed to make my food for me, even if my last two attempts at employing the lazy buggers (for sauerkraut) failed miserably and less-miserably, though saltier, respectively. However, while strolling through the misters, I happened upon some absolutely darling little cucumbers—all short and squat and knobbly, they were just crying out to be purchased and experimented upon and changed from humble cucumbers into Herculean specimens of pickled perfection. (Or explode. Something.)
[NOTE: The following peach section is dedicated to The Husband. I'm pretty sure he'll figure out why.]
Also, on my wanderings through the Market, I kept getting distracted by the abundance of peaches. One peachmonger told me a tale of a lady from Georgia who doubted the ambrosial qualities of his peaches, but once she sampled his wares, she was so smitten that she promptly bought up a couple dozen. Of course, I had to purchase some—she was from GEORGIA, people! Those folks know peaches.
But here's the thing—I don't even like peaches. I mean, I like them well enough, I suppose, but I'm firmly on Team Nectarine (playing mostly in the underripe division, much to the mocking delight of The Husband). Anyway, they somehow ended up in my bag, and while I can usually rely on The Husband to deal with things like this, he is still learning how to eat again, which leaves me withmillions of six ripe-right-now-I-mean-REALLY-ripe peaches and a total lack of interest in traditional methods of peach consumption (i.e., taking a bite and making an ungodly mess with all the juice going all over the place or having them put into a can by a man in a factory downtown).
Racking my magnificent brain, I came up with a solution (at least until I am tricked into buying the damn things again next week): peach salsa! I chopped up a couple of peaches, along with several itty-bitty grape tomatoes and half a red onion, then mixed it all up with some salt, lemon juice, and aleppo pepper.
I think it all would have worked a little better with slightly less-ripe peaches, but it's bright and summery and now I have fewer peaches taunting me (though their voices, I can hear them still), so all is well.
As for Pancakes, he is very happy to have us home and is thoroughly enjoying sleeping on my laptop while I try to do work. Here he is looking vacant, per usual:
and here he's being a VERY HELPFUL CAT while I'm trying to crochet.
SO. HELPFUL. Thank goodness he was around, or else that yarn might have caused quite the ruckus.
PEACHES UPDATE: I've apparently decided that right now would be a fantastic time to come down with my first illness since moving to the desert, which is turning out to be a poor decision on my part. Anyway, given that The Husband is in no position to take care of me, and that actually cooking something for reals seemed way too much effort, I ended up making myself a wee fried egg sandwich to tide me over between bouts of ice cream (which is about the only thing I feel like eating when my head feels like it is chock full of damp sheep). I toasted up some fancy bread, and while the egg was frying, spread on some goat cheese and smashed avocado and added some arugula. Next went my horribly-misshapen sunny-side-up egg (I am no good with eggs), a sprinkle of smoked sea salt, a crack or two of fresh black pepper, and a few heaping dollops of peach salsa. The Husband called me bourgeois, but I was content to control the means of production for this sandwich because at least I was well-fed.
PICKLE UPDATE: My kitchen smells like dill and garlic. Good sign?
I'd been itching for some time now to attempt some pickles. Not just any pickles: lacto-fermented pickles. I've become entranced with the idea of idle wild yeasts being harnessed to make my food for me, even if my last two attempts at employing the lazy buggers (for sauerkraut) failed miserably and less-miserably, though saltier, respectively. However, while strolling through the misters, I happened upon some absolutely darling little cucumbers—all short and squat and knobbly, they were just crying out to be purchased and experimented upon and changed from humble cucumbers into Herculean specimens of pickled perfection. (Or explode. Something.)
The first rule of pickling is that you do not talk about pickling you need the right equipment. I am fortunate enough to have borrowed (stolen) a small earthenware crock from my parents' attic, because I am also fortunate enough to have a stepfather whose first wife collected things like earthenware crocks. If you do not have an earthenware crock, I would suggest checking your attic; if you don't have a stepfather whose first wife collected such things, I would suggest asking your mother to get cracking and informing her that there is no dishonor in marrying for pickles.
I rinsed off my cucumbers and popped them into the crock, along with a few dill fronds and some bashed-up cloves of garlic. Cover with a brine made from 2 T. salt per quart of water, then use a weight to ensure that everything stays submerged. If you have concerns that small creatures (such as an incredibly dim kitten) will fall in and drown and ruin your pickles, you can tie some cloth around the crock for safety's sake.
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| Ms. H's home for wayward gherkins. |
According to my Lost Art of Real Cooking, these little beauties need to sit for about 25 days to reach their full pickle potential. They also shouldn't be exposed to temperatures much above 80ยบ for too long, else they will catch pickle Ebola and melt from the inside out. Hopefully a dark corner of the pantry and a marginally-functioning air-conditioner will keep the wee yeasties in line.
[NOTE: The following peach section is dedicated to The Husband. I'm pretty sure he'll figure out why.]
Also, on my wanderings through the Market, I kept getting distracted by the abundance of peaches. One peachmonger told me a tale of a lady from Georgia who doubted the ambrosial qualities of his peaches, but once she sampled his wares, she was so smitten that she promptly bought up a couple dozen. Of course, I had to purchase some—she was from GEORGIA, people! Those folks know peaches.
But here's the thing—I don't even like peaches. I mean, I like them well enough, I suppose, but I'm firmly on Team Nectarine (playing mostly in the underripe division, much to the mocking delight of The Husband). Anyway, they somehow ended up in my bag, and while I can usually rely on The Husband to deal with things like this, he is still learning how to eat again, which leaves me with
Racking my magnificent brain, I came up with a solution (at least until I am tricked into buying the damn things again next week): peach salsa! I chopped up a couple of peaches, along with several itty-bitty grape tomatoes and half a red onion, then mixed it all up with some salt, lemon juice, and aleppo pepper.
 |
| If I had my little way, I'd eat peaches everyday. (No.) |
I think it all would have worked a little better with slightly less-ripe peaches, but it's bright and summery and now I have fewer peaches taunting me (though their voices, I can hear them still), so all is well.
As for Pancakes, he is very happy to have us home and is thoroughly enjoying sleeping on my laptop while I try to do work. Here he is looking vacant, per usual:
and here he's being a VERY HELPFUL CAT while I'm trying to crochet.
SO. HELPFUL. Thank goodness he was around, or else that yarn might have caused quite the ruckus.
PEACHES UPDATE: I've apparently decided that right now would be a fantastic time to come down with my first illness since moving to the desert, which is turning out to be a poor decision on my part. Anyway, given that The Husband is in no position to take care of me, and that actually cooking something for reals seemed way too much effort, I ended up making myself a wee fried egg sandwich to tide me over between bouts of ice cream (which is about the only thing I feel like eating when my head feels like it is chock full of damp sheep). I toasted up some fancy bread, and while the egg was frying, spread on some goat cheese and smashed avocado and added some arugula. Next went my horribly-misshapen sunny-side-up egg (I am no good with eggs), a sprinkle of smoked sea salt, a crack or two of fresh black pepper, and a few heaping dollops of peach salsa. The Husband called me bourgeois, but I was content to control the means of production for this sandwich because at least I was well-fed.
PICKLE UPDATE: My kitchen smells like dill and garlic. Good sign?
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