VG Kitchen Remodel: Edibles Abound

-Bing! You have cherries.-

Did you know that a furnace costs about $3000? I do now. For that kind of money you think I could at least get it in a nifty color like ochre or maybe zebra print. But nope, it had to be replaced because the replacement guy was all, "Well, it has to stay disconnected so that means no air conditioning and if you plug it in you risk blowing the place up," etcetera and so on.

I tell ya', it's this kind of things that force feeds me three big helpings of flaming bitch and puts me in such a mood that even Satan won't screw with me.

So yeah, there goes some of my flooring budget. Not sure how I'm going to work that out anymore, goddamnit. This is nothing to say of the surprise duct work that needs to happen and the discovery of the totally broken under the seal guest room window. (We'll be buying cheapest vinyl window I can find. It will be made of old The Monkees records.)

Remodeling is stressful. So much I just don't have the energy to rant about it, which greatly reduces the amount of f-bombs the Internet has to Iron Dome itself from.

But let's talk about some of the positives I have discovered. Most of it edible.

Green Thumb. Heavy Hand.

-These are all of my golden raspberries. Hopeful and kind of sad all at once.-

The garden is slowly coming along and showing signs of life and success. Somehow BF, Roommate, and I have successfully grown things. I have, with help, broken the black thumb curse that has hung around me like some dark, anti-Gaia fog.

The strawberries are obese with juice and the flavor is so rich it could buy a yacht (or more strawberries?). The Early Girl tomatoes are beginning to grow with vigor and rush. Paper lanterns adorn my tomatillo plants like some sort of Chinese New Year in green, celebrating the arrival of Spring. The sugar peas, though planted late, were abundant and plenty making for many tasty snacks and stir-fries. Now that they're done we've turned the vines into salads.

-Corn. And as you can see both the boy and girl parts are growing nicely. This means much corn for Garrett (and maybe BF and Roommate).-

Oh, yes, my golden raspberries are coming along as well as a first year berry plant can (three whole berries!). Yet, they are nothing compared to my blackberries and mint (chocolate and spearmint) who are quickly taking over their sectioned corner of the garden. I did plant them in the ground and expected as much. Why, you may ask, would I plant so many invasive plants? One word: rental. I only plan to be here a few years and then it's not my problem. (My god, I'm a green thumb apartment terrorist. And an ass. But, the way I see it, someone will be lucky to move into my apartment and find plenty of berries and mint for berry mojitos.)

-I love the festive look of tomatillos.-

The many basil plants, chili peppers, parsleys, and other herbs are prolific. The dwarf citrus are fine and dandy (though something is up with that yuzu and its curly leaves). Yes, success abounds here. I am garden man, hear me plant my corn!

However, part of bringing about life is bringing about death. In fact, the bounty of gardening seems to stem from death. Do you know how many aphids - red, black, and green - I have squished with my hands? My fingertips are stained red every morning with the blood of my enemies. The insectoid invading forces are backed up with colonies of ants who seem to be smart enough to avoid my poison traps and, I swear, I heard one of them say something homophobic.

Yes, I did buy a bunch of ladybugs. Yes, I released them out at night. And yes, after five days they all flew away leaving behind all the aphids. I bought their freedom from the gardening store and they ran. I wanted indentured servitude, damn it. I am not the underground railroad for entrapped ladybugs.

-Swollen strawberries.-

The snails and slugs are a whole other thing. I tried every organic method I could think of. I set out copper traps, eggshells, even little trays of beer which peeved me off because it felt like I was buying the damn slimeballs a drink. At one point I was even going out at night with a flashlight, picking them up, placing them on a flat rock and crushing them with a hand trowel in a sacrificial manner offering their tiny icky bodies to the gods of gardening.

Life and death here in this humble apartment garden. It's a balance. Green thumb with a heavy hand.

-Soon to be blackberries. This breed is apartment perfect. It only grows vertical, not outwards, has no thorns, and is immune to insects.-

Tarted Up A Bit - Strawberry and Rhubarb Tart

-A perfect tarty treat after tarting up your garden.-

The garden was a bit of a slag when we put it together. Plants placed haphazardly with little forethought, tomatoes here and tomatoes there rather than them being grouped together, the whole thing was as well laid out as the streets of Boston. Which is to say, poorly. Many of the plants that needed sun sat in the chilling shade, their growth noticeably stunted. Other plants were taking in too much water and root rot began the slow decomposition within the stalks.

With the exception of our strawberries, mints, blackberry plant, and our dwarf citrus trees the rest of our prolific garden was on the verge of ruin. The garden wasn't simply suffering, it was cluttered, unplanned, and somewhat slovenly. The garden was like a guy I used to see at my local gym, he had the body of a god, but he had the face to guard it. This garden was his equivalent; it possessed striking potential and had the ability to produce, but unless something was done to clean it up a bit it would be remain a secret garden defined by ugly struggle.

Roommate, BF, and I undertook the day long trial of reviving and turning this garden around. We picked up a few sacks of steer manure, plenty of dirt, a few new plants, and borrowed some shovels from BF's family. Toiling, slathered in sweat and sun screen, we carefully dug up every eggplant, every pepper, every everything and gingerly laying them in misted shade so the roots wouldn't wither and dry. We quickly turned the first 10 inches of soil with manure before laying the plants back in the ground in ordered rows. Each row was so clearly defined and categorized that any real farmer or librarian would be proud.

-A happy, well organized, slightly chic vegetable and fruit garden.-

All decked out the garden is vogue, Cover Girl. She's strutting her stuff. Bedazzled with berries, parading with peppers, and a few good pots of basil (which never go out of style). She's all tarted up in the most fashionable ways.

Afterwards, covered in mud and a bit tousled, we tarted ourselves, albeit in a different way. We sat down to the remnants of a made yesterday strawberry and poached rhubarb tart. The recipe came from Chez Panisse Desserts, authored by Lindsey Shere, a cookbook I had purchase but then expressed disappointment at as I had been expecting something ill-defined and vague I called "more." A few people chastised me, nudging me on in their motherly way to give the book a go.

I did and, I admit, I was wrong. The book did me well though a few more notes about the cooking process would have been appreciated. Particularly the base recipes such as the shortbread crust and pastry cream; both simple and reliable, little black dresses of the pastry world.

The tart is spectacular and always in style come Spring. The perfect accessory to hold in your dirt stained knuckles as you revel in your made-over garden.

Short Crust Pastry
(For 9-inch pastry shell)
adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts

1 cup of flour
1 tablespoon of sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 teaspoon of grated lime peel
1/2 cup unsalted butter, not too cold
1 tablespoon of water
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Mix flour, sugar, salt, peel and butter and cut with your hands or a pastry knife until it resembles cornmeal sized pieces. Add water and vanilla and combine into flour-butter mixture until the pastry will hold together when you press it. Pat into a ball and wrap it with plastic wrap and pop it in the fridge for 30 minutes.

2. Press into a 9-inch tart pan, making sure you keep it even. It should be somewhat thin, but don't worry as it will puff a bit when baking and become thicker. Wrap the pan in foil and freeze for 30 minutes.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Remove the foil and bake for 25 minutes or until golden brown. The dough will puff up a lot during the baking process. Don't worry as it will sink back down. Cool on a wire rack. When cool fill with pastry cream and top with fruit.


Pastry Cream
adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts

2 cups of milk
1/3 cup of flour
6 tablespoons of sugar
6 egg yolks
2 tablespoons of butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Heat the milk until small bubbles appear around the side on the pot, signaling it is just about to boil. Mix the flour and sugar in a heavy saucepan. Beat egg yolks in a bowl until thick and light colored. Whisk the hot milk into the flour mixture and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture has boiled for a minute or two.

2. Whisk some of the milk mixture into the egg mixture to temper them and then stir the egg mixture back into the rest of the milk mixture. Mix well. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the pastry cream begins to hold a slight shape, about 170F. Do not boil.

3. Remove from heat and stir in butter. Allow to cool, then whisk in the vanilla and smooth out the pastry cream. Do not overmix cooled pastry cream.


Poached Rhubarb with Strawberries

2 pints of strawberries
1 cup of chopped rhubarb
1 cup of sugar

1. Core and slice strawberries. Set aside.

2. Place sugar and 2 cups of water in saucepan. Bring to a simmer. Add poache rhubarb and simmer on low for 8 minutes. Take off heat and allow to cool for an hour.

3. Drain rhubarb (the cooking liquid is wonderful in cocktails, so save it) and carefully toss them with strawberries.

-Yes, I worked a Madonna song into my post. It would have been wrong not to.-

The Garden Potential

-These are the "Before" pictures.-

Honestly, I'm not sure what makes me keep trying to garden. My notorious black thumb, a dark cloud that envelopes green life and with wave ends it, is stubborn, but eager to change its color.

My friend, Sarah, an avid gardener with a knowledge of Greek mythology once referred to me as "Demeter's Harbinger." I find that to be a bit harsh, but given it was after the death of my third rosemary plant, which was soon met in greenery heaven with a cactus that committed suicide rather than face a prolonged and, no doubt, horrible suffering under my hands, the kind of which government war tribunals are held over. Then there was that orchid that never stood a chance.

But I'm getting better. Honestly. Remember that lemongrass? It's still alive, and though it may not look it in the dead of winter as it's gone a bit back and bare I have been reassured by other, more experienced gardener's that I have done surprisingly well. I even have a mint and rosemary bush in pots at my work that are flourishing.

(The thyme, basil, and rhubarb we will not speak of. I say frost and kids on skateboards are to blame and that's how we're remembering it.)

My old place wasn't much for growing anything. Too much shade and the earth was shallow and dead. What few things I tried to grow simply passed away in what can only be described as an awful struggle.

Yet the new apartment has pleasant and quaint small yard, though it was somewhat uncared for. When we moved in it was an utter jungle, and upon our signing the lease we conditioned that the yard had to be cleared of brush and tangle.

The day the gardeners came they uttered, "Sweet Jesus," followed by screams when upon ripping up the carpet of ivy rats swarmed out, escaping under the fence. Joseph Conrad couldn't have portrayed it any darker than it actually was: the brush, destruction, and gnashing of teeth that became a backyard cleansing - five feet by fifteen.

So now we have an empty and unappealing (at least, to the eye who doesn't see a potential garden) spot of dirt with various stones and rotted plants of wood buried here and there. To make my stake in this yard-to-be I've decided to move my lemongrass, rosemary, and mint plants from work to here.

-Not sure what Korea marmalade is, but I dig the idea of it.-

Furthermore, I have adopted two brave little (and unwilling) citrus trees. A two year-old yuzu, and a three year-old kaffir lime tree are potted and on my patio. Both of these citrus I use extensively when I am able to locate them and are favorites of mine. The kaffir lime leaves add a unique floral-lime fragrance to soups and curries, whereas the yuzu provides sour-tartness to stirfrys and whose juice can withstand extreme heat without scorching and becoming bitter.

A Nagami kumquat or Rangpur tree may very well be added to the mix.

To ensure their survival I have been studying and researching like a crazy person on how to keep these little bastard healthy. Lucky, living in Northern California, the climate here is very citrus friendly (though not like So Cal) and I expect that they should thrive with proper care.

*knock on wood*

Be sure to wish me luck, and whisper a little prayer for this garden that is partially under my doomgaze.

-Or makrud lime leaves. We've had this discussion.-

I Prey for Help Gardening and This is What I Get

"Oh sweet holy Jesus! Fuck fuck fuck!" I leaped away from the tinted glass door of my work and, with speed of a Formula One race car, the fluidity (but not grace) of Mikhail Baryshnikov, and freaked-the-fuck-out squirrel-like terror I escaped from the source of my nightmares with nary a scratch.

Preying mantises and I have a jaded history. Well, jaded for me, possibly satiating for them. A quick debriefing of our battles is necessary:

1990, Age 7: The initial trauma. Finding a large preying mantis on our patio table I decide to watch him. It turns and looks at me. This begins a 15 minute staring match and, being an obstinate child, I am determined to win. The mantis after careful observation, assumes the giant and obviously stupid child is probably food. It then leaps on my face and bites me.

I scream and run into the house crying, blood beginning to slowly pool on the bridge of my nose. A large preying mantis bite strings like crazy. Mom won't believe me when I tell her what happened. She insists I am lying. I am scolded for being dishonest and clumsy.

1996, Age 13: I am at school waiting for my carpool to come and take me home. I pass the time sitting on the curb next to some shrubs reading a book. My head jerks up when I suddenly feel a tickle on my neck. A mantis has decided to jump on me for one reason or another.

It then decides to extend its arms/claws/legs/sharp things of pain to hold me down and tear out a small piece of me. My eyes go wide and I yelp. He continues to bite and "pin me down". It resists my swatting, holding on like some determined cowboy riding a rodeo bull. I eventually get him off. I do not mention what happened to the members of the carpool as I rub the welt on my neck.

2006, Age 23: I am walking back into work after lunch. For no reason a mantis the size of a house cat (perhaps to my perception) jumps onto my ear and bites into me, drawing blood. There are witnesses this time. Everyone is stunned. They then laugh at my pain. Assholes.

2008, Age 25: A preying mantis somehow found its way into my car. He reveals himself while I am actually driving the car. I slowly pull over the car, take off my shoe, and screaming with a barbarian war-cry smash him into a fine paste on my dashboard with my sandal. Cars slow down to watch the scene. A small victory for me, nonetheless.

2008, Age 25: Angered at the death of his brethren, the previous mantis' avenger reveals itself sitting on my car. As I unlock the door it unfurls its wings, raises its arms/claws/legs/sharp things of pain, and makes a threatening pose. It is huge. I freak out and run away. A co-worker catches him and lets him loose. I nearly pee myself.

So hence my freaking to the preying mantis now on the door of my work is understandable. Still, this one is a baby, not even half the length of my pinky finger. I reason that he is still dangerous to me (at the very least, psychologically) but nothing I cannot destroy first. I am the greater animal here after all. God and evolution chose me to be the dominant species and I would prove it by gooshing him into oblivion.
"Don't do that!" a co-worker cries. "He helps people garden."

I paused, waiting for a connection.

"Maybe yours?"

I stopped and put my foot back down away from the mantis. He doesn't move an inch, which is futile as there is no way his little brown self is camouflaged against the black doormat.

Co-worker has a point. Something the last few days has been chomping on my mint with gusto like a cat in a canary house. It's been frustrating as I search the pots fervently to locate the culprit but having no results. Yet every day more mint is eaten. This mantis could prove useful.

The old adage "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," never seemed so applicable.

I go back inside for a plastic water cup and a clipboard. I carefully usher the mantis into the cup, wary should he decide to attack me. I take him out back. I open the cup over the mint, shake it, and run.

The mantis checks out his new home. He crawls under a leaf and makes himself comfortable. I assume he is fine with his strange and supposedly plentiful hunting grounds. I water the mint from the other side of the pot, giving him his space and I leave him be.

Hopefully, we will be able to co-exist together. So far though, the mint is still being eaten and the mantis does not seem to be doing his job. This freeloader owes me the death I hired him for. We'll have to wait and see.