Contending for Canning Space (and Jars)

Summer in the Tyson Clark household sees the house fill with jars. Jam stacks up on the table waiting for a final wipe-down and storage in some cool dark place. Quarts packed with the sunset colors of apricots, peaches and nectarines pile up on counter tops and kitchen tables, awaiting the same fate. Kitchen space is at a premium, the early hours of the day devoted to storing away fruit for winter consumption and gifts. The cool parts of the day are best, when the un-airconditioned house can breathe out the fruity fumes  via fans without turning the indoors into a sweltering soup of sticky sweet odors. And so we can. It is very lucky for me that Rachel has cultivated friendships within market such that I got most of my ingredients for free.
The list goes like so:
Blackberry-strawberry syrup. I picked my own strawberries and blackberries

Strawberry syrup

Dill pickles, cucumbers from one neighboring vendor, and fresh grapes leaves from the farm

Spicy pickled beans, beans and jalapenos from neighboring vendors

Tomatoes, free of charge but requiring a little greening at the vines of the paste tomato plants

Salsa; homegrown onions, tomatoes, bartered jalapenos and cilantro

Lucky for me, people I know stash canning jars, and a delightful family friend lent me a water bath canner for my pursuits.

Other culinary pursuits

Some mention was made of making cheesecake. I'm coming to realize that if I'm entertaining an idea but not fully committed to it, I should keep it to myself. Like making cheesecake. Clearly I followed through, due in part to the enthusiasm of a certain Rachel sister. Things fancified from there on in. 

 For a while I've been wanting to foray more into Indian cuisine, and who better to trial my capabilities on but my family? Leonie, as I've mentioned, makes a killer Palak Paneer type dish. This includes making your own paneer, a mild cheese created by curdling milk and pressing the liquid from the solids.
This cheese, I made. I still can't believe how beautifully it turned out. I guess that's what comes of squishing the solids with ten pounds of sugar for several hours.

Palak paneer, chicken tikka masala, naan, lassis, chai, lady fingers (an okra dish) and an eggplant dish, the latter two provide by the lovey Aunty Nancy. JimE watched for unloved crumbs and begged for bits of tomato. We cooked the naan on a century old griddle from Uncle Syl's family, so he was with us in spirit. We ate in their beautiful back yard, it was in short, delightful.

Market Affairs

Picture this if you will. Its relatively early in Farmers' Market land, vendors hailing one another, the quiet bustle and occasional slam-bang of setup still emanating from partially outfitted stalls. A trio of would-be customers shuffles passed, and in the little part of your brain that was indoctrinated by the place you lived, not the people who raised you, scoffs at those obviously well-to-do folks. Their expensive cameras dangling, detachable lens giving off the slick aura of the several hundreds of dollars they're worth. And the redneck that pops up in your brain every once in a while wonders what the hell these people are doing here, in front of your stall at 7 in the morning, with no apparent intent to buy anything, just gawking at the local yokels. I may be overstating it a bit.

The icing on this particular cake, the punchline of this joke comes from one of the men, who you overhear tell his companions with a knowledgeable air "Yeah, agriculture is really popular in this area." Popular. Like a fad just passing through, not over one hundred years of the tedious, backbreaking work that this 'agriculture' business truly is. Even the meth-heads probably know that ag is the prevailing economy of this region... And Rachel and I try not to set off in hysterical laughter at the expense of these unknowing perpetrators of idiocy. Sorry mister, but what the heck did you think all those miles of trees were for?

As with any customer service job, you get all temperaments, intelligence, shapes and sizes passing through farmers' market on an average day. A little boy animatedly informs us that his brother (sporting a vividly colored arm cast) broke his arm by tripping on this vociferous sibling. An older gentleman upon overhearing this in turn informs the broken-arm-boy that sometimes they just chop them (broken arms that is) off! That's what they did to him, because he used to have three arms. The mother laughs while wrangling her children.

People call grapes blueberries, figs are unfathomable and questionable sources of sustenance, and the signs dictating price and variety live a largely ignored existence. Its inexplicable to me how very little so many people pay attention. They ask why two baskets are differently priced, willfully oblivious that one is twice the size of the other. 

But lets just have a lesson on figs for a moment. I love figs. I cannot say I love picking them, and here's why. Fig trees produce latex. Now lots of plants do this, but the latex produced by fig trees is especially harsh, inducing rash if in contact with tender skin, like that of your neck and wrists. Latex is released when the tree is wounded... so if you pick the fruit, you wound the tree, and latex flows in copious abundance, especially if the fruit is under-ripe. The other odd thing about figs, which I find fascinating but you may simply find... weird, is that the flowers of a fig are inside the fruit. Fig wasps of the family Agaonidae complete their reproductive cycles using figs. The females, having mated with males in their 'home' fig, then search out another immature fruit in which to lay their eggs. The females either actively or passively pollinate the flowers within the fig, lay their eggs, and the cycles continues. Young mature in galls (remember galls?) within the fig, mate, escape the fig, find a new one...The figs ripen after the wasps have exited the premises, its quite a neat system.  I don't think this really applies to commercial varieties which tend to be parthenocarpic, meaning they bear unfertilized fruit (think seedless watermelon). So don't worry, you aren't consuming dead male wasps in your tasty figs. 

What it ultimately comes down to is that people don't know their fruit, or really their food for that matter. This is a wild generalization, I'm aware. But this is the Central Valley, the backbone rooted (literally) in an industry of food that even its own denizens can't seem to identify.
This fuzzy one is a peach. The smooth one that looks like a peach, that's a nectarine. Plums, tomatoes, disbelief that a summer squash is what it is because it doesn't look a thing like zucchini; and no, organic farming is not just 'spraying in the nighttime'.






Then there are the other customers. Those who know variety by name, and come down week after week to ask after their favorite grapes, peaches, what have you. They gladly pay for the food, appreciate the hard work that goes into this fresh food production enterprise. Sometimes they bring down bits and bobs they've made with our produce, jams, chutneys, scones, little tokens of appreciation. And therein lies the heart of the farmers' market community. The connection between the origin of food and the consumer.

Back in the Homeland....

It seems as though every time I return to this place where I grew up, formed so much of my character and outlook on life, I am struck by a gut-wrenching yearning. Down to the marrow of my bones I feel the pull: this is my home. Not the place I live or want to live forever, but the place where I feel a sense of absolute belonging. There's the sight, sound and smell of it that dredges up somewhere deep in my psyche a sense of rightness; dislodges a visceral protectiveness. This is MINE. The smell of irrigation water hitting the sandy soil. The sneeze inducing dust kicked into the air mixed with the odor of dropped fermenting fruit. The smell of dry heat, shrinking my nasal capillaries and dehydrating my hair. The breezes that shift through on the farm and the persistent, incessant, trilling chirping chattering of the mocking birds, complimented here and there by a variable troupe of insects. The distant buzz of traffic on the highway, punctuated by the dull roar of closer, heavier, slower farm machinery.

 Over everything else is the sight. Sweeping orchards blending the landscape in their various greens, melting into golden hills, grass turned crisp in the summer heat, flammable. Last Saturday I drove to Sonora market, leaving the farm at 5am to make the trek into the foothills. The sky had begun to take on predawn light, and as we headed east, the lumpy skyline dotted with my much-loved oaks began to turn that spectacular dusty pink. It reminded me of paintings by one artist I used to see in my Dad's art catalogs. They always depicted mountainous landscapes crafted in purples pinks and blues of perhaps dawn or sunset. And this is what the drive east was, the slow but determined resolution of a dusty grey-black world into brown, green and gold, painted by dusty pink orange sunrise. On the way home I passed a grass fire; two planes and a helicopter circling the mostly contained blaze, watching for fire jumping. This is the Great Central Valley in the summer: a sweltering tinderbox. 

I've been back in the valley maybe two weeks now, staying first with Martha a few days to hobnob, thrift shop, and re-acclimate to the 100+ weather. We had a grand time bouncing around to four thrift stores, a used book store, farmers market and a surprisingly delectable Indian restaurant for lunch buffet. Buffets in general tend to underwhelm me, but this one was great. Give me naan!

Let me tell you. If you were worried that small town America had up and died, you have not been to Winters, Ca. We went to a pancake breakfast at the 'new' fire station to join Martha's neighbor who had yet to meet me, despite the number of times I have showed up on Martha's doorstep demanding attention in the last few years. Neighbors hollered across tables, friendly acquaintances paid amiable regards to one another, and everyone was so... friendly. It was akin to walking into one of those super cheerful towns you see on TV at which you cynically snort and think 'No Way.' Adding to this sense was Martha's running monologue of who lived where, which friend of a coworker she'd run into where, etc. etc. etc.

 Martha who's occupation still eludes me a little, splits her time between two organizations. Can you guess what that costume is supposed to be? Moldy cheese? A burnt pop tart? How about... a bilge pad for your boat...? That's right, its Bilgey of Solano RCD, helping reduce pollution in the local drinking water source...And those skinny legs do belong to Martha.
We went off and made spring rolls, a process that I assure you is incredibly simple. Yet everyone is so thrilled when they see them, like oh my goodness, you spent soooo much time on this! The hardest part is chopping the veggies, promise. So go get some rice wrappers, make some peanut sauce (http://shesimmers.com/2009/03/how-to-make-thai-peanut-sauce-my-moms.html), and eat your veggies!

We took the rest of the unused fixings to the July 4th bash where Martha's delighted friends learned to make spring rolls. Maybe I'm over selling this, but spring rolls are great, especially on hot days when eating seems like an arduous task. 

I headed to the farm early the next morning to surprise the rest of the family. And to pick blackberries and strawberries for ten hours. And you know me... there had to be bugs. When I brought this in, the egg cases were intact, unhatched. I had decided to watch the eggs to see what popped out. Upon returning a few hours later I discovered that the lethargic critters stumbling about on the berry. Ever on a mission to keep the house insect free, the berry was quickly thereafter discarded.

The perks of this toiling life abound in fresh food. Fruit fruit fruit fruit. There are other spoils, supplied by customers and family friends.

The very first round of grapes, grapes for which I have yearned since living in Washington, arrived in market on Saturday. Caprese salad with fresh basil and tomatoes .
 While I was here in the spring, mentioning to people my impending butterfly related employment, several persons inquired whether I had yet read the newest Kingsolver, a book devoted to Monarchs (butterflies). I began reliving this conversation again when I returned and lo, on Saturday an audiobook version of it appeared, supplied by a woman to whom I'd spoken of it on Thursday. Rachel also brought me some honeycomb, just because.

 Berries are dirty business. No matter what you do, if you're near them, you inevitably find a purple smear later. Most days I pick I find stains on my ears of all places, from bracing myself against the vines to see under the trellises. Just sorting berries, picking out mushed ones... simple stuff like that and at the end of a market day, well... Pictures, even blurry ones, tell the truth right?
But if you can maintain a display like this... Well who cares?

 I promise now to make more organized posts later; so far three topics have come to mind that seem to justify their own works of photoblogolism, so when those solidify a little more... well you'll know.
It also may interest you to know that my jousting with wasps has continued. The score now stands Tysons 2: Wasps 2. Not only did I get stung while still in WA, but poor Rachel got a dose as well. I heard her cursing in the hall one night, then came in to have me check her hair for wasps. Luckily it got her on the finger when she investigated her buzzing hair, and we found it later, but still. I played doctor with my renewed sting-response skills. Its more surprising that people don't get stung here more often. The wasps love the eaves of the house, light fixtures... anything they can build on. I knocked down two nests, came back a day later to discover these brats rebuilding in the same exact spot. So its really more like Tysons 1: Wasps 2. And so the ceaseless battle continues.
Here's a nice dragonfly to make us feel better. Too bad they don't eat wasps... A sentiment Rachel apparently shares.

 There are praying mantises all over in the blackberries. Brown, green, tan, even some odd new variant that is almost camo patterned. Since I don't carry the camera everywhere here's and exoskeleton molted on a fig leaf.

 Speaking of fig leaves, have a close up. You can almost see the stomata regulating gas exchange.

 While out picking one morning I swear there was a hummingbird trying to dive bomb me. If I'd had my insect net I might have caught it, it got so close. It's partner hung out in the persimmon tree to watch. Later while retrieving my net from the car to entertain Torch (who is coincidentally a little frightened of The Net) with some dragonfly chasing, I heard the whirring wings and squeaky piping voices of hummingbirds...

 They were lunching on this Mimosa tree (yep, that's its name, also called Silk tree). Can you see the one above? Its a bit blurry.

 This, in case you were confused, is Torch. Good thing I didn't have children as a teenager, if only for the sake of their would-be names. No, I don't know why at 13 I thought 'Torch' was the best name for her. At least I didn't name her something boring like Daisy or something. Though I can't ever recall being accused of being dull.

One of the best possible pass times for the smelly mutt is jumping in the ditch. She doesn't like swimming with people, and is in fact baffled when you want her to get in the water with you. I'm not convinced she actually likes swimming all that much, just the act of retrieving is inherent to her existence, being a mutt comprised of retrieving lineages. Another good pass time is waiting for the glorious Sam to arrive. Despite my coaxing this morning, she was quite set on waiting for Sam, intermittently scratching her chin and perking up at passing noises. She didn't believe me that he absolutely would not be arriving at 6:30 in the morning, escaping the confines of the house to stand vigil for her most beloved of humans, Sam.

Wishing you the best from

Have a Marvelous Monday!