GrongarBlog – Page 26

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

–William Butler Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds. 1899.

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This photo and post are in response to this week’s theme for the 52 Photos Project. You should participate, too! Read about how it works here. You can see a gallery of everyone’s photos for this week’s theme here. To see a list of all my blog posts for this project, go here.

A wee bowl of Scotland

A few Octobers ago, we went to Scotland, and I think that trip changed H’s life forever. Before that trip, she had no particular affinity for the country, aside from knowing it was where J. K. Rowling lives and wrote the books that H adored, devoured, memorized, and essentially dwelt in for several years of her younger childhood.

But now. Oh now.

Scotland is her dream country. Edinburgh is her dream city. And don’t be surprised if you get a postcard in the next five years saying the three of us, the dog, cats, and goats have moved to the highlands for a spell.

Which I hope makes it clear why, when the My Kitchen My World group choose Great Britain as September’s destination, H immediately handed me a Scottish cookbook.

After flipping through the book, then giving it some thought, I settled on making steak pie, a tradition for Hogmany, the Scottish New Year celebration. I chose this dish for many reasons, not least of which is a delicious memory of the four of us (including my sister, L), sitting in a pub after a chilly, rainy morning of touring Stirling castle, and being served up huge, steamy steak pies, topped with tall puff pastry lids, and served with not one but two forms of potato.

It’s one of those really good memories I don’t want to ever lose. The four of us together, warm, laughing, on an adventure. And pints of really terrific beer.

I decided to make this dish on the last day of September, in celebration of M’s birthday. A personal Hogmany, you might say.

The filling itself takes little effort, just time and a warm oven. It involves the usual suspects of sauteed onions, and steak chunks dredged in seasoned flour and then browned. Then you add beef stock, a nice mound of freshly ground pepper, and put it all in the oven to slowly cook for three hours, stirring it occasionally and checking the stock level to make sure it hasn’t all evaporated.

That’s really it. The traditional recipe also calls for a tiny bit of beef sausage, but I couldn’t find any on the day I went looking. (Note: To make the filling, I essentially followed this recipe, but replaced the sausage allotment with more steak, and used two cups of beef stock in place of the beef stock cube.)

When the filling came out of the oven, the meat was falling-apart tender and the flour, stock, onions, and pepper had coalesced into a rick, dark, thick gravy.

The topping is a puff pastry. You can use any puff pastry you like, including frozen store-bought, which puffs up gorgeously and is always ready to go. Since I had the time, I decided to try making Gesine’s Quick Puff recipe.

I won’t share all my pictures of making the puff, but let me summarize by showing you two and telling you that it starts out as a big ol’ mess of butter, flour and water and you think it’ll never be anything you can be proud of, and then a few rolls, turns, and folds later, you get something gorgeous.

You can make the filling a day or two ahead of time, then, when you’re ready to go, just put the filling in an oven-safe dish, top it with the pastry, brush with milk, and bake for 30-40 minutes, until the crust is puffed and golden and the filling is bubbling merrily away.

We served it with sauteed leeks. And roasted brussels sprouts, and Scottish ale. Why I didn’t think to accompany it with a wee dram of whiskey, I’ll never know.

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To see the round up of the group’s British recipes, visit the My Kitchen My World (MKMW) site. (You can also see where the group has already traveled.) To join in, just make a dish (or more) for the month’s country, blog about it, and put a link to your post in the comments on the MKMW page.

52 Weeks ~ In the circle

I made him a pie for his birthday. Because he prefers pie to cake. And can you blame him? He who was born at the tail end of September in the Northern Hemisphere and all around are perfect apples begging to become pie.

The best apples for pie, in our opinion, are Golden Russets, but those weren’t to be had this year for lowly pie (being coveted for hard cider), and our old Golden Russet tree bit the dust, and our new Golden Russet tree is not yet bearing.

But I found a substitute in a mixture of Pomme Gris, 20-ounce Pippins, and Ginger Golds that I hope will do.

* * * *

Tonight, we went out to feed the goats in the Autumn dark. It took awhile for our eyes to adjust, but we know the way after all these years.

The goats were waiting, impatient but quiet.

The stars popped out, and there was the comforting Milky Way, encircling us, as we orbit. Another year. Another happy birthday, my dear.

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52 Photos ~ In my hands

I don’t look at faces. I make eye contact with hands. I see their shape, their texture, their color, their size. Their wrinkles, freckles, knuckles, nails.

I’m wary of hands, but attracted to hands.

My own hands never measure up to the hands I wish I had. When I was a little girl, I tried to make my thumbs longer and more elegant by pulling on each with the other hand. This did not work.

There’s not a single long, lithe bone in my body.

I stared at my parents’ hands. They had nothing to do with mine. They did things that mine couldn’t do, and were unrelated to mine in size and shape.

My father’s hands. He spreads his square-tipped fingers as he walks, as if combing the air like water, as if preparing to grab the world by its collar.

My mother’s hands. Tapered, short fingers. As short as the cigar butts her father left in the ashtray next to his habitual end of the chesterfield. The fingers are a mark of the family.

When she was born, our daughter’s fingers seemed freakishly long. I mean, in proportion to a baby’s hand. She’s grown into them.

The other day, I held up my own hand as if to take a picture, thinking I might take a picture, deciding not to take a picture.

I saw my parents’ hands in my hands.

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What we did on our summer vacation

It’s the last day of summer, and before we launch into fall color, carved pumpkins, and big bowls of soups and stews, I need to take a moment to acknowledge what we accomplished around here the last couple of months.

And when I say we, I really mean he, as in M. Because he was the brains and brawn behind most of these projects. I was just there to hand him the hammer when requested.

I write a lot here about cooking and books and music and animals and poems and long, lazy walks in the valley, but you really do know that we have live a normal life here, right? We work, go to school, pay the bills, scoop the cat box, have leftovers for dinner, pick up cat fur from everywhere, mow the lawn, scrub the shower floor.

I just don’t share these glamorous moments with you because I don’t want to make you too jealous.

Really, though, this summer has been busy with some outdoor projects that needed doing, and I’m grateful to M for making them happen.

First of all, there was the driveway. The poor gravel driveway that was battered by a couple years of use, then by the relentless rains of spring. It developed a canyon. We developed swerving skills to drive up and down without hurting our cars, but sooner or later someone was going to get a wheel in that ditch and it needed to be fixed.

Enter Chip, whom M spotted working with his backhoe on a property in town and asked if he had time for a couple small projects at our place.

(And please forgive me if backhoe is the wrong term. Is it excavator? Oh, I don’t know about these things.* To me it’s a glorious machine that can dig a hole in 15 minutes that would take us three hours by hand. It’s a godsend, is what it is. But I digress…)

Over came chip. The driveway was smooth in 20 minutes.

But while Chip was here, he performed an even bigger miracle. And I’ll show you what that was.

He turned this:

Into this:

Three years of accumulated wasted hay (thank you, picky goats), muck, etc., dug out to bare earth again. We can now walk into the run-in without ducking our heads.

And what’s really cool (and another brilliant idea from M)? Chip dug a hole in the goat yard, dumped all that delicious muck into the hole, then covered it with soil, which we then seeded, and now we have a beautiful little rise that the goats can play King of the Hill on. Genius.

Driveway smooth, muck gone, new hill for the goats.

That, my friends, would have been enough. Dayenu.

But wait. There’s more.

The firewood arrived. We’d ordered it green and early, so it would have plenty of time to season before the winter. The problem was where to stack it all. In the spring, we’d had a septic problem that turned out to be at least somewhat a result of stacking wood on the ground above the line from the house to the septic tank. Over the years, the pressure of all that wood essentially bent the line.

Oops.

We had one wood crib that M had built a couple of seasons ago to hold some of wood for the large stove. It made sense to us to build a second one next to that to hold the new wood for the smaller stove.

Hmmm. Perhaps we need a third.

And then he went and put those nifty red roofs on, to match the one on the barn.

I love them. Everything all dry and orderly and protected from the weather. This, my dears, is what it means to be an adult. To be so completely pleased by a neat place to stack the firewood.

That took care of all the short wood. There was still the rest of the long wood to stack, which we put here:

It’s not as pretty, but it does the job.

Look who we found while we were stacking! She (?) was actually there under the plastic along with two or three babies, but I couldn’t get to my camera before the babies fled.

A wood pile makes a good home. The chipmunks are always in them, the wasps have settled in, there are discarded snake skins everywhere.

After all the really necessary projects were complete, M turned to one last summer project: making a table for the grill.

We’ve had the grill (a Big Green Egg) for years, but until this year it’s always just sat on its little feet on the porch floor. But we had an old work table that needed a new life, and in a matter of a couple weekends, M transformed it into a cozy nest for the Egg.

Wheels and everything!

It’s very spiffy. And, right this very minute, as I type, M is preparing two pork butts to put on that Egg to make a last pulled pork of the summer. Because, around here, we don’t let go of summer until the equinox pulls it from our suntanned, calloused paws.

* I do, however, usually know a hawk from a handsaw.

52 Photos ~ Bright

This week’s photo theme was “Bright” and, wouldn’t you know it, it was a dark week.

Cloudy, stormy, rainy, with a power outage thrown in for good measure. The night the lights went out, we lit the stove by match, talked by candlelight, and carried battery-powered lanterns up to bed. It was a cozy feeling.

So, yes. A dark week.

But, as you know well, you can still find bright when you look for it, and I was bound to look.

This time of year, when bright appears, it’s slanted, angled, precise. It’s not extravagant the way summer bright is, splashed over everything you see.

The autumn sun is concentrated, rich, specific, like a jam that’s cooked down from watery juice to a sticky, puddle of flavor. You can’t gulp it down. You lick it off the back of a spoon, tasting a handful of fruits in one drop.

You can be walking along under a grey felted sky and then, from under the clouds, a beam streams out, as if pointing a finger: look at that hillside, that specific tree, that mottled leaf-strewn path.

That one-and-only late-budding rose bush.

Today bright Phoebus she smiled down on me for the very first time;
For the very first time she smiled on me.
Today bright Phoebus she smiled down on me for the very first time;
For the very first time she smiled on me.

No more clouds, no more rain, gone the clouds, she smiled again.
Today bright Phoebus she smiled down on me for the very first time;
For the very first time she smiled on me.

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These photos and post are in response to this week’s theme for the 52 Photos Project. You should participate, too! Read about how it works here. You can see a gallery of everyone’s photos for this week’s theme here. To see a list of all my blog posts for this project, go here.

Summer-fall hand pies: Mozzarella & tomato jam, Pear & smoky caramel

Pie is problematic.

For one thing, it can be so many different things. It can be sweet, of course. But it can be savory, too.

If it’s sweet, is it filled with berries, apples, pears, plums, or rhubarb? Or maybe chocolate custard? Or peanut butter cream? Pecan, pumpkin? Ice cream?!

And on the savory side, we have everything from spinach pies to turkey pot pies to Scottish beef pies to fish pies to bean pies to shepherd pies to you-name-it pies. Where does it end?

Construction-wise, the options are daunting, too: top crust only, bottom crust only, both top and bottom? Flat top, lattice top, tiled top? Pie dough, cookie crumb, mashed potato, noodle? Round pie, square pie, rectangular pie, hand pie?

I get a bit overwhelmed with options. I don’t thrive in a world of too many choices.

But here’s where pie is a comfort: it doesn’t matter what choice you make.

It doesn’t matter because pie is good no matter what.

Pie will be there for you. Pie will be made of whatever you have on hand, whatever you just picked at the farm stand, whatever’s left over in the refrigerator after a long week. If it’s a sweltering, muggy day and you want to cool off, pie can be cool with fresh fruit and mint and an ice cream sidecar. If it’s a cold and rainy and dismal day (as today happens to be), pie can be warm, steaming, and comforting.

This week has been a bit crazy. I really didn’t have time to think about pie. I looked around the kitchen and thought: what can be pie? The ball of fresh mozzarella volunteered first, followed by the jar of tomato jam.

The pears hanging out in the apple bowl wanted to play, too. As did the smokey caramel sauce that’s been in the fridge for a few months.

Okay. Let’s make pie! Two types. Two shapes. One summery and savory, a play on caprese salad; the other sweet and smokey like an autumn evening in front of a bonfire.

Problem solved.

Now, look around your kitchen, your pantry, your fridge? What wants to be pie?

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This month’s Let’s Lunch theme is (you guessed it) PIE! Take a look at the wonderful variety of pies the rest of the group has made.

Annabelle‘s Chocolate Pie at Glass of Fancy
Anne Marie‘s Apple Pie Sandwiches at Sandwich Surprise
Betty Ann‘s Calamansi Pie at Asian In America
Cheryl’s Mexican Cottage Pie at Tiger in a Kitchen
Grace‘s Easy Apple Pie with Lard Crust at HapaMama
Jill‘s Guava and Cream Cheese Empanadas at Eating My Words
Lisa‘s Sweet Ricotta Noodle Pie at Monday Morning Cooking Club
Linda‘s Biscoff Banana & Pear Galette at Spicebox Travels
Lucy‘s Sweet Potato Custard Pie at A Cook and Her Books
Margaret‘s Cushaw (Squash) Pie at Tea and Scones, Too
Nancie‘s Edna Lewis’s Tyler Pie at Nancie McDermott
Naomi‘s Huckleberry Pie Ice-Cream at The Gastro Gnome
Rebecca‘s Summer-Fall Hand Pies at GrongarBlog
Sara‘s Herb Pie from Ottolenghi and Tamimi’s “Jerusalem” at Three Clever Sisters

Mozzarella-tomato jam hand pies

Yield: four to eight hand pies (depending on the size you choose to make)

1/2 batch of pie dough (or 1/2 package of pre-made pie dough). For these pies, I used the “Flaky Butter Crust” recipe in one of my favorite baking books: Handheld Pies. (Note: Some people are afraid of making pie dough. If this is you, don’t worry. You can do this. Or, if you just don’t want to, feel free to use a pre-made dough from the grocery store. There are a lot of good ones out there. There’s no shame in using one. Most especially, because you will have pie and all sins are forgiven when you offer pie. It’s a scientific fact.)
6 ounces (170 g) mozzarella cheese
8-12 teaspoons of tomato jam (depending on how much you want to use) (Note: If you don’t have tomato jam, use whatever you like: hot sauce? pesto? sliced cherry tomatoes? You choose!)

Preheat the oven to 375º F.
Line a cookie sheet with a piece of parchment paper.
Slice and then chop the mozzarella into 1/4-inch cubes.
Roll the dough to about 1/8-inch thick.
Use a knife or pizza wheel to cut squares. (I cut 6-inch squares. Cut the size you like.) Then cut each square in half diagonally to form two triangles.
On each triangle, spread one teaspoon of tomato jam on one half of the triangle. Try to keep a clean border around the edge so that you can seal the pie.
Add .5 ounces (15 g) of cheese to the jammy half.
Fold the triangle in half, then seal and crimp the crust. Poke or slash the top crust to let steam escape.
Put the pie on the prepared cookie sheet.
Repeat for the remaining triangles.
Refrigerate for 15-30 minutes.
Bake for 20 minutes, until lightly golden. Expect some cheese to leak out, unless you’re a master crimper (I’m not).
Remove the pies from the sheet and let cool on a cooling rack, but only for as long as you like. It’s okay to eat these as hot as you can stand.

Pear-caramel hand pies

Yield: four to eight hand pies (depending on the size you choose to make)

1/2 batch of pie dough (or 1/2 package of pre-made pie dough; see the note for tomato pies, above).
2 large, firm pears, peeled, cored, and chopped into 1/4-inch pieces.
1/4 cup sugar or honey (adjust amount to your taste)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
Pinch of cinnamon (or any other pie spices you like: allspice, ginger, clove, etc.)
4-8 teaspoons caramel sauce (use whatever caramel sauce you like, or, hey, how about chocolate sauce?)
1 tablespoon milk
2 teaspoons turbinado or other coarse sugar

Preheat the oven to 375º F.
Line a cookie sheet with a piece of parchment paper.
Combine the chopped pears, sugar (or honey), vanilla, salt, and spices in a bowl and let sit until the pears are juicy, about 15 minutes.
Roll the dough to about 1/8-inch thick.
Use a cookie cutter, bowl, or drinking glass to cut circles. (I cut 4.5-inch circles. Cut the size you like.) Each pie requires two circles, so make sure to cut an even number of circles.
Put one teaspoon of caramel sauce in the center of a circle.
Add about 2 tablespoons of the pear mixture (adjust as needed, depending on the size of your circle and your preference).
Top the pie with another circle, then seal and crimp the crust. Poke or slash the top crust to let steam escape.
Put the pie on the prepared cookie sheet.
Repeat for the remaining circles.
Refrigerate for 15-30 minutes.
Brush each pie with milk, then sprinkle with turbinado sugar.
Bake for 20 minutes, until lightly golden.
Remove the pies from the sheet and let cool on a cooling rack.

52 Photos ~ At the end of the day

http://youtu.be/Hk1CDlv-WnE

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The urge for going

52 Photos ~ Gold

A wee bowl of Scotland

52 Weeks ~ In the circle

52 Photos ~ In my hands

What we did on our summer vacation

52 Photos ~ Bright

Summer-fall hand pies: Mozzarella & tomato jam, Pear & smoky caramel

Mozzarella-tomato jam hand pies

Pear-caramel hand pies

52 Photos ~ At the end of the day