Garlic scapes: Scary or scrumptious?

There were aliens in our box of organic produce from Fresh Abundance this week. Green and contorted, they actually WRITHED as I pulled them out of the bin.

Garlic scapes. And, spoiler alert, they are scrumptious.

Scapes are the tender above-ground sprouts of a young garlic. As the garlic matures and hardens underground, this sprout, or stem, or whatever, straightens and dries out, but for a magical few weeks in May-June, it's tender, curly and delicious. A curious, redolent mix of onion, garlic and, well, the best way I can put it is, the last taste of spring and the first of summer. Because of their brief window of deliciousness, you probably won't find them stacked in the produce bins at your local grocery store. Chances are, you'll have better luck finding them at farmers' markets or through community-supported agriculture (CSA) vendors.

Last year's mid-June Fresh Abundance box was my first introduction to garlic scapes. WTF? When I pulled the tangled mass of sprouts out of the box, I was truly buffaloed. But, thanks to the miracle of Google, I was rewarded with a rich, pungent scape pesto recipe, which we snacked on the entire following week. Breath mints optional, but recommended.

Monday night, I took a handful of garlic scapes, spread them out in a grill pan and topped them with a salmon fillet seasoned with a little salt, pepper, brown sugar and lemon juice. The Wonderfully Patient Spouse grilled up this concoction to perfection. Toss in a fresh red plum-orange-celery-red onion-ginger salsa, and we were not suffering. The scape are ridiculously tasty grilled -- and still crunchy!The fish infused with just a hint of garlic and onion, and interestingly, extra moist as well. Too bad we ate it all up before I could grab a picture.

Intrigued by the grilled scape application, I tried it with lamb loin chops tonight, adding a couple of stems of mint to keep things interesting. Again, grilled to perfection. Again, yum. Obviously lamb is a gamier piece of meat than fish but it still retained a subtle, smokey garlic nuance. The mint I'm sorry to report basically melted and was not a player.

And once again, we ate it all up before I could grab a picture. I think my career as a food stylist could be in serious trouble.

Alas, I'm now out of garlic scapes, and what with their short season and all, I probably won't see them again till next June. But I've got plans, oh I've plans. Sautes? Gremolata? All of the above? We shall see, we shall see.

YoungBobCupFest

It's almost 10 p.m. in Bermtopia and my feet, hips AND lower back tell me we've covered a lot of territory today:

HOOP FEST: The world's largest 3 v 3 street basketball tournament. It's said it's like going to Walmart except you're in downtown Bermtopia. They may have a point there.

The Reader's Digest version: The Number 2 Son's team lost both games today and are now in the Loser King bracket, meaning (1) we get to watch a bit of the England-Germany World Cup game tomorrow a.m. (a serendipitous little dividend) and (2) if they (the N2S team, not England or Germany) win two games tomorrow, they get the coolest T-shirt ever (traditionally WAY cooler than the court champion shirt but try telling that to the N2S). Film at 11. Or tomorrow. Or whatever. The N2S was a bit of a grumpy dumpling but I think the evening's festivities shall soothe the savage beast.

US-GHANA WORLD CUP GAME: We are ALL grumpy dumplings about this. Please don't ask.

YOUNG BOB FLYNN: The Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I stopped by to say hi to Young Bob Flynn. And you know, life has the funniest ways of keeping you humble.

We were taking YBF for a stroll outdoors via wheelchair, when she stopped the WSP in the hall and pointed in the general direction of where I was walking.

"Brad, is there a dog right over here?"

Our eyes met --the WPS and I, that is. We smiled and stifled a laugh.

I leaned over and said, "Bobby, it's me, Mary, Brad's wife."

Her eyes widened, and despite her diminished eyesight, she found my hands, enveloped them with hers and gave them a butterfly kiss. Then she laughed. Loose. Carefree.


"Oh. Mary. I know you're not a dog."

My oh my, tamale pie

The Number 2 Son should be rolling into town any time now, coming home for a weekend of Hoopfest and World Cup. The Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I are wondering how the first gazing-upon of The Matt Cave will go -- along with the edict that he's in the guest bedroom from now on. Needless to say, I bought a mattress pad for the downstairs futon. . . just in case the edict idea doesn't fly. Which it normally doesn't.

Safely tucked away in the refrigerator at home is the N2S' favorite meal -- tamale pie. Making tamale pie is our version of killing the fatted calf in celebration of the prodigal son's return. Definitely less bloody. But judging on the way the kitchen looked last night around 8:30 p.m., I do believe they're about equal on the makes-quite-a-mess-o-meter.

I grant you, tamale pie is NOT your typical summer offering. Far from it. It's dense with hamburger, onion, chili powder, cumin, oregano, corn (fresh in this case as a shout-out to summer), cheese (cheddar AND pepper jack) and yogurt-infused cornmeal mush, topped with a sour-cream-and-tomato-concoction, then baked to tamale-like perfection -- IF, and only if, you consider a 10-pound tamale perfection.



Truth be told, the dish is really best savored in January, after shovelling snow for 12 hours, in sub-zero temperatures, with windchill factor of say 30 below. Preferably by a family of 14.

But the N2S is home! It's World Cup and Hoopfest. A celebration is in order. So celebrate we will with a hunka-hunka slice of burnin' love -- tamale pie.


Pass the guacamole, please.

Big ears (again! same week!)

Ahhh, it's Hoopfest Week. One of my favorite weeks in the year here in Bermtopia.

By way of explanation: This weekend, Bermtopia hosts the largest outdoor 3-on-3 basketball tournament in the world.

The weeks prior to Hoopfest are a treasure. If there is a basketball hoop in the 'hood, some team is practicing. I expected nothing different tonight as I took Ben, the dog, for walk. We approach Wilson Elementary, alma mater of Number 1 and Number 2 Sons, fully expecting all hoops (all non regulation, I think) occupied.

But no, instead I spy 4 young lads who I'd place at 6th grade or so, judging by their size (2 tall and gangly, 2 short and skinny... which is the same as gangly except you can't be gangly if you're short) and range of octaves of their voices. Two are on skateboards, doing deliberate, but manly, passes back and forth each other. They are all amazingly intent on their fingernails.

I soon discern the reason why. There are LADIES (the 6th grade version) sitting on the 1st graders' swing set, just outside of the boy-cootie danger zone.

Then, one of THE LADIES yells.

"Hey, Jordan. Are you dating Krista?"

There's a flurry of intense fingernail inspection along with, I suspect, a group consultation for just the right come-back amongst the boys. Then Jordan, all 4' 11'' of him, roars back in an surprisingly deep, emphatic voice.

"NO!"

Pause.

Then one of THE LADIES speaks.

"Hey, Jordan. Do you LIKE her?"

Enough is enough. A line has been crossed. How much prying can a self-respecting 6th grade guy take? Jordan wheels around and glares at his inquisitors.

"I'M A FREE MAN. I CAN DO WHAT I WANT!"

Jordan's "WANT" starts out dark and indignant, but ends on a bird-like chirrup.

Indeed.

Oh, Jordan. I think we need to check back with you (and Krista) later.

Big ears

It's Saturday, and though we in World Cup Land, are still licking our wounds over yesterday's disallowed go-ahead goal for the U.S., life does go on. There's rose food to buy, rooms to dust, baby showers to attend.

I'm in the local grocery store stocking up on provisions for the weekend, standing behind an elderly dude, spry enough, wearing a grey T-shirt that reads "Old guys rule." He's getting his weekend lottery and buying what looks like store's entire inventory of bananas.

In the checkout line, he spies the Saturday edition of The New York Times, which is sporting a front-page, above-the-fold picture of The Shot Heard 'Round the World in yesterday's U.S.-Slovenia game. He jabs at the paper and begins a monologue directed at, I think, the guy in line in front of him:

"I've never played soccer but I played a lot of sports but I never played soccer but I watched that game yesterday did you see the game yesterday? but I watched the game yesterday and we should have gotten the goal because there wasn't a foul so we should have gotten the goal no way was there a foul I don't know what that ref was thinking no way was there a foul it was a terrible call I don't know about that ref but if it had been me I would have cold-cocked him on the spot."

Indeed.

You've read it here. Old guys rule.

The Beautiful Game

Huzzah! World Cup 2010 has erupted into our global consciousness -- ie,our TV screens -- this week. And for the next month I, for one, plan to savor every minute. Of course, we're a "soccer family" in that both our boys have played since they were, ummm, 5- or 6-years-old. The Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I coached Number 2 Son (even have the C license to prove it), I've managed a couple of traveling youth teams, and for awhile there, even the WPS and I played (if you could call it that) on adult teams.

A side note: I "retired" from competitive (if you could call it that) adult soccer when, after eight stitches and one broken arm later (two different games, I probably should add), I found myself driving down to the local ER at 11:30 p.m. one night to get my wedding ring cut off. I had broken my finger playing keeper for my Over 30 ladies' team. By the time I got home from the game, and despite some serious immersion icing (the WPS, Number 1 Son and N2S know what I mean), it was big as The Hindenburg and counting. Good times, good times.

But I digress. As we immerse ourselves in World Cup madness, I have to stop for a minute and sort out what I enjoy most about the madness: It is the drama played out on the pitch? Is it the wonder of watching and listening to 95,000 rabid soccer fans simultaneously rise and/or deflate with each well-played ball and laser-locked shot on goal. OR is the real drama trying to explain soccer to well-meaning, but endearingly clueless, friends and acquaintances who pronounce plaintively "I just don't get soccer."

It's too slow. Not enough scoring. Takes too long to score (Let's conveniently forget the first 4 minutes of the US-England game Saturday, shall we?). Draws. THE VUVUZELAS! And on and on it goes.

The short answer. You really can't explain soccer to folks who measure the game against the X's and O's of a (American) football playbook. Who need the black-and-white determination of win and loss. Who measure the quality of a game by the quantity of points scored.

I'm a simple soul. I'm just impressed with the fact the guys don't wear cups.


(And trust me, as a mom who's watched one of her pups take a nasty, cleats-up slide tackle in the cajones -- and the other somersault across the field after a direct hit in the you-know-where with an frigid soccer ball, this is a point well taken.)

Well, that and more. Here's what I love:


The magical movement of man and ball. . .

Fearless physical challenges (and the deft dispossessions). . .


The grace -- and grittiness -- of the game. . .

No time outs. . .


A 5'8" striker juking 6'2" keeper.

And that's just the start.

It IS The Beautiful Game. Maybe not for everyone. But for a goodly number of the 6,790,062,216 bodies that warm this good earth it is. And I'm proud join them at the World Cup party this month.

The great basil do-over

The basil plants I planted in mid-May are not happy with me -- or with Bermtopia for that matter. My little herbal divas did not enjoy the 40 days and 40 nights of precipitation we've just suffered through. And a short cold snap where temps hovered right around 29-30 for a couple of nights really ticked them off. Even after I swaddled them in the Glad Wrap to keep them warm. And you all know how I feel about plastic wrap.



A a result, this is what I have now:

Instead of this:

It IS kind of pathetic.

Life is short, and the growing season in Bermtopia is even shorter. Therefore, I am hoisting the white flag and surrendering. It's time for a basil do-over.

By and large, I'm a pragmatic gardener. I gravitate toward plant tags that read "Drought tolerant" and "Thrives on neglect." If a plant is high maintenance, it's in someone else's garden.

Except for basil. Basil is my Achilles heel. My blind spot. You can't have summer without fresh basil. It would be downright un-American. And store-bought doesn't count.

Without basil, there is no pesto, no caprese salad with my Tigerella heirloom tomatoes and balsamic reduction, no let's-just-throw-in-a-handful-of-basil-and-see-what-happens. It makes me sad just thinking about the possibility of a basil-free summer.

And so, yesterday after work, I beelined it to one of my favorite nurseries and picked out four new plants. They go in the planter this afternoon, following a brief memorial service for their fallen comrades. I've promised my new arrivals there will be nothing but sunshine, days in the 80s and nights in the 60s from this day forward.

And then, of course, this being Bermtopia, the temperature dropped and it promptly began to rain.

What has MacBook wrought?

Because I'm feeling lazy today. . .

and because I need a little more time to put some polish on a more substantive post started yesterday (it's done! see below) . . .

and because I need some type of affirmation for wallowing around on the ground in my garden the last two days attempting to eradicate an out-of-control population of weeds that has been shamelessly encouraged by a week's worth of monsoon rains. . .

and because I got a MacBook on Mother's Day and have been "practicing" with iPhoto. . .

and because, well, I can. . .

this is what you get today.

Young Bob Flynn

I popped over to the hospital Saturday morning to help Bobbie, my 90-year-0ld mother-in-law, with breakfast. Over the years, she's been known, very lovingly you need to know, as Young Bob Flynn, Busty Bobbie, Velveeta Butt and The G-ma.

She's got a thing going on with her ticker that needs some tending to, plus a couple of other issues that, for the most, are part and parcel of living 9 decades, plus or minus a couple of months. Throw in the fact that macular degeneration has taken away her vision -- and she deals with some pretty hefty memory issues -- so, yes, we're helping her with meals while she's in the hospital.

As I round the corner into her room, I see she is sitting up in a chair, sound asleep.

Uh oh.

Let me explain. Over the years, Bobbie has earned a well-deserved dangerous reputation for her shoot-first-ask-questions-later response to being awaken unexpectedly. One fabled family story has her late husband, Bob, coming to bed wearing a football helmet because, earlier in the day, she pretty much decked him when he surprised her in the middle of an afternoon nap. He survived the night -- and many others -- I might add.

Bobbie looked lovely, cotton-candy white hair gently outlining a dignified, almost patrician profile. Her skin, still roses-and-cream at the age of 90, was softly illuminated by the morning sun. Nevertheless, fabled or not, I couldn't help but recall this favorite family story as I reached over and touched her gently on the shoulder -- while attempting to calculate the potential projectory of the portable heart monitor next to her hand.

"Hey, Bobbie. It's Mary, Brad's wife."

She did wake with a start. I braced myself. Her dark hazel eyes widened. And then she smiled.

"Why, Mary, how lovely to see you."

For a woman, who reportedly saw little men running around her hospital room earlier in the morning, her aplomb was refreshing. Note to self: Must work on my aplomb.

(P.S. I love that word.)

"Breakfast is coming soon. I thought I'd help you out."

"How perfect. You know, it's always lovely to share a meal with someone you love."

We do a little comb-out while we wait for breakfast. Bed head hair is transformed into a gentle bouffant and gradually, in appearance and attitude, Bobbie becomes a regal grande dame of Sacred Heart Medical Center.

Note to self: Must also work on my inner grande dame.

During the comb-out, she asks:

"So, Mary, how goes it at the community colleges?"

I smile, touched by this. Even as Bobbie's memory fades, as she slowly loses the scraps and patches of memory that make up a human quilt of family and life, she remembers this small detail -- that I work for the community colleges here in Bermtopia.

Back in the day in Southern California, she worked for community colleges, too. First as a nursing instructor and then, moving up the ranks, becoming a she-devil of dean of nursing. And please know, I say that with utmost admiration. Say what you might, in higher ed, a good dean -- a he/she-devil dean, if you will -- is passionate about his or her discipline, his or her division and really doesn't care how many heads get knocked together to get students educated, graduated and employed. Bobbie was a good dean.

Breakfast arrives. While slicing and dicing sausage and eggs, I talk about work, more than happy to prattle on about my community colleges, the end of the school year and the projects I hope to knock off during summer quarter.

Bobbie munches contentedly on the mish-mash I've created, nodding in agreement here and there, half-smiling in, what I think, is recollection. Then, she clears her throat, and asks:

"So, Mary, how goes it at the community colleges?"

I have to smile. She doesn't remember. But I don't care. I'm talking to Young Bob Flynn:

. . . . The little girl shaped by an unpredictable, itinerant childhood during The Great Depression, frequently separated from her 4 sibs and parsed out among well-meaning family members and various Catholic institutions while a beloved mother slowly succumbed to congestive heart failure and a charismatic father drank and gambled away the family's livelihood.

. . . . The officer and gentlewoman who, during World War II, defied the U.S. Army by "fraternizing" with a dashing young enlisted man on the island of Guam -- a corpsman from Southern California who aspired to start his own business when the war was over. I think you can fill in the rest.

. . . . The intense, focused young woman who grabbed at a lifeline of education and nursing, thrown to her by the Sisters of Providence. She never let go -- not as a young mother working graveyard at St. Lukes in Pasadena to help support her husband's fledgling painting business. . . not as working mom going after a master's degree in public health at UCLA. . . and not as passionate, proud academic administrator who helped build an esteemed community college nursing program from the ground up.

. . . And a fierce family woman, who raised 6 children, all college graduates (and no convicted felons that I'm aware of) . . . a woman who, I might add, had a valued hand in the raising of my own two boys. . . and a woman who, I think, still believes there are very few obstacles in life that can't be moved by some combination of the 3 F's -- faith, family and fun. Thanks to Bobbie, I've come to believe that, too.

While I repeat the highlights of my work week and plans for summer quarter, Bobbie savors another bite or two of sausage and eggs, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. She swallows deliberately, clears her throat again, and turns to me.

"And so, Mary, what's going on at the community colleges these days?

I can't help it. This just makes me grin. And I think, Young Bob Flynn needs another taste of sausage and egg.

Mix and mattress... or just call us the Clampetts

A note to my readers (all 3 of you): I usually try to break my "travel" posts into smaller, more bite-size pieces, but this particular Memorial Day moving weekend was, in my humble opinion, epic and best described all in one sitting. So fasten your seatbelts.

The WPS and I spent most of Memorial Day weekend in the rain, in a cargo van, on the west side of the state, helping our offspring move into new apartments.

We rented a cargo van in Bermtopia and emptied out our storage unit. (Well, actually I can't take any credit for that. It was all the WPS. But I was there with him in spirit.) We also cleared out a few corners in the basement -- and hauled an old mattress off our bed as a gift for the Number 2 Son. It felt good to purge ourselves of old and unused furniture and household items.

About the mattress. We thought we were being so clever here. The N2S needed a new mattress and, to paraphrase, wanted to sleep "like, in a normal bed," rather than on the floor where he'd camped in various rentals during his college years.

Coincidentally, the WPS and I were in the market for a new mattress, but not the box spring that usually comes with a mattress set. And so began the perfect storm. See where I'm going with this? Boxspring (that we don't need) + (our former) mattress = "normal bed" for N2S.

So into the cargo van the mattress went -- plus 300 pounds of old college textbooks and other memorabilia, end tables, the last of the wedding gifts, and a lamp, lamp shade and sofa for Number 1 Son and The Miz (his lovely bride). Add to that -- one reluctant Australian shepherd mix, his dog bed, our bags and a plastic container with dog food, a box of Milk Bones and biodegradable poop bags. We were locked and loaded -- ready for our cross-state journey.

We did indeed look like the Beverly Hillbillies -- or, in our case, the Bermtopia Hillbillies. Except, as the WPS pointed out, the cargo van was enclosed so Granny couldn't really perch on the end of the vehicle like she did as the Clampetts triumphantly drove through the city of Beverly Hills at the start of each show. But still. I believe we were one in spirit.

Did I mention the cargo van was approximately 200 feet long? I didn't think so.

The rain started as we hit the Cascades, intensifying as we slide through Seattle on our way to Everett -- and N1S and The Miz' first (and, I might add, darling) apartment. By the time we reached their front (and, I might add, darling) door, we were in a rain storm of biblical proportions. . . except for the 20 minutes it took to unload the van when the rain miraculously abated. But when that last college textbook landed in the the living (and, I might add, darling) room, the clouds opened once again and resumed their dump.

The rest of the evening was wet -- and uneventful. Except for the WPS' three black jacks in a row and my own $110 run on a slot machine at a local casino. I love you, Pegasus. You know who you are.

Sunday morning was (mostly and surprisingly) dry and clear. Perfect mattress-hunting weather. Or so we thought. We loaded up Ben, the dog, and got on the road, Bellingham-bound, with the goal of stopping at the local mall to buy a "mix-and-mattress" set for ourselves and the N2S at Macy's. One rice cooker, toaster, and 45-piece flatware set later (all booty for the new N2S apartment), we learned we couldn't purchase a "to go" mattress set at Macy's. Doh.

Good-bye, Macy's. Hello, Sleep Country. Sky's still clear, though. Things are looking good.

But first, a word about mattress salespeople. OK, it may be one of the harder, sadder ways to make a buck, watching people flop on bed after bed after bed in search of the perfect mattress.

But, Mattress Sales Person, it doesn't help your case, when -- once your customer has made his/her choice -- you get a faintly queasy, greasy look on your face, as if you've just uncovered something that has gone very, very bad amongst the mattresses, and point out in a strained, pained, yet somehow amazingly predatory tone of voice, that our choice of mattress only has 207 coils as opposed the apex of all mattresses right over there, which has 1,516. So, so MUCH better for your body -- and only about $500 over what we've told mattress sales person we wanted to spend.

The upshot: We learned more about mattresses than I thought was humanly possible. But about 90 minutes later, we were out the door, cramming a brand-new mattress set into the cargo van. Next stop Bellingham.

Taking a few seconds to admire a half-full 64 oz. bottle of Budweiser tastefully displayed on the front steps of the N2S' Bellingham batchelor pad, we scooped up the lad and his girlfriend, extracted our new mattress from the van, and packed a 6-foot sofa, cushions, six-drawer dresser (sans drawers), TV stand and one small table fan into the back of the van and headed to the boy's new digs -- Magnolia Court. He's working there, rent-free, as an apartment manager over the next 18 months or so while he completes a degree in graphic design. I think it's going to be a pretty sweet gig.

The small spartan apartment, which comes with a huge, wide covered porch, is old and quaint -- perfect for the N2S. There was one scary moment when it appeared the sofa wouldn't fit through the apartment's skinny little front door, dashing all sorts of decorating plans against the rocks and creating much grief and anguish between the WPS and N2S, who were doing most of the heavy lifting. (I was in charge of the screen door.) But The Girlfriend gave it an another look and convinced us it would fit. And it did.

One more run and the N2S' large furnishings were moved. Our job here was done. Bruised, battered and still largely buffaloed by all matters pertaining to mattresses and moving, we retired to our hotel. As it began to rain in earnest. Again.

And here is where we stayed:

And where we ate:

And what we did:

A good time was had by all. Then we drove back to Bermtopia. In the rain.

The end.

More artisan bread awesomeness

About 20 loaves (and one batch of rolls) later, my artisan bread recipe continues to be awesome -- and easy. But, because I am a little geeky this way, I have now moved on to obsessing about ways to make it even more awesome.

And it came to me about 4 in the morning a few days back.

Garlic. Roasted garlic.

So, a couple of nights ago, I roasted a full head of garlic and chopped it up. Then mixed up a batch of dough. The burning question (geez, I AM sounding geeky) -- when to add the garlic? While mixing the dough? While folding it?

I went with Door Number 2, reasoning the addition of garlic while mixing dough might mess with the magic of yeast, salt, water and flour coming together and rising overnight.

So sprinkle and fold I did (with the help of the WPS), then popped it in the oven. The bread baked beautifully -- despite the new addition of roasted garlic. The world did not spin off its axis. The sun set in the west as it always has. And it was done in time for me to catch the next episode of "Glee." Now that's artisan bread awesomeness. (And I have officially gone off the Geekiness Chart with that admission.)

The verdict? I'm sorry. I'll have to get back to you. I'm in the midst of a artisan bread awesomeness coma of joy.

The Lightening Barker

Ben, our dog, is a cautiously serene creature. There are, of course, things he clearly DOESN'T like, including, in no particular order of abhorrence, trips to the dog groomer, rubber bands and the laundry chute.

But, on the other hand, he demonstrates remarkable sang froid in situations like thunderstorms (windless, please and thank-you) and the 4th of July, which can send lesser dogs into a blind, furry frenzy.

Until now.

We had our first thunderstorm of the season about a week ago, a rumbly old thing that began around midnight. It was actually two storms, one approaching from the south, the other from the north. Faint grumbles of thunder heralded the storms, but as they converged over our neighborhood, lightening began making its presence known.

Flash.

"Urruff," Ben whispered from the foot of the bed.

What? The dog has never paid the least amount of attention to lightening before. Must think it's a car.

Flash.

"Urruff-ffff, ruff!" Ben mutters a little more emphatically, this time raising his head and throwing a I'm-all-over-this glance my way.

You're really not barking at lightening, are you?

Flash. Flash.

"Grrr-ruffff! Ruff! Ruff!" This a full-fledged, menacing "Not in my 'hood!" bark.

Shhhh. You're going to wake up the WPS!

Flash. Flash. Flash.

"Grrr-ruffff! Ruff!" FLASH! "Urr--OWLP!"

Startled by an extraordinary blast of light that paints our room white, the mighty Lightening Barker yelps, scurries off the bed and -- ears back, eyes rolling -- assumes the "OK, I'm ready for this to be over" position, wedging himself between the bed and my nightstand.

I touch his head for a moment, slip out of bed and head for the basement with my hero.

At top of the basement stairs, we watched a few faint flickers of light in the sky -- now far off to the north of Bermtopia. One last roll of thunder murmured in the distance. And, then, a spring rain started to fall.

The Matt Cave revealed

Without further ado, I present the new and improved Matt Cave. Except we really can't call it the Matt Cave anymore.



Three months. . . several gallons of paint. . . new baseboard and trim. . . one stacked slate stone fireplace veneer . . . and a smokin' new futon cover, pillows and TV stand later, we've gone from cave to family room. With nary a Gatorade bottle, dirty sock nor cell phone charger in sight.



Good-bye, weird partially white-washed, partially distressed wood paneling. Au revoir, oddly recessed painted brick fireplace. And sayonara, scratched and dirty basement ceiling. Our work here is done.

We've gone from this:

To this:

It's been a pleasant transformation, and while youngest son Matt loses his subterranean grotto, we gain a family room that we can now, with full certainty, proclaim as booger-free. You can't say that about all basements.


Matt, you will always have a place to hang your boxers when you come home to Bermtopia. We love you to death -- AND every minute of your visits. But now, you have new accommodations -- also known as "the guest bedroom."

We love you, Matt. Come home soon.








And, by the way, how do you feel about the color yellow?

Good morning

And it is a good morning. A beautiful morning in fact. Especially at 5:30 a.m. -- 30 minutes before the alarm is set to go off.

It's hard NOT to get up and bound out of bed at 5:30 on a morning like this. The air, rinsed clean by wind and a heavy rain last night, is sharp and spikey, foreshadowing a cold front that will move through the region the next couple of days. The means visquine for Tigerella and the rest of the gang tonight.

The sparrows, god love 'em, are in an argumentative mood and are letting the world know all about it. I can hear some of them pattering around inside the gutter, where they've set up housekeeping for the summer. Not sure what happens when it rains like in did last night, but I suppose they'll figure it out.

I am especially drawn to the light at 5:30 these spring mornings. It illuminates everything, accentuating new blooms in the backyard, a pair of goldfinches picking at a seed sock in the cherry tree, and finally, the grapefruit I've sliced open because, well, I got up early enough to carefully section out its sweet, astringent fruit.

As sun moves east to west across the yard, it spills into the kitchen window and catches the freshly cut, glistening fruit for a breathless moment. My breakfast becomes a priceless jewel. A treasure worthy of a queen -- and I am that queen.

It IS a good morning.

Some of the other fellers

OK, I left out a few new members of the garden this year. And they were not happy for the omission in my previous post. Maybe Tigerella is not THE dominatrix after all. So, here goes. .

For some reason, when I shopped for tomatoesthis last weekend, I also felt compelled to pick up a...

A sweet red pepper 'cept I lost his/her tag while potting. Just know he/she is sweet, long (stop-pp-pp!) and can be eaten off the vine (stop-pp-pp again! You know who you are.)

A yellow"Golden Summer/Moon/Whatever" bell pepper. (Ok, another tag sort of lost in the shuffle)

Two "Ichiban" Japanese eggplants. This should be interesting. I love 'em, but eggplants creep out the WPS. In a good season, Ichiban is 1.) a lovely plant and 2.) prolific.

Eggplant recipes, preferably those where you don't know you're eating eggplant, are welcome. Please send immediately.

Tigerella and one or two other thoughts

Tigerella. Doesn't THAT just trip off the tongue?

It is, in fact, an heirloom tomato we're planting this spring. Hello, my lovely. Where have YOU been all my life?

I know heirloom tomatoes are culinary old news. Anybody who's anybody has eaten heirlooms since they were in knickers. But, maybe not so much in this corner of Bermtopia. Here in the Berm, we seem curiously stuck on the old standbys like Sweet 100s, Early Girl and other hybrids. As a result, heirlooms were serious news on our dinner plates last summer after a little junket to Las Vegas.

We had lunch at Todd English's Olives restaurant at The Bellagio. Among a variety of gastromic oohs and ahhs that afternoon was the WPS' caprese salad -- slices of heirloom tomatoes (the size of hamburger patties and, ohh, the colors), fresh mozzarella and a balsamic reduction. (Note: the balsamic was reportedly 100 years old.) Oh mama.

We came home to Bermtopia, sought out and devoured heirlooms al summer long. At $5.99 a pound we decided to give growing our own a rip this summer. We shall see. Bermtopia isn't always kind to tomato growers, but Tigerella's got a 56-days-to-maturity guarantee. As I said, we shall see.

And about that reduction -- four parts balsamic vinegar to one part honey (They say corn syrup is ok but nooo-ooooo, don't go there.). Simmer for 4 hours. No shortcuts. Then weep in thanksgiving as you oozle this nectar on salads, meats and whatever. Oh mama -- squared.

On to the "one or two other thoughts." I'm back in the pumpkin business, though not in a whiskey barrel this year. That's where Tigerella's living. Plus, the WPS very kindly cleared out a spot in the back of the garden next to the tomatoes. If we're lucky, pumpkin amputations will be a thing of the past. One can only hope.

Scroll down and meet "Aladdin" -- he's reportedly bigger and badder than "Orange Smoothie"

. . . I mean, 30- to 50-pounds bigger and badder.

And please, no jokes about rubbing his magic lamp. Thank you.

The plastic wrap conspiracy

The Wonderfully Patient Spouse, faithful canine Ben, and I made a Mother's Day pilgrimage home to the City of Roses this weekend. We were joined there by The Oldest Son. It was wonderful.

But, among many issues we covered over the weekend, my 85-year-old mother, wise woman that she is, confirmed what the WPS and I have suspected all along: There is a dastardly, global conspiracy going on RIGHT NOW against life as we know it.

News flash. It's not the Taliban, Wall Street hedge fund managers, Somali pirates or Congress. It is . . . plastic wrap.

Check your kitchen drawers and be afraid. Be very afraid.

Plastic wrap, aka saran wrap, cling wrap, etc., is evil. Happy homemakers all over the world have been gulled into believing it is valuable and necessary for the preservation of leftovers -- the fulfillment of life -- and profound spirtitual enlightenment.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Plastic wrap has, in fact, been designed to flummox and frustrate. . . to foment domestic insanity.

Starting at the moment you open the box. . . and the little metal razor-cutter dealie falls off. A new box of plastic wrap now rendered almost totally useless. Nevertheless, you soldier on.

Next step, prepping the plastic wrap box. Even if the little metal razor-cutter dealie remains intact, you still face significant obstacles to achieving plastic wrap nirvana. That would be --getting the wrap off the roll and set up for cutting.

Try to remember the last time plastic wrap gently and uniformly released from its roll and gracefully slipped right through the cutting guide. My guess is you're probably too busy to recall because you're picking at the stubborn threads of wrap that have your plastic wrap roll in lock-down.

Nevertheless, after too-numerous-to-count attempts later, your plastic wrap box is finally locked and loaded. You're ready to tear off a sheet. Or not.

One of two things happens (Thanks, mom, for the demos!):

Scenario 1 -- No matter how gently you pull, the wrap grabs and sticks, stretching into a geometric oddity that might work in the Picasso household, but is a little shape-challenged for that slice of meatloaf you hoped to set aside for another day.

Scenario 2 -- As you pull, the wrap bunches, clings to itself, becomes a useless wad of, well, plastic.

And if, improbably, the kitchen gods smile upon you and you're lucky enough extract a sheet without bunching, the damn laws of physics intervene.

For every action, there is a reaction. Remember that one?

In the case of plastic wrap, this means, once extracted, one end of your sheet will inevitably seek out its better half and cling relentlessly to it, locked in an inspired death grip, all while you're trying to tear off your piece of wrap with the nonexistent little metal razor-cutter dealie.

I rest my case. It IS a conspiracy. And global at that.

"Ironman III" -- bring it on.

Carnitas

We're celebrating Cinco de Mayo at work this week with a South-of-the-Border themed potluck. And I'm bringing carnitas with all the fixins'.

California style carnitas -- ending a 22-year carnitas hiatus that started when we moved to Bermtopia from Southern California.

There's nothing like 'em. I haven't been able to find them in Bermtopia. Well, carnitas like Cali carnitas. And -- until now -- I've never been able to replicate them at home.

Note the operative words until now.

But first a word about carnitas. It's Spanish for small meats. Usually pork butt -- slow-roasted or braised till the meat becomes this dreamy-crazy carmelized melt-in-your-mouth confection tasting of spice, citrus and smoke. Throw in a warm corn tortilla, an oozle of guacamole and dash of fresh salsa and you've got yourself a little handful of heaven.

The Wonderfully Patient Spouse introduced me to carnitas while we lived in Orange County in the 1980s. Oh, and fish tacos, too. But that's another story.

Inevitably, we found the best carnitas in the smallest taquerias imaginable. Places so tiny and spartan you questioned whether they were actually inhabited by human beings. That is, until you saw the carnitas turning lazily on a rotisserie framed by a smokey restaurant window. Minutes later, we'd be standing at the counter. . . watching as the cook himself shaved thin, yet incredibly succulent, slices of meat onto our tortillas. . . anticipating that first bite into porcine perfection.

So, this is what was playing over and over in my head this week, thinking about our upcoming Cinco de Mayo potluck. Naturally, I turned to my cookbook authority on all things Mexican -- Williams-Sonoma's "Mexican Food." Seriously. Despite the chi-chi rep, W-S kicks it when it comes to ethnic cook books.

The recipe is simple enough: Pork shoulder or boneless country-style ribs (I did ribs), orange zest, orange juice, sea salt, plus a little water. (From the confessional: Forgive me, father, I threw in a little fresh ground pepper. Just because.) The meat braises in a pan rather than on a rotisserie. (A small concession if the outcome is anywhere close to the OC carnitas of my dreams.) And W-S assured me all this magic would take an hour, with another 15 minutes or so for the meat to carmelize in its rendered fat.

Four hours later, yes, four hours later . . . I had beautiful, magnifico carnitas that easily matched the ones we enjoyed in SoCal back in the day.

After 22.5 years living in a carnitas-free zone, it was worth the wait.

Artisan bread awesomeness

A few days into my foot surgery recovery, a neighbor stopped by with a lovingly crafted fresh-baked baguette, cunningly wrapped in brown wax paper and tidily secured with some string. It was a vision -- like something you'd pick up at the local boulangerie on your way home after a long day at the office in, say, Paris.




In my experience with baguettes, they can be a tough, dry, flavorless nosh. Possibly because I buy them at the grocery store and then promptly forget to use them for a day or two. At that point, baguette becomes baseball bat.



But still.




When we tucked into our gift baguette, it was enlightenment. The bread was dense, chewy but not challenging, slightly sweet, slightly salty. It barely needed butter. It barely needed anything. Except for someone to savor it. And, amazingly, we did for the 2 or 3 days we managed to ration out servings.




Needless to say, I begged for the recipe -- and was rewarded. With the recipe and another baguette. Life doesn't get much better than that.



Until I read the recipe. Then life did in fact get better. Because this is the ultimate low-maintenance bread recipe.


Four ingredients -- instant yeast, flour, salt and water.













Mix it up and leave it to its own devices for at least 12 hours -- and up to 20 hours. Note: This is 7 p.m. Friday night.









And this is 7 a.m. Saturday morning. Check out what 1/4 teaspoon of instant yeast can do. The recipe says "swollen and bubbly all over the top" -- the term lunar surface actually comes to mind.








Next step: Take your bowl of primordial yeasty goo and plop it out on a floured surface. (This part's kind of scary. It kind of claws its way out of the bowl.) Pull the dough up and over itself a couple of times and that's it. Finis. Time to shape your loaves.


NO KNEADING!
No kidding.





Your loaves sit for about 30 minutes while the oven heats to 475 degrees. (An aside: I recently invested in an oven thermometer and discovered my oven is off by about 5 degrees. Figures. So now I adjust accordingly.)


Now for best ever "secret." Stick a pie pan filled with about an inch of water on the bottom rack of the oven. This is my artsy shot.








Bake.

And love.