How to create a (almost) painless Winter Wonderland

January is making a lot of many a goodly share of people happy in Bermtopia.

Oh hell. A LOT of people are happy there's no boot-sucking, toe-numbing crap snow on the ground. There. I said it. You know who you are.

But we are ALL well aware of what this means without snowpack in the mountains. We are fretting about drought. My date, the fly fisherman, frets about low run-off and water quality. And although I congratulate myself on, over the years, buying perennials with tags that read "Thrives on neglect. Drought tolerant." I too fret about what this will mean for the water-hungry heirloom tomatoes (and other vegetables) who reign over When Pigs Fly Farm this summer. (Fewer plants, I think.)

Nevertheless, this snow-less January has ironically managed to keep one Bermtopian demographic happy -- the "I -want-to-slap-you-upside-the-head" infernal snow optimists whose mantra is "But it's so beautiful right after it snows."

(Really? Okay. I will grant you about 45 seconds.)

And the reason for this? Hoar frost. Yep. Hoar frost. And I'm here to give hoar frost its props: It is beautiful. And not just because its presence generally means I'm not slogging through snow up to my knees with Ben in the morning.

Read the definition, but in essence, we had a round of dank, damp foggy freezing weather about a week ago that has graced us with a spectacular collection of trees and shrubs flocked with a thick, stunning frosting of ice crystals. In the dark, waning (yes, waning!) days of January, these frosted, familiar landscapes open to the paths we take with a somber, defined welcome.

But, on sunny afternoon like today, oh my. The frosted trees in the park shimmer and call to me in a dream.

Reminding me there's no snow on the ground. There's beauty in the sky. And we're ever so closer to rounding the corner to spring.  

From farm to table: Tomatoes

What about all the innocent tomatoes?

OK, there's a small story behind this. Many moons ago, when I was still a blushing young bride, I awoke in the middle of the night to the sounds of the Wonderfully Patient Spouse thrashing madly about the bed in his sleep.

He appeared to somewhat conflicted.

This went on for several seconds until he flung up his arms (still sound asleep) and demanded indignantly, "WHAT ABOUT ALL THE INNOCENT TOMATOES?"

Of course, I regaled his family about this odd proclamation at the next tribal gathering and the phrase stuck. It even became a corporate tagline for a time.

But today, I come before you and ask, "What DO we do about all the innocent tomatoes?"

When the grand experiment called When Pigs Fly Farm started last spring, I truly believed I would not see a tomato this growing season. The tomato gods have proved me wrong. I have tomatoes up the kazoo.

Not that I'm complaining or anything.

The challenge at hand is what to do with them.

The cherry tomatoes are no problem. Just gather them up, slap them in plastic bags, throw one to my apartment-based work pal, Sporter, every couple of days and take the rest to the food bank.

The big heirlooms are a different kettle of tomatoes entirely. They have a shorter shelf life and just beg to be eaten (or otherwise dealt with) a day or two after picking. Plus, they are not the perfect genetically engineered red orbs you pick up at the grocery store. My heirlooms are straight up funny looking -- big and blowsy and peppered with odd little dimples and cracks. In fact, the other night, one of Farmer Jim's friends said my Mr. Stripeys looked like pumpkins!

So am I in a race to consume these jewels -- or preserve their wonderful summer essence -- using as many recipes as possible. I am not a canner -- the idea of being 5' 2" (and shrinking) and dealing with large kettles of scalding hot water and small jars has never been very appealing. So fresh I am.

You've seen my caprese salad and read about my roasted cherry tomato sauce. Here are a couple more (home runs, if I do say so myself) tomato treats that I've cooked up over the week or so.

 
Farmer Jim's Picante Sauce
I snuck into FJ's recipe vault and snatched it while he wasn't looking! It's de-lish.

1 large white onion, chopped
1 fresh jalapeno pepper, chopped
6 medium sized ripe tomatoes, chopped
½ t salt
1 T sugar
1/4 c fresh chopped cilantro
2-4 cloves garlic, chopped (I'm of a school that if 2-4 gloves of garlic are good, then 3-6 are better. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.)
6 tablespoons olive oil
½ T cumin (Again. If 1/2 T cumin is good, then 1 T is better. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.)

And shhhh. Don't tell Farmer Jim, but I added a liberal pinch of dried red chili peppers. DO IT! You will not regret.

Saute garlic and onions in olive oil till onions and garlic are tender but not brown. Set aside for a moment

Blend tomatoes until chunky with cilantro and put in a pot with sliced jalapeno.

Add sugar, salt, pepper and cumin.

Add onion/garlic mix. Heat, then simmer for about 30 minutes. I got three 8-ounce jars of sauce.

No-cook Spaghetti Sauce
Adapted from "Cooking Light"
Odd as it may sound, it's refreshing and wonderful. Tuck this one away for a warm night next summer.

1 lb dry spaghetti (other pastas are ok, too. Just be sure to use the dry version. They hold the sauce better.)
2 c chopped tomato (about 5 medium tomatoes - fresher the better)
1 c crumbled ricotta salata or feta cheese
1/3 c chopped pitted kalamata olives
1/4 c capers
1 1/2 T extra virgin olive oil
3/4 t salt
1/2 t black pepper
4 garlic cloves, minced (Remember the Bermtopian Rule of Garlic: More is better)
Pinch of a ground red pepper flakes

Cook pasta according to package directions, omitting salt and fat. Drain.

Combine tomato and remaining ingredients in a large bowl. Add pasta, and toss well to combine. Serve immediately.

Note: Play around with this recipe. Try chopped fresh basil -- or omit the ricotta/feta cheese and coat (and I mean, coat) with good-quality freshly grated parmesan. The world is your tomato.

And finally.

Oven-dried Tomatoes
This is about as close as you'll get to tomato crack.

Fresh tomatoes
Extra virgin olive oil
Fresh ground pepper
Garlic, sliced or chopped, optional


Pre-heat oven to 250 degrees. Rub a baking sheet with a light layer of olive oil.


Slice tomatoes (about 1/4-inch thick is good, but don't get all emo if some are thicker than others) and layer on the baking sheet. A little overlapping is OK.


Drizzle olive oil over tomatoes and sprinkle with pepper (and garlic if you're using it).

Pop in the oven and bake for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, giving the boys a toss and re-layer about half way through the cook time. Turn off over and let tomatoes cool in the oven.

Use in salads, sauces, salad dressings, as a topping. Let your tomato imagination run wild!

There are no wrong answers.

The news from When Pigs Fly Farm

Well, at least Mr. Stripey has gotten his stripes.

If you are in the market for green tomatoes, run -- don't walk -- to When Pigs Fly Farm. Farmer Jim and I are awash in them at the moment. Well, to be totally accurate, our cherry tomatoes are coming on. Farmer Jim's harvested a first batch and I'm not too far behind with my heirloom "Snowberry." 

Hello, my pretties.

But Farmer Jim's Romas and my badass big boys, "Cherokee Purple" and "Mr. Stripey"  remain resolutely green.

But soft, what patch of color on yonder tomato breaks? (Lower left hand corner. Really!)

What's an heirloom tomato, you may ask? It's probably preaching to choir since heirloom fruits and vegetables are so de rigeur in the foodie world these days, but according to the University of Wikipedia extension office, an heirloom tomato "is an open-pollinated (non-hybrid) heirloom cultivar of tomato."

In English:  They hail from plants that have been grown for hundreds of years, generally from their own, unaltered seeds.

And in English, again: They taste like real tomatoes. Not like the hybridize mash-ups you get in the grocery store -- and sometimes even grow yourself. I suppose it could be argued this is a somewhat harsh, subjective opinion on my part. I mean how do we know what a "real" tomato tastes like if all we've ever eaten are the hybridized versions, which therefore define "real" for us? You know, it's the old "If a tree falls in the forest. . . ." philosophical maze.

Trust me. You quickly learn what a "real" tomato tastes like when you chomp into an heirloom. Which I hope to do in the next few weeks.

In other news:

Poor Japanese Eggplant #2. It's tomato neighbors finally overwhelmed it, denying it any and all sunlight, so I transplanted it. I don't think it's too happy with me these days.

Um, mom? I don't feel so good.

Farmer Jim's pickling cukes are starting to make an appearance. These have to be about the cutest thing on a vine right now. (Sorry for slight blur; it was a bite breezy in Bermtopia yesterday.)








 
And finally. I don't think I've mentioned yet another WPFF subsidiary -- The World-famous WPFF 2.0 Sunflower Patch.

The Patch

When WPFF 2.0 appeared a few months back, the game plan was to let it lie fallow for the summer while it "cooked" for summer 2012. Being the type of person who can't stand seeing a bare piece of dirt without something stuck in it, I asked Farmer Jim if I could throw a few leftover sunflower seeds from the Back Forty onto WPFF 2.0.

Long story short: The sunflowers in the Back Forty are a gigantic FAIL. They obviously do not like sharing a stage with the 18 zillion other perennials I've got growing, but, my, my, my, they do LOVE When Pigs Fly Farm 2.0!

I am in love with this annual. It's hardy -- surviving a temporary swampland conversion the weekend of Assistant Farmer Holland's visit -- and pest- and bastardly-bird resistant (well, until they go to seed, then game over.) The architecture of its leaves and burgeoning blossoms is dizzying.

And they are almost animate -- twisting and turning to follow the sun as it travels across the summer sky. 

Thank you, Farmer Jim! The WPFF 2.0 World-famous Sunflower Patch is a true summertime treat.

The news from When Pigs Fly Farm

1. I have a carrot!

Operative word/article -- "a".

On close inspection of Farmer Jim's adjacent acreage, I discern he has two. The Great Carrot Race is ON. Bring it, Farmer Jim!

P.S. Sorry for the blurry photo. My camera is sadly underequipped for microbial photography.

2. Arugula (right): In it's own little party world. May have to thin in the next decade or so.

3. Romaine (left): Somewhat noncommittal at this point, but giving it a try. Will get back to me when we have more than a nanosecond of sunshine.

4. Tomatoes: Have decamped to an ottoman under a south-facing window in the living room. Based on this week's gardening column in the newspaper, the best time to plant tomatoes was 1957

Mr. Stripey (aka Tigerella! who knew?) and Cherokee Purple have two new buddies courtesy of Farmer Jim's daughter -- heirloom cherry tomatoes called Snowberry. (What! No Wikipedia entry on Snowberry -- unthinkable!)

So goes another electrifying report from When Pigs Fly Farm.

Happy Mother's Day!

The news from When Pigs Fly Farm

The news is -- the weather's been crap. Cold, damp and dank. I've been amassing packets of seeds -- not to mention two heirloom tomato plants -- with nowhere to go. Until Sunday.

And, why, yes. Those ARE 2 tomato plants on my dining room table.
For the next two months.

Sunday dawned bright, dry and sunny. We won't mention the gale-force winds and a wind chill of about 20 below. What better time to throw down some lettuce and carrot seeds, right? Hey. The seed packets said they're cool-weather vegetables. Well, it is definitely cool.

Live long and prosper, my little vegi-friends.

I assembled said seeds: Romaine, arugula and carrots.


I assembled the When Pigs Fly Farm portable tool shed.

Available soon at home improvement centers near you.

And trucked down to WPFF.

Farmer Jim's garlic are looking good.

And check out this cool trellis.

Stringing up that netting would've brought me to my knees.

Despite losing about a third of my seeds to the hurricane swirling around me, I got romaine, arugula and carrots in the ground. It felt good.

And Monday, it snowed. Welcome to When Pigs Fly Farm.

And so it comes to this

Yes, I know. Attractive, isn't it? Although it does seem to be missing something. Say, a car jacked up cinderblocks?

With the threat of temperatures dipping down into the mid- to high 30s the last few nights, the Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I turned to visquine to protect our sadly under-whelming tomato plants. Well, I take that back. We HAVE harvested about 20 cherry tomatoes, but Tigerella is just green, green, green. The early blossom rot, and abnormally cool summer, have taken their toll.

But enter visquine. Three days bubble-wrapped in plastic has done wonders for our reluctant lady. Tigerella has TWO, count 'em two, pieces of fruit starting to turn. That would be two out of about 100 or so, I should probably add.

Tigerella apparently likes a sauna. And I'm open to any and all green tomato recipes.

Green dinners: Round 3. . . and other matters

I was going to regale you with a story about my keen food detective abilities as I attempted to recreate of my favorite restaurant salads, Roasted Corn Pasta Salad from The Elk, but as I went to fetch their URL, there the recipe was -- in broad daylight. So much for detective work.

A short aside about The Elk: For about one month in the late 1980s, The Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I were hip without even realizing it. As I seem to recall, The Elk opened in the dead of winter and the WPS and I stumbled across quite by accident. We spent many a Sunday night there with the place to ourselves, working our way through its delicious menu of soups and entrees. Ultimately, true hip young people, genetically predisposed to stay up late and drink The Elk's excellent selection of beers, gravitated to The Elk and we once again became un-hip. But that's ok. We still like The Elk, its gumbo and roasted corn pasta salad.

Summer cries out for pasta salads, but I usually find most fare pretty bland. The Elk's Roasted Corn Pasta Salad is anything but. The chipotle-mayo-cilantro dressing is simply grand in a wonderful in-your-face kind of way and who doesn't love roasted vegetables? (Well, probably someone somewhere does. My heart goes out to them.) I was feeling a little feisty this morning so I threw in some crisped-up pancetta from my favorite charcuterie, Sante, for a little additional punch. Mmmm. There's something about the flavors of salty bacon and smokey chipotle just seems right. And, oh, I had some red peppers from the garden so into the roasted mix they went as well.

Salad caveat: If you are spicy-food challenged, DO NOT use the 2 tablespoons of chipotle puree. It will have you screaming like a school girl after your first bite of salad. Just a suggestion.

And other matters

Hormone therapy works!

It does indeed.

After 10-14 days of religiously spraying Tigerella heirloom tomato blossoms with a blossom set solution, we have our first actual tiny fruit. Booyah!

There is a tomato god.

A near Comstock calamity or the perils of swimming in public

Oh my. It was hot today.

Tonight, to beat the heat, the Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I decided to take the plunge so to speak and visit the new and seriously improved Comstock Park pool to see, up close and personal, our tax payers' dollars at work. We have been rewarded.

The pool is delightful. A zero entry (visualize a wading pool/get-use-to-the-water-for-old-farts), little fountains, diving board AND a water slide.

So here's where the water wings came off.

Secretly, since watching the pool be renovated, I've been eyeballing that water slide, just itching to give it a try. So, once acclimated to the water, the WPS and I beelined it over to the slide, confirmed we met all height and weight requirements, processed the posted rules and regulations, and got into line. The WPS went first, shooting down the slide, twisting and turning, ultimately flying out into the landing pool. He popped up with a huge grin on his face.

I took off next, assuming my best luge operator/deadman pose. Little did I know that would be my first mistake. The ride was glorious, flying, faster and faster, through the slide's tight twists and turns. I simply had to laugh out loud. That was my second mistake. I hit the water in mid-guffaw in perfect luger form. Which meant I took on a mouth full of water and got "stuck" under the jet stream of water that propels sliders down the slide. I could not for the life of me turn over and pop up out of the water. I started churning like a 1950s Maytag washer.

The WPS reports he was mildly surprised when, instead seeing my head pop up out the water, he saw my chubby white legs break the surface, pedaling like mad.

The 16-year-old lifeguard was too. He was off his chair, whistle and lifeguard floaty-thing primed, ready for a "Bay Watch" rescue but the WPS beat him to it. He calmly reached under the water and turned me right side up. My hero.

I spit out about 4 gallons of pool water and sucked in the warm summer night's air, sounding strangely like our Hoover vacuum cleaner. Another gallon of water dripped from my nose.

Did I mention this all took place in about 4 feet of water? I didn't think so.

It's so hard to be glamorous.

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.