Mycology is Mushrooming

            One of my fondest childhood memories is of going mushrooming with my aunt and
 uncle. I remember the smell of the moist soil, walking on a carpet of pine needles so thick that our footsteps made no sound. The awe of that ancient forest, with bracken fern fronds nearly as tall as I, has stayed with me. My cousin and I would scamper around, searching for 'shrooms. We were taught not to touch any, just show them to an adult. Some were picked, some were vetoed. I don't remember anything about the art of mycology, I was too young, but I definitely remember feasting on the fungi. Baskets full of mushrooms would mean mushroom soup for supper. Breakfast would be a mushroom frittata. The flavors were always wonderful, earthy and rich.

            I did learn a healthy respect for wild mushrooms, and don't recommend hunting  them yourself, unless you really know what you're doing. Just too many are deadly toxic. Personally, I'm happy to stick with a reliable source:¦my neighborhood grocery store. Fortunately, these days most markets are carrying more than just white button mushrooms. Now we can enjoy "wild" mushrooms, and all we have to learn are recipes. Criminis, the brown buttons, are baby portabellas. Less expensive, they are nearly as flavorful as their larger, trendier siblings. Fresh chantrelles and shitakes have become standards in some produce departments. Many of the more exotic can be found dried, if not fresh.

            The year our son, James, announced his intention of becoming a chef, Grandma gave him a "mushroom farm" for Christmas. It was a kit consisting of a foot-long piece of log, pre-treated with shitake spores. He followed the instructions, and sure enough, at the expected time, he was harvesting succulent shitakes. Our family enjoyed the abundance for several weeks.

            This recipe is the closest I've come to duplicating my aunt's soup. Her's was made with homemade beef stock and herbs from her garden. It was velvety smooth, punctuated with perfect slices of mushrooms. A dollop of butter floated on top of each serving. She counted on heavy cream and arrowroot to thicken her broth. Trying to lighten it up, I use mushroom puree and milk for thickener. The end result is very similar, and much lower in fat and calories. A few shitakes or other "wild" mushrooms thrown in for extra flavor are a nice touch.

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Cream of Mushroom Soup     

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2 lbs. crimini mushrooms

½ lb. shitake, chantrelle, morell or an assortment, fresh or dried (optional)

3 stalks celery, strings removed, thinly sliced

½ cup diced red onion

3 tbsp. olive oil

1 tbsp. butter

2 cups beef broth

4 cups milk or half & half

¼ tsp. thyme

1 bay leaf

Salt and pepper

Chopped chives for garnish

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If you're using dried mushrooms, put them in a bowl with just enough warm water cover. Let stand for at least 10 minutes. Drain, reserving liquid.

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Wipe crimini mushrooms with a damp paper towel. Pick out the 6 best looking ones and slice thinly. Set aside  with the more exotic mushrooms.. Chop the remaining criminis coarsely.

In a stock pot or Dutch oven, heat oil and butter to medium-high. Saute onions and celery until tender. Add chopped mushrooms and continue cooking until some aroma develops. Pour in broth. If using dried mushrooms, add the liquid they soaked in, too. Bring to a simmer. Add thyme and bay leaf. Reduce heat and cover. Simmer about 15 minutes until mushrooms are tender. Remove bay leaf.

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With a slotted spoon transfer the mushroom/onion/celery mixture into the food processor or blender. Puree until smooth. Pour the puree back into the pot and stir well. Add mushroom slices and dried mushrooms. Stir in. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Continue to simmer on low heat 10 minutes. Slowly add milk and heat gently. Do not allow to boil after milk has been added.

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Sprinkle with chopped fresh chives. Serve with crusty bread or cheese toast. 

A Meat and Potatoes Man

             My father was of the school of thought that a real meal consisted of soup, salad and a main course. A real meat and potatoes man, there were certain things that just didn't count as dinner. If it didn't require a knife and fork, it was not considered a meal. Pizza, tacos, and hamburgers were unknown in my house as a child. (Not that I was deprived of these kid favorites, there were plenty of sleep-overs and pizza parties at friends homes.) An exception to the rule were his favorite foods: the gulashes of his childhood in Czechoslovakia. There are many versions in many cookbooks, but these are truly authentic, eastern European dishes, just the way my grandmother used to make. Simple and hearty, both are still family favorites, even though Dad has been gone for many years.

            These are the basics for the meat gulash. If you like a lot of heat, add a dried chili pepper or two. If you prefer mild, omit it.  We raised sheep, and Dad hunted deer and elk, so the meat of choice was seldom beef.  Even the gamiest of game is succulent and tender when done this way.  Mom used to serve it with a hearty rye bread, topped with garlic butter, and fruit.

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Lad's Gulash                 Just like Dad used to make

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1 lb. Beef, venison or lamb, cut into 1-inch cubes

1 large onion, chopped

Flour

Salt, pepper, paprika

Bacon drippings, oil, or butter

1 quart beef stock or water

Whole, dried chili pepper (optional)

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Season the meat with salt, pepper and paprika. Heat the bacon drippings in a heavy pan. Cook the onion until golden. Sprinkle with paprika.

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Add the meat and cook until it browns on all sides. Sprinkle with flour and continue to cook, stirring constantly to prevent sticking. When the flour starts to brown, pour in just enough liquid to cover everything. Stir well, scraping the bottom to loosen any bits. Add chili pepper(s) if using.

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Reduce heat, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until meat is tender, 1 hour or longer. The gravy will thicken as it simmers. Add extra liquid as needed. Adjust seasoning to taste. Remove chili pepper before serving.

 

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Although traditionally made with russet potatoes, this can be a little starchy if they cook too long. Using a waxy type spud, like reds or Yukon golds, helps with that.

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Sausage & Potatoes       A simple "old country" peasant dish

About 4-6 servings

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1 lb. kielbasa style lean smoked sausage

6 medium russet potatoes

½ cup chopped onion

2 tbsp. butter or oil

2 tbsp. flour

4-6 cups broth or water

2 tsp. sweet paprika

salt, pepper

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Peel potatoes and cut into uniform chunks. Slice sausage into bite size pieces.

Saute onion in butter until golden brown. Add potatoes and season with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with flour and stir to coat. Pour in water or broth to cover and stir well. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer about 15 minutes until potatoes are fork tender.

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Stir in sausage slices and paprika. Mixture should be fairly thick and reddish brown. Cook a few more minutes until sausage is hot.

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Serve with a crisp green salad or fresh fruit.

 

A Drive to Remember

With Thanksgiving just two weeks away, I was reminded of a trip we took in 1979. Newlyweds, my husband and I were living in Central Oregon, while our family all lived in Portland. That's a trip of 180 miles or so, usually about 3 hours, if obeying the horrendous 55 mph speed limit that was in effect at the time.

We had spent Thanksgiving Day with my in-laws, and Friday and Saturday visiting friends and family. Now it was Sunday, and we had brunch with my mother before getting on the road back home. The forecast was calling for more snow in the mountains, with a traveler's advisory for the Santiam Pass. Fretting as we prepared to leave, Mom fixed us a care package. "This is way too much food for me," she said. "You kids take this home."

Before we reached the highway, we heard that the Pass was closed. Pat had to be at work the next day, so we wanted to get home, if we could. We turned around and headed toward Mt. Hood. Up and over the mountains, then Highway 97 all the way home.

At the base of the mountain was a roadblock, traction devices required beyond that point. Fortunately, we had chains for our old, two-wheel-drive pick-up. Unfortunately, the sheer number of vehicles chaining up created a massive bottleneck. A single lane of traffic was open in each direction. We started the up-hill climb, amidst hundreds of holiday travelers. Creeping slowly, bumper to bumper in driving snow, progress was minimal. About halfway to the summit, the line of eastbound cars ground to a halt. Minutes passed. The occasional O.D.O.T. truck or county vehicle would pass going the other way. Every so often, we would move a car length or so.

The snow continued to fall hard, the wind blowing. Time dragged on as we sat, trapped in an icy caravan. After four hours, we had yet to reach the summit. I was nine months pregnant with our first child, due any day. Cranky and uncomfortable, I was ready to be home. Pat was worried that I might go into labor, and I was trying not to think about it. He tried to keep the old Ford at a comfortable temperature, but it seemed we were always too cold, or too hot.

Brunch was a long time ago, and we were getting hungry. We remembered mom's care package. Inside was a piece of ham, a brick of Swiss cheese, and several ripe tomatoes. We had excellent sandwich fixings, with no bread or utensils. Laughing, we cut chunks of ham with Pat's pocketknife, broke bits off the cheese, and ate tomatoes like apples. Food never tasted so good.

Inching along, we finally reached the summit of the pass, the marker barely visible through the snow. The downhill grade did nothing to speed things. As dusk fell, the snow and wind stopped simultaneously. We had been sitting in the truck for nearly seven hours. The line of vehicles stretched as far as we could see, both in front and behind. There seemed no logical explanation for the hold up. No emergency vehicles had gone by, in either direction. We realized that nothing at all had passed for hours.

Three cars up ahead of us, a yellow International Scout suddenly put on his turn signal. He pulled into the available left lane, and started down the mountain, oncoming traffic be damned.

Pat looked over at me, "what do you think?"

"Go for it." I was as sick of the mountain as he was. He pulled out, following the Scout.

The chains bit easily into the new snow, and we progressed steadily. Passing literally hundreds of cars, we encountered no obstacles. Eventually, we reached the front of the line. At its head was a small white sedan, traveling at a snail's pace. Everyone else had apparently fallen in behind, dutifully staying in line, until it caused an eleven mile traffic jam.

Soon we were off the mountain. The snow behind, the road clear, Pat pulled over and removed the tire chains. Finally, we were able to make some time. The desert shimmered under a layer of frost as we drove through the moonlight. The road spun out before us, long and straight. A far-off flashing red light announced the turn to Warm Springs. Up ahead, we could see taillights. Probably Mr. Scout, we hadn't seen any other cars. He reached the stoplight…and didn't even slow down.

"Look at that crazy bastard!" Pat exclaimed. "He just ran right through that red light!"

A moment later, we came to the light…and slid right through it. The entire surface of Hwy. 97 was coated in black ice. We continued, slower and wiser.

Finally reaching Bend, we pulled into Denney's at the edge of town to thaw out, and eat. The place was packed. We got a small booth, and ordered soup and coffee. As we waited, we gazed idly out the window. There was plenty of snow here, the road plowed and hard-packed. Just then, a huge Buick station wagon approached the diner. Trying to slow, the wagon slid, turning sideways across the four-lane road. We could clearly see the faces in the car. Dad was white-knuckled on the wheel and mom looked terrified, while the kids in the backseat laughed, waving at people in the restaurant.

We waved back as Dad corrected the skid and continued down the street, completely unscathed. He'd had the entire block to himself

By the time we got home, we had been on the road for over ten hours. We were exhausted, and caught colds, but were otherwise fine. It was another two weeks before Laura was born.

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With that happy memory in mind, I'd like to add a recipe that has been a tradition in the Brown family for four generations. It's labor intensive, but worth the work. Known regionally as 24-Hour Salad, Overnight Salad, or "that salad with the little marshmallows", this is one of my husband's favorites:

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Ambrosia

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2 cups Royal Ann cherries, halved

2 cups pineapple tidbits

2 cups mandarin oranges

2 cups quartered marshmallows

1 egg

1 ½ tbsp. sugar

¼ cup lemon juice

½ cup orange juice

1 cup heavy cream, whipped

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Combine well-drained fruit and marshmallows.

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Beat egg until lemon colored. Gradually add sugar, lemon juice and orange juice. Mix well. Cook in double boiler until smooth and thick, stirring constantly.

Allow to cool completely. Stir in whipped cream.

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Pour over fruit and fold in. Chill 24 hours before serving. Do not freeze.

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            Going from the labor intensive, to the beautifully easy, this is a way to dress up your cranberry sauce. You still need to plan ahead a little, but the prep time is minimal. It's a jell-o salad that even cranberry-shy kids like, and the shape is a departure from the classic "can mold" of my youth.

            I've used various size and shape molds, but my favorite is a 3-cup copper ring. This makes two of those, or one 6-cup Tupperware mold.

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Cranberry-Orange Wreath

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1 - 6oz. box red jell-o, raspberry, cran-raspberry, or cranberry

2 cans whole-berry cranberry sauce

2 small cans mandarin oranges, drained well

¼ tsp. each, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice

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Dissolve jell-o in hot water, per box directions. Add spices. Stir in cranberry sauce in place of cold water. Chill for and hour until partially set. Gently fold in mandarin oranges, and pour into 6-cup mold. Allow to set at least 6 hours, preferably overnight.

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To make un-molding easier, dip mold to the rim in very hot tap water for 10 seconds. Immediately flip onto serving plate and re-refrigerate until ready to serve.

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Garnish with whipped topping just before serving, if desired.

 



Pumpkin Patches, Pumpkin Pies

One of my favorite fall activities is going to the pumpkin patch with the grandkids, and my favorite patch is at Baggenstos Farms. Connor's preschool class went there last year, and Jordan's Brownie troop had their event there in October. The farm is awesome. In addition to the pumpkin patch, they have a farm store, rabbits and goats to pet, and various fun activities for the kids, like pumpkin bowling. Currently closed temporarily, they re-open for Christmas trees at the end of this month. 

Last year for Thanksgiving we made our first "from scratch" pumpkin pie. It was a fun experience. We purchased a special "pie" pumpkin. With no clue how to proceed, we just quartered the pumpkin, cleaned out the seeds and other "pumpkin guts" (to quote Connor) placed cut side down on a cookie sheet, and baked until soft. Once cooked, I scraped the meat into the food processor bowl and pureed until smooth. Not happy with the not-orange-enough color of the puree, I added a cooked carrot to the mixture. It didn't change the flavor, but made the color more appetizing. I actually ended up with more than I needed, so I froze the remained to use in future pies or pumpkin bread.

My plan was to use the puree in place of canned pumpkin in my favorite pie recipe, but thought it deserved a homemade crust. Since I rely on frozen pie crust, I called on my son James, the chef, to make the pastry. He made a rustic, French style crust, rich with butter and sugar. It was delicious. We will definitely be doing this again this year.

This is my old "go to" recipe. Adjust accordingly if you bake your own pumpkin.

Pumpkin Cheesecake Pie

Heat oven to 425°

2 Crusts for 9" deep dish pie

16 oz. cream cheese, softened

1 ½  cup firmly packed brown sugar

4 eggs

1 tsp. ground cinnamon

¼ tsp. ground nutmeg

1 can pumpkin (29oz.)

Whipped cream for garnish

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Beat cream cheese and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time.

Stir in cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin until smooth. Pour mixture into prepared crust. Place on cookie sheet in preheated, hot oven.

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Immediately lower temperature to 350°.

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Bake 35 - 45 minutes or until center is almost set

Cool completely on wire rack. Serve topped with whipped cream

 

After the Storm

         It's always interesting to me how quickly late summer heat turns to fall rain in this part of the country. It can be in the high eighties one day, and near freezing the next. The storm that signaled the end of September dumped record amounts of rain, took out the air-conditioner at work, and flattened what was left of the garden. When the rain slowed, and the flooding receded, Laura and I surveyed the mess. There were still plenty of tomatoes on the bush, mostly green, but enough were pinkish-orange and worthy of salvage. A good sized cucumber, and a partly red bell pepper rounded out the last harvest. We picked what was there and retreated to the warmth of the house, and a pot of veggie soup.
        Today I finally got around to clearing up the rest of the garden. I pulled up spent plants and retired them to the yard debris bin to be picked up later this week. The wire tomato cages were in better shape than I'd hoped, considering the way they looked. Only the legs were bent at a near 45 degree angle, easily fixed. It only took a little time to have the plot back to pre-garden condition. Standing back to look at the bare patch of earth made me a bit sad. Only six months until next garden season.
         The day of the rainstorm I was lucky enough to experience a new zucchini dish. Tasty little morsels baked in mini muffin tins...zucchini tots! I haven't had the chance to try making them myself, since we've had no more fruit on the squished plant. I might actually have to BUY a zuke or two, just so I could make these at home. I think the grandkids will love them!

Zucchini Tots
Makes about 2 dozen

Preheat oven to 400f

4 cups grated zucchini
3 large eggs
1/4 cup finely diced onion
3/4 cup shredded parmesan cheese
3/4 cup seasoned bread crumbs
salt and pepper to taste

Spray mini muffin tins with oil. Grate the zucchini onto a clean dish towel. Roll up and wring out all the excess water. In a medium bowl, combine all the ingredients and mix well. Fill each muffin cup to the top, pressing down firmly. Bake at 400f for 16 to 18 minutes or until golden brown and crispy. Use a plastic spatula to loosen tots from pan.

 

The Sage Seed

             Joe was an outdoorsman, and always had been. Nothing made him happier than spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” Her only complaint was that along with the game birds, he usually brought home enough dust and sage seed to choke a mule. It wasn't so bad, at least the season was shorter than football.
            A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual eastern Oregon bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.
            Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.
            He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.
            Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.
            On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.
            “I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”
            “Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”
            “It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”
             Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new.  A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.
            “Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”
            An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.
            Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.
            Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.
            “Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.  
            Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.
            A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”
            “Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”
            Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”  
            Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.


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        That was a true story. It happened back in the 80’s…when you could put anything on lay-away at K-Mart, and the customer was always right. This is Frankie’s recipe. It works best with domestic duck, the fatter the better. The fat all cooks off, and leaves a wonderful, crispy skin and succulent meat. A deep, open pan with a rack is essential.

ROAST DUCK         Heat oven to 400°

1 large, fat duck
1½ tsp kosher salt
½ coarse, black pepper
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
Fresh sprigs of rosemary (optional)

Cut duck into quarters. Shears work well for this. Trim excess fat and ragged skin edges, but do not remove the skin. (If you are using wild, skinned duck breasts, lay strips of bacon across each breast to replace the skin. Secure with picks. Proceed as follows.)

Make a dry rub of salt, pepper, garlic and paprika. Proportions are suggested, but you can adjust to taste. Rub both sides of each duck piece generously.

Use a deep broiler pan for best results. Lightly oil the roasting rack. Lay duck quarters skin-side-down on the rack. Place a stem of fresh rosemary on each piece (non-skin side).

Place in hot oven. Reduce heat to 325°, and roast skin side down for 30 minutes.

Turn the duck quarters skin-side-up. Drain any fat from the drip pan. Continue roasting, skin-side-up, 2 - 2½ hours, until inner temperature at thickest point reaches 165°. The drip pan will likely be full. When slow-roasted this way, the fat melts away, leaving a moist and tender bird with a crackly-crisp skin.

I like to serve this with a wild rice pilaf and baby carrots.

Feeding Vikings

Watching the Oregon Ducks beat the tar out of the Tennessee Volunteers this afternoon made me a bit homesick for the days when my boys played high school football. 
 In a small town, everybody shows up for games, whether they have kids on the team or not. When the team made it to state, the Tacoma Dome had more Orcas people in the stands then fans from the more local opponent.
          For several years, we spent most Saturdays in the stands or on the sidelines at Buck Park, cheering for our Vikings. Often, eagles soared overhead. My husband, like most of the dads, would pace the length of the field, following the action, shouting encouragement. I found I had a better view from the bleachers, with the other moms. Sometimes, we got quite loud ourselves, clapping and chanting along with the pep squad:  "O-R-C-A-S…V-I-K-I-N-G-S…ORCAS (clap clap) VIKINGS (clap clap).
  It's been ten years since our youngest graduated, and my time as a football mom ended. Now, I'm just a fan.
           There  were no lights on our field, so Varsity games always played on Saturday afternoon, usually starting at 1 or 2pm. When James was playing, we rarely got home before 5 or 6 on games day….hungry and ready to eat. I got into the habit of using the crock-pot, so dinner would be waiting for us, ready to be served up. It's a great feeling, coming home to the aroma of chili, pot roast, or a wonderfully hearty soup. This took a bit of morning time-management, but it was worth it. Sometimes, I got the bread machine out, too.
            This is one of our favorites, especially with homemade bread. The Guinness Stout adds a great richness, and helps to tenderize the meat.

Harvest Stew       Serve with hot biscuits or fresh bread

1 lb. beef,  lamb, or venison, cut into cubes
⅓ cup seasoned flour
2 tbsp. oil
1 medium onion, diced
3 stalks celery, sliced
2 carrots, sliced
2 -3 medium Yukon gold potatoes, cubed
1 large or 2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups frozen mixed vegetables
Small, whole, fresh mushrooms (optional)
2 cups beef broth
1 - 12oz. bottle Guinness Extra Stout

Place the meat and flour in a bag, and shake to coat thoroughly.

Heat the oil to medium-high in a large, heavy pan. Cook the meat until brown. Place in crock-pot set on low. Add the vegetables Add the beef broth and stir well. Cover.

De-glaze the hot pan with the Guinness, being sure to loosen any bits. Let it boil at least 2 minutes, to evaporate the alcohol. Scrape the pan again, and add the liquid to the crock pot. Stir well. Cover and turn the temperature up to desired cook time.

 

Cook on high 4 to 5 hours, or med/low 7 to 8 hours.

 

Charlie

           The old man glanced across the pick-up seat at the little girl sitting beside him. She wore faded jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt, and Keds that had once been pink. She was eight years old, and the picture of her mother at that age. Blonde and tan, a tomboy from head to toe. In her lap she held a small, green plastic tackle box.

           It was late summer in central Oregon. An excellent time to take his granddaughter fishing, Hank thought. The water level in the canal had been dropped for the season, leaving the trout trapped in isolated deep holes. It was, almost literally, catching fish in a barrel.

           The pigtailed face turned toward him. “Papa, doesn’t it hurt the worms when you put them on the hook?”

           “Well,” Hank hesitated, unsure what to say, “I don’t think they hurt the way we do. Their brains are too little”

           “But can they swim? It must be scary if they can’t swim. Don’t they drown?”

           “They can breathe in the water,” he explained patiently improvising. He had no idea whether a night crawler could swim or not. It hadn’t occurred to the girl that the worms would be eaten alive by a trout. Grandpa was deciding it would be better to use Powerbait.

He cranked the steering wheel hard left and turned onto the BLM right-of-way. It was a rutted, hard-packed dirt access road, which meandered along, following the canal out into the desert.     

“Look, Papa!” Lucy giggled, pointing, “Look at those funny birds!”

A family of Valley quail marched, single file across the road. Mama was in the lead, followed by a six adolescent chicks, with Daddy bringing up the rear. Lucy was delighted.    

Hank slowed to an idle to let them pass. “They were most likely down at the water hole. Just up a bit is our spot.”

           The old truck rumbled to a stop by the side of the road. There was a bend in the canal here, where the water widened and slowed. This was the fishing hole. Lucy jumped out and slammed the door. They settled down on a fallen log and grandpa set their lines. He fixed the girl up with a baited hook, making sure no worms were injured in the process.

           “Hold down on this button,” he instructed, “then let go at the top of the cast.”

           “I know.” She grinned confidently, “Daddy showed me how.”  With a look of supreme concentration, she swung the pole through the air, the bobber landing with a plop. Hank nodded, proud of her. The child had been practicing.

           They caught four nice pan fish within the first hour. It was the perfect amount for dinner.

            The day warmed. Dragonflies floated on shimmering heat waves. Sometimes, a breeze rippled the water, or raised a dust-devil. Otherwise, all was still.

           When the sun was straight overhead, they went back to the truck. Hank put the tailgate down, and spread the lunch Nana had packed. Lucy munched on her ham sandwich, asking questions about the desert animals between bites. Her grandpa had lived in the area his entire life. He knew all about the wildlife, and loved to share his knowledge.

           “Look at them whistle pigs,” he said, pointing to a prairie dog colony the size of a football field, a few yards across the canal road. “They dig holes to hide in, deep burrows, and then just stand there on the edge and watch. If a hawk flies by, they’re gone just like that.”

           They decided it was getting too hot to fish, so they packed up the gear and started for home. As they bumped along the rutted road, a flurry of activity caught Lucy’s eye. Something had scattered a covey of quail, sending dust and feathers flying. Hank hit the brakes, swearing under his breath, as several birds erupted in front of the truck. They heard the thump of several bodies coming in contact with the vehicle. Lucy leapt out and ran onto the road. Most of the birds were across now, looking flustered. One, however, lay in the road, twitching. “Oh, Papa,” the girl cried. “He’s hurt! Did we do that?”

           “I think he ran into the truck in the dust cloud,” Hank answered. “We should put him down. He can’t survive if he can’t fly. He’d be someone’s supper before nightfall.” Damn birds, he thought could’ve cracked a windshield.

           The bird’s wing was badly damaged. “Can’t we take him home? I could take care of him while he heals up.” The pleading dark eyes were hard to resist. He melted like the marshmallow that he was. He couldn’t deny that the bird was still alive, and didn’t seem to be suffering. He wrapped the wounded quail in a shop towel, laid him in an empty pail, and handed it all to Lucy. “Gives a whole new meaning to a Bucket of Chicken.” He grinned.

           “This is Charlie Quail,” she announced after a bit of thought. “He’ll heal up better if he knows his name.”

           Grandpa nodded gravely, hiding a smile under his mustache.

           Back at the house, Fran found a box for Charlie. They lined it with newspaper and set it in a warm corner of the kitchen. Lucy got a handful of chicken scratch from the henhouse and the water dispenser they used for day-old chicks.

           By the time she was through fussing over the injured quail, dinner was ready.  They ate a fine meal of rainbow trout, baked potatoes, and corn, fresh from the garden. There was blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert. After dinner, the neighbor kids came to get Lucy for a game of flashlight tag. She brought them in, one at a time, very quietly, to see Charlie. She insisted on slow movements and low voices. The children were suitably respectful. They had all nursed wounded birds. Most had not survived the first night.

           After the children had gone, Fran looked at the little quail. “What do you think his chances are, Hank?”

           “Oh, I’d say about fifty-fifty. He hasn’t died of shock yet. He’s not hurt that bad, but the kid might love him to death.”

           In the morning, Charlie was not only alive, but quite alert. He was up and pecking at the grain when Lucy came down for breakfast. His wing drooped, and he stood on one foot. Hank smiled, watching from behind his newspaper as his granddaughter painstakingly inspected the bird.  

           Days passed, and Charlie continued to improve. “He needs more space,” Lucy complained to her grandma. “How can his wing heal if he can’t stretch it out? I can’t turn him loose until he can take care of himself.”

           Hank and Fran smiled at each other. At least she wasn’t planning on making the thing a pet, they both thought. “We could put him out with the chickens,” the old man offered. “He’d have room, and company, too.”

           “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, Nana!” the girl cried enthusiastically, hugging them, “I’ll go get him set up!”

           That was how Charlie Quail came to live with fifteen white hens. Within hours, he was swaggering around like he owned the place, apparently forgetting about his injured leg. It was clear he felt he was in charge.

           Lucy looked after Charlie with tireless dedication. “For an animal that’s not a pet, he sure gets a lot of pampering,” Hank teased, “He’s getting fat on my chicken feed. You think he’ll be well soon?”

           The little nurse looked thoughtful, “He’s pretty much healed,” she decided, “I think he’ll be ready for release soon.” Evidently, she had been watching Animal Planet.

           The next afternoon Lucy confirmed that Charlie was ready to return to the wild. She put the now docile bird into a crate in her wagon and headed east. When she found a good field, she stopped and opened the box. After a wing-stretch and a feather ruffle, Charlie started pecking at sage seeds. Smiling with satisfaction, the girl returned to the farm.

           In the morning, Fran went to gather eggs. From the porch she saw a small figure on the wrong side of the fence. Coming closer, she realized that it wasn’t a chicken. Charlie had returned.

           Hank and Lucy decided they had released him too near the coop, and he was attracted back by the available food. This time they would go to the mill fields. There were other wild quail there. Two days went by, and there was no sign of the bird. Then, on the third evening, coincidentally at feeding time, Charlie came sauntering up to the hen house.

           “I think you’ve got yourself a pal,” Hank said to his granddaughter, “You better open the gate.”

           Charlie went right in and made himself at home. Strutting along the fence, he inspected the boundary. He was a comic little figure, bopping around with the big white hens. When Fran fed the chickens, he joined right in. Evidently, he intended to stay.

           Vacation ended and Lucy went home, but her grandparents promised to take care of Charlie. After all, the quail had chosen their chickens as his covey.

Homegrown Tomatoes

            It had been more years than I care to admit since I was able to grow a really good tomato...until now. The cool sea air on Orcas was not conducive to ripening tomatoes, not to mention the deer. I had to pick everything pretty much as soon as it was remotely red...or it was gone. We have "suburban deer" here, we see them in the yard occasionally, but so far all we have lost are some strawberry leaves. I think the rest of the garden is too close to the house for the deer to feel secure.
            We planted our garden with lovely organic starts, also benefitting Jordan's school. At first Laura and the kids were sure that the cucumber was going to die. The little plant was wilted every evening. I assured them that it would be ok. To make sure of it, I cut the bottom off a Mt. Dew bottle and sunk it upside down beside the cuke. By filling it with water a time or two a day, we made sure that the water got down to the roots. So far we have harvested 3 nice sized cucumbers, with many more little pickles growing on the trellised vine.
             The bell peppers are also coming along nicely, having already picked a nice red one. Zucchini too, after many years of failure on the island.
             It's the tomatoes, however of which I am the most proud. We are having a bumper crop. The cherries are coming in clusters sweet as candy. Connor and Jordan eat them as soon as they're ripe, warm from the sun, straight from the bush. Even the beefsteak, traditionally a long season fruit, is ripening now. I've never had luck with beefsteaks, even here in Portland. There is something to be said for the new organic hybrids.
            To quote the song "there's just two things that money can't buy...and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes."
     
Simple Greek Salad

2 or 3 perfectly ripe tomatoes, seeded and cut into chunks
1 large cucumber, cubed
1 small jar pitted Kalamata olives
1 small sweet onion, coarsely chopped

Combine all the veggies. Toss with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Serve chilled.