Project Homestead

And so it flows...

The snow is finally subsiding here, and I'm reappearing after a long respite. Such a busy and wonderful Winter has melted into a sweet Spring. Why? Well, because the balance of life seems to be finally tipping in the direction of ease. So much of the past couple of years has seemed, well, uphill. Between little ones, big projects and small budgets, it sometimes felt like I could never get ANYTHING done. I won't count my chickens yet (although we've ordered eight new chicks, due in early May). But I will count my blessings.

This, my friends, is one of them.
 

I have been dreaming of tapping our own maple trees to boil clear, drippy sap into golden, earthy maple syrup—for years. Visits to sugar houses, where hobbyists and seasoned families fire up their evaporators and serve sugar on snow, got me hooked. But the short sugaring season snuck up on me every March—until this year, when I finally got geared up in time. I felt giddy as we left Slattery's Maple Supply with a stack of used sap buckets and taps, and I listened to them rattle around in the way back on the bumpy backroads home.

The boys and I spent the next afternoon drilling and tapping 10 maples, to start. We soon figured out how to do it, drilling a slightly uphill hole into each with a 7/16 inch drill bit. And we picked trees that were close to the house and big enough to share some of their sap with us.

The boys hung the buckets and threaded the covers over the taps to keep out rain and debris. Fruit flies seem to find their way in, anyway, but we filtered them out later.

As soon as we hung the last bucket, we heard it: on cue, the bright "plink"..."plink" ... "plink" told us the sap was running. (The cold nights and warming days of late March get trees pumping.) I was so grateful. The fact is, so many  homesteading projects require well-planned effort and exacting efficiency. But everything about this was so uncomplicated that I could just concentrate on the fun.

A day or so later, we hauled a huge lobster pot out of the basement, built a fire in the belly of an old grill beneath it, and we started boiling. Between the spring sunshine warming our backs, a fire warming our hands, and the smell of woodsmoke mixed with moist, sweet maple in the air, Owen said what we were all thinking... "This is just plain pleasant, isn't it?"

We cleaned up gardens while it boiled. We fed the fire as it boiled. We ate supper outside as it boiled. We fetched more cool sap from waiting maples as it boiled. And, at the end of our first sugaring season, we'd made just about three quarts of gorgeous, golden, maple syrup to pour over everything. Without even tasting it, I feel all warm and happy inside. Spring is sweet. Muddy, but sweet.

A simple garden meal

We spent a long afternoon last week at our friend's farm, where we dug potatoes and left for home with a bagful of loot. I ogled over his tractor and acres of flat ground. The boys, meantime, ran through soft dirt in bare feet, feeling for tubers with their toes.

Among them were these Peruvian purple beauties. They are not only gorgeous outside (who knew, until we washed them?!), but luscious inside—perfect for a steaming in a seaside clambake. Perhaps it's because of my Irish roots, or maybe just because something so humble can be so nimble, but I love potatoes. The fact that these look like moody Easter eggs makes them all the more wondrous.

Onto the point: The meal we made from these simple ingredients is one of my favorites of all time. Truth be told, I'm a simple cook. But I love great food. So I'm at my happiest when we can stroll the the garden, pick (and nibble) beans and herbs, grab a plump head of our garlic, pile up day-old potatoes, and march inside. I know a great meal is coming, with little toil from me.

This recipe is one I call warm potato salad or Poor Girl's Nicoise, based loosely on one by my Australian muse, Donna Hay. It is wonderfully inexpensive, filling and soul-warming, all at once. It's on heavy rotation here because it's great when you've got the garden goods and when your pantry feels bare.

• Warm, cooked potatoes, sliced thickly
• Green beans, trimmed and blanched
• A few herbs like parsley, summer savory or oregano
• A can of tuna (I didn't have any on hand on this day, but I usually do. Of course, fresh tuna would be divine.

For the genius vinaigrette:

• 4 Tablespoons olive oil
• 4 Tablespoons cider or white wine vinegar
• 2 Tablespoons seeded mustard (if you don't have any—and I often don't—I just use dijon and toss in  a spoonful of mustard seeds; they are the key to its interesting texture)

Stack several slices of potato in a wide bowl (I choose a bowl over a plate, any day). Scoop chunks of tuna—about half a can per person—onto the pile. Then, lay a handful of green beans and herbs on top. In a separate, little bowl, combine the olive oil, vinegar and mustard, and a bit of salt and pepper. Generously drizzle the vinaigrette over each.

Now, dig in. And tell me if it isn't the most surprisingly yummy meal you've eaten—maybe ever.

Surrounded by blackberries.

For all of our growing pains this growing season—bigger gardens mean a lot less energy for tending the ones you already have—I'm always grateful for the blackberries. They were here when we came. We've lent a bit of care and weeding, a bit of seaweed and pruning here and there. But otherwise, even in hot, dry summers like this one (when they ripened a full two weeks earlier than in years' past), we handle them simply. We call it benign neglect.

The result: the richest, sweetest and plumpest berries we can remember eating from these rugged hills. And now that our little ones are getting bigger (and eating more berries), the harvesting goes faster than ever. Caleb is four, and eats at least as much as he picks. But he also picks. And every plump berry helps when you're collecting as much as you can for your family's supply of homemade jam, a crisp or two, and berries to grace your vanilla ice cream whenever you want them.

In past seasons, we'd pick berries whenever we could swing it. It's a big job, for which you have to cover yourself in long pants and heavy shirts to thwart thorns—in the heat of August. But I read recently that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, my small-holding, sustainable food-rearing muse from River Cottage in Dorset, England, swears that the best flavor comes from picking at the end of a hot, dry day.  (He then puts up jam immediately thereafter.)

We've had plenty hot, dry days in these parts. This just meant feeding the troops early and heading out in the evening. We picked well into twilight. It was magic.

So were the berries—all 12 pounds of them (from this harvest). We always get two, or more. And you can see from these loaded canes that we have plenty coming on later.

After putting up our jam, following the beautifully simple recipe from the Smith & Hawken Gardener's Community Cookbook. It uses no pectin, as blackberries are especially high in natural pectin. Just a mix of ripe and slightly underripe berries. And plenty of sugar. Gentle, patient boiling. Then, suddenly, the next best thing since warm, home-baked bread.

The next flush of berries went into a quick crisp, which I adapted from our friend, Winnie's, otherworldly rhubarb crisp. (Recipe coming soon.) It's berries, sugar and a thick topping of oats, brown sugar, and a bit of flour. (The boys and I could, well, did, eat handfuls of the stuff.) Are you seeing a pattern here?

I love the spoils of summer. I hope you're enjoying them, too.

Picnics are magic.

A dreamy early evening picnic on an island off the coast of Maine last weekend reminded me how simple perfection can be. Here's what I learned...

First, let your youngest captains steer the ship. (And name your boat Little Buttercup.)

Take turns—and take your time. 

Make yourselves comfortable.

Collect ample firewood.

Light your campfire in a sheltered spot, with a view. Use driftwood for tables. Grill hot dogs wrapped in bacon (no kidding). Let others explore tide pools.

Celebrate a sweet birthday with a nod to tradition. (Yes, those are wedding rings around the candles).

Take time for yourself.

The Golden Rule applies: Roast marshmallows for others as you would roast them for yourself—charred, to molten perfection. Then share them freely with those you love.

(really) handmade ice cream

I've been known to eat a fair bit of ice cream. So much, in fact, I was shocked to realize sometime in high school that a pint of coffee Häagen-Dazs was not created solely for me, to finish in one sitting. After all, it took a while for the solid mass to soften just enough that a spoon could slide into the creamy moat growing around the frozen edge. And by then, the container was nearly empty anyway...

This admission explains why I consider it my duty to help replenish the world's ice cream supply. And once Owen and I made this delicious, beautifully simple, vanilla version in 30 minutes, with nothing more than Ball jars, ice cubes, pickling salt, and a few stirs, I was convinced I could do it over and over again.

We got the idea from the brilliant River Cottage Family Cookbook (the recipe is below, with a few tiny tweaks). I recommend the book for anyone who likes to cook real, whole food and understand how fresh ingredients work together. It's instructive without being overly simple or, worse, condescending. And if you have kids, it's a no-brainer. Wander over to your local library and borrow it, or buy it at once.

This recipe is so fun because it's human powered and requires no cooking (that's a bonus on hot day). It's also a great excuse to use fresh cream skimmed from my friends' raw whole milk, good sugar and today's ripe berries. Then there's the chemistry: Ice isn't cold enough, long enough, to freeze cream solid. Toss in some salt, though, and voila! (By the ocean, we know firsthand that while fresh water freezes at 32 degrees F, saltwater freezes at much lower temperatures. So, by adding salt, the temperature of the ice drops quickly—and is happy to freeze jars of cream and sugar while it's at it.)

To get going, here's all you'll need:

• 2-3 Tbsp. well-chilled heavy cream (we used 4 or so Tbsp. with fine results)
• Flavoring, such as vanilla extract, 2 or 3 strawberries, 2 tsp. of your fave jam, a little melted chocolate
• 2 tsp. confectioner's sugar
• Clean half-pint Ball jar with lid, 5 cups ice cubes straight from the freezer, 1 cup of salt (we used plain, cheap pickling salt), and a heavy metal pan (we used an enameled cast iron stock pot) with a lid.

What you do:

1. Spoon the cream into the clean jar. Add your favorite flavoring: For vanilla ice cream, add a few drops of the vanilla extract; for strawberries, crush them until they're runny and stir them in, or mix in 2 tsp. of good jam; for chocolate, stir in melted chocolate. Add the sugar.

2. Screw the lid tightly. Place the jar in the fridge while you sort out the ice and salt.

3. Get the ice from the freezer. The ice should be as cold as possible. If that sounds a bit silly, remember that the temperature of ice can vary a lot. Straight from the freezer, it could be as low as 14 degrees F. Ice that's been sitting around in a bowl and is just beginning to melt will be only 30 or 28 degrees F. Put the ice and salt into the container and mix them together well. The temperature of the ice will fall rapidly.

4. Make a well in the ice mixture. Take the jam jar out of the fridge and stand it in the well. Put the lid on the container and let it stand somewhere cool. (I put our pot back in the freezer.)

5. After 10 minutes, take off both lids and carefully stir the cream mixture, making sure you don't get any of the salt in it. It will have turned very cold but it won't have started to freeze yet. Replace the lids. Repeat this stirring process at 10-minute intervals until the cream turns to ice cream. It will do this quite suddenly, so be ready.

6. This makes a small amount of ice cream, just right for a single cone or to sandwich between a couple of wafers. You could use a bigger pan and add more jam jars. Just keep the proportions of ice to salt the same. (Note: We made eight jars' worth in two pans, and I plan to experiment to see how full we can make each jar. See full explanation of my weakness above...)

Enjoy.

the sap runneth over

Thanks to warming days and still-cool nights, the sugar maples are pumping in these here hills. All over Maine, craggy old trees are wearing silver necklaces of galvanized steel buckets, ready to catch whatever the trees will give them. 

Every time I pour some Grade A Medium Amber all over my plain yogurt or blueberry pancakes or vanilla ice cream (try it, you won't look back), I realize that I could nearly live on this earthy-sweet nectar of the gods. And I'd better get tapping to make some of my own.

It's simple alchemy, according to the kind Cooperative Extension folks at the University of Maine: In late summer and fall, maple trees stop growing and store excess starches in their sapwood. It stays put as long as the temperature in the wood remains below about 40 degrees F. Whenever the wood warms up, the starches miraculously convert to sugars, which flow into the tree sap. It's finite, though. When temps reach about 45 degrees, the conversion stops—and so does the sugar. 

Moved along by alternating spells of warm and cold, the sap pours from the tree into our waiting pails. Each tap hole, like this one, can yield anywhere from five to 15 gallons. But it takes about 10 gallons of sap to produce one quart of syrup. The time-consuming part of the operation is the boiling—the sap is mostly water, so it bubbles it until you're left with 66 to 67 percent sugar content at about 7 degrees F above the boiling point of water (here at the water's edge, that's 212 degrees F). 

I found a great home sugaring primer that lists a slew of resources and supplies, not the least of which is Lehman's, which I love. I'm pining for a hobby-sized maple syrup evaporator, essentially a wood stove beneath a large, shallow pan. The Half Pint Evaporator should do just fine...

Until then, I've been plowing through fresh syrup with this wonderful recipe. These cookies are both yummy and healthy, so I eat them with abandon. Try them with vanilla ice cream ... drizzled with a bit more syrup, of course.

Maple oatmeal raisin cookies

2 sticks butter, softened

1 cup Maine maple syrup

2 eggs

1 tsp. Maple extract

1 1/2 cups flour

1 tsp. Baking soda

1 tsp. Salt

3 cups rolled oats

1 cup raisins

Preheat oven to 375. Beat the butter and maple syrup together until well blended. Beat in eggs and maple extract. Combine flour, baking soda, and salt and sift together. Gradually add the flour mixture to the butter maple mixture and mix well. Stir in raisins. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheets and bake for 12-14 minutes. Cool for two minutes before removing to wire racks. Store in a tightly covered container (if you can).

ah, applesauce

The apples we'd picked from our old trees were starting to soften in the fridge (apparently they're not great keepers). Given my irrational fear of pie crusts, I opted to make applesauce with Caleb the other morning. Natural applesauce is as uncomplicated as it gets, of course, but it's even MORE FUN when using the world's most charming apple prep tool ever invented. LL Bean calls it the apple-peeling gizmo. 

And, as you can see from these pictures, it doesn't just peel. It slices and cores them apples, while you're at it. The result: a never-ending ribbon of peel, great, uniform slices (unless your apples are lumpy, like mine, which can derail them), and happy, happy helpers.