And the beet goes on

It’s spring! And evey spring for the past two years I look forward to something I know to be most abundant and tasty this time of year: beets and greens.

I was never an adventurous eater as a child. I didn’t really learn to like and enjoy a lot of new foods until I went to college. You’d never know it now I’ve tried snails (in both garlic and tabasco sauces), elk, moose, deer, beef tongue, crickets and meal worms, octopus, and I’ve developed an affinity for kimchi.

Many of you have heard me talk about the CSA basket we subscribed to in Reno. Well, this is where I developed a taste for beets, thanks to a simple recipe from Tina Smith of HomeGrown Nevada Farms that combines roasted beets, beet greens and chevre. I remember being intrigued by beets long before that though after reading Tom Robbins’s Jitterbug Perfume.

I wanted to quote the introduction, for the book begins and ends with beets. But as usual, I can’t find it when I’m looking for it. It’s an odd book that way and has done this to me a couple of times. I misplace it, or lend it to someone. And then I get hungry for beets. Which means I get hungry to read Tom Robbins and his eccentric description of beets. And then I can’t find it. However, I did find the first couple sentences excerpted in a review of the book:

The beet,” begins this book, “is the most intense of vegetables. The radish, admittedly, is more feverish, but the fire of the radish is a cold fire, the fire of discontent not of passion. Tomatoes are lusty enough, yet there runs through tomatoes an undercurrent of frivolity. Beets are deadly serious.

It’s an odd and funny book, best read by people in their late teens and mid-twenties, and/or those who enjoy the quirky aspects of life and the symbolism that hides in the everyday. I’ve never heard anyone describe beets as Robbins does. I think that’s why he wrote about them – because no one ever has.

Beets are stubborn, vivacious, and very much of the earth. They come in an array of colors from white, to pink, to an almost midnight magenta. The strength and audacity of their color makes me laugh whenever I cook them. The way my fingers stay pink for days afterward no matter how much I scrub them tickles me, well, pink. The greens are mild and much sweeter than other leafy greens like kale or chard. No one sells beet greens though. That fact alone makes me hate modern supermarkets on some level. Most of the beets sold in stores are large and therefore tough. Those and canned beets I think are what give people such a bad impression of them. They remind me of those grizzled men that hide in the rural corners of the world. They appear dirty, tough, and unsavory from the outside, but for a few select people they reveal themselves as compassionate and tender beyond measure. If you’re going to eat them, humor me and get them from a garden closeby or local farmer’s market. Savor the sweet earthy taste. And as I’ve told a number of people, don’t be afraid when they come out the same color they went in (ya knew I couldn’t let the poop theme die so easily).

When I uncover Jitterbug Perfume I’m sure it will be well past beet season, but if I remember I’ll post additional excerpts. In the meantime here’s one of my other favorite beet recipes:

Dilled Cucumber and Beet Salad

 Beets

Cucumber

Salt and pepper

Olive oil

White vinegar

Sour cream

Fresh dill

 

I use about 3 beets and 1 cucumber, but this recipe does not have to be exact. Feel free to adjust any of the above ingredients based on your personal preferences. 

In heavy-duty tin foil, wrap trimmed beets and some olive oil (I like to add a little garlic as well). Bake beets in foil packet for at least 1 hour at 350 degrees. Beets take a long time to cook and I find that often longer is better, and it makes it easier to peel off the skins. After you pull the beets out of the oven, slice open the packet and let the beets cool. 

Remember that no other vegetable has the chromatic perseverance of beets. Beware any surface, be it cutting board or fingers, that you don’t want stained. The color is sensuous and vibrant. Enjoy it. Rub off the skins with a paper towel. Cut beets into wedges. Toss in a bowl with 1 tbsp oil and 1 tbsp. white vinegar, salt and pepper. In another bowl, toss sliced cucumber, 2 tbsp sour cream, 1 tbsp chopped dill, and 2 tsp white vinegar. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Place beets on a platter and top with cucumbers.

 This recipe is courtesy of Tina Smith of HomeGrown Nevada Farms, who writes the newsletter for the Great Basin Basket. The Great Basin Basket is a local CSA (community supported agriculture) that provides local organic fruits and vegetables to those in the greater Reno-Sparks area for 18 weeks every summer.

Talking Poo, and no, I don’t mean Mr. Hanky*

Mr. A is out of town at the moment trapping Sharp-tailed grouse for a region-wide effort to reintroduce these birds into central Washington state. I miss him when he leaves for these traps, but he makes an effort to call periodically when he finds himself in an area with reception. Yesterday at work he calls with one express purpose. There’s a tone of glee in his voice and he seems very excited to share this news with me. What is he so anxious to tell me, you ask?

That he pooped in the woods. Yep, #2 outdoors. I may need to back up here a little (no pun intended) to explain why my dear hubbie would think to call me with this news and why it’s news he thinks I’d like to hear.

To hear the hubbie tell it, I should have been a bioligst for one reason only: I’m overly interested in scat. Scat being the term biologists, hikers, and hunters use for animal poop. The fact that it sounds a lot like shat is just a bonus. I joke that one of the interdisciplinary courses I proposed and taught with a colleague at UNR on urban wildlife issues came into existence over a piece of poop. She and I were out hiking at Pyramid Lake and came upon some coyote scat. We both started looking at curious what it had eaten last, how fresh it was, etc. In our exhuberence we looked at each other and said, “We need to get students outside, learning about their neighbors. They could learn so much from just handling scat!”  We never got the chance to make them handle poop, but poop was in fact where it all started.

Mr. A also jokes about what he thinks is my unusual interest in my dog and kid’s poops. What? It helps me know how healthy they are, or if they’ve eaten something I really shouldn’t feed them again. I should also probably mention that Mr. A, myself, and a number of our friends have gotten into fairly lengthy conversations about the best method of relieving oneself in the woods. There are various techniques after all to relieve the splash factor, or just to get more comfortable. Squatting is great but what if you’re going to be there awhile and your legs are sore from hiking all day. Practical problems like this need to be addressed, right? Or maybe it’s just the immature kid in me that jumps on any reason to talk about bodily functions. Whatever the reason, Mr. A takes childish delight in reporting to me how his GI tract is doing.  (And for the record, no, the interest in my kid and dog’s poop does not extend to my hubbie.)

This phone call, however, was just too much. I spent the rest of the day giggling just thinking about it. My boy called for the express purpose of telling me he shit in the woods. How could I not blog about that?

*For relatives and readers not familiar with the Comedy Central show “South Park” this is a reference to Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo. Irreverent but hilarious.

Boy and Girl Parts

Life with a three-year old means you never know when those awkward questions and observations are going to pop up. While on the potty this morning Crazy Towhead decides to tell me that, “Boys have long butts. Girls don’t. You know, like Daddy. So they can pee different than me.”

She may not know the terminology but she tells it like it is. I love this age. Life is so simple and straightforward in her eyes. But moreso I love her personality and how she takes everything in stride. This will come in handy here soon when I go back to work and she heads to school for the first time.

Yep, I said it. Here I have been embracing my domestic side and “sticking with what I know” and now Fate has turned it all upside down. I’m beginning to think Heisse Schiesse’s battle with Ironus has switched continents and I’m the latest victim. I’m excited about a change but this is going to be a huge change for all of us.

Droppin’ Trail

On a lighter, more immature note I thought I would digress on one of my more favorite topics: poop. There’s a lot to say about poop these days, especially as the mother of a two-year-old. And, to be frank, I love the look on people’s faces when I get into the topic.  Most people drop trail at least once a day and there’s just so much humor in it (along with breakfast, lunch, and dinner).

In case you haven’t guessed, we’re potty-training. The process has been a long and drawn out one, a fact I’ve publicly blamed on moving. Privately, I just haven’t wanted to deal with the hassle involved in structuring and streamlining the process as most parenting books suggest. Sure, it may shrink the transition time between diapers and underwear, but the logistics and nagging necessary to do it that way is just too daunting for me. We’ve gone for the gradual, more playful approach – a philosophy I recommend for parenting, foreplay, and mountain ascents. The upside is that Crazy Towhead is not afraid of the potty – any potty, be it in our house or at the supermarket – and she views it, in general, as a fun, big-kid activity that pleases the hell out of mom and dad. She regularly waits until after we’ve had one of our “discussions” about her behavior, tells me she has to go, and then afterward looks me in the face and asks with genuine anticipation, “That make you happy, mama?”

Her other annoying idiosyncrasy is that if she has an exceptionally difficult poop she asks me to leave the room. She would love it if I would also shut the door, but this is where I draw the line. (I think this comes from me locking her out of the bathroom once when I just needed five minutes of breathing room to poop without her sitting in my lap at the same time. I had no idea at the time she would latch onto the idea with such vigor.)

Last weekend, we drove down to Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge just south of Spokane for a morning of bird and wildlife watching before meeting up with friends for lunch. The refuge itself comprises 16,000 acres of prime habitat for elk, waterfowl, and other wildlife. Of this 2,200 acres is available for public use. It is a beautiful and amazing area, and I’m amazed that it’s so close to where we live. Mr. A had been there the day before for work and had seen a moose just off the road. We got a bit of a late start, so most of the large “wow, look at that” wildlife was napping by the time we got there at 8 a.m. We chose a short hike near a small wetland area where we knew we would see quite a few birds and Towhead could run around. Halfway through the hike, Mr. A and I were perched on a bench scoping out a hawk’s nest and Towhead was playing with pine cones behind us. Suddenly I heard the all-important catch phrase, “Mama, I gotta poopy.” I jumped down with an, “Ok, let’s go like a campin’ girl,” pulled down her pants, put my hands beneath her armpits and let her lean back into me between my legs to do her business. She grunted for a minute and then shook her head, “This not working.” She stood up and waddled away from me, jeans around her ankles, until she found a nearby tree where she assumed a typical squatters position and forced out a huge one. I stood there amazed. “What does she need me for?” I asked dad. He laughed and shook his head. We buried it and headed down the trail. I don’t think it gets much easier than this.

In spite of the ease with which this is all happening I’m not sure if I should be concerned about social etiquette. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not often too concerned about what others think, but poop is a sensitive issue with some and let’s face it, it can be a public health issue. Earlier this week I was doing laundry and Towhead was playing out in the yard just outside the door when again I hear the catchphrase, “Mama, I gotta poopy.” I rush out to get her and she puts up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “No,” she insits. “Look!” and points, pants still around her ankles, to a lump in the grass. “I did it!!!” she says proudly. I was torn between motherly pride and collapsing on the ground (several feet away) in fits of laughter. Thats’ my girl!