Summer time has its own syntax, doesn't it?
The old 24x7 doesn't really do it for me, right now. There's a warp thing that happens, or maybe a conversion factor. Like dog years, only different, every five days feeling like one. The late nights help, and the lack of school and schedule, and the constant go-go-go of three kids, three directions (under the same roof, mind you, but that hardly matters). Our days are separated less by periods than ellipses, one long run-on paragraph of ... build ... make ... read ... play ... repeat...
(More accurately, insert "... clean ... " between each dot-dot-dot. The crumbs, the crumbs. Like indoor knotweed.)
Oh, hey there.
How's your summer?
Rollicking, I trust.
Our days have been the best kind of exhausting, full, packed, long, not long enough. Ten days back, I got as far as a post title, thinking, I think, about the garden we returned to.
And that got me thinking about the deep sigh of settling in. About how returning is such a particular pleasure. About the firm comfort of the familiar, the fine groove of routine, the singular rhythm of the ordinary. And the thinking gave way to doing. And, well, you know ...
There were hosta dolls to assemble, and Roald Dahl to read, and exquisite dead beetles to examine and dissect. And Mystery Road Trips to take, and paper cranes to fold, and margaritas to make and linger over with friends. There was wizard foam; that was fun. (LuckyBeans was spot-on: adding color and dish soap transforms ye olde vinegar and soda. Instructions here.)
There was bread to bake. Three batches; more tomorrow. Ordinarily, I run screaming from baking, come summer. And just to be clear, I reserve the right to repeat that. But so far, this year, it's just simpler to DIY it, than to sweet-talk three kiddos into seatbelts. We'll see.
There was (is) one giant, wolloping wall of heat to beat. They call it a dome; I say, a sauna by any other name... We've been managing just fine, though, thanks to a strict regimen of wading pools, sprinklers, picnics, popsicles, and indoor afternoons. And regular genuflections to the air-conditioning gods. Very, very important, that last one.
There were (are [will always be]) spats and squabbles to referee. This is not The Sound of Music, folks.
I glanced briefly at the keyboard again, a few nights back. But then, did you know, the fireflies are still here? Fireflies! Stuff of myth, to my Northwest self. Might as well have unicorns, ambling through our lawn. I'll take their flicker over this flicker, pretty much any time.
But tonight's their night off; they're not keen on the thunderstorms. I rather am, although I do shake my fist a little: skies split by lightning keep scuttling our swimming plans. Still, I watch the positive and negative duke it out overhead, the collision of atmosphere and temperature, and think this, this is what my Romantic Poets Prof needed when he tried (and failed) to explain the sublime. A bit awkward to get onto the overhead projector, perhaps, but oh, the lectures he could have bypassed.
All of which is to say, we've been busy doing Nothing.
Or Everything.
Or Summer: Full Speed Ahead. We've been swallowed up in the warp. I'll take it, crumbs and all.
And weeds. Right, the garden. Another day, another post. At the moment, all I recall is being struck by this fact: leave a house a fortnight, and so long as you didn't leave the water running, it's just as you left it, give or take an inch of dust. But leave a patch of earth, and whoah, Nellie! Particularly if said earth sits under a late June sun.
We left a garden, came home to a jungle.
Everything was in top form, thanks to my friend Kate's ministrations with the hose. Everything was also completely immense.
The tomato plants were so big, they broke of their own weight, leaving little green orphans to line the windowsill. An extra cucumber seedling, sent to the compost, grew while we were gone to an eight-foot vine. The green beans are no longer worth measuring; they've grown up past the stakes, left the teepee behind. We're hoping they might even pollinate, yield real beans. Though if that fails, it remains a hide-out success.
There were bees in the bee balm. Verbena everywhere. The last of the larkspur. Lilies, galore. And rampant mint, much to my delight.
I use fresh mint all summer and fall. A lot. So much, in fact, that when we put in four plants last year, I lobbied to dig them right into the soil. Under wise counsel, I went with pots. (Friends don't let friends plant mint directly.) I'd culled all four pots, just before we left town, to make up this excellent quaff for a party. I'd worried I might have done them in.
Ha.
We also had lettuce, planted last spring, and now days away from bolting irrevocably. Plus the memory of Washington still on my mind, and deep red Rainiers, in my refrigerator. I can tell you, having recently devoured them on-site, that Washington cherries are best eaten in-state. I can also tell you that they're pretty well unbeatable, even after crossing the Rockies and Plains. Washington has a way with cherries. What I didn't know, until recently, was that salads do, too.
It was a rice salad in Heidi's latest that got me thinking. And eating. And repeating. And wondering, why have I only ever eaten cherries out of hand?
Her original is a whole grain rice salad, shot through with fresh cherries, pitted and torn. I made it this way, and liked it very much, but over several makings wound up somewhere else entirely. That somewhere else involves a bowl full of mixed greens, plus a fistful of fresh mint and a clutch of hazlenuts. These are tossed well with equal parts lemon juice and olive oil, just enough to give each leaf a faint shimmer. To this, a few smudges of chèvre and those cherries, added at the last to prevent magenta.
One night, I went further, added fennel-crusted pork tenderloin; so good. Another night, hot brown rice tossed in more lemon and oil; wonderful. But what I enjoy, what I come back to, is this lemon-bright backbone of minted greens, made interesting with crunch and the odd salty ping, made lovely with those plump garnet knobs of tart-sweet. These five ingredients seem the soul of the thing, at least for a few more weeks, while cherry season holds. Then we'll tuck it away until next summer, which, at this rate, will be here in no time.
A Salad for Early Summer
Mixed Greens with Cherries, Hazlenuts, Mint + Chèvre
Inspired by Heidi Swanson, Super Natural Every Day
Holmquist, Holmquist, Holmquist: Their hazlenuts will make you weep. I order a year's supply and tuck them into the deep freeze.
For so few cherries, a knife or chopstick will pit nicely. But should you ever see one, snap up a vintage Zack-Zack. It works brilliantly, is so effortless my three-year-old has it mastered, and set me back all of $3. Plus the box is a scream.
6 cups mixed greens (mesculun), washed and dried well
1 cup fresh mint leaves, washed and dried well
1/2 cup hazlenuts, toasted 8-10 minutes, and roughly chopped
2 tablespoons lemon juice, freshly squeezed from 1 lemon
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 heaping cup bing cherries, pitted and roughly torn
1/2 cup soft chèvre, crumbled
Make dressing: In a lidded jar, add lemon juice and salt, and swirl to dissolve salt. Add olive oil, then lid, then shake vigorously to combine.
Combine washed and dried lettuce, mint, and hazlenuts in a salad bowl, and pour two-thirds of dressing over all. Toss gently and thoroughly, with hands or tongs, to dress leaves. Taste, and adjust seasoning and/or add more dressing, to suit. Add torn cherries, and crumbled chèvre, and toss very gently, to just combine. Serve immediately.