A-List Chocolate Cake--Perfect for Mother's Day!

Mulching the blueberry patch this week, it came to me that you can always make room for one more blueberry plant. The same goes for chocolate cake recipes!

In my new Irish novel "Mother Love," the main character, Grainne Larkin, loves sweets--especially chocolate, and most especially, chocolate cake. So in her honor, I just baked a celebratory chocolate cake. I tried a recipe new to me, from Irish chef Darina Allen's "Forgotten Kills of Cooking." It was a lovely cake, on the small side, and since it's a one-bowl process, quick to make. But if you want a really luscious slab of chocolate yumminess, here's the recipe for the best chocolate cake I've ever tasted. A friend gave it to me, passed down to her from her grandmother. I renamed the recipe "A-List"... with "A" = Amazing!

A-List Chocolate Cake
2 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup butter
2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk
2 teaspoons soda
1cup hot water
1/2 cup cocoa
2 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla

Mix sugar and butter. Add eggs. Put soda in buttermilk, stir well and add to mixture. (The soda-buttermilk mixture really foams up, making this big cake nice and light.) Pour hot water over cocoa and add to mix. Add flour and salt, then vanilla.

I use a well-greased 9x13 glass baking dish. Bake about 1 hour in 350 degree oven.

It's an easy recipe, and so forgiving you can even mix it by hand--no special time requirements for creaming or beating. I always add extra cocoa and vanilla, and because I like a super-moist cake, substitute some oil for the butter.

I frost the cake with a basic chocolate buttercream frosting, with lots of cocoa--using half-and-half in place of milk makes it extra delicious! But a cooked glaze icing works too. This is such a rich cake, it's perfect for special occasions--you might try it for Mother's Day!

St. Patrick’s Day in the Garden

St. Patrick’s Day has always held a special significance for John and me. Besides the fun of celebrating our respective Irish ancestry, his mother’s birthday was March 17. She was a McDonald, and her Irish forebears took part in the Oklahoma Land Rush back in the 1890s. She was fond of putting on the traditionally American St. Paddy’s Day feast of corned beef and cabbage…but if you ask me, parsnips are the perfect veggie to serve this time of year.

In our Foothills garden, parsnips are the best overwintering crop we have. Parsnips are unfazed by our climate’s repeated freeze-and-thaw cycles, and aren’t bothered by weevils or other insects. Plus you can store them in the ground, and harvest as needed in between freezes! Long after we’ve run out of carrots, beets, and apples, and just as the potatoes are getting kind of gnarly, parsnips are still going strong. I harvested our last row today, and while a few parsnips had rust around the tops, they were otherwise firm and useable.

Lately, parsnip recipes have turned up all over the place. Magazines like More, Whole Living, and Sunset recently featured parsnip salad, parsnip soup, and chicken with braised parsnips. I put parsnips in all our soups and stews, but to me, roasting is the best preparation of all. Simply peel, cut into chunks, drizzle with olive oil and add a pinch or two of salt. Then bake at 350 degrees until tender—easy-peasy, sweet and delicious!

A lot of gardeners swear by planting early spring crops around March 17—potatoes, spinach, peas, etc.  Despite our luck of being in sort of a warm zone—unlike our neighbors down the hill whose yard is in a super-cold sink—our soil here on Berryridge Farm is still too chilly and wet for even the hardiest crops. So we wait until mid-April for planting…which gives us a few extra weeks for early spring tilling, weeding, and raised-bed building.
 
I’d love to hear about your early-spring planting success stories…but in the meantime, Happy St. Patrick’s Day, and Happy Spring!

Homesteader's Resolutions

I’ve always been big on resolutions, New Year’s and otherwise.

And generally my resolutions were all about writing…I would finish my novel, do more blog posts, write every day. But after we moved out to the Foothills, our priorities completely changed…as did my resolutions.

A while back, I resolved to learn how to split wood. So I went out to the woodsheds with John, pulled on my trusty ear protection, and set a small log—a piece of birch, a nice soft wood for a beginner—on our splitting stump. I positioned the wedge onto the log, swung the mallet down on top of it, and Bam!

Ouch! I’d split the piece, but the impact reverbed into my wrists, and shot up both arms into my shoulders. Jeez, that really hurt! I tried five more logs, each time the impact zinged through me harder than the last. My arms were numb for two days. At that point, I made a new resolution: to give up wood spitting forever. It would have to be the one Berryridge Farm chore that I just wasn’t suited for. John could take full responsibility for our wood supply.

Then recently, some unforeseen circumstances put me in charge of our woodpile. Here it was, early January—the dead of winter, with the coldest days ahead. But we had only several days’ worth of firewood. I had to get up to speed on splitting, and fast.

Luckily, since my original attempt, I’d gotten some physical therapy to treat neck and shoulder stiffness—the souvenir from intensive gardening by hand in my Boomer years. Still, with that awful wood-splitting reverb still fresh in my memory, I wasn’t too optimistic about filling our empty woodshed.

However, John had just bought a new, heavy-duty splitting maul. Plus Santa had brought me a great pair of leather gloves—much better than gardening gloves for using sharp tools. So, after a quickie tutorial with the new maul, I was on my own. I set a nice dry piece of fir on the stump, lifted the maul as high as I dared, and swung. Thwack! It worked!

True, I felt the reverb, but not near as badly as before. So I did a couple more pieces, just to give my arms a chance to get used to the impact, then quit for the day. From then on, I resolved to split a few pieces every day. It’s one of the few resolutions I’ve actually kept—avoiding a freezing house is a powerful motivator—and I’ve actually learned a few things.

So after 3 weeks of splitting wood, here are my Top 5 Woodsman’s/Woodsgal’s Tips for Newbies:

*Get to know your wood.

After years of schlepping wood with John and feeding the woodstove, I could identify most kinds of wood—maple, alder, birch, fir, etc. But for splitting, you need to look at the grain, and figure how each kind of wood splits a little differently. There’s a reason maple is called a hardwood, as opposed to fir being a softwood—if you’re splitting maple, you really need to put some oomph into it.  

*Make sure your wood is seasoned.

If there are cracks, or “checks” on the ends of the log, you’re good to go. If you swing your maul and it bounces right off the log, you can pretty well conclude that puppy is too green for a newbie splitter.

*Watch for knots.

If you try splitting a log, especially maple, with a knot in it, you just created more work for yourself. Because your maul will probably get stuck in it. I learned this firsthand, with my maul lodged in the log tighter than the Sword in the Stone. I had to hack at the log with a hatchet to free the maul. But if a log is really, really dry, you aim your maul in between the knots, and luck is with you, you’ll wind up with a nice split log.

*Keep your eyes on the log.

It’s like in baseball, or golf—you’ve got to keep your eye on the ball.  John will tell you, I can’t throw worth a darn, and my aim in pathetic. However, employing intense focus, I’ve actually split some jagged logs—windfall that broke apart in various places—by aiming my maul into one of the crevices.  But I still can’t throw.

*Focus is everything.

No multi-tasking allowed! When I’m splitting, I can’t be daydreaming about my heroine’s escapades in the novel I’m working on, or what to eat for dinner. You don’t want to miss the log and hit your leg with that big old maul. Which brings us back to: keep your eyes on the log.

One last homesteader’s resolution. I resolve that John and I will start splitting next year’s firewood this June—and by September, we’ll have two woodsheds’ full!

Holiday Bonus

I’ve always thought of December 1^st as the official start of the Christmas rush. The trouble is, the first of December follows closely on the heels of the Thanksgiving rush—you know, that frenzied week of shopping/cleaning/cooking/baking/dishes where you’re wondering, what happened to the actual Thanksgiving celebration? Caught up in the busy-ness of family and food, a lot of folks end up with little opportunity to enjoy the feast, much less give thanks.

If Thanksgiving comes early, like it did this year, merchants are all for it—an extra week for people to do Christmas shopping! But I see this year’s post-Thanksgiving week as a bonus for the holiday season…there’s a little break in the action for sitting back, eating some chocolate, fitting in an extra holiday movie, and maybe making plans for a more generous and thoughtful celebration.

Six years ago, our first holiday season at Berryridge Farm, an early Thanksgiving provided the same kind of holiday bonus week. But that time couldn’t have been more different from any we’d ever experienced. A series of unfortunate events, for which John and I were ill-prepared, knocked us sideways. We wondered if we were going to make it through that week…and more crucial, if we had what it takes to stay on our little homestead for the long term. We spent the Christmas that followed being grateful for the simplest things: our health, the roof over our heads, and each other.

In this year’s holiday bonus week, I’m happy the upsets that happened over this Thanksgiving weekend were so minor…like discovering the local, organic cream I’d splurged on for the pies was slightly “off,” or waking up the next morning to find the bunnies had gotten into my wintering-over kale bed and devoured nearly every last leaf. The cream got an extra spoonful of sugar to offset the tang, and the kale gained a more philosophical grower…when I reminded myself that our food supply is much more secure than the rabbits'.
 
And in this holiday breather time, I’m doing just what the doctor (me) ordered. Eating chocolate, contemplating not just more ways we can share with those less fortunate, but the true meaning of the season… and being grateful.

Samhain, aka the Irish Halloween

As Halloween celebrations—for kids and grownups alike—seem to be on the upswing, two related holidays, the Day of the Dead and Samhain, appear more and more on our radar screens. Maybe because who isn’t game for a good excuse to indulge in all the sweets and chocolate we can eat! Or maybe we need something to perk up our spirits when summer is over, and it’s still weeks until the big holiday season starts with Thanksgiving. Whatever the reason, when I look out on our little farm at the end of October, the veggie beds mostly empty, apple trees bare of the ruby fruit of early fall, I’m all for marking a special day between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice.

Since we live too far away from any neighbors to have Halloween trick-or-treaters, the idea of celebrating Samhain is kinda growing on me. As I understand it, Samhain is an ancient Celtic festival, very similar to the Hispanic tradition of the Day of the Dead. At this time, the dead walked the earth, and people could connect with their ancestors, considered sources of wisdom. Given all the spirits roaming around, the Celts would dress in disguises, so any evil ones couldn’t recognize them. Communal bonfires were also a big custom, thought to ward off evil spirits too. On the way home from the bonfire, people would put a candle in a hollowed-out turnip (the Scots used pumpkins, and brought the custom to the US), apparently to keep those witches, ghosts and goblins away as well.

However, Samhain is also notable as the beginning of the winter half of the year. Which fits here in the Foothills. We won’t be seeing any snow for a few more weeks (crossing my fingers), but the glorious fall color has faded. and most plants around our place have begun their winter sleep—save for a few winter greens, that with any luck, will hold their own until April. So now that the hard work of tending and harvesting is over, I’m happy to devote myself to creating more Irish stories!

Low-Tech Pesto

Time was running short.

I’d grown basil every summer for six years, thinking, oh, boy, I can’t wait to try making pesto! But I'd never used more than a few sprigs for roasted tomatoes or chicken. Now, with the chilly nights of late summer rapidly approaching, my basil’s rich green leaves would soon turn a pale, sickly lime, dotted with brown spots. Then the plants would curl up their toes and my chance to make basil pesto would vamoose.

Not this time, I vowed. Besides running out of summer, though, I had another obstacle to pesto-making: no food processor. Which was required for every pesto recipe I’ve ever read. I never missed having a blender or processor--I aim for DIY rather than kitchen gadgets. But I’d recently inherited a lovely marble mortar and pestle from my sweet mother-in-law, and just harvested an abundant crop of garlic. Now, armed with a recipe in the July “O” magazine, I had no excuses.

I plucked several handfuls of basil, gently washed it (a few ants were hanging around), and tore the leaves off the stems. I carefully measured it to make two cups. I peeled and minced five cloves of garlic, then roasted and finely chopped a cup of walnuts (Don’t much care for pine nuts, plus they’re really expensive. And I really like walnuts.) I started with a few basil leaves in the marble bowl of my mortar and pestle, and started grinding vigorously. After several minutes, all I had to show for it was some bruised basil leaves. This could take a really long time.

I dug out John's hand immersion blender, that I use a couple of times of year to puree winter squash for “pumpkin” pie. I piled the basil, along with the garlic and walnuts, into a bowl. The recipe called for a ½ cup of olive oil, a teaspoon of salt, and another of sugar, none of which sounded right to me. Foregoing the sugar altogether, I put a pinch of sea salt into the mixture, added a quarter cup of extra-virgin olive oil (1/2 cup seemed like too much too), and fired up the blender.

Well, I worked my ingredients until my arm was sore, but I had nothing that quite resembled a “paste”—just some mooshed up basil. The walnuts and garlic was still pretty intact. Plus the blender was majorly overheating. I’d just have to work with what I had. I boiled up some organic pasta, drained it, and swirled some olive oil into it. Feeling my confidence ebb, I piled the lumpy mixture into the pasta, along with a handful of grated Dubliner cheese. If my experiment tasted as awful as it looked, I’d just wasted all those wonderful fresh ingredients, plus an hour that I could have spent outside, tending Berryridge Farm.

With trepidation, I swirled a forkful of spaghetti, and took a bite. It was like an explosion of flavor! It was like I’d never tasted anything so rich, garlicky, zesty, herby, nutty. I savored every mouthful, and had seconds to boot. I figured I’d have the worst garlic breath ever, but maybe the greens of the basil and the oil had mellowed the garlic. It was, hands-down, the best meal I’d eaten in a long time. A whole teaspoon of salt and sugar would have probably ruined it. Since then, I’ve made my simpler living basil “pesto” three times, and it’s become one of our favorite go-to summer meals.

 Then I discovered The Barefoot Contessa makes a similar dish with greens or herbs, nuts, garlic and olive oil—not processed but simply chopped then mixed. It’s called “gremolata.” Who knew?

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

When it comes to raising potatoes, I am the kiss of death.

I realize that’s a bit of an unfortunate allusion, given the Irish Potato Famine back in the 1800s. But call it what you will, whether my problem is ignorance, negligence, bad luck, or out-and-out stupidity, as the Berryridge Farm potato manager, I have overseen the ruin of more potato crops than you can shake a hoe at.

Early on, I took charge of our potato crop because a) I love potatoes, and b) since I’m Irish on both sides, I should be a champion spud grower.

But it hasn’t turned out that way. I’ve weathered early blight, late blight, weeds taking over, and storage stupidity. In 2008, we had a fantastic crop, not much blight, with about one hundred pounds of taters, many of which I’d harvested in the cold November rains. I stashed the whole caboodle in our un-insulated shop. That’s where the stupidity factor comes in: I forgot to bring the potatoes into the house when we got smacked by a late December Northeaster and the temperature dropped to five degrees. Can you say “taters frozen hard as baseballs?”

I thought we could save the crop, until the weather warmed up. That's when I had a half-dozen grocery bags full of blackened, squishy, rotting potatoes. I almost cried. That was my low point.

The next year, we escaped the blight, but our harvest seemed a little…modest. Picking potatoes, I’d turn up a hill, and find two or three teensy tubers. Where were the lovely fist-sized spuds of yore? But I’d just published my memoir Little Farm in the Foothills, and busy with author appearances, I didn’t give my tater mystery the attention it deserved.

But the following year, 2010, the mystery deepened: the yield was even smaller, and almost all the larger potatoes had big chunks missing. At the same time, swathes of seedlings of our above-ground crops sort of just disappeared too. We did a little research and discovered where our potatoes (and seedlings) were: in the tummies of our resident voles. Voles are little rodents a lot like moles, who live in underground tunnels. Only moles are carnivores: they like to eat bugs and stuff underground. Would that voles ate the same! No, they’re vegetarians—and they are voracious eaters of just about everything in your garden, above and below ground: your carrots, beets, peas, kale, spinach, broccoli, and yes, your potatoes.

Due to vole predation, last summer’s crop was small too—but at least I’d protect it from freezing. We put a fridge in the shop, and I stored my taters in there. But I forgot one small detail: to adjust the temperature setting suitable for an indoor fridge to an outdoor one. After another northeaster, I went out for some more potatoes, and discovered my bags were full of frost: foiled—or should I say frozen—again! I turned up the fridge temp, but of course it was too late. My crop went the way of the previously frozen one: the compost pile.

But I have new hope for the 2012 season, even if this seems like the coldest, rainiest June ever. John traveled to eastern Washington and brought me six packages of certified organic seed potatoes from the Irish Eyes Seed Company, based in Ellensburg. The other bright spot: I’m planting potatoes in the raised beds John has built, with screening covering the bottoms. Voles, whose habit is to feed from below, can’t get to the plants!

Well, these Irish eyes are really smiling now. I’ll let you know if they’re still smiling in August, when I start harvesting!