The garden is dug, thanks to two pairs of now-blistered, aching hands. The seeds we started last week are beginning to poke gently through the surface of the soil. Me? I’m getting so excited, after seeing all the pretty produce at the monthly farmer’s market today. (As an aside, I want to have laying hens when I finally settle down somewhere — fresh eggs are bloody amazing!)
If all goes well, we’ll be able to go out back and pick dinner straight from the soil. Three varieties of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, rainbow chard, bell and hot peppers, herbs, mesclun mix, squash (for the squash blossoms!), haricots verts, and a few varieties of flowers … Yum. Provided, of course, that this house didn’t happen to replace some heavy industrial plant of some sort. New Haven, I love ya, but I’m not entirely sure I trust your soil.
On a somewhat unrelated note, check this out. It’s kind of fascinating, and makes a good point.
The celery root dish I promised is coming along swimmingly, but you’ll have to wait a bit… My hands are officially finished working for the night.
It’s nice to feel like you’ve accomplished something important — if only to you — on an otherwise lazy Sunday. Some people cook a big brunch for their family, like my father always used to do for us when we were kids. I used to do the same, but it’s no fun when one of us isn’t a big breakfast fan. Who doesn’t like eggs? Ok … Almost everyone I know, really. But I’m letting myself get a bit sidetracked.
Now that the intoxicating smell of fresh coffee and pancakes drowned in butter and maple syrup isn’t there to get me up out of bed on the weekends anymore, James and I are working on creating our own weekend rituals to coax us out of the warm cave within our covers. A weekly bike ride has become our Sunday morning date, of sorts, because — let’s face it — we need the exercise, and a little sense of danger in the form of car traffic rushing past you at 40 miles an hour is a great way to wake yourself up. At first, we’d just take a leisurely ride up to the top of East Rock, about a mile from home, but lately, we’ve gotten a little bit adventurous.
I want to see London’s new plan for making the city a more bike-friendly place adopted in cities all over America. Can you imagine biking to work without having to worry about people opening car doors in front of you, cutting you off in bike lanes, blocking you into potholes, and all the rest of the trials and tribulations involved in traversing roads designed with cars in mind? Don’t get me wrong — I’d rather bike than drive (almost) any day — but some drivers are either blatantly unaware of anyone else on the road, or are seriously nuts. I’m not sure which is worse…
Biking is admittedly a bit of an adventure in New Haven. Last week, we went for a long ride along a Canal Trail several neighboring towns have set up for long distance biking. It was pleasant and car-less, for the most part, but as with anything in life, there’s no guarantee that you’ll return home unscathed. Unless, of course, you decide to stay inside — but where’s the fun in that? Continue reading
Conjure up an image of a well-worn brick red pickup truck, passing through acres and acres of gently swaying corn stalks reaching up to meet the vast, azure skies. Go on … We’ve all seen that image somewhere. Now imagine the truck moves through the very field that will provide it with fuel in the following year, just as it once provided fuel for the driver the year before. The transition seems natural — at first.
We are a corn guzzling nation. Our farmland is packed with the high yield, heavily subsidized stuff, and you would be hard-pressed to find much in any supermarket that is made without a single corn product. So when we finally moved to look into biofuels as a way to try and free ourselves from our dependence on oil, of course we turned to corn. It’s good enough for us — it should be good enough for our cars. Right?