Underneath this carpet, 35 years ago...

As the youngest in my family, I heard many stories about the time before I was born. There was the story about how my parents had my brother, Scott, at Purdue and lived in married student housing on campus. There was also the story about my sister, Kate, and how her face was all pushed in when she was born. Of course, the story about my other sister, Liz eating a bag of sugar behind the couch. But one of the most memorable stories of all was the one which involved Scott and Kate before either Liz or I was born.

Mom and dad had just bought the farm- literally, they had purchased an 80 acre farm from the Buffenbarger family in 1973. On the property were several out buildings including a large barn, an outhouse, and a chicken coop, cherry, apple, plum, pear and peach trees, and of course, the house that I grew up in. The Buffenbarger family built the original house in the 1850s and they were cheap. The upstairs had never seen a coat of paint, wooden floors had been varnished around the rugs (the logic was: visitors would never see the upstairs and why varnish the whole floor when you only see the bit around the edge of the rug?), and to top it all off, when Mr. Buffenbarger moved out, he took with him a drawer straight from the kitchen cabinets.

Mom and dad began to do some renovations to the house while trying to raise their 3 year-old son and 1 year-old daughter. First things first, the bare plaster in the bedrooms upstairs needed a nice coat of paint. They decided on a neutral cream shade and got to work. While dad was working, mom was working outside, and the kids were supposed to be napping, one of my all-time favorite stories occurred- one which I recently found evidence to support its validity.

A few weeks ago, mom and I were talking about the old carpet upstairs and how it "must be allergen-ridden." After getting the okay from dad, I ripped the carpet out with my own two hands and got rid of it for good, after all, it had served the Fergusson family for 35 years.

Underneath the carpet the story of my brother Scott asking my sister Kate if she wanted to be a ghost came back to life. After she said "yes," Scott proceeded to dump a gallon of that aforementioned cream colored paint on her head. When the paint reached her eyes, she screamed and mom came in from outside and grabbed Kate- immediately throwing her in the kitchen sink and calling the doctor.

The image I posted above was proof for me, who had never witnessed this long-heard about event. Underneath the carpet I saw small white foot prints. I initially thought they were Kate's since she was the one who was painted "like a ghost," but when I recounted the story, they couldn't be because my mom grabbed her and took her down the stairs. The footsteps were Scott's! Upon closer examination, I also saw my mom's sneaker prints in the paint, and not to mention, varnish around a rug that was once there.

When I had heard the story, I imagined the details much differently than the evidence showed. Mom and dad always said that Scott followed mom and left a trail of little white footprints going down the stairs. For some reason, I had always imagined those footprints as one print in the middle of each step. But I didn't think to account for the fact that my brother was only three! In actuality, the prints were against the right side (where he could hang on to the wall) and there were two prints to each step! Scott, with paint-covered feet slowly walked down the hallway, hesitated at the top of the stairs and right foot first, stepped down and repeated the same with the left foot. He did this all the way down the stairs, with the prints and my memory of an event I don't remember, getting lighter and lighter.

Goose Island Brewery!

Today I'm headed to Chicago to visit Goose Island Brewery. If you can't tell, I'm pretty excited; what's better than good beer, Chicago, and three of my favorite friends? We are all set up to tour the brewery and afterward, of course, tastings! Luckily for my friend who has wheat allergies, they also brew ginger ale, root beer, and cream soda.

That brings me to my current brewing situation. We finally tasted our double-hopped IPA (that was made in the ol' moonshine keg this summer!) and it was out of this world. (the Belgian Blanc was sadly, not) My brother couldn't believe that we had actually made this amber-colored ale and said that he not only wanted two cases, but wanted to turn the farm into an organic brewery. He envisions that all the grains and hops would be grown on the property and we would use unfiltered well water. Ahhh... what a dream. He has another agenda; he likes the idea of serving family beers at his bar in his new house.

This fall I also planted a few grape vines. Although I don't want to claim that I am a wine expert or even know anything about wine, I'd like to know how it's made. I don't want to read in books, but rather plant the vines, wait a few years, harvest the grapes and go from there.

Next on tap (for tomorrow's brewing schedule) will be another IPA... although this one is a reserve and the hop schedule is much more interesting: Mt. Hood and Tetnanger, with twice as much brewer's yeast, and a bit more brewer's sugar. Should prove to be a great winter ale as well as high alcohol content.

Winchester Street Monday Mornings

A leaf print in the sidewalk
separated by cracks
to keep from freezing but
was soft at one time.
cassette tape pulled out
and filters seem like leaves
on the side
cold dust and bits of plastic trying,
to figure out what they used to be
looking for salvage.

curb your dog.
one 6-pointed meets fifty 5-pointed.
perfectly manicured green grass had to
pay for that sign in your lawn.
you dug up the tree in mid-summer’s nights dream
and I told you it would die,
not the right time,
poor withered lace-leaf red maple.
I got to look down when you come.

watering can in hand,
pants are too high and gut is too big.
you know they are nice
everyone knows they are the nicest on Winchester.
of course the buyers will love the color yellow,
new windows, new sod, new porch,
new-old house.
on the right the slope is high-
some can’t deal,
using a penetrating vine that abuses.
barrel of rock salt and a funeral procession no,
that was Sunday morning.

10/12/2006

Hay bales- the Moroccan way

While driving (or rather, riding) on the way to Rabat from Marrakech, Morocco I saw many small farms beside the highway. The ride is about 2.5 hours long, and for the most part, the scenery is rural. Out my window I saw several groups of animals and to my surprise, they were ALWAYS guarded by a shepherd. Some cows, some goats, some chickens, and a lot of sheep- regardless of the animal, a boy or man was always found nearby. Usually holding a stick, or a gardening tool of some kind, the shepherd looked deep in thought sitting on a rock, or, when about to rain, circling the group of animals. All of the animals were quite dirty- none of Mary's little lambs around, but instead, dingy sheep. Also, in the middle of these fields were small mud-brick shanties where, I presume the shepherd kept supplies for lunch and the animals, or spent lonely nights.

The fields are not what I am used to in Indiana. I mean, they host the typical crops, hay, alfalfa, beans and even, to my surprise, corn! But, the shape of the fields is truly bizarre. No, squares or rectangles or even circles for that matter, but strange trapezoidal shapes which appear to have no logic behind them. When asking my own native Moroccan, he told me that the government has jurisdiction over the property and has historically split it up again and again for years. The result: very strange scraps of land for the farmers.

Another amazing sight was the hay bale "buildings." This I found to be a truly impressive feat without the help of a crane or other hi-tech building equipment. The bales are the traditional square bales of my childhood- solid (heavy) rectangular "bricks" held together with baler twine which serve a second purpose as "handles" to move the bales around. However, these bales were not stored in barns like I am used to, but compactly stacked in building formations. The photo above is not too great as it was (obviously) taken from the window of the car. But, in it you can see a "building" constructed solely of hay bales. This one looks like a pole barn, but there were others with rounded, or domed, ceilings too! The bales were so tightly put together that nothing larger than a mouse could penetrate the stack. I wonder how the rain we received yesterday and today is affecting the hay because as any farmer knows, the struggle with storing hay is preventing mold and mildew. You can also see that in the photo there is a silo and other typical farming equipment/buildings, yet the Moroccan farmer stores hay in an artful way.

Holy Tomatillos!

Last week I picked 20 pounds of tomatillos from our garden. Tomatillos are small, firm, green tomatoes with a paper husk. The tomatillo plant is similar to that of a standard tomato we are used to; it is from the night shade family and typically requires some kind of cage or trellis for the weak vine to rely on. We have three different cultivars of tomatillos growing this year. Some of them had purple-ish husks. The fruit is slightly crunchy, low in acid and high in pectin. This makes for great tasting salsa with perfect consistency! When I picked them they easily plucked off the vine. When picking tomatillos, you want to give them a little squeeze while still on the vine to make sure that the fruit has filled in the husk. Don't pick them before they are bursting out of this translucent paper wrapper!

When picking (and later when husking) the tomatillos are sticky. I found this sticky-ness to be almost oily, which was to me, a unique experience. While husking, I ate a few whole-- sweet and crunchy like an apple, slightly acidic like a tomato. Then, I simply quartered the larger ones (halving the smaller ones) and placed them in roasting pans. I baked them in the oven at 350 degress for an hour and a half. As the tomatillos were roasting, I threw three poblano, three anneheim, two serrano, and one jalepeno chile pepper on the grill. I just blackened their skins then let them sweat out in a ziploc bag. After they were cooled, I peeled the blackened skins off and took the seeds and stems out. I also sauteed 10 small white onions and six cloves of chopped garlic until the onions were soft and translucent. I drained the tomatillos of any excess water they let out while roasting and threw them, the roasted peppers, the onion and garlic mixture (both from our garden), three cups of chopped fresh cilantro (also from our garden) the juice of three limes, a half cup of white vinegar and some sea salt to taste into the blender.

Now, my favorite part-- canning! I washed and prepared lids for 10 pint jars and filled them almost to the top with my wonderfully green salsa. Then, after dipping in a water bath for 30 minutes, they sealed themselves closed on the kitchen counter while cooling off. Granted there were only 10 jars, but excitingly, my own tomatillo salsa sold out at the farmer's market in Dublin, OH. It's best on plain old tortilla chips, but I also found it very tasty as a tapanade for baked cod or salmon.

The 'Ol Moonshine Keg

So lately I've been into home brewing. I want to brew with my own, homegrown, hops next year, but this year, I will stick to the hopped malt syrups. Well, Younes and I bought a cheap-o plastic brewing kit at CVS the day after Christmas- everything was on sale. I'm brewing a belgian blanc in that 2 gallon keg. However, it's this 6 gallon keg pictured here that I want to bring to your attention.

This 6 gallon keg was in the basement at the farm for over 30 years. I remember, in highschool, going down to the basement and daring my friends to drink what I called, "moonshine." Nobody knew what was in the keg. It was a brownish color, smelled like some sort of alcohol and tasted gross. It was only last week that the keg was unearthed, dusted off, and drained. As I began to drain it I felt sad that 6 gallons of "liquid" were going to waste. I had to save some of it. What if it's aged and worth something now? What if it's some kind of amazing liquor that would go great with lamb?

Needless to say, I put a glass under the tap and saved some. It was truly murky. I looked at it. Remembered the days I willingly drank the stuff in highschool and took a sip. The best way to describe it was 50% rubbing alcohol and 50% tannin aftertaste. Ugh. There must be a better way to remember this keg and how it did its job for over 30 years with no complaints. So I cleaned and sanitized it and dressed it to the nines with a triple-hopped IPA. Let's see if this batch lasts as long as the 'ol moonshine.

Today I quit my job

I did- I quit my job today. For the last two years, I worked as the Director of the Ann Loeb Bronfman Gallery at the Washington DC Jewish Community Center. You'd think that today would be "My Day"- that people would want to know why I'm leaving, where I'm going, and what I will be doing in the future. Instead, today, I'm finding, is really about everyone else.

I say that because the minute the "shock heard around the world" here, people came to me to get the scoop. Then, after a few minutes of my describing my hatred towards DC and my love of a certain farm in Indiana and the energy I get from my family, it was on to them.

"That's not what happened to me when I gave my letter of resignation!" said a co-worker who resigned a few weeks ago and is counting his days until freedom. "I didn't get those nice emails like you did."

Another co-worker, who's been job searching for months, replied "Well, I'm not leaving DC, how should I phrase my resignation letter?" Or another co-worker, frustrated with DC folks said "I just don't feel like I fit in here. I think relationships in DC are so superficial." Yet another co-worker said, "I'm so jealous you had the balls to quit- I envy you." I had the final visitor-co-worker of the day standing in front of me in my office just now. "I'm thinking about moving on too... as soon as my business takes off and I get my finances in order, probably by the end of the year, I'm out of here. I've been here 6 years, I'm not going to stay until 10 or 11!"

Wow. It's so fascinating to see how one decision: moving away from big city life towards farm life with family opens up the flood gates for everyone to do some self-reflection! What's the point of living a certain life just to SAY you're living it? Why not make a decision that (although difficult, yes) will make your life more fulfilled? Instead of homeless people, and rude neighbors, why not surround yourself with people you love and people who love you? To me, this only makes sense- it is very clear. However, sometimes it takes seeing someone else take the plunge to get enough courage to do it yourself.