Winter Farmers Market

Our beloved City has a winter Farmers Market open Tuesdays on Clinton Street between 3-6PM 450 Clinton Street Downtown, not far from the public library. Local farmers bring fresh produce.

Jon Frankel: Poet, Novelist, Food-Writer

Visit Jon's Blog: The Last Bender

Little Free Library

When a 36-year-old bibliophile in Daegu, South Korea, sat down at his computer and googled the word “library,” he didn’t expect to find anything particularly noteworthy. But as DooSun You scrolled through the results, an appealingly anti-tech concept popped up.

The Internet led him to Little Free Libraries—hand-built boxes where neighbors can trade novels, memoirs, comics, and cookbooks, and connect with each other in the process.

The little libraries immediately appealed to DooSun. “Reading books is one of the most valuable things in my life. I think a book is equal to a treasure,” he says. “I hoped to share that feeling with my neighbors—that’s the reason I wanted a Little Free Library.”

“We have a natural sense of wanting to be connected, but there are so many things that push us apart,” Bol says. “I think Little Free Libraries open the door to conversations we want to have with each other.” Article

Sin Eater

A sin-eater is a person who, through a ritual meal, takes on the sins of a household, often because of a recent death, thus absolving the soul and allowing that person to rest in peace. In anthropology and the study of folklore, sin-eating is classified as apotropaic ritual[1] and a form of religious magic.
Source

Thriller: Eyes on the Car

For a few nights in September I woke up at three AM and decided to go downstairs to my office to work. I would open my screened porch door for air while working standing at my desk. One night I heard a car drive in to the parking lot behind my house. I can easily see the whole lot from my office. The car did not belong to any of the residents. I glanced at the clock. After five minutes the car left. Then another car drove in, parked in the same spot, and stayed for another five minutes. This happened each night. I began to notice this regular traffic pattern at all hours of the day, too. I suspected drug-dealing was going on and my neighbor confirmed it. She even knew who it was, and which apartment he lived in.
I emailed the local police chief and he connected me to a detective. The detective knew about the guy, a small-time dealer. The detective wasn't particularly interested in him, but asked me to stay in touch. One morning I was carrying my husband's coffee and lunch box out to the car at 6:30 AM and I noticed a shiny new black Impala with NY plates in the parking lot. I emailed the detective about it. "Can you get the license plate number?" he asked. I walked across the lot and back with my dog, glancing over at the Impala as I passed it. I emailed him back. "You won't believe this," he wrote back immediately, "I'm sitting here right now waiting for exactly that car!" All of a sudden my hands were shaking so much I could hardly write. "They're leaving now," I wrote back, "Do you want me to obstruct them?" I imagined, oh, taking my trash can to the sidewalk and tipping it over "accidentally" in the driveway, slowing the car's escape while the detective showed up. "NO!" he replied. "Please call me when you have a moment." He gave me his cell phone number.
I took a deep breath and phoned him. I told him that as soon as I had hit "send" on the last email I realized my mistake. "I just got caught up in the drama," I said, laughing. "Don't ever put yourself in harm's way," he warned me. I felt embarrassed. I was the Lucille Ball of amateur crime-fighters. "Don't worry," I tried to reassure him, "They won't suspect me. I'm just the lady with the big black dog who walks everywhere."
"Wow, so they were here at that early hour?" he asked. "The heroin addicts get up very early," he volunteered, thinking aloud. My heart pounded and I started trembling from head to toe. Heroin? I had visions of guys with tourniquets on their arms, veins popping, shooting up in dark alleys like in the movies of my 1970's NY childhood. He continued: "These guys make so much money they rent a car for a month and then turn it in for another. They think that with out-of-state plates they won't be noticed, but they stick out like a sore thumb." His voice was young and kind and I tried to envision his face from the tones. He sounded 20 years younger than me, with straight light brown hair, clean-shaven. "Yeah, those orange NY plates, you can spot them a mile away," I said, feeling like I already knew way too much about drug dealers. My confidence was quickly retreating.
For days I sent regular emails alerting the detective. "The black car is back here." "The black car is still here." "Now there's a white car." My pulse quickened every time I hit the "send" button. I sent him plate numbers if I could see them. I wasn't comfortable crossing the lot with my dog anymore. One day a scary-looking silver Ram wagon with tinted windows parked in what I had begun calling the hot spot. When it started appearing regularly I was terrified. My husband teased me: "You're just scared of the design of the car." I told the detective what my husband thought, but my hunch proved to be correct. The detective confirmed that the silver Ram was the drug-dealer's new rental car.
I was getting jumpy, fearing everything. How do the police do this? I'd walk my dog around the city as always but I couldn't shut off my hunting impulse. I learned to recognize car models and manufacturer's logos, to memorize license plates at a glance. I saw out-of-state plates everywhere, on fancy cars with tinted windows. Were they drug-dealer rentals too? Was I losing my mind? I sent the detective a Smithsonian Magazine article about an art historian who was training police detectives to observe using museum masterpieces. "I'd like this job!" I told him. One time he asked in an email, "You've got the black dog, right?" I didn't reply right away. I had mentioned my dog the first time we spoke on the phone. I was quite visible walking my dog around town, but he was still invisible to me. What do detectives look for anyway? How deeply do they research people? Was he reading my writing, looking at my paintings? I felt like I was in on a seduction. I was getting spooked. "Yeah she’s my dog,” I finally responded. "People see me walking her all over the city. She's practically a local celebrity." All I knew about the detective was that he drove around in an unmarked black Buick. He had told me that he'd be keeping an eye out on the parking lot. I was comforted, though, knowing there would be another set of eyes looking out.
The drug dealing seemed to escalate. I was monitoring the stream of cars and sending license plate numbers to the detective while continuing to brush up on the makes, models and logos of the cars. Now and again the detective would have a specific question: "Did you see the guy who drove the silver Ram?" "No, I saw him in the car as it was parked and then he got out and a woman got in and drove it away." The parking lot was like a shopping mall. Customers were sitting in their cars in the dark, their faces lit by their cell-phones. One night I saw a guy illuminated by his car light licking something from his fingertips. He held what looked like a white envelope. Another night I woke up in the night to pee and in the dark I peeked out the window through the gap above the curtain in the stairwell. I saw the dealer's car out back and raced down to my desk to email the detective. I was so full of adrenaline I couldn't fall back to sleep. "This is hunting, and you love the hunt," my husband said. "Yes, you're right," I admitted. "And you have an audience, the detective," my husband reminded me.
The dealers looked so young, they looked like little boys with their backwards baseball caps and shiny cars. They weren't even wearing winter coats, just decorative T-shirts. I didn't want anyone to get hurt, I wasn't out to get everybody incarcerated. It's bad enough that I already feel responsible for everything on the planet. I had no malice toward the dealers. My feeling was just please don't do this. As I told the Chief and Mayor at a meeting earlier in the year, I am speaking up on behalf of my tenant neighbors who are too afraid to call for help. This cul-de-sac parking lot had become a lawless wasteland because of the landlord's neglect. I wanted to improve the quality of life for everyone in my neighborhood.
Whenever my inbox showed the detective's name I jumped through my skin. It was almost like having a crush. I would hang on every word, read the message over and over. Stay calm, I told myself, breathe. Be safe, do not be seen. So much was unknown to me, but that's what made it verge on sexy. "I am freaking out with jitters," I told the detective, on the phone. "This is why I could never have an affair, too much adrenaline. I need my life to be calm and orderly." "Absolutely," he agreed, and laughed.
In time the scary silver Ram was replaced with a shiny silver sportscar, then later with a plain new red Ford with local plates. Maybe the dealers were beginning to feel exposed. "I think this is the new car," I wrote to the detective. He said, "I think you're right." "They park with authority, in the hotspot. They're sitting in the car with the seats pushed way back so they're hidden." "Important detail," the detective replied. Then I spotted the guys in question going in and out and was able to identify them. "Good job, Can you get the plates?" "I'm too scared to walk across the lot." "No, don't," he said, "I'll drive thru and get them in an hour."
At this point he had a search warrant for the apartment. An undercover cop had successfully bought drugs at the apartment, and now they were just waiting for the right time to execute the warrant. After eight weeks of team work I was still hanging on the front lines looking out from my perch. One Friday the detective asked me, "Can you keep your eyes on the red car for fifteen minutes?" "Yes, I'll set the kitchen timer since my sense of time is wonky under stress," I said. "Good," he replied. The bell rang and I wrote back, "Red car still here," but then the car immediately left. I phoned in a panic. "He just left!" I said, shaking like a leaf, imagining having botched the crew's efforts. "He must have the same timer," I said. The detective laughed. The stake-out was cancelled for the day but we'd be back at it again Monday. "We can be in casual alert over the weekend, making note of the red car's comings and goings. But Monday night, high alert." "Okay," I said. "By the way, I know I don't have to tell you but for your safety and ours, do not tell ANYONE you are working with us." Later I sat down and wrote the names of all the people I had told. Forty-five. I was spooked.
There's a part of me that always wanted to be a detective. Artists, writers, and detectives share lot in common: observe and listen. I told myself that my role in this was to keep paying attention and write down what I see. Just the facts ma’am, I told myself, and leave the interpretation to the experts. I was in a kind of training, I decided, doing my best to be a good and honorable witness to help solve the problem on behalf of my neighborhood. I wanted it to be over, though. "Believe me we do too," the detective said, "but it has to run its course. We need to get the right guys." I told myself it was a good but terrifying exercise for my writing. "My wife has a pen-pal who is a detective!" my husband announced proudly one morning while pouring his coffee into his morning to-go thermos.
Monday came. I was in self-imposed high alert, awake since 4 AM. I had been standing lookout in the empty tub of my cold office bathroom for hours. The detective and I were keeping in touch by email. It was now 6:30 PM. My husband appeared with two plates of hot spaghetti. We ate it standing in the dark, eyes on the red car. I was exhausted. "Go rest," the detective said. "I hate to do this to you, can you come back at 10:30?" "Perfect," I said. At 9:30 my husband woke me up. "The red car is back," he said. I emailed the detective, my heart pounding. "Okay, keep an eye out. Let's see if he stays," he said. The red car was in a different spot because of the ice in the lot. A truck partially blocked my view of the car, and the new spot was very dark. My husband got his binoculars. I could confirm the red car was red and I recognized the shape of the tail light. Then the truck left. Another guy pulled in to the hot spot to buy drugs. When he returned, he put the car in reverse and got stuck in the ice, tires spinning, but his back-up lights illuminated the red car. "It's DEFINITELY red," I told the detective. "A customer lit it up." He laughed. Another sedan drove in, a brown Crown Vic. Maybe this is the detective I thought. But it was a lanky guy in a Peruvian hat carrying a brown paper bag. Another customer.
The detective wanted to communicate now by cell-phone. "I'll have to wake my husband, it's his phone and I don't know how to use it." "He's not going to be too happy about that," the detective said. "Oh no, he'll be fine about it." I got back to my station just as the red car started to leave. I called in a panic: "Red car just left!" I feared the detective's team would move in on nothing. "Oh don't tell me!" he said. He was exhausted too. "Hey, a pickup truck just pulled in," I said. I noticed it was missing a rear light. "I think it's another customer. I'll bet the red car will be back momentarily to make a deal." Suddenly I was alert and wide awake. Sure enough, I called back with good news: "The red car's back! And now the truck is gone." "The truck is gone? You have eyes on the red car?" I could hear police radio in the background. A cop was saying he was staked out on the corner lot at the school. "Okay I have to direct my guys now," he said, hanging up. I went to the bathroom window. Two cars drove into the lot and stopped. One passenger got out carrying something really heavy and ran towards the apartment. I sure hope this is the police, I thought, and not the dealers because this looks dangerous. Then I saw another vehicle pull into the driveway and park, blocking the only exit. Okay, whew, it's the cops. Then I saw the detectives come out into the lot with a police dog to search the red car. It was late, after eleven. I finally went to bed.
The next morning I had a new message. "Call me when you have a chance." The detective told me the story over the phone. They got their guys, exactly what they wanted. The apartment was a classic crack house. "You won't believe the paperwork we have to do now, it will take all day," he said. I was blown away, exhausted, relieved. Was it really over? The Chief later sent me and the Mayor a follow-up note, and a personal thank-you note. "Community policing at its best," he wrote.

Ice Cold Sunshine!

I love this cold weather. Ice cold sunshine! Sourdough bread is rising, and yogurt is incubating. I went swimming and it felt great. I am drinking a raspberry smoothie from neighborhood frozen raspberries and home cultured yogurt, and orange juice. I forgot to add the bananas. This is weather to make soup.

John Thorne

Article

Grilled Corn Tortillas

Take two corn tortillas and sandwich in a sandwich sized slice of 'Pepper Jack' cheese and grill on a dry cast iron skillet on high heat for a minute. Then flip it over and grill the other side. Enjoy a few of them with your favorite hot sauce. This is a fast food you make at home.

Margaret Atwood

I would never, never own an automatic washer-dryer. Sartre, Samuel Beckett, Kafka, and Ionesco, I was sure, did not have major appliances, and these were the writers I most admired.

I've never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It's probably because they have forgotten their own.

- Margaret Atwood

Slow Toasting Granola

I discovered that I must bake my granola very low and slow in order for the oats to lightly toast. They need to dry out and yet retain the flavor of the vanilla. I bake it in my 12" cast iron skillet rather than baking sheets. I preheat the oven and bake it at 275 for 40 minutes stirring every 15-20 minutes. Then I lower the temps to 200 and bake for another 15 or 20 minutes and then I turn off the oven and leave it in to catch the residual heat.

Ingredients:

1 cup corn oil
1 cup regular unsulfured molasses
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 standard cardboard cylinder of old fashioned rolled oats

Heat the oil, molasses, salt, and vanilla in a deep pot until very hot. Stir and then pour in the oats. Take the pot off the heat. Stir to completely coat the oats. Mix as if it were an oat salad. Pour onto baking sheets or skillets and place in preheated 275 degree oven. If you use a few baking sheets and spread the oats thinly they will toast faster. So stay nearby and stir frequently to avoid over toasting.

Gloop Queen

I am becoming quite fond of gloop. Each time we unearth a container of it from the freezer I put it in the crock pot and add water to simmer and then I start adding anything lying around that seems good until the pot is full to the brim because I can't help myself. All of my pots get filled to the brim.

Last night I added a frozen tomato eggplant sauce that I had made back in August, with some freshly chopped green cabbage and some frozen corn niblets. Then I added Adobo seasoning and some more chicken tenders which I fished out and chopped into bite sized pieces after they defrosted in the gloop. It was delicious. The perfect meal in a bowl.

I am thinking I can always make gloop if I have a few essentials on hand for example: canned tomatoes, lentils, rice, onions, celery, garlic, olive oil, Adobo, chicken (or any fish or meat). When our market sells boneless chicken breasts on sale I like to purchase a bunch and freeze them small containers.

Soon the snow and ice will be here trapping us inside. Be prepared to warm your belly and share your gloop with a friend or neighbor.

Upton Sinclair

They use everything about the hog except the squeal.
― Upton Sinclair, The Jungle

Roald Dahl

Do you know what breakfast cereal is made of? It's made of all those little curly wooden shavings you find in pencil sharpeners!
― Roald Dahl

Richard Brautigan

I had a good-talking candle last night in my bedroom. I was very tired but I wanted somebody to be with me, so I lit a candle and listened to its comfortable voice of light until I was asleep.
― Richard Brautigan

Richard Brautigan

When you take your pill
it's like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside you.
― Richard Brautigan, The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster

Love Poem

It's so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don't love them
any more.

― Richard Brautigan

Richard Brautigan

Karma Repair Kit Items 1-4.

1. Get enough food to eat,
and eat it.

2. Find a place to sleep where it is quiet,
and sleep there.

3. Reduce intellectual and emotional noise
until you arrive at the silence of yourself,
and listen to it.

4.
― Richard Brautigan

Mayonnaise

I have always wanted to write a book that ended with the word 'mayonnaise.'
― Richard Brautigan

Richard Brautigan

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords.
― Richard Brautigan

Paul Theroux

Cooking requires confident guesswork and improvisation-- experimentation and substitution, dealing with failure and uncertainty in a creative way.
― Paul Theroux, Sir Vidia's Shadow: A Friendship Across Five Continents

Born on a Kitchen Table

"I was born on a kitchen table in Branson Missouri," Sandy said while we were standing on the corner catching the end of the day sunlight.
"Really? Tell me more," I said.
"I grew up on a farm, remember this was in the 40's. My mother gave birth to me on the kitchen table. My father had just plowed the fields behind our house and when he went to pay the doctor twenty dollars the money was gone. It must've slipped out of his pocket. So he went back out and plowed the field again and found the money in the dirt and was able to pay the doctor. I just think of my poor mother. My family still tells this story."

Eco-Gastronomist

“What’s important is to cook well,” Mr. Moya emphasized, and an empty plate will follow. “If you do it with passion, people will eat.”

That is not to say nothing is ever left behind. Though the French remain resistant to taking leftovers home, a small movement is afoot to change attitudes. It has been encouraged by difficult economic times, rising consciousness about food waste, and an environmentally minded younger generation that is more familiar with takeout culture.

Article

Slow Sourdough

I set my Thursday batch of sourdough to rise this morning at 9AM. It's 8PM and going into the oven now. I imagine it rose super slowly since my house is very cold.

Two Pots of Gloop

It's another rainy day. My gloominess lifted when I started making a pot of gloop.

I rinsed 2 cups of brown rice and a pound of dried lentils and added water to cover. I added 3 cans of crushed tomatoes a leftover rind of Parmesan cheese, 2 tablespoons of pesto, 3 lbs chicken tenders chopped (on sale special at Jamie Sullivan's Shaw's meats today), 6 carrots chopped, a gigantic bell pepper, 6 ribs of celery, chopped, 5 cloves of garlic chopped, and 3 onions chopped. I added Adobo, salt, freshly ground black pepper, a half a can of beer and olive oil to taste.

The rice had expanded more than I remembered it would so I had to add more water and ended up using a total of three cans of crushed tomatoes. I ended up with two big pots of gloop. It came out good. It's a soothing supper porridge. There are plenty of leftovers for future days. It's a little overwhelming to have so much of the same thing but I can freeze most of it in a bunch of smaller containers - six of them. I can always defrost and add stock to one or two of them making the gloop into a spontaneous soup.

I used to make gloop all the time when I was in my twenties, and a vegetarian. At least now there's some bites of delicious chicken thrown in making it a complete dinner.

With all of this we're prepared for surprise visitors or a snowstorm but I can't help feeling a little bit like Oliver Twist.

Update:
It tastes great today. I added a little more water and my favorite Cholula Mexican hot sauce. It was a perfect lunch.

Wind and Bread

The wind is spooky on this damp day. I'm trying to welcome the season of the drafty cold house by wrapping myself in blankets and cuddling with my dog.

I have four sourdough loaves set up for rising. Lately I've given them four hours to rise before baking in my preheated 450 degree oven. First the dough incubates in a big plastic bucket in the fridge for a few nights. This slow cold rise develops the flavor, the yeast, and the gluten.

I never tire of growing my own loaves, a form of indoor farming. The dough is alive! The baking perfumes the house and the eating of the bread nourishes us throughout the week.