Peaceful Daily Blog

Salad Snob

Summer is here, the veggie beds are bursting, and I look forward to dining daily on freshly picked salad. Just typing those words has my mouth watering and for good reason--there is no vegetable dish more decadent than a well-crafted salad. Over the years I have perfected my daily salad, becoming a bit of a salad snob along the way. Got a hankering for a salad fit for a snob? Follow these surprisingly simple salad-crafting tenets: 

1) Grow your own lettuce. Lettuce is easy to grow, requires very little soil depth (it can grow happily in a kiddie pool), and is quite forgiving. A few times a season I open 2-3 packs containing 10 or so lettuce varieties and scatter them willy nilly in any patch of exposed garden soil I come upon. I water. I wait. I eat lettuce. It is really that simple. Growing your own opens up a whole world of tender varieties of ridiculously delicious lettuces--lettuces that will never see the bins of a produce aisle since they're just too delicate to transport. Growing your own also allows for the freshest tasting salad--even the lettuce I get from the farmer's market has been traveling and then sitting around for several hours--once you've had freshly harvested, chi-rich lettuce, it is truly hard to go back to anything else. Plus food that is homegrown and tenderly cared for just tastes better and is better for you (and I adore my lettuce and they know it).

2) Make your own dressing. This seems like a hassle at first, but it is surprisingly easy and quick. We don't even own a bottle of dressing since nothing tastes nearly as good as homemade. I used to make up a small batch and use it for the week, now I just make it as I need it and it takes me less than 5 minutes. My work horse is a simple vinaigrette of champaign vinegar and extra virgin olive oil (perhaps 1:3 parts) with a dusting of sea salt and a pinch of sugar. If I have a few more minutes or dinner guests, I will mix rice vinegar with extra virgin olive oil, a minced clove of garlic, salt and pepper to taste and, for variety, a small dollop of of dijon. 

3) Eat salad with something crunchy and something soft.  I love mine with goat cheese or tomatoes and toasted pecans. But you could do any type of soft cheese, fruit, or vegetable along with any kind of toasted nut or seed (I pan toast quickly in a preheated cast iron skillet).

Bon Appetit & Peace,

Annie

And....

I think one of my favorite words is “and.”  It does not come trippingly off the tongue.  And with my Connecticut glottal stops it might even sound a little guttural.  None the less, it is one of my favorite words.

 

Why?

 

Even though it is not that pretty or special or fancy it holds so many possibilities.  It gives me freedom to be my authentic self.

 

I am very sensitive AND I can be assertive.

 

I am Maggie’s Mom AND I am an individual person

 

I am neurotic about keeping the house clean AND I like getting totally dirty in the mud.

 

I am a vegetarian AND I love the smell of bacon

 

I seek truth AND sometimes the truth scares me.

 

I love and I fear.

 

AND...
AND...

AND...

 

Namaste,

Krissy

What I learned from a Kite in a Tree.

My daughter studied an Asian unit at school.  In celebration of the end of the unit they all got to make and fly kites.  It was an exciting day for everyone.  The parents were even invited to watch all the magic fly up in the air.

 

I watched as my daughter ran in ecstasy with her kite in tow.  Within a split second it went from jubilation to tragedy.  In that instant her kite went from being the one flying the highest to the one tangled in a tree.

 

From a posture of joy she crumbled down in a heap of devastation and burst into tears.  Before I could even get my arms around her, a little boy came running over to her.  His mother could not make it to the event.  So his motives were purely of his own heart.  He handed his kite to my daughter and said, “You take mine, until yours comes down.”

 

I wanted to stuff both those to kids in my pocket and savor the moment of pure emotion and selflessness.

 

Later that evening, still moved, I decided to call the boy’s mother to let him know what a beautiful thing he had done.

 

“Hey ____, I just wanted to let you know what your son did today.”

 

“What did he do now, “ the panicked voice asked.

 

I retold the story.  She sighed, relieved.  She then told me she only gets phone calls when her son has done something wrong.

 

That made me sad.  So often we take the time to complain or condemn, but how often to we take the time to praise.  From now on I am going to look for ways were I can praise some one, encourage them, lift them up.

 

Who can you call today and let them know that they are awesome?

 

Namaste,

Krissy

Chicken Smitten

I am thrilled to say that I can finally count myself among a growing number of urban chicken enthusiasts. Yes, we are the proud new owners of two tan layers affectionately dubbed "Charlotte" and "Olive". 

I have played with the idea of chicken husbandry for over ten years, patiently waiting for the right time in my life to accommodate non-human dependents. In this case, the "right time" came down to having a permanent place of our own, children old enough to help out, and being tipped off to a family who would give away their backyard brood--coop and all--to anyone lucky enough to know about it and quick enough to claim it. Two U-Haul trips, 100 miles, and 2 hired helpers later, I  can honestly say that I claimed those chickens so fast I surprised even myself. Really surprised, actually. After the hour or so it took to set up the whole thing, I was tasked with the final job of getting the chickens out of their travel boxes and putting them into their new home. Let's just say there may have been some shrieking involved, and it wasn't from a hen. I remain slightly embarrassed by my initial fear of a 5 pound layer, but I am a city gal, and these things take time. 

It has only been a week, and I no longer shriek, nary a flinch, when pecked accidently (or not) by one of "the ladies" as we like to call them. I adore them. I talk to them. I hand feed them. I pet them. I am almost ready to pick them up and hug them. The highlight of my day is donning my coop boots, letting the ladies out of their house, and feeding them everything and anything we can. And do they eat everything and anything. At first we were afraid we could overfeed them and they would die, sort of like the goldfish thing. They won't. Could they eat peanut butter? They can. What about soup? They love it. Their favorite foods seem to be grapes, tomatoes, and berries; but nothing gets them going like a plate wiggling with worms, slugs, and pill bugs harvested with love by the kids. And not just by my kids, but by every kid within a 3 block radius. Turns out that chickens are kid magnets.

I have spent nearly 2 hours of each night researching anything chicken on the internet. I have joined 2 yahoo groups on raising organic chickens, joined a local organic food trading co-op, and have finished one of several books in my 'Chicken 101' collection. I have already learned to mix my own feed, to naturally prevent parasites and disease, to build a chicken tractor--a portable pen used to encourage spot fertilizing and insect removal. I like to throw around words like "broody", "clutch of eggs", "layer" and "pullets". I love answering the question that most city folk ask, like "will they lay an egg without a rooster?" or "is this legal in the city?" (yes and yes, for the most part). I love offering additional information like, "did you know chickens have no stomach?" or  "were you aware that chickens have been known to cannabalize?" 

I love the whole chicken thing, eggs and all. And yes, we have gotten an egg (just one) so far--it serendipitously rolled out of the travel box as I was emptying it of its respective chicken. That one egg gave us such a thrill, such a pure, childlike thrill--we all held it, I ran to get my camera, and then it ended up broken on the floor after spending one too many moments in the precarious paws of a toddler. But even on the floor, that egg looked so creamy, so delicious--I could just imagine the taste of that traffic-cone orange yolk whipped up into a fritata or, really, just about anything. After all, eggs that come from chickens that are fed an organic, whole foods diet, who are (eventually) able to free range most of the day, and who are doted upon by many, many people, should just taste better. 

But it's not just about the eggs. The ladies eat our leftovers, our wilted veggies, the half-eaten leaves in our veggie garden, slugs and all. Between our compost bin, the worm farm, and the chickens, we have zero food or garden waste--everything is turned into nutrient rich soil which, in turn, provides us with nutrient rich food. And I haven't even mentioned the manure! The nitrogen-rich manure from a chicken, once composted, will make my soil sing and my veggies pop, so much so I cannot wait to see next season's crop. 

All that and I get the joy of hearing their silly sounds, of watching their silly movements...I guess you could say I am chicken smitten.

Peace,

Annie

Being Thorn-less.

In my backyard there is one of those make shift stone walls.  It is not a tidy fieldstone wall built by trained masons.  It dips and dives.  It was handcrafted by a neighbor who passed away some years back.

 

Many wild plants grow in and out of the crevices.  I leave most of them alone to intermingle with the stones.  They grow in vines, clumps, and flowers softening the hardness of the rocks.

 

This year there was this beautiful crawling vine with butterscotch colored flowers growing.  Unfortunately, It was the only one I had to clip and chop away.

 

You see my daughter’s playscape is right near that wall.  It was right near that vine.  And as beautiful as it was, it was also covered with razor sharp thorns.

 

Those thorns are the part of the plant that it cultivated to protect itself.  The thorns told the world to step back and that it was dangerous.  The very thing it evolved into to protect itself was the very thing that led to its demise as I chopped it away from his non-thorning wall mates.

 

It made me wonder how many times my fear of being vulnerable made me show my thorns.  How many times in order to protect myself did I miss out?   It can be scary to be completely thorn-less but the thorn-less ones got to stay on the wall.

 

Namaste,

Krissy