strength and beauty in sweetpeas and life

By Sally A. I. Wall


This afternoon, the storm clouds broke up for a few minutes, minutes enough for me to go out to the veggie patch and gently pull the newly rooted baby crab grass, which was threatening to choke out the courageous sweetpeas, who had braved the stormy blasts of May and early June. The day I planted out those tender seedlings in early May, the North wind came with a vengeance, bringing with it freezing temperatures, blasting out the life from my little sweetpeas, and laying them on the ground. Most of them succumbed. I left them alone, not believing that they'd come back, but I just didn't have the heart to turn them under. It's now the middle of June, and I'm astonished that something so fragile as a sweetpea can turn its nose up at the North wind, and with a little sunshine, plenty of rain, and some lovely muggy warmth, pick itself up by the bootstraps and start again from the ground up! That is precisely what has happened to about half the row. The roots were unscathed by Jack Frost's kiss, and they simply formed 'tillers', an Old English term meaning by-shoots, forming a stronger plant by way of a rotten trick of fate carried on the wings of the wind.

It can be that way, too, for humankind. Fate's ugly hand can come knocking at your door, and before you know it, there you are, lying alongside the fallen sweetpeas. Some really do succumb, like the little seedlings, too weakened by the blow to form 'tillers'; but many, even if they lie there for a while, will be brought back to health by the warm love of friends, the encouragement of those who have been there before, and by the grace of God find new life, stronger life, in this far friendlier environment. It's very important to make sure that this new strength is not choked out by even the tiniest, tenderest baby 'crab grass' of life; it must be kept clear and clean. Before too long, that poor devastated life has branched out, reached out, and has become far stronger than it could ever have imagined. Now that life is an encouragement to others, rather than the victim of circumstance, and people draw from that well and are nourished.

In the same way, in a month or so, I shall draw in my breath deeply, as I take in the delightful aroma of the beautiful sweetpeas, and be nourished. A scent full of memories of my childhood, so long ago, yet so present in this dear, tendrilled flower.

ramps, scapes and other foraged treats make for a great quiche!

By Penelope Wall

In Vermont, you know it's spring when ramps, fiddleheads and the like start springing up at the local market. Or, if you're lucky, in your own back-yard, fragrancing the air with earthy, oniony smells. But apart from being inspired by their fresh green goodness, what the heck do you do with them?

I'll tell you what I do when in doubt: bake a quiche. The creamy, cheesy filling and buttery crust complement just about every spring vegetable—its bright, newborn flavor balancing the richness of the custard.

I had the first sign of spring at my local market this weekend with a pile of ramps, or wild leeks, tempting my olfactive senses as I walked through the entrance. I grabbed a few handfuls and was immediately inspired to bring them home and get to work. Ramps smell and taste just like a mild onion. And they're beautiful too. Especially once you wash off all the dirt and trim off the roots. Once that's done—and you've discovered their stark white stalk tipped with a rich eggplant neck, then a bright green leaf—you're ready to make your springtime quiche!

To prep the ramps, all you have to do is saute them in olive oil, garlic, a little lemon juice, salt and pepper. (Just be sure to cook the stalks first, till tender, and add the leafy tips at the very end.)

To make the quiche, put your nicely cooked ramps in a bowl. Add some fresh chopped tomato, chopped artichoke hearts (canned), fresh minced chive, salt and pepper. Instead of shredded cheddar, a favorite go-to quiche cheese, try something brighter to complement the mild ramps. I like using a mixture of fresh goat cheese and cream cheese with Boursin herbs (from Arcana). That combo makes for a very rich and creamy quiche! Fold the cheese mixture gently into the ramp mixture. Don't mix too much—you can even leave some lumps. Pour the mixture into a prepped quiche crust (in a pinch, I love Maple Lane Bakery's frozen whole-wheat pie crusts) and fill in the holes with an egg and milk mixture. Add a little nutmeg and throw it in the oven for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees, give or take a few minutes.

The beauty of quiches—and springtime foraged greens—is: the simpler the preparation, the better. Let the fresh flavor shine through!



Fresh spring ramps

how to have breakfast at "hom"

By Hannah Wall


"Hom."

That's the name of the house that Granny and Gaffa used to stay in when they came to visit us in Pawlet, Vermont, the little town we grew up in. The house was shingled with red and green trim, and sat on the curve of a hill with a river running behind it.

This morning I had a breakfast that reminded me of home. First, I woke to the sound of Alexis' voice, which was strange, because I was dreaming about her at that very moment. So her voice pulled me out and away from her voice.

Second, I had an orange to eat from the tree in the back yard, and for me right now, this is the essence of the house I live in, and a big part of what makes it a home. We've had a lot of wind lately and there are oranges all over the back yard. I looked them over, trying to find one that hadn't been damaged by the fall, or succumbed to those weird potato bugs that also love the sweet treat inside. I found one, it was covered it dirt and webs, there are a lot of spiders living in that tree... but once rinsed it looked like a miniature sunshine, and it was warm from sitting in the morning heat. I've learned that the very best oranges are the ones that the tree gives me. Those are the ones that are at their peak of sweetness. The ones that I pick are always good, but they have less sugar.

Third, coffee. Need I say more? Well, I will anyway. I have found the most wonderful coffee shop where they roast their own coffee. I hate to say this, you know that I do, but I think it might be better than speeder's. They roast it in the same style, full city roast, to the point of the best flavor highlights for the bean, but not so dark that the bean is burnt. And, I re-confiscated my little sugar jar from Brian that he'd been using for q-tips. It's one of my favorite pieces I ever made. That and the mug I'm drinking the coffee out of...

Fourth, and the inspiration for this piece, Wasa rye crackers with butter, and honey on one, Marmite on the other. When I was staying with Granny in the summer after 7th grade, every morning consisted of this combination for us. She would make toast and place the pieces neatly in the little toast rack on the table. The we would butter each one and choose between all of these wonderful options: Marmalade, thick cut in the white jar and appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Marmite: one of my favorite things in the entire world. So wonderful to have a cucumber and tomato sandwich with Marmite, veggies fresh picked from the garden, still warm from the sun, in the afternoon. So comforting to know that even when the bank was empty, the garden was always full of the very best of the best.

And honey: all of my life I've had a love affair with honey. We had friends up on the hill in Pawlet, the Winpennys, they kept bees and had the BEST honey! Their bees were happy bees, and the honey was raw and unfiltered, like cream. (pause for coffee refill) There is a wonderful apiary in Ferrisburg, Vermont—Honey Gardens—that makes all kinds of honey products. I fell in love with their cough syrup one year when I was very sick for a long time. I don't know how effective it was medicinally, but it was soothing and tasted like heaven. Good thing you can't really o.d. on that stuff! Guess what? I found a jar of raw honey from Honey Gardens apiary at the local market! And I am savoring it like the rarest jewel, like golden flowers from that tree that grew underground where the Twelve Dancing Princesses would go every night.

Fifth, I have my Meow, Mister the Terrible, nesting at my feet in a pile of freshly hand-washed sweaters. His ear is FINALLY healing. And we are happy and content this morning.



This post was originally published on Hanushka's blog.

my grandfather's walks

By Sally A. I. Wall


Over the hills? Or by the honey lady? Whichever way we chose, it was sure to be an exciting adventure back to Pa and Gramsie's house in "the Old Grey Mare," one of the Austins that my grandparents owned in the fifties. If I knew ahead of time that we would be going through the New Forest, I would always make sure that I had a sturdy piece of string, in case we saw the wild ponies...

My mother's parents lived on the south coast of England, right on the cliffs, but far enough back from the edge to know there was little danger of the house sliding down, as was the case further down the way towards the Bears. So-named were the white cliffs, afar off. On a clear day, 3 polar bears carved by the wind into the chalky cliffs, plodded along toward the east.

Pa loved to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. "Miss A." he'd say. "Please go and get my walking shoes."

Pa's room was a room of strict order. His bed was always made, tops dusted, everything in its place, including his shoes, which were lined up under his bay window which overlooked the sea. His driving shoes, walking shoes, eating shoes, shopping shoes and shoes to wear to the barber were all lined up, ready for inspection! They all looked pretty much the same to me, beautifully polished leather, some with tiny holes that formed feathery patterns on the sides. His walking shoes were just plain brown lace-ups.

There were a few things that absolutely had to come along with us on Pa's walks: his penknife, a crisp juicy apple such as Cox's Orange Pippin, and his "ticker" pills. Invariably, we'd walk to the pier, a good 5-mile trot there and back. He'd let us choose: Along the top there, and back along the sands and up the Zig-Zag. Or, down the Zig-Zag and along the sands there, and back along the top. Really, the only way to experience the Zig-Zag was to fly down it, arms stretched out and slightly back, with a high-pitched whirring sound, Sopwith-style!

Pa was no fool! A couple of hours walking by the sea in the strong wind, and we'd be sleeping like babies before you could wink an eye. We'd have to stop every now and then, to give Pa's poor old heart a rest, and to perk it up with one or two of his "ticker pills" and off we'd go again.

If we were lucky, and it was clear, we'd watch the huge ocean-liners sailing along the English Channel, America bound. Pa was a whiz at identifying the different ships. You could tell by how many funnels they had. We saw the Queen Mary, now docked permanently at Long Beach, California. There was a band-stand at the pier with deck chairs lined up in front, so we'd sit and listen: oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. And out would come the pen-knife and the Pippin.

Everything Pa did was quite deliberate, and extremely perfectly executed. Never was anything done slap-dash, but with the utmost care and attention. And so it was when he peeled the apple. The trick was to start at the top and peel a thin snake round and round and round until you reached the bottom of the apple, and it absolutely was not allowed to break! I don't remember it ever breaking...We'd eat the snake, and he'd divide the apple equally among us. Pips and all, down it would go, even the stalk. Not one bit of the apple was wasted.

Then we'd go down Fisherman's Walk and feed the squirrels some nuts, then the dreaded walk home. The wind was always strong along the top, and he'd have to hang on to his titfer (hat) ((Tit for tat - hat)). I remember the most awful earaches in those days, from the constant buffeting of the wind, I expect. The final climb up to the house, off with the shoes, wash the sand glittering on our feet in the pan of warm water set out by the back door.

Gramsie would have warm milk waiting for us, then bath, then bed. If there was a story, after a line or two, I'd have drifted off, to the muffled voice of a loving Gramsie, and the constant pounding of the wind and waves through the open window...

—Sally Wall, Moss Fairy




Photo: The author as a girl with two of her brothers.

early blossoms

snow!