Lamb Satay

satay cropt

Mistakes happen. I thought I had a chunk of pork in hand when I took it out of the freezer, but when I checked how it was thawing, guess what, lamb! A fine piece of boneless lamb. So the play of flavors I’d been envisioning for dinner had to shift, and I pulled out an old favorite recipe for satay that has evolved with me over decades. I cut the lamb into 1/2 by 1 inch chunks, deleting what fat there was, and marinated it for six hours in this mixture, which reads as spicy to hot, depending on whether you lean on the peppers, which I do.

———————————————

2 Tb ground coriander seed

1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper

2 teaspoons hot chili oil

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

2 Tablespoons brown sugar

3 cloves of garlic well chopped

4 Tablespoons soy sauce

3 Tablespoons lime or lemon juice

1 Tablespoon to 2 Tablespoons red onion

————————————————

Whir all of the above in a chopper, blender or Cuisinart, using about half to flavor the lamb. Place vegetables such as raw button mushrooms, chunks of raw onion, pieces of red or green pepper, and whole cherry tomatoes in the remaining half of the mixture.

Light grill and bring up to heat while stringing the meat and all the vegetables except the tomatoes on skewers. Brush lightly with olive oil. As you will see in the photo, I place the finished meat and vegetable skewers inside a grilling basket to limit the loss of pieces that might get lost and try to immolate themselves in the flames.

Place the tomatoes in another grill basket.

Grill meat and vegetable skewers until done to your preference, putting the tomatoes on late in the sequence so they don’t get overdone. A trick I use is to undercook the lamb skewers, and hold them in the over at about 250 Fahrenheit while finishing the tomatoes. Serve with rice or other vegetables as it pleases you.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under blog, cooking tools, food, recipies

Ice Cream Bananas, and other Fruit

I ate five bananas this morning. I know that sounds piggish but truly, they were the size of your little finger, if you have small hands. They came from one of our plants in the yard here, our second variety. We’ve been ripening the fruit on their stem for a month or more, and today we had a few for breakfast.

P1050307

Living here in Southern California means you can grow an amazing variety of fruiting plants, from bananas to apples (and don’t let anyone tell you it’s too warm for a good apple here. I grow Granny Smith, Pettingill, Fuji, Harrold, and Gordon in what Sunset calls Zone 24.) The first banana we purchased from the Banana people in La Conchita, wonderful gardens now long gone, has no label left. It’s a chunky, reasonably good producer, best cooked, because it has a starchy not so sweet flavor. Whatever its name, that banana grows like a weed and I am kept busy chopping off its unwelcome advances into other parts of the yard.

A friend gave us a slip of the Ice Cream Banana, and it has taken years to nurture. My feeling is that it is delicate, more prone to frost than the first variety we grew. (We frost for one to two weeks of the year, enough to burn leaves, and these nights are not in a block but scattered through the winter, usually ending by March 1. You should see our yard on those nights, with plants shrouded in old blankets and sheets to protect them.) Several times Ice Cream attempted a stalk of bananas for us, and various accidents played their part in frustrating our expectations. Replacing the in-ground gas line was one of those events–not an episode of ‘delicacy’ on the part of the banana. Another time, the wind knocked down the bearing stalk before the fruit had sufficiently matured. But do remember that we are gardeners who ascribe to the survival of the fittest school, so when you look at our yard, it’s a jungle out there.

When the banana stalk has ceased to set new fruit, it’s time to cut it down. Hang the stalk in a cool dry place and wait for the bananas to ripen, which they will show by a quiet transition to a yellowish hue marked with brown or black. Then you can cut off the hands of bananas, so they are convenient to handle. As you see by the photo above, this stalk was a short one– I had already cut off about three hands to give away before I thought to take a photo to share.

The first taste of Ice Cream Banana was rewarding. A very firm, acidic and sweet banana, it reminds us of the standard Cavendish from the grocery store. Familiar, but better. Stronger in the acid, fragrant and possibly sweeter as well. But tiny—it reminds me of the bananas we used to call ‘Lady Finger’ in West Africa, which were charmingly miniaturized. If you are in the right zone, I strongly recommend it. But if you are undecided between growing a cherimoya or a banana, grow the cherimoya. You’ll gain higher yields than a banana, which only fruits once per growing stalk, and our perceptions say that the cherimoya is far more rewarding in flavor than any banana we have yet met. I have had good results with Booth cherimoya but there are many varieties. Some folk have been daunted by the idea that cherimoyas need hand pollination, but we have not troubled with that and in season have more fruit from our tree than we can eat by ourselves.

Leave a comment

Filed under food, gardening

Don’t Let the Big One Get Away

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Too many people avoid painting a big canvas when doing plein air work. Don’t miss the fun! The seven foot canvas is one of my favorite things— makes my blood race. I feel I am in jeopardy every stroke of the way. You need to know you are not safe.

Here are the rules

  1. Take care of yourself. This means hat, long sleeves even if you think that makes you hot, or if you must do short sleeves and shorts, grease yourself to whiteness with sun screen. Jug of water. gloves. (I’m bare-handed in the photo because I’m sketching in schoolroom chalk, but the moment the paints come out, so will the nitrile gloves. Sweat will fill those gloves— it’s uncomfortable and you’ll need to change out every so often when they get too full of sweat. Sweat will run down your fore-arms. Yuck. But the amount of sweat is your warning to drink, because the sweat on your body is being constantly dried away by the wind and sun and your clothes wicking it from your skin.
  2. Be bold. Commit to the canvas as a whole— the broad sweep of the land must be caught on your canvas. Don’t mire down in detail, or some cute corner that charms you. Cute is the enemy of good work. Remember to get the shadows sketched in as though they were ‘things’ they are part of your essential composition and matter as much as any rock or hill.
  3. Stop when you have the sketch. Look at the shapes the canvas has been divided into. Are they good shapes? Do all of them hold your interest? Do they ‘talk’ to each other across the extent of the canvas? You are looking for power in this sketch. Settle for nothing less.
  4. Don’t stop. Many people will say you need to step back from your work to assess how it goes. I have two answers to that. One is a  3/4” wide brush on the end of a three foot stick. Duct tape is your friend. After the chalk sketch I take brilliant Indian Yellow or a Quinacridone Coral, with turpentine to loosen it, and sketch using this extended brush arrangement. Because the length of handle allows it, I can truly see what I’m doing in terms of the entire composition. Second, too many stops to look and edit what you do, make for a stutter in expression, tentativeness. These things won’t help you cover the territory. Consider my number two. Commit. Lay down paint, rich thick paint. Once you have serious paint going down, put off stepping back and thinking too much. Let the brush work, let your hands do the thinking. Only step back every half hour or hour to see what’s happening. Sometimes I hardly look until I’ve been at it for hours and have a third of the big canvas covered.Massing Hills II
  5. Get lots of rich buttery hues on your palette. Don’t water it down, don’t over-mix. Over-mixing physically breaks down the brilliance and purity of the paint. Fiddling about trying to get the color exactly right has two things going against it— first it doesn’t matter, only the value matters.. Two, it can’t be done within the context of dashing at a plein air work. The colors of real things are too complex for a batch of paints in tubes to match. Don’t ‘scrub’ paint thin on the canvas or board. You have no time for approximations— the world is changing. There are few common experiences other than painting en plein air that force you to realize as keenly that the world is turning. Slap down the pigments, keep the colors clean. This is the stage where I break brushes. This is why I buy cheap brushes.
  6. KEEP YOUR MEDIUM CLEAN. I’m sorry I shouted, but I can hardly emphasize this one too much. This is your one chance to get the colors pure and strong. Overpainting later never can recreate the clarity. You will never have good colors if you wash your brushes in your medium. So what to do with a dirty brush? Either set it aside for when you will need that color again, or dip it in turps and scrub clean it on paper or rag, re-dipping in turps as needed. Turps are for underpainting and cleaning brushes. Medium is for painting and glazing. Do not wudgle the rag or paper up and do not litter. Flatten the soaked dirty piece out to dry and put a rock on one corner. Later you will take these bits home and dry then thoroughly outside before discarding. These are the materials that spontaneously combust and are the reason why studio fires are a thing.
  7. Think about value. Not money values, but the blackness and whiteness of the landscape. Try to imagine you are mentally photographing the land using black and white film, and you will see the values then. You want to have a sense of how dark or light regardless of what color your shapes of landscape are. If you are in doubt, turn your canvas upside down and see if the composition works in the imagined black and white ‘translation’ in your mind. We humans see predominantly in value tones — know that a painting that works across the span as a black and white will be a successful one. The range of color blindness in human beings is amazing, it is more likely than not that we are all seeing something different when we talk about color. Color is trivial.RMG#577 Haze in Hills copy
  8. That said, paint boldly, using bright light colors. You think of the pigment white as very full of light, it’s the most so of all your paints. Light as white may be, hold it up against the sky or better yet, the brilliance of reflected light on a straw on the ground and you will see that what you have on your brush  is muddy and dull by comparison. You cannot paint as light and bright as the world can be.
  9. Take note of the darkness in your eye. This is a phenomenon that occurs in a great many painters’ work, making dull, unengaging paintings. The world outside is full of light so your eye physically closes down to protect itself. Like a camera lens it closes down to a very small aperture. This means that you stop seeing a great range of what is visually around you. You’re shut out. So you must use your brain to re-imagine what the world around you was like before your eye created this abbreviated perception. Compensate. Put back in those high values and bright colors— they are still there even if you are partially blinded by your own physical adaptations. One of the reasons I use atmospheric hot colors like orange and pink to sketch my composition at the start is to remind myself not to go dark. Even so, you may be dismayed by the end of day when you take your work which seemed so full of light, back in to the studio and see a sooty sky and dull hills with black trees.magenta and blue
  10. Don’t stop. You should be able to get the bones of a seven foot by three painting down in three to four hours with enough color notes slashed in that if you can’t come back out to finish, or the weather changes, you will have a complete guide to the premise of the work.
  11. Now step back. You will see that in many ways what you have made lacks subtlety and actually has only a rude sense of the reality. That’s what we want. Only God through nature can make a landscape, and only an artist can be so inspired as to translate it in to his or her individual language.

So you will have some questions, like, if the nitrile gloves are so uncomfortable, why wear them? The answer lies in the chemistry of your materials. Every oil paint and medium has toxic elements, some more than others. These can be absorbed through your skin. When you are a full time painter, there is no reason to marinate yourself in toxins. They may not make you sick today, but many accumulate in your liver, neural tissues, kidneys and other organs. It’s not glamorous to go insane from poisoning. It’s not adventurous to need a kidney transplant and it won’t make you popular when you’re asking for a piece of liver from your friends. So, why not use water based oils? Because even if you bypass some of the toxins, others still are there in the compounds that create the hues. What many folk don’t realize is that water color and pastels also contain toxic elements. Be careful, don’t confuse daring with foolishness. Know your ingredients. I’ve said it before and shall again, ignorance never saved anyone.

This means of course, never eat or drink without using extreme care when you are painting. Smoking also. Indeed, I don’t allow food or drink in the studio, but outdoors the need to keep hydrated demands more flexibility.. You do not want to ingest by any accident any of your paints or painting materials. I heard a rumor that Vincent Van Gogh ‘pointed’ his brushes in his mouth as he painted. Given the many toxic compounds he had in his palette— heavy metals, arsenic, lead, mercury, he may have had many reasons to be ill and have neurological symptoms.

I used to love to paint bare-handed, putting my fingers into the work for certain effects. Making dirt or pebbled soil look real by dabbing down high contrast values and then patting my palm across the surface. I do it with gloves now even though I admit it’s harder. But the more you hone your skills, the less it matters.

A side comment to the rant I just gave about the vital importance of value and the relative frivolity of color. Some days I will change all the colors on my landscape, paint pink hills and orange sky, purple trees and aquamarine shadows. If I get the values right the painting will have the authority it needs to assert pink hills and aquamarine shadows. It will look ‘right’.

A brief mention here about atmospheric perspective. When you are standing outside painting, remember this basic law. More distant objects generally look paler and grayer than the same colored objects up close. The values are higher, lighter. Think about all the air between you and those more distant things. Think about all the dust in that air, the veiling layers drifting between you and the far things. All that dust catches and diverts the light, thus graying out the intensity of value. Be aware of this in your work.

RMG#787 Following the Fence

What about using a colored ground? You can, but if you do, keep it thin and light in hue. Over time your paints will become slowly more translucent, and if you use a dark ground, every value in your painting will become more and more identical until, in sad cases, a lovely work ends up a brown soup. Too thin to satisfy. Yes, a colored ground will solve your paint harmony issues because every hue you put on the colored ground will be subtly harmonized by its influence. I feel it’s a bit of cheating as well as potentially compromising the quality of your work over the years or centuries to come.

I like a white ground, it makes me think and correct the color I use, every step of the way. And I know that should my painting survive for thousands of years, it will be close to what I made here, upon this day when the world was young.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Moonlight under the oaks

1 Comment

Filed under blog, painting

Of friendship and death

Joshua_Fry_Speed

We are too little moved at parting, blunting our feelings with the expectation that tomorrow will be like today. We will never say goodbye forever, not like this, on a sidewalk without warning. Tomorrow we will meet again, or perhaps the day after. There will be time enough.

Reading of Lincoln’s first meeting with Speed and the quick emphatic friendship that sprang out of that encounter, is full of pleasure to me, but I flinch back when the writer reports theories that they had sex and were lovers. The fact that they shared a bed is given as suspicious. The tone of open tender affection in their correspondence is interpreted as carnal.

I have a different take.

Two things I want to note. Aside from the historical economically enforced intimacy of whole families sharing beds in Lincoln and Speed’s times, (as well as with so many people today, who cannot afford privacy,) we’re looking at the fact that one feels differently in worlds of the past and present, when we know our time is driven by death, and filled with loss. We should know we have no time for dissembling. In Lincoln’s time, ignoring that urgency was an unaffordable luxury.

I remember same sex couples strolling down a village street in Africa arms entwined, fingers interlaced. I think that, yes, there is more than a mere difference in customs displayed. But, sorry, all you curious prurient-minded Americans, it’s not only carnal desire that drives expressions of love. It’s a mistake to reduce this closeness, this passion of feeling for the comrade, the friend, the chum, to an allegation of venereal desire.

In America these days, we feel we can afford to indulge our wish to forget mortality. By comparison the losses a twenty-year old man in Lincoln’s time suffered, I suspect, to be very like in number to the human losses suffered by the young Africans walking, arms entwined. We are talking about brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts dying young, often suddenly. We are talking about lives wrenched by death, a death that triumphs usually without a hospital battle, that springs by surprise out of a fever, an infected cut, a lorry running off the road, or a heart murmur from measles.

Friendship is a bond full of risk, taken at the edge of loss. When the average life-span before the Civil War for a white male was late thirties to mid forties, childhood through young adult mortality ran appallingly high. You found your friends and cleaved to them, because you knew your time was short. The next meeting might not come.

What in these days in this country do we know of death? Who among you readers who live in America have touched your beloved carrion? We have hospitals and nurses, morgues, caskets and the crematoriums to keep our hands clean. Death when it happens, we luxuriously consider an unnatural insult, unless the lost companion happens to be very old indeed. Then, we say it’s natural. That’s a lovely conceit. We all know at some level, our sense of protection isn’t solid at all. We’ve seen the evidence—cancer, automobile accidents, suicide, murder—the young die also.

So perhaps a dear friend may be held all the closer when you know you live under shadow. The rage of protective love might be allowed expression without embarrassment, because of this knowledge. All of us are like soldiers in trenches, death ever hungry, lurking underfoot, within, coming in from the sky, or from a side road. Pay attention. If you will stop looking away from death, it may lead you to share another hug on the street corner, to look with honest love upon a friend’s face, to watch the parting stride— saving images deep in memory long before this meeting is the last.

As for Joshua Fry Speed? He saw his beloved friend buried, years before his time.

6940169_1038944480

2 Comments

Filed under friends, social and anti

Another time

seven chanterelles

I grew up in a time when I could roam the woods by myself. I could grab a hat, and walk out our back door, not letting the screen slam or else my mother might remember that I should possibly be doing something else, like weeding, or picking beans. I hated picking string beans because of the squashy prickly bean beetle larvae that crawled over leaf stems and beans. They gave me the creeps because they looked as though they had neither tail nor head, just a translucent blob, the naked juiciness of them studded with a pattern of black spines. They would break against my fingers and I loathed the sap of their deaths on my hands.

Quickly walk along the tractor path that traced the base of the hill, so I’d be out of earshot of anyone remembering that I should be tutoring my younger sister, or perhaps vacuuming the living room. Or dusting— the job that never ended. Then, with a deep breath of freedom, across the mown slope barely in view of the house. Don’t look behind, or I might see someone waving me back home for any of those chores I was convinced could wait. Over the rise, almost running, with the sweat prickling down between my shoulder blades, and down past the brushy edge of woods that bordered corn fields green with eager breeze blown blades, taller than my head, the overcast glow of sky hot on my hat.

I always looked for other people. Looked for farmworkers, for wanderers, for the adolescent boy checking out possible hunting ground before the fall, despite the “No Hunting” signs my cousin had posted on this old Gowen land. Then I’d duck down a path into the woods, this path wide enough for a truck. Trucks had come this way, keeping it open. The farmworkers often parked down here where the slope of land deepened, seeking shade for lunch time.

six chanterelles

I knew that if I came across anyone else there, I should not let them know of my presence.. Soft footing around, I prided myself I’d always spot any intruder first, and never would they see me. Every so often, I’d take a pause, breathing through my mouth to listen. What did I fear? Nothing so clear; I simply knew I was safest alone, unknown, unnamed.

Now how many children have such freedom? To lose themselves in the woods and orchards of infinite mystery and promise, discovering animals, spying on insects, picking up a shed hawk feather or collecting a cluster of fresh chanterelles from the duff under the hemlocks? I took part of my education there in the shadows of trees, naming red oak and sugar maple, white pine and the startling silver and black of paper birch. What has replaced this for our children now?

single chanterelle

2 Comments

Filed under blog, education, experiences, mushrooms, natural history

Next, in Southern Coastal California

https://www.independent.com/news/2018/jan/09/mudslides-engulf-montecito-carpinteria-shut-down-f/

Last night I came awake to the sound of violent lashing rain coming in strong brief pulses. I lay and listened and considered all the work we had done last afternoon to put gullies into the orchard so that the runoff from up the road would settle deep into our heavy soil. Wondering if we had done enough.

The ground has felt like concrete, despite our continual adding of organics, our thick mulching and deep watering, so we are thirsty for rain in a way that feels more acute than it has ever been before. Consider this– we had none of our usual fall rains– even in a bad drought year we’ve always had a few inches in the fall. This year, we felt a sprinkling of drops but nothing measurable. The reservoirs were frighteningly bare, and the native vegetation, crisp.

Then, as the news has tracked, we had the Thomas Fire with all its tragic losses, and the heroic labors of firefighters. Such a dry land, that the fire often persisted in burning against the wind. How do you fight that? By hand, by shoveling dirt on every kindling patch, by the brutal courageous personal labor of good women and men on the front lines and extraordinary canny planning by the planners and strategists. We had a war here and our people rose to every call.

Now the rains came, late. Now they enact another price. The stripped land cannot hold when waterlogged on these steep slopes and in the canyons, and that’s why you read in today’s news of our massive landslides taking out yet more homes, killing people, and destroying roadways. I hear helicopters pulsing overhead as stranded, sometimes injured folk are air-lifted to safety, a few at a time.

The county sent out warnings, issued mandatory evacuation orders and voluntary evacuation warnings in different threatened zones. Many citizens last night chose to stay in place. Understandably sick of the disruption to their lives after weeks of fire evacuations, they didn’t want to leave yet again, especially if they lived in areas where a mere evacuation  warning had been issued, not an evacuation order. As I understand at this  time, these evacuation warning areas are where some fatalities took place last night.

For the record, I’m a chicken. Give me a voluntary evacuation warning, and I plan to be out of here. I think it’s fair saying that the county officials are no prophets, they can only estimate and guess how the natural disaster potential may be expressed, so I will err on the side of caution. Hey, even when we weren’t in the voluntary evacuation warning area for the Thomas Fire and it was still eight miles away from our place, I was packed to leave, the cat carriers were down, water bottles filled.

It’s worth thinking over what your personal limits and triggers are before the issue arrives. How would you feel?

1 Comment

Filed under experiences, flood, natural history, warning, wildfire

When the winds blow

20604200_10214985115885425_3373029724229309737_n

2 Comments

December 24, 2017 · 6:26 am