COUNTRY RHUBARB CROSTATA

In the place where I grew up -- there on Brown Avenue in Orofino -- we had a huge rhubarb plant on the alley. My mother liked rhubarb and in the spring she would make rhubarb custard pie and also big pots of rhubarb sauce. But what I remember especially was my dad's fondness for rhubarb. He would pull a rhubarb stalk, sprinkle it with salt and eat it with relish over the kitchen sink. I admit that I didn't take to the raw stalks but my love of rhubarb sauce and desserts continues to this day.

When I married Mike, I discovered a lovely rhubarb plant at the side of our house from which the neighbors on both sides seemed to feel free to pilfer. Probably the previous wife hadn't cared too much for rhubarb and was willing to share. When we moved to our second Lewiston house I planted a lovely red rhubarb plant that was both decorative and delicious. The rhubarb I planted at the town house withered away the first summer and the one I planted at the farm struggles along. Sadly I now have to buy rhubarb.

Last week while Nick and Hallie were here I made rhubarb upside-down cake. With this week's rhubarb purchase, I decided to make a rhubarb custard pie. My mother worked so well with her hands and made beautiful pies with uniformity. I make good pies that aren't beautiful. That's why the recipe for "Country Rhubarb Crostata" on bettycrocker.com caught my eye. It calls for an unbaked single crust but instead of fluting it, you just fold the edges over the filling "decoratively." How simple! And any lopsidedness just adds to a casual appearance. Perhaps this will become my standard pie crust method.

I had a message from Leah this morning with a recipe for rhubarb parfait. I'll have to try that next. KW

RETRO CASSEROLE

My eldest half-sister, Harriet, sustained a broken wrist last week and underwent surgery to have it pinned. We were at the farm and initially unable to be of assistance. However, sometimes it’s nice to assist later – after the initial flurry of interest and concern subsides. Harriet is now convalescing comfortably but she is one-handed.

So Tuesday afternoon, once we were back from the farm, I drove over to Harriet and Bill’s condo to see how they were getting along. I suggested I prepare a meal that the four of us could share. We settled on supper for Wednesday (yesterday).

But what to fix? I make palatable meals for the two of us regularly. Some of them are even delicious, if I do say so myself. But tell me I’m cooking for someone else and I have an immediate mental block. You’d think I’d never cooked. 

What would they like? I asked Harriet and Bill, and suddenly found myself suggesting goulash. Harriet and Bill agreed that would be fine. They hadn’t had goulash in – well, they couldn’t remember when. It was a good idea.

Goulash was my parents’ number one emergency meal-in-one casserole option. In fact, it was the only option, which is a little strange since they were both good cooks. I don’t know where the recipe originated, but I know we were eating it in the ‘50s. Unexpected company for dinner? No problem – serve goulash. Family in town for the county fair? Make a pot of goulash and keep it on the stove as a ready meal. Feeding a crowd? Triple the recipe. Rehearsal dinner for daughter’s wedding? Serve goulash. Left-over goulash? Excellent! Goulash is as good – even better – the second day after flavors have blended. I early learned to make the goulash, thus freeing my parents for other preparations. 

I’ve always tried to have more options in my recipe repertoire, but my parents didn’t think that way. Goulash was easy to prepare, inexpensive and tasty. What more could you ever want? Besides, it was easy to keep the ingredients on hand and the recipe is forgiving. Here it is in its original form with my notes in parentheses:

NOODLE GOULASH

1 T fat (omit if desired)

½ lb hamburger (I use a pound.)

¼ cup onion

½ cup chopped green pepper

2 T Worcestershire Sauce

2 ½ cups tomatoes (I use one 28-oz. can with liquid.)

2 cups noodles

1 – 10.5 oz. can cream of mushroom soup

1 cup green beans (1 can with liquid)

½ cup diced celery

½ cup tomato puree

1 tsp salt

1/8 tsp pepper

½ cup grated American cheese (Omit and pass the Parmesan.)

Melt fat. Add onions and hamburger. Cook ‘til brown. Add all except noodles. Cover. Simmer 25 minutes. Add noodles. Cover and simmer 20 minutes or ‘til tender. Sprinkle with cheese before serving.

Note that the recipe calls for only half a pound of hamburger. I’ve noticed that recipes coming out of the ‘30s and ‘40s use less meat. I add more if I have it. And I always omit the fat, though Mom and Dad started with a "healthy" tablespoon of bacon grease.  

My half-sister Joni loved goulash and continued the family tradition by preparing goulash as her signature meal. Mother used to laugh that Joni carefully guarded the recipe while I passed it out freely. In the early years of my marriage, I prepared it frequently, but I wasn’t the only one who noticed that the next generation, which included my children, didn’t much care for it. (I suppose it’s due to the tomatoes.) So, I drifted away from goulash and into lasagna or chicken enchiladas as my standards. 

It sure was good to share the old-time flavor of goulash with Harriet and Bill last night. I added a fruit salad, rolls, and a pumpkin cake that I knew Bill would enjoy. The meal was easy to pack and easy to serve. KW

[P.S. The photo is of Kathy with Harriet and Bill on their wedding day, June 14, 1953.  They will soon celebrate their 58th wedding anniversary.]

A BUSY WEEKEND

Nick and Hallie like to be active around the farm, so they prune and weed and generally help us with whatever needs to be done.

Here's Mike pruning the old maple tree. Nick and Hallie hauled the limbs and clippings to the burn pile.

On Monday, Hallie and Nick decided the old apple tree at the pond should be pruned. Hallie brought the ladder from the house with the 4-wheeler.

Nick and Hallie are pruning the old apple tree. To the right, Nellie rolls in the unplowed field.

Leave-taking on Tuesday: Nick and Hallie stand beside Hallie's Jetta.

At right, Hallie and Kathy.

Mike and Hallie


It was good -- all of it.

DECORATION DAY MEMORIES

I’ve been thinking about ordering iris rhizomes for the south side of the farmhouse. I almost did it, too, until I remembered the projected work to face the window frames this summer. The work will involve ladders and scaffolding close to the house, so perhaps this isn’t the year to develop that bed. 

At this time of year my thoughts turn to the lovely “old-fashioned” flower beds my parents and grandparents maintained. Seems like it’s just what folks did in the “yesterday” of my life. In the spring my parents had iris, lilacs, bleeding heart, a beautiful hawthorn tree, coral bells, columbine, a few roses, and I just don’t remember what else. Grandpa Portfors had peonies and iris and whatever else.

I tell you this because my family’s tradition was to observe Memorial Day, which many old-timers referred to as “Decoration Day.” We visited four cemeteries – Riverside in Orofino, Normal Hill Cemetery in Lewiston, Burnt Ridge Cemetery near Troy, Idaho; and the Gilbert Cemetery. We loaded cut flowers from the yard into washtubs, added water, lifted the tubs into the back of the car, and off we went. 

Depending on the weather, some years we didn’t have as many flowers. I’m sure my mother took mental stock of what was available and planned accordingly. I remember her saying, “I’ll save that lovely iris for so-and-so’s grave.” She knew how many graves she had to “decorate” at each cemetery. 

My job was to make smaller bouquets for the graves of little ones who left us all to soon. I would cover an old coffee can (remember the little one-pound squatty can?) with foil. Then I would snip pansies, bleeding heart, baby roses, and lily-of-the-valley. I made several of those each year – one for Baby Walrath at Riverside and one for Isaac Stinson, an uncle who died in infancy, buried at Burnt Ridge.

Mother never used artificial flowers. As time went on and we began to have fewer flowers, she planted cemetery boxes. She started this project as soon as she could get the plants from the nursery – marigolds, pansies, petunias, geraniums, and a “spike” for height. We would deliver the boxes to the various graves and then someone would pick them up after a week or ten days had passed so that the boxes could be re-used the next year. 

Apparently Memorial Day traditions vary. Here in the Pacific Northwest, many people decorate graves on Memorial Day weekend. However, my mother-in-law from Arkansas found this surprising. “We don’t do that,” she said. She went on to explain that on a Sunday near her late husband’s birthday, she would have a bouquet of flowers delivered to the church in his memory and then carry it to his grave. 

Well, the tradition of Memorial Day visits to cemeteries dwindled for me when I became an adult. I participated some, but I wasn’t free to devote several days to traveling the countryside. Still, I have fond memories of this family tradition and I love to see the cemeteries all decorated on Memorial Day. I especially love to see flowers on a very old grave because it means someone honors the memory of that person. 

[Hallie and Nick are here and we visited the Gilbert Cemetery this afternoon. Photo 1: I made only one live bouquet of iris and narcissus and left it at my dad's grave. I had small artificial bouquets -- 16 of them -- for other family members. Photo 2: Hallie and Nick move through the Gilbert  Cemetery reading the markers. Photo 3: The gravestone of my great-grandmother Lucy Dickson who passed away in 1920. The bouquet I left doesn't show in the photo.]

OROFINO PICTURES

We left the farm last Saturday (May 21) in order to accomplish some things in town -- shopping, exercise, and a P.E.O. meeting. We're also applying to the State of Idaho for "century farm" status, and I spent hours putting together a packet of "proof" that the homeplace has been in continuous cultivation for 100 years (and more). Frankly, I decided years ago that obtaining official century farm status was way too much trouble, but Mike decided we owed it to my grandparents and my dad to try for it. So he started the project during slow times at the office this winter. It's a matter of supplying documentation of ownership and also that at least 40 acres of your family farm have been in continuous cultivation.

Anyway, I have these lovely pictures of Orofino taken from Gilbert Grade last Saturday and wanted to post them before they become totally outdated. Here you see the little town nestled in the valley where Orofino Creek runs into the Clearwater River. And the back country just seems to run on forever.

We have stopped several times at this spot near the top of the grade because Mike was looking for a geocache (what else?). This time he found it. At first he tied onto the Dakota in order to look in a stump downhill, but you know, most people just don't hide caches where it's steep and dangerous. Still -- you never know and if you're an adventurer at heart, you might just take a look-see anyway. Mike said that's where the "cords" took him.


"Why don't you try this stump," I said. "Seems more logical." (See photo right)
"Okay, but that's way off," Mike said, "but here it is."

This picture left shows the Clearwater above Orofino. I love this view.


On Monday I read that the flood watch on the Clearwater had been renewed by the National Weather Service out of Missoula until further notice. Both the Snake and the Clearwater are high. But -- it's still cold. This morning at Gilbert the low was 37, so it froze in the mountains and that slows the run-off. Here's  a picture I took yesterday of mountains to the south of the farm -- the snowy peaks glistening in the afternoon sun. The sun would be warm this time of year -- but the air is cold. KW

MOSTLY PICTURES

Friday (May 20) was another lovely day. With the assistance of neighbor Pete, Mike worked on the windmill pump.  Mike took Pete's advice and used a chain saw to trim out the big tire for a raised bed. Now -- to find some dirt.

 I took Nellie for a walk in the afternoon and she pointed a pair of huns (partridges). "Just watch me, Kathy. I'm pretty good at this."

See the snow on the Clearwater Mountains?

 The little Montmorency sour cherry tree is blooming. I hope we have a few cherries. I bought yards of netting at Jo-Ann's when it was on sale. I'm ready to fight for my share.

And these are pear blossoms. This tree is very old but still bears fruit, though last year's crop wasn't edible. Hallie and Nick pruned the tree in hopes better aeration will improve the fruit.

Here's another picture of snow-capped distant mountains. KW

SAY, SINCE YOU'RE HERE, WOULD YOU MIND HELPING ME . . .

I have a theory that retired people lose a sense of what a day’s work looks like. Mike does way too much. I, on the other hand, struggle to find a schedule. 

We came to the farm Tuesday morning, and in the three days we have been here, Mike has cleaned out the shed, serviced the riding mower, mowed the lawn, washed windows, patched flicker holes in the house, removed the dilapidated bridge from the pond, sprayed weeds, checked trees. I’ve been moving at a slower pace with the housework. And when Mike needs a helper, I assist. I helped him re-install the pump into the windmill, but it’s more than the two of us can do to lift it. Let’s see – who can we get to help us?

Wednesday the estimator from a siding company in Lewiston drove out to give us an estimate on facing the old wood with metal. So, as he was preparing to leave, Mike casually asked him if he would mind helping lift the windmill. “Glad to,” he said -- this from a guy who had told us the company no longer allows him to climb ladders due to his physical condition. No problem, though. With me pulling a rope and the two of them pushing, we had that windmill upright and operational in no time.

 

Operational did I say? As the wind began to blow a little harder, Mike realized the windmill still has a problem. “I’ve got to take it back down before it tears itself up!” Mike said. No problem, though. The next person to arrive was a tech from Clearwater Power, a super-friendly guy who came to fix our Wild Blue dish so that we might have internet service. At least he thought that was why he had come. He quickly assessed the internet problem, changed out a part on our dish and then readily agreed to help Mike tilt the windmill back to its garbage can support before he left. 

Today dawned bright and lovely. I hung the feeders and the hummingbirds began to visit. I prepared the raised bed garden with compost and Mike tilled it with my mother’s old electric tiller. Then I planted peas, radishes, and spinach while the old nursery rhyme, “Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow” played through my head. I hope it’s not too late to have planted the cool-weather produce. Mike says not a chance. Oh, and I also threw in some zucchini and yellow squash seeds just to see what happens. KW