The Farmshare Project: Week 4 [RECIPE]

[Picture a basket full of the stuff listed below because I forgot to take a photo of the bag my neighbors dropped off. Whooopsy. It happens.]

Last week's box had:
Apples
Artichokes
Broccoli
Carrots
Chard
Young fava bean pods
Green garlic
Leeks
Romaine lettuce
Mizuna
Mushrooms
Strawberries

And their fate was:
We ate them
Artichokes: Made properly and shared with the neighbors
Broccoli: On a homemade pizza
Young favas: In Finny's Fava Pasta, simple fava salad
Green garlic: On the homemade pizza with the broccoli
Leeks: Pan seared, served as a side dish to I don't remember what
Romaine lettuce: Salad. Shocker.
Mizuna: Citrus salad
Mushrooms: On a different pizza homemade by our neighbors
Strawberries: Plain, for dessert.


We donated them
Chard: SCORE again! Though perhaps my neighbors took it home, since they picked up last week.

We stored them
Carrots: I have a plan for these. I just have to stockpile some more.


We composted them
Apples: These are the last ones from the farm's storage and they were mealy. Better for the compost than the mouth, me thinks.

And now for that beefy riff.

What? You don't remember? Did, "beefy riff" bring something else to mind for you?

Well, then, you're filthy.

Anyhoo.

Remember even farther back now to the time when I made Pioneer Woman's Leftover Turkey Pot Pie. It was my first time ever making or eating a pot pie of any variety and I will admit it right here, I was surprised that I didn't vomit.

No, really. The concept of pot pies was unknown in my growing up house and I've long associated it with hairy trailer men who gallivant about in their undershirts much like I assume(d) the rest of America did.

Except for Bubba. He associates pot pie with love. In the sense that he loves it. So, being the dutiful husband server that I am (it's weird how I can hear Bubba laughing *right now*), I made this pot pie with the leftovers from our Thanksgiving turkey smoke-a-thon and it was, how should I say, fucking amazing.

I  mean, rullllllllly good. I didn't even picture a hairy man in a wife beater the whole time I was eating it. Though, truth be told, I was wearing a wife beater at the time I was eating it, so perhaps I crossed over into some sort of parallel universe of understanding. I don't know. Let's move on.

Anyway, along came a Monday night on the heels of two spectacular dinners that had nothing to do with turkey: Smoked Pot Roast night and The Best Vegetable Soup Ever night. Both are highly acclaimed dining events in our household because we are the kinds of people who will highly acclaim anything containing smoked meat.

And after spinning his spoon triumphantly in the empty basin of his The Best Vegetable Soup Ever bowl, Bubba asked me a serious question relating to the plans for the remainder of the now leftoverLEFTOVER smoked pot roast.

What if I made a leftover BEEF pot pie like the turkey one but with beef?

Uh, no.

Can you believe I said no? I did. I was like, ew, that's nasty and I already made a menu for this week that doesn't include leftovers. I'm just going to freeze them and then we'll see.

And then I felt like a heel because, of all things, I love to please this man's taste buds and he never complains about a thing I make and he takes leftovers to work to show them off to his boss and I love that.

So, of course, I made the pot pie with the beef and wouldn't you know that it wasn't even close to nasty. In fact, it also was fucking awesome. And now I shall share the recipe.

Finny's Potroast Pie

Recipe by moi

Adapted from my adaptation of PW's Leftover Turkey Pot Pie recipe

Ingredients

1 pie crust

1/4 stick of butter

1/2 cup diced carrots

1/2 cup frozen peas

1/2 cup diced onions

2 cups of shredded smoked pot roast

1 cup of reserved smoked pot roast stock

1 cup of water

1/4 cup flour

1 T rendered smoked pot roast fat (The goodness. It is indescribable.)

Splash of red wine (I used a Cabernet.)

2 T chopped fresh lemon thyme (or regular, if that's what you have)

Salt and pepper as you please

To make

Preheat oven to 400.

Melt butter in your skillet and add the onions and carrots until they're soft. 

Add in the pot roast and stir it up. 

Add in the flour and stir that up.

Add in the beef stock, water and red wine and stir *that* up.

Bring it all to a boil and then add in the rendered fat. Then think about how much your doctor is going to kick your ass for suddenly starting to cook with fat you rendered your very own self even though you got through life this far without ever having done so and OH that's so bad for your cholesterol, etc. Then forget about it because it TASTES LIKE HEAVEN.

Add the thyme in there and taste the whole mess so that you can add enough salt and pepper. Now add the frozen peas, stir it all up and let it simmer until it's the right consistency to pour into the pan. Like this, but beefier.

Once it's reached the right consistency, pour it into your pie pan, roll the crust over the top, slice a few holes in the top so that your pot roast doesn't suffocate under all that pie crust and bake it until it looks like this:

About 30 minutes

Then serve it up with your pie wedge instead of the spoon you used for the turkey one because you're ridiculous and you want your dinner to look like it just fell off a truck.

Thankfully, it tastes like it just fell off of heaven, so looks don't really matter. This dish would never make it in Hollywood, but neither would I and I'm just as happy hanging out here in NorCal where some people's boobs are real.

Not that natural boobage is a big Quality of Life factor for me, but hey, at least we're still biodegradable, yes?

Grudge match

Is it still considered a grudge match when it's against yourself?

You can have a grudge against yourself, right?

Well, actually, I can say that, "Yes, you can." because I do.

See, I thought I was training all purposefully and diligently and appropriately for that last 10K, but then I pissed away my sub-60 time with 30 extra seconds of whoknowswhattery.

Boo.

So mad.

And after I got over being mad at myself, I decided to act like a grown-up (or my perception of a grown-up, anyway) and try to figure out where I went wrong.

I mean, I'd been putting up Test 10Ks in the 57s and 58s, so I was having a hard time just blaming The Gu Fiasco of 2010 for my self-loathing. Plus, blaming the tools is so immature. I've heard.

So I took a hard and unflinching look at my training regimen to see what could have gone awry and it took me all of one hot second to figure it out: too many traffic law-enforced stops.

See, friends, I run on the streets. And these aren't like back roads kind of streets, but actual city streets with traffic lights by which one must abide if one wants to return home to one's beloved husband without one's leg in one's pocket.

For some reason, Bubba's warning to me whenever I embark on anything remotely dangerous (which extends to trips to the gyno and nighttime walks with the dog), is to remind me to be careful and warn against coming home with my [insert relevant body part] in my pocket. I suppose this is meant to mean, "Be well on your endeavors, my love." or maybe, "Perhaps you should wear pants with pockets instead of your sweats when you go out in public.", but I'm not entirely sure. But now you know the origin of that random statement and I'm sure your lives are enriched thusly.

And the longer my runs, the more traffic lights I encounter. Meaning the more traffic-imposed "breaks" I encounter. Thus allowing me to catch my breath and prepare for the next leg of my run. Which is retarded when you think about running an actual race since you know they don't usually throw in an 8 lane, 4 way stop light at miles 2.5, 4 and 6.1, now do they.

Yes, welcome to my most recent BIG DUH moment. Ah, enlightenment.

So, to go about adjusting my training appropriately, I adjusted last weekend's Test 10K #whatever to remove as many stop lights as possible and also add in some levels of difficulty so that I'd be able to, like, see what I was really made of when it came to being able to train nonstop for 6.2 miles.

Levels of difficulty being the slightly undulating hills to be found on the Los Gatos Creek Trail when it dips beneath the streets I used to run as it follows the creek through Santa Clara county.

So, a run down the creek trail on a cool Saturday morning. What could be finer, right? Right. I can think of lots of things. Hot dogs come to mind for some reason.

Anyway.

Firstly, I realized how much I'd come to rely on those traffic lights and I was ashamed of myself. On my old 6.2 running route I would encounter 5 stop lights. Basically, one a mile. That's a lot of breaks. Now, granted, I rarely had to stop for all of them, but I always had to stop for a few of them and that had clearly begun to add up.

And then there was the issue of hills. In that, my old 6.2 route had one. As in ONE. And it was short, slight and if you looked at is crossways, it sort of disappeared. Grannies with canes have been seen scaling this behemoth of mountainousnessocity, so it certainly isn't anything about which to write home.

Not that I've signed up for any super hilly races this year, because that would be thisclose to insanity for me, but my theory was that working some hills into my routine couldn't hurt the old endurance. Meanwhile, in practice, it DID hurt my pace.

I'm slow *after* hills as it turns out.

Because I don't like to "be beaten" by hills, so I charge up them like, "Oh, who even knew this hill was here because LOOK AT ME I'm running the same pace as I was on flat and even ground.", which is all great and fine until I get to the top of the hill and then nearly stroke out as all the blood rushes away from my brain and toward my screaming leg muscles.

Sometimes it feels like my eyeballs will pop out. Not the nicest sensation.

And then my Garmin reports record slowing in my pace and I have to struggle to regain ground on my Virtual Whore who is now catching up with me with her even keel because HO HO she didn't sprint up the hill like a jackass.

Whore.

From now on, I will take the hills a little less maniacally and I imagine that will improve my cardiac well-being a bit. At least I won't lose any eyeballs over it or have to be carted from the race route on a stretcher as though my nightmares of public shaming have come true.

After all this evil *learning* last Saturday, I'm happy to report that I still posted a sub-60 Test 10K time of 59: 27. That's with hills, threats of eyeball popping and having to keep my grabby hands to myself as I passed the world's most adorable sort-of-now-grown-up Samoyed puppy for whom I stopped briefly and uncharacteristically during my last outing to the trailhead a few months back.

He's impossibly cute and fluffy and it took all of my strength and will power to not stop and grab all his fur and face and kiss him and hug him until physically removed by his owner.

Not that this has happened before.

And, while I didn't feel awesomely light and almost like I was flying during this training run, I certainly did not die and I feel vaguely confident that I can give this weekend's sub-60K 10K a good solid Try #2.

Because while I was being all mad at myself for the extra 30 seconds, I decided to punish myself by signing up for another race all ON THE DOUBLE and what not.

Yay for me. And yay for the fact that, "Devil" is in the races name. Oh the foreboding, it knows no bounds.

My thoughts going into Sunday's race:
I will consume ZERO Gu before, during and after the race.
I will drink an adequate amount of water before, during and after the race. BUT NOT TOO MUCH DAMN IT.
I will eat a snack on the way to the race. Probably a Luna bar or some other smallish and not super repulsive energy-type snack.
I will wear my new shorts, as they've now been training tested and approved for racing. Which hardly seems necessary since the only difference between them and all my other shorts is the hot orange stripe on the leg.
I will wear a tank top with the preferred back pocket.
I will contemplate going back to racing while wearing a hat.
I will try to remember to lengthen my strides, hold my posture upright, breathe-in-through-nose-out-through mouth and keep all eyeballs in the cabin at all times.
I will HTFU.

And if I manage to sub-60 this fucker, then I will take a little break to contemplate my next move.

What the F I do with a ton of fava beans. [RECIPE]

Friends, the fava beans are ready.

Not mine, mind you, because I successfully ignored all the shrieking around me and turned them under so that they could feed my corn-nuked soil, but the farmshare's and my next door neighbors' and the awesome neighbors' are ready and TEE DAH they're at my house now.

Apparently, despite all their, "What are you some sort of monster"-ing when I was hacking away at my plants, they somehow found it in their hearts to forgive me AND just in time to sweetly offer me big bags of their fava beans oh don't I want just a few pounds they shell down to nearly nothing.

Right. That's why favas are a pain in the ass.

I mean, I'm not shooing them off my property because I don't like to eat fava beans. HO NO! I like that part very much. But we have come to learn that all the, "Oh, no thank you"-ing that comes with fava beans has only to do with the extreme tediousnessocity of processing them.

So, understand me, people: when they're shelled and de-podded and rinsed and combined with olive oil, salt and lemon juice - I'm happy as can be with fava beans. But if you have been on the receiving end of one of these bulging bags (wow), you know that all that shelling and de-podding and rinsing that is so time consuming and nail-greening, and Tedious comes included with purchase.

Yes, I just used tedious with a capital, T, by the way. I just need to be sure you caught my drift on that. Because it's a pain in the ass to process fava beans. And last night it took me a full episode of The Pacific and nearly two glasses of wine to work three giant bags of favas down to 3 cups of edible beans.

Yay.

Thankfully, the recipe I made up to use some of these beans didn't use them all, so now I have some that can more easily go into other things without the requisite sitting in front of the TV with a bowl between my legs and a bag for the discards on the floor while Bubba tries to recall the moment when we moved from Taco Bell to me shelling beans in the living room.

I'll say it again, our life is very glamorous.

Anyway, if any of your neighbors (or farmshares) have hauled off and left sacks of fava beans on your porch when you just went out back to check on the dog or something, here's a new way that I'm getting rid of them that you might enjoy.

It's got a couple things going for it:
It's simple - only a few ingredients.
It's "mmmmmmmmmm" - according to Bubba.
It can be made with as few or as many fava beans as you care to process. Hallelujah.

Finny's Fava Pasta

Recipe by moi
Makes 3 servings

Ingredients
1 T - 3 cups Fava beans, shelled, steamed, de-podded, rinsed and drained
1- 3 cups whole wheat spaghetti (or whatever pasta you've got)
2 T minced fresh herbs (I used lemon thyme and oregano because that's what the garden's got for me right now)
2 cloves of garlic, minced
Juice from 1 lemon
3 T good olive oil
2 T Parmesan, shredded
Salt + pepper to your taste

To make
Boil some sea-salty water for the pasta and while the pasta's cooking in it (but not too long, you want it al dente, kay? Don't be gross with smushy pasta.), mince up the herbs.

When the pasta's ready (AL DENTE, per favore), drain and set aside.

In the same pot you cooked your pasta, add 2 T of oil and your minced garlic and brown it slightly over medium heat but DO NOT LET IT BURN.

You hear me?

Then, when the garlic's nice and fragrant, add in your herbs and give them a stir through the garlicky oil. That's nice. Now add your lemon juice and then pour in your pasta over that. Give it a good toss. Finally, add your fava beans and make sure they get all nice and woven through the pasta.

Finally, give it a taste and add as much salt and fresh ground black pepper as you like.

Serve it with the rest of the oil and the Parmesan on top.

Again, I've managed to avoid using the term, "drizzle", here and I hope you appreciate it. LOATHE THAT COOKING TERM.

Enjoy.

Garden says, "Snooze"

That's so funny. I didn't realize gardens came with snooze buttons. Weird, that.

And weird that their snooze buttons look like big annoying rain storms amidst days of stunning California sunshine when mine just looks like a giant silver-plated plastic button. Thankfully it doesn't dump an inch and a half of rain on my face when I hit it because that would ruin a lot of mornings. And call into question my choice of alarm clocks.

Ah, well, what do I expect really, when this is supposed to be the month for "showers" and next month is the one for "flowers" and the one after that is for "Jack Bauer".

Wait? It's not?

Sucks.

Here I thought Kiefer Sutherland was going to be magically appearing all through the month of June. In my garden. Sans CTU-wear.

Lame.

I guess I'll just have to settle for lettuce seedlings and hopefully some beans.

Which is what I meant to talk about anyway because last weekend I had to take a second run at the beds with new dry seeds because I'd theorized that the reason the germination rates in the beds was so piss-poor was because all this beautiful but damned rain had rotted my precious seeds.

Except that when I finally got out there, after having run another Sub-60 Test 10K (yay - attempt #2 this Sunday - cross your shit for me) thinking mean thoughts about the rain the whole time - TEE DAH - I couldn't find a single rotted seed in the soil.

Because the birds did it.

I mean, I think they did it. This is my new theory: Birds ate my seeds under the cover of rain and let the weather take the blame for it.

RUDE. And provoking of a "band" which I don't enjoy. DOUBLE RUDE.

Jerks.

Anyway, I reseeded plants that had particularly piss-poor germination rates and then reinforced their metal fence shields lest the birds go after them for a re-snack.

Specifically (germination rates):

Purple podded pole beans (33%)

African horned cucumber jelly melons (0%)
Georgia Rattlesnake watermelons (0%)
Mexican Sour Gherkins (0%)
Pickling cucumbers (.125%)

And then, because I am very cuh-lassy and, at the same time, was absolutely starving because of my run + planting 70 more grass plugs in empty spots in the front yard + re-seeding the vegetable beds, I drove over to the best place in Santa Clara county from which to procure a fine sandwich and then proceeded to eat it while sitting parked in the nursery's lot with my leg hanging out the driver's side window.

Because I couldn't NOT eat before plant shopping. And I couldn't NOT eat before I passed out. Ugh. It was a desperate moment.

You know this feeling. It's the one where you're driven to doing things you normally find abhorrent. Like eating in the car. Or using a gas station bathroom that requires a key tied to an old radiator.

But, as a fabulous friend informed me, if I want my tomatillo to produce tomatillos (which, obvi) I would need to get a friend for my single gal out there because OH - it takes two to tomatillo. Check.

So, apres-sandwich, I got a date for my lonely girl at home and then also didn't pass out in the super long line at the nursery where the woman in front of me was dragging a Japanese maple that didn't deserve such rough treatment.

People - get a cart. I'm just saying, dragging a plant with exposed roots across concrete and through a nursery is no way to go through life. Or grow a healthy plant. Or get the girl with the single tomatillo plant behind you to think nice things about you and your mom-shorts.

Meanwhile, some things haven't been ravaged by birds.

The potatoes have hit their 4 wheel drive limit and will be finishing out their growing season without further additions. I've determined that, when hilling potatoes, the hills don't get as tall as the 10 tires I'd apparently need to stack atop these in order to accommodate the plants' burgeoning height, so therefore they get to make do with 4 tires and just get to potato-makin'.

We'll see what that nets me in the way of potatoes. Bubba predicts we'll have at least one with, "Michelin" embossed on its peel. I predict that we will have potato vines drooping over the sides before a week's time has passed.

This took one month.

This is the lonely tomatillo who received a mate last weekend. I think they're in the awkward, "So what did you major in?" part of the relationship. 

The lettuce is being awesome, as always, and I am glad my one beacon of gardening hope didn't decide to flake on me this year. I look forward to acquainting you with your soul mate known as Maytag blue cheese.

These sunflowers are volunteers. Which explains why they're blooming and having a grand and flashy old time just outside the beds where nothing else is growing - because the birds didn't see them in their mad dash for the vegetable beds that were apparently labeled as a bird buffet.

Same goes for the nasturtium which are also growing, un-snacked upon, outside the beds and around my spying chair. Meanwhile the nasturtium in the beds has been victim to the same midnight bird feasts.

 

Here was a shocker: the first tomato blossom. 

I KNOW, RIGHT? WTF? 

Once again, these are Better Boys, which you should know from previous seasons are total champs. And, like last year, I am expecting the #1 bloom to produce a 1lb+ tomato. Expect ~along with me, now.

And that's about as disjointed an update as I'm ready to make today. Just know that I've sent in the benchwarmers to see if we can't get some points on the board. 

Does that make any sense? 

OK: I hope things start growing soon and OH YIPPIE it's supposed to rain tomorrow. Again.

OYW: If quick releaseness is required [TUTORIAL]

Show of hands from those who imagined this month's sewing project to be a slam dunk.

Go on, put them up there, I'll wait.

FYI: My hand is up and I think so is Kelli's.

Yeah, I thought this month's project was a no-brainer. I mean, yes, I was planning to ditch the leash, bag and bandana from the start, because my dear dog has these things in piles (and baskets and bags andandand) but I was totally planning on making the collar.

Because Jada's collar is, how you say, totally ragged. Not that we don't love it that way, because what says, "I am an active and well-loved puppy dog" like a collar with the decorative ribbon worn right off?

It doesn't say that to you? Oh, well, it does to us. Whatever. We like worn out things I guess. Good thing for Bubba! Ha!

Sorry, bad joke.

Anyway, I thought it might be nice to have a new dressy collar for Jada for when we take her to dog daycare for a long stay or my folks' for the next get together so that I don't get the, "What? You can't afford a proper collar for your dog? Look at this shamefulness. Poor girl. Like she's homeless."

It goes on, I assure you.

Anyway, I thought I'd make her a dress collar for those times when people who share your ragged=unloved sensibilities will be interacting with our fair pooch.

Except when I went to make the collar from this set I realized OH BOO it's a Martingale style collar which, while lovely, is not allowed at dog daycare because they need all dogs to be on Quick Release alert at all times for whatever reason. I guess sometimes they get tangled in their dog wrestling and, if some collars aren't quickly released, the wrestling-induced neck-to-neck tangle can cause a total brawl.

I see their point.

But, what am I supposed to do with this month's project? Ditch it? Go to Petsmart and *GASP* buy her a new collar?

Huh, no.

Instead I thought I'd go with the theme of the collar and just make it quick release (and thus adjustable) style and then share with y'all my methods so that if you have an equally forward-thinking dog daycare to which you take your beloved pooch OR you want to make a collar that's adjustable, you'd have the option.

Don't ever tell me I'm not a giver because LOOK I'm giving right now. Specifically, a tutorial.

Adjustable Quick Release Dog Collar

Measurements for a medium-sized dog (40-65 lbs)

For a small dog - adjust all measurements to 5/8" and the fabric to 1.5'x2"

For a huge dog - adjust all measurements to 1.5" and the fabric to 2.5'x6"

Materials needed:

1 1" Parachute buckle
1 1" Strap adjuster
1 1" D ring
1 2'x4" piece of fabric
Coordinating thread













To make:


Make the strap
First cut your fabric to size and then fold in half lengthwise and press.

Open up the fabric and fold in the long sides to the center and press.

With long sides folded in, fold in half lengthwise again and press.

Pin in a few spots just to hold it together and topstitch around all sides, folding under and sewing the raw ends.

Add the accessories
With the strap adjuster and the fabric facing right side up, weave the strap through the front slot of the slider, back over the center bar and under the back bar.

Using a box stitch, permanently attach the strap to the adjustable slider.

With the male end of the parachute buckle, start with the other end of the strap and weave it, right side down, up through the front slot of the buckle, back over the center bar and under the back bar. The right side of the fabric will now be facing up.

With this same end of the strap, weave it back up under the adjustable slider's front bar, over the center bar (which has the other end of the strap permanently attached) and under the back bar of the adjustable slider. 

This is what makes the collar adjustable - just slide the fabric through the adjustable slider and move the male end of the buckle to take up or let out the slack.

With the free end of the strap, slide on the D ring and then the female end of the buckle so that the rounded side of the D ring is on the right side of the fabric.

Fold over enough of the end of the strap so that it covers the flat side of the D ring with about an inch or so to spare.

Sew as closely as possible to the buckle's back bar (I used my zipper foot so I could get close without having the foot resting on the plastic bar because I *justknew* it would break if I didn't).

Then snug the flat side of the D ring up against the seam you just made and (still using your zipper foot if you're anal like me and aren't you all?) sew as closely as possible to the D ring without hitting it with your needle because I don't have to tell you that it will break your needle TEE FUCKING DAH.

Not that this happened or anything.

Box stitch the end of the strap to the main part of the strap on the wrong side.

You're done. 

Put it on your dog, adjust to fit (two fingers between puppy's neck and the collar) and, like, take them to your parents' house where they won't ridicule you for being a neglectful dog mom.

OR go to dog daycare where they will allow Puppy in without delay due to their quick releaseness. Yay.

And then contemplate not calling all dogs, young and old, "Puppy" because you think it's starting to annoy Bubba.

I mean, look, I'm a dog person. I love dogs. And, to me, all dogs are "puppies". Perhaps this is the canine version of people who call all people "kid" even if they're, like, in their 60s. I DON'T KNOW.

Anyway, go make your dog less ragged and maybe make this month's other project if you don't care for the sewing one even with the fabulous tutorial I just GAVE YOU because I'm so supernice like that.

xo
Finny

The Farmshare Project: Week 3 [Recipe]

Firstly, let's deal the dirt on last week's farmshare.

People - I am not afraid to say that we FUCKING KILLED IT this week.

Really, now. The crispers were nearly empty (save for the muther effing beets and some kale) when this week's share arrived last night and that is awesome. Also awesome is the fact that we got the whole share because my neighbors were out of town AND YET STILL - we killed it. Awesome.

What is awesomer than awesome?

1. Not having to get Bubba's help to shove closed the crisper drawer.
2. Not having to haul a week's worth of rotting chard to the composter.
3. When the rump roast farts in your face.

Wait? What?

Anyway, so what happened to all that farmshare-iness?

Let me just tell you.

 We didn't keep their eggs, though. That wouldn't be cool.

Last week's box had:
Apples
Arugula
Asian stir-fry mix
Broccolini
Chard
Cilantro
Young fava bean pods
Green garlic
Baby red Russian kale
Leeks
Red leaf lettuce
Mizuna
Strawberries

And their fate was:
We ate them
Apples: in a Waldorf salad and as a dessert with caramel sauce
Asian stir-fry mix: Steamed with The Best Vegetable Beef Soup Ever
Broccolini: in Broccoli Risotto
Young fava bean pods: in greenGREEN salads
Green garlic: in greenGREEN salads and The Best Vegetable Beef Soup Ever
Leeks: in The Best Vegetable Beef Soup Ever and fresh off the grill
Red leaf lettuce: in greenGREEN salads
Mizuna: in my Citrus Salad with Goat Cheese
Strawberries: for dessert with dark chocolate sauce

We donated them
Chard: SCORE! I finally remembered to donate at the pick-up site. Bye, loser.

We composted them
Arugula
Cilantro

We stored them
Baby red Russian kale

And from storage?
Rutabagas

Yes, remember when we got rutabagas in the share and we stored them? Well, we ate them this week and I'm going to tell you how right now so that you don't have to be all, "What do I do with these turnips?" because they're not turnips, they're rutabagas and they are a good way to make The Dinner from 1984 less 1984-ish.

Feel free to still wear your leg-warmers though. I won't judge you. Loudly.

Mashed Rutabagas
Recipe by moi

Ingredients
2 smallish Rutabagas per person, peeled and cubed
Butter, cream cheese, whipped cream cheese with chives from the back of your fridge or sour cream
Salt
Pepper



To make:
Boil your cubed rutabagas just like you would potatoes - until a fork easily stabs them.

Drain and add to your pot either 2 T of butter, a big spoonful of sour cream, whipped cream cheese with chives from the back of your fridge or cream cheese - or a combination of these random things you might find in *your* fridge.

Mash.

Serve with the rest of the crew from the SS Dinner from 1984 and act like, "What? Those are totally mashed potatoes and yes, I agree, they do taste extra good. Weird!"

And, if you're absurd like me and get all self-conscious about your ability to present food in an appetizing way, take one look at the two plates you've put together and, instead of just giving the crazy looking plate to Bubba because you know he doesn't care one way or the other, choose to make it fun and offer him the choice of The Normal Dinner or The Wild Dinner because you know which one he'll choose and then you don't have to feel guilty for giving him what you were calling in your head, "The Messy Dinner".

Friggen peas just go everyfuckingwhere.

And then last night I created a new fabulous recipe that I'll share next week that's sort of a beefy riff on this recipe from Pioneer Woman that I already riffed on a little bit by using our home smoked turkey. 

That's for next week, though.