Bob Vivant's Open Salon Blog

Making Peace and Jam With Mulberries

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 13:07:32 -0400

Bestselling author and spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle often reminds us that what we resist, persists. But when the object of resistance has the ability to stain anything it comes in contact with and jeopardize marital bliss, how can you do anything but resist it?

Each summer, in late June, my husband Bird and I brace ourselves for battle with our neighbor’s large mulberry tree that covers more of our yard than hers. If there is a substance with a greater staining power than a ripe black mulberry, I’ve yet to discover it. A mulberry, an attractive fruit in its natural state dangling gracefully from a tree, can stain almost anything it comes in contact with.

The madness begins with over-ripe, fallen berries squishing under our feet in the yard, staining our deck, sticking to our shoes and making their way into the house if ‘we’ are not careful. It’s the ‘he’ of our ‘we’ that is often guilty of this, which he tries to deny in spite of the incriminating splotchy purple trail. Then it gets worse. The birds that are so fond of our tree-filled yard eat the mulberries and for the next three weeks spatter our lawn furniture and windows with gritty, inky bird poo. As luck would have it, the staining power of the poo rivals that of the mulberries themselves.

In fits of fury, usually immediately following a mulberry incident – like when the poo falls on him directly or he slips in the berry-filled grass – Bird has been known to do a bit of pruning albeit surreptitiously, since the neighbor loves her pretty tree. And with the majority of the mess in our yard, what’s not for her to love? The pruning – a branch here, a branch there – consoles him temporarily but does little to solve the problem. Ultimately his fury subsides, because Bird’s deep love of trees outweighs his hatred for mulberry poo.

Next year, would be different we promised ourselves last summer, and the summer before that, and…. Tired of resisting those berries which persisted and at last inspired by the legendary forager Euell Gibbons, we decided that this summer we would make pie, not war with our mulberries. We started our mission with a small batch of preserves. The internet, usually rife with recipes for even the most obscure ingredient, had few recipes for mulberry jam, and even fewer that were made without pectin, which I considered to be a counterintuitive ingredient for our very local jam.

Two hours of picking and subsequently removing the tiny green stems from the inky berries yielded five cups of berries and two very purple hands. I scrubbed my dark nails and cuticles with the same intensity and futility as I had scrubbed the mulberry-splattered deck the previous summers. Is this really better than resisting? But as the jam thickened and the berries softened, gently simmering over a low flame, I too began to soften – how satisfying to be making my own jam from berries that would have otherwise gone to waste.

And then we tasted it. The jam was sweet with a subtle but refreshing tartness, and it was surprisingly delicious. It took ten years to muster the inspiration to cook with the persistent berries and ten seconds to regret having waited so long.

Now, mid-July, our peaceful mission has yielded eight cups of jam, one pie, a mulberry crisp (all from six quarts of berries) and, more importantly, an estimated 90% reduction in berries underfoot and mulberry poo. If you're interested in making peace with a mulberry tree in your neighborhood, you can find my pectin-free mulberry jam recipe here.

Dreaming of Honey Bees in the Windy City

Fri, 2 Jul 2010 10:07:56 -0400

We got the bug, so to speak, a couple of years ago when my dear friend Chantal, the loyal keeper of my secrets and loving reminder that blood is not thicker than water, got her first hive and became an urban beekeeper in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Chantal, affectionately known as Mistress Beek in beekeeping circles, is the kind of person who will always surprise you, the kind of friend you think you finally have figured out and then, well, and then you find out that she’s raising honey bees…in a city.

Foreshadowing? A treasured keepsake from Grandpap Peters

("Inside the World of the Honeybee", Treat Davidson, August, 1959)

Born and raised in rural Western Pennsylvania, bees weren’t unfamiliar to me. My Grandpap Peters raised bees for most of his life. I have such fond memories of him leading me by the hand to his hives while the too-large helmet and veil assembly bobbled fitfully on my tiny head, all the while assuring me that the bees weren’t going to hurt me. I don’t remember being afraid. The bees would softly land on Grandpap’s hands when he opened the hives as if they were welcoming a friend.

I must confess the inner workings of the hive and its inhabitants were less interesting to me than their product – thick, often dark as molasses, honey. It tasted better than a Whatchamacallit! Grandpap would pull his worn pocket knife from the front of his bib overalls and cut off a fresh chunk of honey-filled comb. He’d scrape the wax caps off and hand me the oozing honeycomb. Fearful of letting any get away, I’d quickly bring the comb to my mouth, tilt my head back and let the warm sweetness coat my throat. Later, I’d think nothing of spooning Grandpap’s honey straight from the jar and into my mouth, blissfully oblivious to the concept of calorie counting or the disgrace of double dipping.

But like most beekeepers I’ve known over the years, Grandpap lived in the country, a two-hour drive from the nearest city. His hives stood just outside a dense stand of trees on a gently sloping hillside, barely visible from his house. I carefully considered this when I made my way to Albuquerque and had the chance to see Mistress Beek’s hive up close for the first time. Her busy hive was just a few feet from her house and, perhaps more importantly, less than twenty feet from her neighbor’s house. The scene was jarring in a way, somehow out of context - like seeing a coworker at the grocery store and for a split second not being able to recognize them. One surreal feeling quickly gave way to another as I fantasized about my own hive in Chicago. What a thrill it would be to step outside (in my pajamas!) and cut a piece of fresh honey-filled comb from my very own hive, while homemade biscuits were baking in anticipation of being slathered in fresh honey. That vision was so real and sweet smelling I made up my mind that one day I would have a city hive of my own. Later that day, I tasted the delicious straw-colored honey that Mistress Beek so graciously shared with me, and I vowed that “one day” would come ASAP.

Now, “one day” is just days away. My husband Greg and I ordered our first hive, which we plan to locate on our second story deck. Grandpap Peters would be as proud as he would be amazed of our urban adventure. He died long before the urban beekeeping movement firmly took root and fortunately, before witnessing the tragic phenomenon known today as Colony Collapse Disorder, which has, in part, inspired urban beekeepers worldwide.

But it’s to Mistress Beek that I owe my deepest debt of gratitude for showing me what was possible; for teaching me that being an urban beekeeper wouldn’t be easy, no matter how easy (and glamorous!) she made it look; and for reminding me how sweet it can be to follow your dream.

Calling All Coconut Lovers

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 08:12:05 -0500

Do you love coconut?

Do you think the only thing better than coconut is the sinfully delicious combination of coconut and chocolate?

Then please read on.

Coconut Haystack Cookie

With just five ingredients, including the chocolate for dipping, these cookies are easy and foolproof. Yet, they look pretty enough to share. Share? Well, it is the season for giving, right?

And unlike most holiday cookies, these will keep in the fridge for up to a month without becoming stale, posing a threat to even the most well-intentioned 2010 diet resolution.

Enjoy!

Coconut Haystacks

1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup whipping cream
2 cups powdered sugar
3 cups coconut
4.25 oz. Hershey's Symphony Bar with Almonds and Toffee

1. In a medium saucepan, melt butter and heat until golden.

2. Stir in cream, powdered sugar and coconut.

3. Drop by spoonfuls onto waxed paper and chill for 15 minutes.

4. When still slightly tacky to the touch, shape into mounds and chill again for 30 minutes.

5. Break up chocolate and melt over a double boiler.

6. Dip the bottoms of each cookie into the melted pool of chocolate yum and place on waxed paper. Chill until chocolate solidifies.

7. Gorge yourself!

A Virtual Box of Cookies

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 09:12:35 -0500

Like my mother before me and many of the food lovers here at Open Salon, I use cooking and baking as a way to show I care. When Bird and I finished our baking this weekend, we carefully packaged the fruits of our labor and delivered them to our friends and family. How I wish I could simply drop off a box of "my love" to my friends here at OS.

Iamsurly would get the biggest box for inspiring our virtual Christmas Cookie Exchange. Thank you!

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and all that from my home to yours! If your holiday plans bring you to Chicago, please stop by for the real thing.

Pecan Shortbread Cookies

Italian Fig Cookies

Reese's Peanut Butter Temptations

Iced Sugar Cookies

Gingersnaps with White Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger

Marcel Desaulnier's Deep Dark Chocolate Fudge Cookies

Swedish Cremes

Coconut Haystacks

Vanilla Bean Cookies with Raspberry Jam

Jacque Pepin's Coffee Rum Truffettes

Cranberry, White Chocolate and Macadamia Nut Cookies

Melting Moments

This Sort of Thing Isn't Funny Here Yet

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 13:12:46 -0500

Monday

It's freezing cold and dry. Really dry. Itchy, scratchy skin dry. So dry, Bird decides to use body lotion. Bird is a man of minimal products meaning no aftershave, no hair product, just shave cream, toothpaste, shampoo and soap.

Bird: Where do you keep your lotion?

Me: Under the sink.

Later he joins me at the breakfast counter.

Me: Did you find it?

Bird: Yep. Sorry, I used it all.

Me: It was a brand new bottle?

Bird: I was really itchy.

Me: Hmmpf

Bird: Why do women need so much froo froo stuff?

Me: Sigh.

After my shower I realize that Bird slathered himself from head to toe in $20 face cream.

Tuesday

Me: The BODY lotion is in a big blue bottle next to the small white bottle you used yesterday.

Bird: OK, thanks.

At the breakfast counter Bird is scratching away at his back.

Me: Did you find it?

Bird: No.

Bird believes that inanimate objects can and often do hide from him and dreams of a world where they would instantly appear when called like a loyal dog. Our fridge is full of stuff that 'hides' from Bird.

Me: Come on, I'll show you. It's a BIG BLUE BOTTLE.

Bird: I'm already dressed. Just forget it.

After my shower I take the big blue bottle and place it next to his shaving cream and tooth brush-- ON THE COUNTER, IN THE OPEN.

Wednesday

Bird joins me at breakfast smelling sweetly, too sweetly, but looking great in his suit. Bird has a big meeting today.

It occurs to me that the big blue lotion is unscented.

Me: Did you put on lotion?

Bird: Yes.

Me: How much?

Bird: Not much at all. That stuff is sticky. I don't know how you ladies get used to that crap.

Me: What did you use?

Bird: The big bottle next to the little bottle just like you said.

He's a bit annoyed by my questions. While he peanut butters his English muffin, I excuse myself to solve the mystery.

There is the blue bottle right next to the can of shave cream where I left it, where I was sure he couldn't miss it. I open the cabinet and next to my face cream is a large WHITE bottle of lavender body wash. Bird has rubbed body wash all over. I start to laugh and then remember my man sitting downstairs in his best suit, sticky and smelling like lavender. I return to the kitchen nervous about delivering the news. Bird is a smart and successful man. But WTF? Can't he read the label? This is not what I plan to ask him in the kitchen.

Me: Uhm, sweetie (meaning you're about to be angry, but remember how much I love you), you used my, uhm, my body wash.

In order to restore and maintain Bird's dignity, I won't reveal what happened next. Let's just say the calming effects of lavender don't work on everyone.

I'm desperate for one of those laugh so hard you cry and worry you'll wet your pants kind of laughs, but it will have to wait, because that shit ain't funny here just yet.