Winter is headed out-of-town (I’ll pedal it north on the back of my tandem if it misses the bus), so it is time eat the last of the winter squash. Two pumpkins remain, along with six mysterious volunteer white squash. Like white bullets waiting to be slipped, one at a time, into a chamber.
The pumpkins have been wonderful, but I have been scared to try the white squash. After my encounter with the disgusting mofos discussed here, I have a healthy apprehension when it comes to mystery veg. Why didn’t I take a picture of the bad ones? Bet you a dollar they’ll come back, I’ll get excited and leave them go all season only to discover again they are crap.
Today I mustered the courage to cut up the first white squash (before roasting shown above). Pale and pretty and it passed the raw taste test. Mild, slightly nutty and no blurred vision. Oil, salt, pepper and 25 minutes in the oven yielded this.
Very tasty. Nailed the roast, too. Toothsome but long enough in the oven for color at the edges. Hey, though. If you hear of my demise within 24 hours, send the authorities to my basement to test the five remaining white squash. If I make it through that window, come over and we’ll have a meal.
This morning I spent an hour milling corn, wheat and rye. I made two loaves of cornbread to send to my dad and a couple of country french loaves for us. Nice to bake bread again. I might be working up the energy to start my first sourdough. Maybe. Work seems to be on the uptick. Might want to leave some space on my dance card. Country loaves below.
I wish Lagusta lived closer. I’d get one of these loaves to her for evaluation, post-haste. These loaves are all I have ever made in the leavened bread department and are 100% whole grain (wheat and rye). She says she can’t master the whole grain loaf (she now uses part white flour) and has, if my memory serves, given up on the quest. Won’t go back to the bricks, or some such thing. If she can’t make it right, I wonder what she’d say about my loaves? I find them to be light, flavorful and all-around awesome, but perhaps I can’t objectively evaluate my own babies. I do love them so. Just out of the oven and dipped in olive oil with salt and pepper, more so. Life is wonderous just now.
Making matters more awesome, I have been enjoying some mah-ve-lous mint matcha bonbons from said pallie extraordinaire Lagusta. One a day with my after lunch espresso sets me up to face the afternoon. March over to her site for the skinny and pics (she is a way better photographer). Better yet, buy a box or ten. Delights will ensue.
Listened to my two Naked Raygun albums to make sure my allegation that Parts & Labor and NR share some sonic lineage held water. I think I got it right. I used to really enjoy the Naked Raygun albums, but now, a full 20 years later, I like them more. Rare. Maybe I should get out the Big Black records next. Chicago, ho!
Heard back from the NYDOT representative after I asked her why she was hating on rumble strips. She didn’t elaborate, but did say the NYDOT policy on rumble strips seriously threatens the future of biking in New York. Strong words. I wish someone would give me the secret handshake required to climb aboard the rumble strip hate wagon. Until then, I just don’t get it. If you need to go long in the country, what’s wrong with the proposed four feet to the right of the strips? I dream about bike-only super highways (they are usually elevated in my dream) as much as the next girl, but until more than nearly nobody starts biking for transportation, four feet seem good. I really tried to get excited about the issue, but it isn’t working. I might be over it. No matter what they do, I’ll pedal where I can. I’ll build a velodrome if I need to. I’ll dig up my back yard to make a BMX-track. Heck, I enjoy turning circles in my driveway. Must pedal.
Our neighbors are fostering her. Except when looking into the eyes of my darling Frida, I have never seen a more loving, lovable and beta dog than I see in Carmella. You even think of looking in her direction and she stops whatever she is doing, drops on her back and gives you the tummy to rub for as many moments as you can spare. She’ll stay in that position and just wait for it. Give it up then stop and she’ll wait for more. Two years old. If you are a dog person, you’ll know two is the magic age at which the crazy puppy stuff falls away leaving an energetic but maturing super friend with a decade on the clock, minimum. Housebroken. Healthy with all shots. Came from a loving household that had to give her up when they moved. Carmella would do well in a one dog home or a multidog set up (she gets along great with all dogs). If I wasn’t a one dog dude, this girl would be in my posse quicker than you can hit “Like” at the bottom of this post. Know that you’ll be given a serious once, twice and thrice over by the foster parents, though. They are serious dog lovers and won’t stand for anything other than the best home for their precious girl. Must go now. Looking into Carmella’s eyes my heart is melting quicker than snow under the rain outside my window.