JUNK DRAWER ECOLOGY

 

Neatniks' final frontier is the junk drawer

Susan DeMersseman, Special to The Chronicle

Wednesday, April 9, 2003

It may be time to clean the junk drawer by the phone again. I know this because we've gotten to the point where only the pens and pencils that don't work fill the drawer.
I think everyone has a junk drawer (or 10). We have one in the kitchen and one in the breakfast room by the phone. Each has its own ecology and its own pattern of getting junked up.
You don't want to clean them out too often, however. That takes all the fun out of this little archaeological expedition. It would rob you of the joys of finding that phone number you knew you had written down or that receipt you had misplaced, or of sharpening all the pencils at once and throwing out every nonfunctioning pen.
Maybe I don't have enough excitement in my life, but there is something so satisfying about looking at the finished drawer. Notepads in a row, sharpened and functioning writing tools in a little box, emery boards all together in an envelope. All the stray rubber bands from the morning paper now neatly wrapped around the rubber band ball that will soon be too big for this drawer. A little film canister filled with thumbtacks. Won't it be nice when I need one and know just where it is?
I think I learned my junk drawer traditions from my mother. Her major drawer by the phone was fascinating. Every time I went to visit her I cleaned it out just for the intrigue. In her system, one of each useful item in the house was kept in that drawer. One screwdriver, one ruler, one tube of lipstick, one tube of super glue, one hair clip, etc.
On a Christmas visit years ago, I collected all the nonfunctioning pens from drawers all over the house and wrapped them up as a gift with the attached note, "This is only a gift if you throw it away as soon as you get it. " My siblings got the joke, and my mother spent the rest of the evening testing each pen to make sure she wasn't throwing away anything useful.
One day a friend was visiting when I opened the junk drawer to get a notepad. This friend is, for the rest of us, an icon of order. Her house always looks perfect -- beautiful furnishings, great fashion sense and vases of fresh flowers. I had forgotten that I cleaned the drawer the day before. She exclaimed, "Wow, your junk drawer is so neat and organized."
It was a triumph of timing. But I didn't tell her that. Perhaps now I am her icon of junk drawer maintenance.
I admire people who actually learned to put things away in the same place each time. It seems so grown up. A state to which I aspire. But then, they miss the fun of delving into the mysteries and surprises of the junk drawer a few times each year.
In our busy family it stays neat for only a week or two, but that's a week or two longer than when I clean the house. So, it's definitely worth the time.

Susan DeMersseman is a psychologist and parent educator. E-mail home@sfchronicle.com.

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2003/04/09/HO273269.DTL

This article appeared on page HO - 2 of the San Francisco Chronicle

 RHUBARB REDISCOVERED

From Midwest Living Magazine

 

            Each summer I spend a few weeks in my childhood hometown in South Dakota.  I've lived away for many years, and I sometimes bring an outsider's viewpoint to what was once a seamless backdrop of my growing up world.   A little distance from the once familiar can cause a person to see the individual elements.  For example, the regular sight of $5 peonies and $30 bouquets of lilacs in the California flower shops, and I now look at my mother's peony bushes and lilac hedges with new appreciation.  Now that I've seen horseradish tastings at the local food boutiques, I view my brother's homemade version in a new light (though I still suggest a gas mask if you visit during the preparation). 

            It took a few more years before Rhubarb entered this domain. It too had been part of the landscape of my childhood, and I guess it had its purposes.  It occasionally appeared in front of me camouflaged as a dessert.  I cut its big leaves into the shape of a palm trees when I was playing Muffy dolls visit Hawaii with my little friend Carol.   We sometimes ate it raw without sugar to prove to other kids how tough we were. (Like men who prove they're macho by eating the hottest peppers.) It tasted horrible and made your teeth feel so dry you practically had to peel your lips away.  It was only slightly more palatable than the grasshopper and worm parts the big kids made us eat to get into their clubs.

            On that trip, I noticed that people seem to grow rhubarb to give away rather than to use. It's the Midwest version of the giant Zucchini's that people give to each other in California. But Midwestern gardens have plenty of room, and in July, they'll find somebody to give it to. One neighbor confessed that the only time she locks her car door when she goes downtown is in July, otherwise she might come back and find a heap of rhubarb in the back seat.

            That summer I was weeding around the roses next to my mother's rhubarb when I noticed, for the first time, what a pretty plant it is.  Big plump leaves on the top of slender stalks just starting to show the rosy shade of ripeness.  And all of a sudden, I remembered Rhubarb Cream Pie.  At 85, my mother no longer remembered every dessert she served or where the recipe was, so I had to search.  

            I went through her entire collection of cookbooks.  In "What Albion Lutherans Eat" circa 1926 I found an ad for my great grandfather's buggy shop but no recipe.  In my grandmother's handwritten cookbook, there was a recipe for a mustard plaster, but no rhubarb cream pie. Finally I found a custard recipe as a starting point and improvised.  My mother's rhubarb wasn't quite ripe, so I ran to the store for a few stalks.  I added my own touches, lots of vanilla, some nutmeg, and more butter.  

            As it baked the rich smell filled the house and made the rainy summer afternoon seem almost made to order.  My mother tested it first then made me cook it 15 more minutes.  Couldn't quite handle rhubarb al dente.  At the end of 15 minutes, it was done, and it was wonderful. 

Each visitor who came by sampled and raved.  Following each rave was, “Where’d you get the rhubarb?"  Everyone reacted the same to my disclosure that the rhubarb had been purchased.   To a person they said, “Oh no! You should have told me. I would have brought you some." You've never seen a more disappointed group of people; they had missed the opportunity to give rhubarb to someone who would actually use it.  I told each one I'd be happy for some more.  

            With the contributions I further tested and refined the recipe.  I now feel certain that I came upon a good reason for rhubarb.

 

My recipe

--Chop up some rhubarb to make about 2 cups and put into an uncooked pie shell.

-Mix 2 tablespoons of melted butter, 2 eggs, 2 tablespoons of flour, 3/4 cup of sugar, l cup of canned milk with 2 teaspoons of vanilla and 1/2 teaspoon of nutmeg.

--Pour over the rhubarb and bake at 400 for 15 minutes, reduce heat to 325 and bake for about 45 more minutes. 

 

The “refined” recipe from the kitchen of Midwest Living Magazine

                        Pastry for 9-inch single-crust pie

            21⁄2     cups fresh or frozen unsweetened, sliced rhubarb 

            2          eggs

            1          cup evaporated milk

            3⁄4       cup sugar

            2          tablespoons all-purpose flour

            2          tablespoons butter or margarine, melted

            2          teaspoons vanilla

            1⁄2       teaspoon ground nutmeg

 

1. Prepare and roll out pastry. Line a 9-inch pie plate with the pastry. Trim and crimp edge as you like. Do not prick. Line pastry with a double thickness of foil. Bake in a 450º oven for 8 minutes. Remove foil; bake 4 to 5 minutes more or till set and dry. Remove pie plate from oven and reduce oven temperature to 350º.

2. In a medium saucepan bring 2 cups water to boil; add rhubarb. Return to boil. Drain water and cool rhubarb.

3. Carefully sprinkle rhubarb evenly over bottom of prebaked piecrust.

4. In a bowl, beat together the eggs, milk, sugar, flour, butter or margarine, vanilla, and nutmeg. Slowly pour over rhubarb in piecrust. Cover entire pie loosely with foil.

5. Bake in the 350° oven for 25 minutes. Remove foil. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes more or till center appears nearly set when shaken. Serve warm or chilled. Makes 8 servings.

Nutrition facts per serving: 318 cal., 16 g. fat, 38 g. carbo., 71 mg. chol., 1 g. fiber and 149 mg. sodium.

 By Susan DeMersseman, who lives in Berkeley, California, where it’s acceptable to buy your rhubarb.   Midwest Living Magazine June 2000.

Weeding in the "zone."

WEEDING TIME -- AGAIN

This year we have had enough rain to allow me to "enjoy" my annual battle with oxalis and sour onions.

Weeding 'in the zone' is a pleasure like no other

Susan DeMersseman, Special to The Chronicle

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

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There are many gardening chores that the average person might find unpleasant, but to a gardener they are part of the fun. Weeding is one of these -- but not just any weeding. The greatest pleasure is weeding "in the zone." That is a short but wonderful snippet of time that many gardeners recognize. These zones have a lot to do with the condition of the soil. In spring there are a few gentle days that occur between the rainy periods and the dry periods.

Or you can help nature along with a good soaking. The clay soil in my region goes from the texture of cream cheese to terra cotta in about three days. So in between those conditions there is a day when the soil is perfect, dry enough to be workable and moist enough to release the weed willingly -- roots and all. As much as I love plants, I'm equally fond of a freshly weeded and cultivated patch of dark, rich soil.

Even the smell of the earth changes as it opens up and releases the weeds. Pulling up the weed breaks the surface and lets it breathe again after a winter of being pounded by the rain. And almost as satisfying is watching the pile of oxalis and other undesirables fill the weed basket.

When my daughter was a toddler, one of her first words was "oxalis." I was so pleased, because I wanted to raise a gardener, or at least a weeder. She followed me around in the yard getting as muddy as I and asking, "Mommy, is this oxalis?" Tiny hands were good at fitting into the places where this sneaky weed hides, next to the stems of favorite flowers. And when, by the age of 4, my daughter was able to tell the difference between wild onions and emerging freesias, well, I couldn't have been more proud if she'd been giving violin recitals.

My equipment for these events is simple. Sometimes I start off with good intentions, with my foam knee pad, gardener's stool and heavy gloves. But usually it's just me and my trusty Japanese cultivating tool. It would probably be more sensible to use the substantial gardening gloves, but there's something more connected, more part of the process with bare hands. My compromise is often latex surgical gloves. I grab a pocketful of them as I go into the yard. I measure the accomplishments of the day not just by the volume of weeds but by how many gloves I wear out in the process. My other favorite tool is an old paring knife that digs up stubborn roots. Some roots elude me, but not many.

When the job is complete, the remaining plants look so beautiful against the dark, smooth soil. For several days the next pesky weeds in waiting do not emerge, so I can go back into the yard and feel again the satisfaction of hands in the dirt and of creating a little bit of order, where a little bit is just the right amount.

Susan DeMersseman is a psychologist and parent educator in Berkeley. E-mail her athome@sfchronicle.com.

This article appeared on page HO - 9 of the San Francisco Chronicle

You can go home again -- again

       I believe the saying, "You can't go home again." is not always true. I am home again in South Dakota, not in the house I grew up in, but with the people I grew up with. For me that's what makes it home, that and the streets so familiar in the way they look and even the way they smell that I sometimes feel tears bubbling up on my morning walks.
      I am grateful for the memories that come surging back as I pass my childhood home and the houses of close friends. And I'm equally grateful for the sense of home that continues to grow as I build new memories with my brothers, their wonderful wives and  wonderful children. Home, I believe, is a work in progress, not just an historical construct.
     My grown children are not here this summer, but I appreciate that for them this place will always be part of their sense of home. They have memories of running through the sprinkler on hot summer nights and at Christmas sledding down the hill by my mother's house in the moonlight. They have memories of happy and sad times with their family here. They have created home in this place and with these people and I'm comforted in knowing that "home" for them, as it is for me, is always under construction.

PLUM TREE BLOSSOMS AGAIN

The plum tree is in full bloom again. From my office window I watch a troupe of bees doing a dizzy dance of plenty around the fluffy branches.

PLUM TREE REDEMPTION

For most of the year the plum tree in our back yard is a nuisance. It hangs over the driveway and drops its seasonal debris on my car. In the fall the leaves drop. In the summer the tasteless plums drop or are thrown down by the squirrels. And at random times the raccoons break off a branch that lands on the car hood and causes a small dent or scratch. BUT for a few glorious days in the spring the tree completely redeems itself.

If we are really fortunate and the rain or wind don’t come at this time we are treated to a wonderful event, the tree in full bloom. The tree makes the yard smell divine and it looks like a giant party dress made of white lace.

 From my office window I have a special treat when the sun is setting. The light is warm gold on the top of the Oak behind the bright white plum. The pictures here are a feeble attempt to capture and share this moment.

So when the leaves fall and the sticky plums cover my car I remember these few days. It’s all worth it.

Weezer's Chocolate Sundae Pie

Chocolate Sundae Pie
This recipe is at least 60 years old and was often the dessert at special dinners of our family back in South Dakota. The Weezer refers to our mother, Louise.

1 cup evaporated milk

½ cup water

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

3 egg yolks

½ cup granulated sugar

1/8  teaspoon salt

1 Tablespoon gelatin

3 Tablespoons water

1 teaspoon vanilla

3 egg whites beaten stiff

1 cup sweetened whipped cream

¼ cup grated unsweetened chocolate

1 baked pie shell

Heat milk and water in double boiler with nutmeg.

Beat egg yolks, sugar and salt until light.

Pour hot milk over the egg mixture returning to double boiler and cook until the consistency of thick cream.

Remove from fire, add gelatin which has been soaked 5 minutes in cold water and vanilla and cool.

When cool and ready to set, fold in beaten egg whites.

Pour into baked pie shell.

Set in refrigerator.

When cold and set cover with whipped cream and grate on chocolate.

My garden takes care of me

Gardeners will understand the feeling behind this older piece from the Chronicle. The quote below is one of my favorites.

"When the world wearies, and society ceases to satisfy, there is always the Garden." 
—- Minnie Aumonier

Gardener feels grateful for her high-maintenance yard / Tending to nature soothes the soul

Susan DeMersseman, Special to The Chronicle

Published 4:00 am, Wednesday, September 24, 2003

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Some people want sprinkler systems, drip systems and drought tolerant -- even neglect-tolerant -- plants, but that's not the case with some of us. We like our high-maintenance yards. These yards often feel more like gardens in the way they provide for us. They are there whenever we need them -- with whatever we need.

I agree with other devoted gardeners who also observe the amazing timing a garden can have. When things seem complicated and chaotic, there is a bush that needs pruning into an orderly, more simple shape. When my children are ungrateful or annoying, I go into my garden and see that the bloom-booster I put on last week is already encouraging tiny buds. When my husband is busy and preoccupied, there is an area that needs me to spend some time and water it. When I have waited in vain for a letter from an editor, I come to the garden and find a new shoot on the cutting I'm trying to start. When I need to blow off steam there are bamboo leaves in the juniper hedge and I can whack them out with the broom. Or I can find a few big weeds to pull up and feel a sense of triumph.

The garden always seems to have just what I need -- a patch to mow, a hedge to trim. A place to clear my head and sometimes my heart. For all the time I spend on it, my garden should look like Versailles. But to me, it looks even more beautiful.

One evening my neighbor passed walking his dog as I pruned in the fading sunset. He barely stopped, but said, "When I die, I want to come back as a plant in your yard." I think he has seen how much I care for my garden. But I don't think anyone has seen how my garden has cared for me.

COMPOST SMOOTHIES? YUP.

My son recently helped me do my annual compost sifting. When, with pride, I showed him an apple with about 100 worms working on it he said, "Ya know , Mom, I think you're a lot more excited about that than most people would be." He may have been right, but please share this with other devoted gardeners. I think they'll understand.

Compost stirs up into rich 'smoothie'

 Susan DeMersseman

Published 4:00 am, Wednesday, May 14, 2003

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I used to feel a bit guilty putting all that great organic material down the garbage disposal. I often wished that I had a valve I could switch that would channel the perfectly ground-up material directly into a compost bin.

When I got the bin from our county, I started saving fruit and vegetable peels and other organic material in a bowl next to the sink. That worked fairly well, but the little neighborhood beasties were often so delighted with what went into the bin that I felt as if I was doing a raccoon smorgasbord each evening. And when the crowd at the smorgasbord got too big or too rowdy we had to listen to the horrible squeals of their arguments over that last tasty bit of watermelon rind or corncob.

The other problem was that some items seemed quite resistant to decomposition. It appeared that the remains of Thanksgiving dinner were still intact when we put in the remains from Easter dinner.

Then one day, as I looked at the bowl full of compostable goodies next to the blender, it hit me: compost smoothies! It solved my two composting obstacles and delighted my youngsters and their friends. After a cup or two of water, it almost didn't matter what else went in -- the coffee grounds with filter, eggshells, fruit and vegetable peels, dead potatoes and lint (all cotton) from the clothes dryer.

The kids and their friends loved to make it as "yucky" as possible. They shouted enthusiastically "Oh gross!" And the raccoons shouted "Oh darn!" (Guess they're not so fond of coffee-filter gazpacho.)

Poured over the leaves and grass clippings, it doesn't attract critters and it considerably speeds up decomposition.

The kids became experts, knowing just the right amount of water, paper and produce scraps. Their skill at creating compost smoothies has given them an appreciation of recycling and a greater investment in the garden.

The raccoons may not be happy but the earthworms are, and our compost is beautiful -- fine-textured and rich. Happy kids, happy plants and unhappy raccoons -- it's the perfect combination.

Here's the recipe:

-- Make sure to use enough water so that the motor on the blender is not straining.

-- Start slowly until you know what your blender can handle.

-- Cut large pieces or tough material into smaller pieces before putting in the blender.

-- Pour the smoothie evenly over the leaves and grass so that there aren't soggy spots in the compost.

-- Continue to turn the contents of the bin occasionally for aeration.