Scapes and Sales

It's a treacherous dip into crumb-crusted highchairs and snowman-themed flower arrangements. An errant earring here; a cracked Crock Pot there. But in and among the junk, there's beauty. An exquisite spatula, or an antique whiskey bottle (in my case, American Four Aces Rye Whiskey, made in Quebec). Moments of small glory. Moments offering a pleasure not unlike the warm tinge of an American whiskey. Or a Canadian one.

In other words, I've been getting into garage sales. Especially the country ones, where Ball jars and rusted plows and the occasional Casio keyboard are all spread out on a farmhouse lawn, awaiting the scrutiny of seriously shopping middle-aged women, classifieds tucked under their arms.

My bike kept me in city limits this morning, but I managed a couple good finds.
























An oddly intricate kitchen towel (or is it a wall hanging?) for a quarter, for one. I loved the conversation:

Seller: Oh, do you have a rooster kitchen?
Me: Uh, not really. I just thought it was cute.

Then there was the woman with fake pearls and slightly hideous rhinestones and pocket-watches. I scored a lovely orange necklace (plus one, yes one, matching earring) for a dollar.

And at the Farmers Market, not a garage sale but close enough, I stumbled upon some lovely garlic scapes — the green tendrils that sprout from the bulbs we pulse into our pesto and chimichurri. Sort of a hybrid asparagus-green bean-chive, they're a vegetable in their own right, begging to be steamed or sauteed. The flavor's way more mellow than garlic. The texture smooth and snappy. The color brilliant. They are, in a word, perfect.




















Plus, I just love their thin curlicue stalks. They evoke the mysterious interwoven vines of a mossy forest, or a fairy tale garden. But thanks to big-shot press in the New York Times and elsewhere, scapes are no longer a secret.

A half-pound of (organic, obviously) garlic scapes set me back $2.50. I could have bought like 15 beanie babies for that. But they were well worth it. Trimmed and tamed, I sauteed the scapes in olive oil and tossed them all into an egg-pesto concoction with broccoli and tomatoes. It was the perfect lunch — bright and fragrant but, to be honest, easy. Sale-ing offered enough strain for one day.

Garage Sale Saturday Green Eggs 'n Scapes

• 1/4 pound garlic scapes (only available spring/early summer, so hurry)
• 1 cup broccoli, florets and peeled stems
• 1/4 cup tomato
• 3 eggs
• splash of milk
• 1/4 cup pesto
• 1 T olive oil
• parmesan for sprinkling

Wash the scapes and cut off the pointy ends. Cut into 2-inch pieces and set aside. Trim broccoli into bite-sized pieces and chop the tomato.

Beat eggs with milk, pesto, salt and pepper. Set aside.

Heat oil in a skillet on high heat. Toss in scapes, along with a dash of salt, and cook 3-5 minutes, tossing occasionally, or until bright green and tender. Scoop onto a plate and set aside. Reheat skillet and add broccoli and a splash of water and salt. Cover and cook on medium-high heat for 3 minutes. Uncover and add tomatoes; cook another minute until water cooks off.

Add cooked scapes to other vegetables, reduce to medium heat. Stir in egg mixture. Cook, stirring frequently until eggs are almost set (but still a little runny). Turn off heat, stir in parmesan, and allow to sit for a minute. (If you're me, take a picture at this point).














Enjoy. Makes one big serving, or one regular-sized serving with some leftovers. This is nothing more than a template; you could add or remove vegetables, ham, bacon, or really anything, and I'm sure it'd be good. Maybe even scape-your-plate clean good.

(sorry)

On Ice Cream and Prehistoric Reptiles

I was frustrated. It was hot and the middle of the week, and there was no end in sight.

Only one thing cut through the haze: Ice cream.

It didn't seem too towering a request. This is, after all, a resort town, and in resort towns, ice cream flows in the same proportion as Bud Light does in a college town. So I weighed my options. There was the retro place down by the lake...too many screaming brats in the line. Then there was the frozen yogurt joint down the road....yogurt? Pshaw. I decided, after much pondering, on Byrne Dairy, which has been milking cows since 1933.

The place, which doubles as a convenience store, was loaded with celebratory kids (school ended yesterday) and tanned worker types buying cases of Coors. I saddled up to the ice cream counter to place my meager order.

Me: Can I have a small hot fudge malt?
Ice Cream Girl: Uh, like, a shake? (quizzical look)
Me: Uh, sure, whatever
ICG: And what do you mean, like put hot fudge in a shake?
Me: Uh, yeah.
ICG: (after consult with cigarette clerk) Oh, we can't do that.
Me: Fine, a chocolate shake is fine.

So she passed over the long-lusted-after dessert I didn't really order, and I paid. Then I took a sip.

Uh.

And one more, just to be sure.

Yep, it was disgusting. Gross, maybe, is more accurate. Or just plain bad. It had the consistency of slightly frozen milk, the flavor of chalk, and the distinct honor of being so exquisitely boring, I couldn't stomach it.

I tossed it, barely drunk, atop a pile of shingles in a dumpster.

When it comes to ice cream, I can stomach very nearly anything. In fact, on summer vacations as a kid, I convinced my parents to fill my mini hands with an ice cream cone each and every day. More often than not, the cones came after days spent excavating dinosaur bones in South Dakota or Utah. Along with the bones, we would find gastroliths, rocks polished over years spent in the bellies of the beasts. Some dinosaurs, apparently, would swallow the stones to help break down tough plants. Long after T-Rex croaked, these remnants remain, with all the shine of sea glass.

The fact they got that way thanks to dino-sized stomach acid only makes them more appealing.

So one cloudless day, we were traversing the barren desert per usual when, in a stroke of genius, I proclaimed my own digestive deficiency. Like the dinosaurs before me, I, too, needed digestive assistance. But stones wouldn't do for a little girl sunburned like a Red Snapper. I needed ice cream.

My ice cream stones kept everything copasetic that summer, and many summers after. Until my fated failure in Canandaigua, of course. The not-a-malt was disappointing, to be sure. But when a critical bearer of life functioning fails, I can't just give up. So back I will go into the realm of the iced unknown. Unlike my scaley friends, I'm not waiting for extinction to prove the importance of a well-stoned diet.

To Fill a Sunday with Jam

I never even considered it.

Canning takes science, and precision, and at least 45 years of age. Or so I thought. It's strawberry season, and the U-Pick farms have been beckoning me with their $1.75/quart prices and general wholesomeness for weeks now. And as it turns out that, despite my scientific and aged-related failings, I, too, can make jam.















Lazy New Yorkers get their berries from roadside stands, where you stick a couple dollars in a jar and take a few flats of strawberries. They run on the honor system. Seriously. The honor system.

But as quaint as that is, picking your own probably tops it. Not to mention, I have far too much free time to buy them pre-picked. So there I was, squatting in awkward positions and swatting gnats and generally suffering for the better part of an hour at the farm, located just outside of town. To be fair, the little crimson jems nearly fell off their stalks, occasionally oozing into my hands with alarming bloodiness. And the thrill of inhaling fresh strawberries all the while tempered the strife.















So, my arms laden with Ball jars and strawberries, I ventured into the domain of grandmothers (great-grandfathers, in my case). And wow. Canning is apparently a well-kept secret of old age.
Though, maybe, a little time-consuming:

- 45 minutes to pick six quarts of strawberries from my local "U-pick" farm
- 15 minutes to decide which 5-quart pans to buy
- 20 minutes to find Ball jars in (shame) Wal-Mart
- 45 minutes to hull said six quarts of strawberries
- 15 minutes to cook them into red sludge
- 1 minute of anxious waiting before the lids popped
- 20 seconds to spread jam onto toasted bread
- 5 seconds to realize it's way better than that Amish crap

As for the cooking and "processing," it was sweaty. And a little scary. All these boil points and pectin measurements and things to be done "immediately." But it turns out, a little fumbling is OK. And my strawberries went from glistening specimens to mushed goop to exquisite jars of jam, without any witchcraft or grandmas (just a little Sure-Jell).




















I can't wait for peach season.