Ohlone Trail, pt 3

I knew there was a lot of drip drip going on outside my tent. But I was lying there enjoying how much warmer I was than I had been the night before. And the fly was huge enough draped over the tent to ensure that I stayed dry. The heavy mists and fogs had rolled in the previous night and damped everything. I had worn my raincoat playing cards and drinking decaff tea the night before to keep dry. In a smart preparatory move, I had brought a big black garbage bag along, and had pulled it over my pack. When I peeked out, I could tell that most of the moisture had fallen at once last night, but the fog had settled in.

Melinda was also stirring. Self-sacrificing, I offered to fetch the stove and stuff so we could have breakfast in bed. (OK, so I had to get up anyway.) We had coffee and oatmeal while cozied up in our bags at the doors of our tents.

While my 2cnd hand tent is big and sprawling, and droopy-looking with the fly on it, Melinda’s clever little tent is cute and compact. It is truly a thing to envy.

We didn’t hear much from the male-bonding group with their illegal bonfire, or the from the two women and their illegal dog who had been hanging out at our camp when we arrived. (They were enjoying the picnic table when we arrived, but we knew their camp must be one of the other ones because they had no gear with them.) But now I had to face my familiar discombobulation: that of filtering my water from the tap without having the extra Nalgene for the “dirty water.” The night before I had used my small dry-bag to fill with water to pump from. This morning I used Melinda’s little plastic “sink” that was also the bag for her cooking pot. This time I used a stylus in my mind’s eye, “Bring extra Nalgene next time!”

As we began tidying up our things, we both sighed at the prospect of a gray day. The fog was pretty, with the pale sun shining through dim areas overhead, but gray is gray, and we were remembering the yellow glow of the previous afternoon sun that had kept us in good brain health. Then, even as I was watching, it was as if a giant gauze curtain was being swept back. A very light breeze was moving the fog out.

In less than a minute, our invisible surroundings gave way to a view, a sunny view! I had never seen fog clear that fast. But that is probably because I am used to Tule fog that comes in and doesn’t budge for 2 weeks.

We had another creek-crossing to do. This was a place that would have been lovely for a picnic.

When I cross a creek, I always think, Oh Dear, what if I fell in? And then I slap that thought with another one, I CAN’T fall in; it would be a disaster! I try never to forget that I’ve got a big weight on my back that can unbalance me in a second if I am not aware of each step I take.

As we climbed up and down over the grassy pastures and scrub, I saw a lake off in the distance. I still can’t tell what it was but it was pretty.

We’d been following the map and the trail markers with not much difficulty up until now. But we came to a fork in the road that was very ambiguous. We stopped. Looked up the one. Looked down the other. To Melinda’s annoyance I was moved to poetry.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and, sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood, and looked down the one as long as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth.”
“Ha! Enough of that! This is not on the map. Which one should we take?”

We discussed the situation the pros and cons of each one. She thought we should take the upper one because we still needed to gain a little elevation to reach the next signpost. I thought we should take the upper one because the lower one had a small branch laid across it, as if someone had placed it there to say, this isn’t the right one.

The upper trail was brushy and leafy, and we hiked for about 20 minutes before we were sure we’d picked the correct one. And then, with relief, we came upon the next signpost.

As we walked along, we began to meet groups of day-hikers. Civilization was near. Melinda’s favorite topic began to come up more often.

“I sure hope Los Vaqueros is open! It had better be! I’ve been looking forward to going by there for our post-trip meal ever since we started!” Indeed, I was also beginning to fantasize about the stuffed shrimp appetizers at Los Vaqueros. The reward ahead was driving our aching and tired muscles onward.

We met a couple of guys at one of the last gates. They looked admiringly at our backpacks.

“You guys stayed out overnight?”

We nodded. “Two nights. We started at Del Valle.”

“Hey! You look great after that hike!”

We grinned foolishly, flattered. And missed our little turn on the main trail, finding ourselves on the Indian Joe Nature hike with interpretive signs on various formations and vegetation. Just a little detour to pay for getting our heads turned.

Finally, the end of the trail.

It was a Sunday and lots of families were enjoying the sunshine, hiking and picnicking. The parking lot where Melinda’s truck was waiting was a very different sight from the deserted, cold afternoon when we had left it. To complete the experience, we had to sign the check-out sheet.

Yes, I was tired and ready to be done, but there was a part of me that was not worn out yet. I knew that if we had to hike the last leg of the trail, I could do it. Even though the previous two days had been the hardest physical event I had ever put my body through, I still had some left over the next day. I was sort of amazed at how much I was really capable of.

But—Los Vaqueros was waiting!

We still had to drive back and pick up my truck. An hour into our hike, I had remembered that I had left the camper shell windows open and had forgotten to close them before we struck out. I had two brief thoughts; someone would slit the screen, climb in and steal my stuff; and it would rain, wind blowing the moisture into the back and wet all my stuff. I had then put it out of my head. We couldn’t go back, and I did not want to worry about it for 2 days. Happily, I found that all was well with the camper. We zoomed off to Livermore for the best Mexican restaurant in California.

Even though I knew we could never eat it all, we HAD to order the most popular appetizer. Breaded jumbo white tiger shrimp, stuffed with cheese, wrapped in bacon, topped with a chipotle sauce, nestled by greens topped with guacamole. A good choice for 4 people, the two of us made short work of it. I asked for recommendations for exotic flavors and ordered the Thai Fish Taco. Melinda had some kind of burrito. Everything was as excellent as we had remembered!

We had to go back to our regular lives then, but already mentally planning the next backpacking adventure!

And now, I must mention the little backpacking diary Melinda gave me at the start of the trip. Have you ever turned two pages at once accidentally in a blank-page book? I did on this, several times. So I had to go back and fill them with SOMETHING!

Cauliflower Pickles

I whipped up the loveliest pickles last night. Cauliflower pickles. I really like those things, but they are expensive, and I don't like some of the other stuff in the jar with them.

Another factor is that they are low on calories. I've been a maniac lately, rummaging through the pantry for non-existant snacks.

I happened to have a new snowy-white cauliflower in the 'fridge and didn't feel like just steaming it. I am sure there are recipes a'plenty on the web, but I thought I'd just wing it.





I've been going through my spice drawer, and came across a can of pickling spices I'd gotten when I thought I'd make cucumber pickles a long while back. I set them aside and pulled out the jug of white vinegar. I decided to blanch the flower because I didn't want it too raw-ish. I cut and broke the florets apart and let them freely boil for 2 minutes, then dipped them out. I boiled up 2 cups of white vinegar with 1/4 cup water.





I added 1 tablespoon of the pickling spice, and I think about a tablespoon and a half of kosher salt. I gave a generous shake of red pepper flakes and dropped a couple cloves of garlic in. I poured the hot brine mixture over the cauliflower and after while, stuck it in the 'fridge.





It worked! They taste good. In fact, Tristan even ate one. He thought it was a little vinegary, but he actually ate the whole piece. (Of course, I was intensely observing him, so that might have made a little difference.)

Ohlone Trail, Pt 2

When I was planning and packing for the Ohlone Trail backpacking trip, I had to consider two major factors: comfort and weight. Unfortunately, these two can work at cross-purposes. I hold up for your attention the Thermarest Luxury Camp Sleeping Pad. I was delighted to discover Thermarest several years ago, to the point of tossing aside all my other ineffectual air mattresses and roll-up pads for camping. When you take this thing out of its little sack, release the valve and shake it out, it plumps up into the nicest, cushiest mattress. But it also weighs about 3 ½ pounds. That was why I was agonizing over my pile of stuff. My tent weighed about 3 ½ pounds. My sleeping bag weighed about 3 pounds. My pack weighed about 3 ½ pounds (empty). I imagined myself crapping out on the trail, all for the extra weight of my Thermarest. There was nothing else I could sacrifice, so I stuck it in the closet and took my cheap, LIGHT, blue backpacking pad.

So that was why I was a wee bit chilly my first night at Stewart’s Camp. I could feel the cold seeping up from below. I had Little Hotties Hand Warmers stuck next to my cheeks between my silk long johns and my Polartec pants. I had a couple shoved in my waistband and some in my pockets. I never got cold enough for despair, though. And the trail must have been sufficiently traumatic because I never regretted not bringing my luxury mattress. And the trouble with going to bed early is that the night then becomes very very long.

We were up at first light. Breakfast was oats with trail mix stirred in and coffee. And then came the first chore, purifying water for my Camelbak.

My pump is a Katadyn Pro Hiker. I’d practiced with it before I left, and pumped some on our first day, but I was still getting used to managing all those hoses and stuff. And all the while, desperately trying to keep the “clean” hose ends from getting anywhere near the “dirty” hose ends. I could imagine the little giardias crawling around like ticks on the dirty hose-end just waiting to infect my clean hose, and then me.

You may wonder, what is she thinking here? She is thinking, “Why the blankety-blank didn’t I bring that extra Nalgene bottle to pump dirty water out of?

I made some changes to my packout, namely, I rolled my tent up inside my sleeping pad. That gave me one less thing to lash on to the outside of my pack. But it was frustrating enough that I admitted to Melinda, “I have decided to consider, just consider! maybe having a look at internal frame packs.” She smiled at me smugly as she preened, all ready to go. “Did you happen to notice that I’m all packed up to go, and you’re still all spread out lashing things to your … uh, “pack?” Grrr! Suddenly I felt loyal to old Greenie, but that didn’t stop the fantasy of imagining new packs to shop for when I got back.

Gotta admit, it looks better than yesterday!

As we climbed the switchbacks, getting out of the shadow of the mountain, the footing was quite icy. Puddles in the wide trail had frozen solid. I knew the tread on my shoes was marginal, so I carefully walked at the edges of the trail where there were frozen clods and weed stubble. Melinda was more bold. With good tread and a stick in one hand, she boldly went forth, skittering a few times, but recovering. Until she didn’t. I knew I couldn’t do anything about it, so I just watched it unfold. First a little backwards sliding, some arm maneuvers, and then I knew she was going to go down. It was inevitable. For a brief moment she looked like a slow-motion figure skater and then did a careful “emergency dismount.” I allowed myself the briefest chuckle, since it was likely the only one I might get on the trip. But I think we both spent the next quarter mile imagining the trauma of slithering right off the side of the trail. It also made me think about my sleeping bag squirting out of its lashings again and falling off the side of the trail. Shudder!

We experienced something new this day, going downhill. At first it was fun. It was novel. But then two things happened. Melinda had the topo map and realized that for all the downhill we did, we would have to make it up with an equal uphill. Yikes! And I also realized how uncomfortable going downhill can be.

Not long after we had started the hike, and were already on our second rest break, with the start of the trail still in view, Melinda shared a tip she had read about, called “resting while you climb.” The way it goes is, instead of putting out steady effort and then stopping to rest and stiffening up, you take advantage of the moment of maximum rest –when both feet are on the ground and hesitate just a bit before pushing off again. It looks pretty weird, but it worked miracles! We could actually carry on conversation while we hiked up and although it was slow, I think we made as good time as the regular style walking.

But it was hard to find a comfortable way to go downhill. Strange muscles began to hurt, and I wished I had thicker socks so my feet wouldn’t jam into the ends of my shoes and rub my toes.

The land around us was starting to change. We had hiked through mixed oak and conifers, with mossy streams and lots of undergrowth, and now we were moving into grassy, oak-studded rolling hills. A slight misty air softened the far-off contours of the landscape, and the low winter sun lent a mystical sensation to the view. Not for the first time, I felt like we were hobbits, traipsing through the wilderness. I felt a kinship with Sam, all his pots and pans and crap tied to the outside of his pack, clanking and swaying.

At the last minute, we agreed that we had a perfectly good view to the west right there on the trail, that we didn’t need to climb that extra loop to get to the top of Rose Peak.

This was where we met the first person we had seen on the entire trail, a day hiker.

Though it was still the middle of the day, we were becoming anxious about reaching our campsite before dark. Melinda was keeping track of the mileage we still needed, compulsively pulling the map out every 15 minutes to read it, which allowed me to carry on blissfully. She was worrying enough for both of us.

It was a funny thing about our lunch stop. We had agreed to walk another 20 minutes, but coming around a corner, the trail looked like it went straight up after a short level space. We gasped and then agreed, “It’s lunch time!” I went through the whole thing with my pack again. Just pulling it off and dropping it made things start coming apart. I dug out my food sack and sat amidst the chaos while Melinda neatly removed what she needed from her upright stationary pack. The day before, we had summer sausage, cheese, and trail mix for lunch. Today we heated up tuna, cheese and boil-in-a-bag rice. Of course that took longer and made for more clean-up, so we were really anxious to get on the road.

Now it was time to put on my pack. I couldn’t believe how heavy it still was! There wasn’t a good place to get a grip on it. There was no handy log to rest it on while I slithered in to the straps. I finally got one side lifted to one shoulder and was stuck. Melinda just stood there, obeying our mostly unspoken rule that we had to pretend “What if I’m here all by myself?” I’m sure I was jerking and waving my arm around when, Horrors! The day-hiker appeared on the trail.

“Can I help?”

“No thanks! I’m self-sufficient!” I think I said. I put forth a massive effort and shifted it onto my back. He had an amused look on his face as he went on by.

Now here’s the strange thing about our lunch stop. We were already near the top of the slope of the trail before we realized it was the same slope that had demoralized us before lunch. Just goes to show how being tired can mess with your state of mind!

The terrain continued to change as we lowered in elevation. We passed through cow pastures on cow trails. We went up, then down, up, down, repeat. It got later and the sun got lower. Would be arrive at the camp before dark?

And then, there it was. There were 5 little camping spots, just out of view from each other. They had cute names, like Eagle’s Aerie, and Hawk’s Nest. We could see a male bonding group up at Eagle’s Aerie, throwing wood on a forbidden bonfire. We chose Hawk’s nest, which seemed most convenient to the water supply and, in the other direction, the outhouse.

We gratefully started piling our stuff on the picnic table, an unexpected bonus. Melinda felt the need to excuse herself from enforcing the “picnic table rule,” which means ignoring picnic tables because you shouldn’t expect them to be there at a backpacking camp.

I think she mumbled something about us being tired and that it was sort of like putting the stuff on the ground.

Tonight was a little warmer than the previous night, but a fog was falling. I wore my raincoat for a little extra dry warmth. We prepared a most delicious dinner, chicken tortilla soup and instant potatoes, made some hot tea, took some ibuprofen, and played a hand of Siberian Rummy.

It was still early, about 7:30 or 8, but it was cold, we were tired, and our sleeping bags were inviting us in.

As before, it was a quiet night. Thank goodness! I don’t know how I could have stood it to hear animal noises and rustlings and odd howlings. The only noises were from the jets overhead, as we seemed to be in a flyover zone. But that faded away as the night wore on. Melinda tells me that I was talking in my sleep, but since I didn’t hear it, I’m skeptical.

Ohlone Trail, pt 1

January 7, 2011, about 8 p.m. I’m lying on a thin, cheap backpacking pad inside a small green tent sloped a few degrees (feet down-head up). It’s got to be below freezing out there, and I’m wondering, “What the heck am I doing here IN THE WINTER!” The answer is simple, Melinda. And the way she can make anything sound reasonable and fun. The thing is, it is fun. Maybe not entirely reasonable, but definitely fun!

Melinda had hiked part of the Ohlone Trail (near Livermore) before and wanted to do a longer version for her birthday treat, which explains why we were there in January.

This is what I’ve been training for! I thought. Hey, I climbed halfway to Pike’s Peak, for goodness sake! She warned me it was rated the highest points for difficulty, and Bethany raised her eyebrows at me and asked, “Do you have any idea how steep the trails are?” But in my eternal and inherent optimism, I knew I could do it.

Actually, I did have some doubts a couple days before I drove over there. I had an unusual feeling and finally identified it –fear. I dissected the fear and found that I was afraid of a) being too cold to happily live, and b) that I would crap out and be unable to handle it. The first thing I thought of as a solution was, Can I throw money at this problem and help it? So the next morning I drove up to R.E.I.

I bought the most extravagant pair of cozy sleeping pants. They are light as a tissue, fuzzy on the inside and smooth on the outside. Nice flat seams looked very comfortable. And expensive. But I figured if I were lying there freezing I’d be willing to do ANYTHING to be warm.

On Thursday, we met up at Bass Pro Shop in Manteca, and then drove over to Sunol. We had to get to the Sunol Headquarters and drop off Melinda’s truck before they closed up at 5pm. This was where we planned on ending hike; someday we’ll carry on and do the last leg through the Mission Peak area. A portent of things to come: the place was very deserted. We paid the parking fee, and left for Del Valle in Livermore in my truck.

The plan was to camp overnight at the campground near the trailhead and be ready to start bright and early the next morning. But unexpected things kept happening, like the kiosk not being manned. This place is not one to accept squatters, so we HAD to find a way to be legitimate. We drove down to the campground and beheld the second portent: a gate across the entrance. I parked and we walked down to the camp host to bother them and see what was up. Melinda had checked, and half the campground was SUPPOSED to be open. But what the host told us, while still chewing her dinner and probably wanting to get back to her TV show we could hear in the background, was that the part that should have been open wasn’t because the creek was too high.

As we drove back out of the park toward Livermore, I was already reviewing options. Hotel room? No. Too expensive for just a place to crash. (If you haven’t already, you should read my blog on cheap wine to understand my thrifty nature.) Option 2: America’s Campground. Every city has one. Smooth, level parking, free, easy to find, and a camp store to die for. You guessed it, Walmart! We would sleep in the back of my camper shell. We told Alec, the gps to find us the closest WalCampMart. Twenty minutes later, while Melinda was falling to upon a Subway Philly Steak handily located in the big blue store, we discussed our remaining options. This Walmart closed at 11pm, and there were more strange (creepy) people hanging about than I prefer, so it did not seem prudent to go boondocking here.

As we cruised down the boulevard, pondering option 3, it appeared before our eyes. A huge Lucky Supermarket in a large well-stocked (translate: Starbucks) well-lit lot with a Park and Ride section. And a motor home already in residence to sidle up to. After parking and trying several spots, we found one that suited and began to make our nest. Cozy comforter, pillow, bottle of wine… I slept like a baby.

Although our plans from the night before had valiantly included driving to the trail head early and cooking omelets over the camp stove, we relented and went into Starbucks for coffees and breakfast sandwiches.

In a great mood, we drove yet again to the Del Valle trailhead. This time there was an attendant at the kiosk to take our money and give us the map. We had the huge parking lot all to ourselves and a stellars jay. Our packs were sort of “ready to go.” I had left to attaching of the sleeping pad, sleeping bag and tent till Melinda, the expert, could tell me how to do it. Unfortunately, my trust was misplaced and I just lashed them all on the best I could, figuring I’d learn as I went.

I was more fortunate than Melinda, easily finishing my preparations, while she spent most of the time doubled over in laughter since she could see what I could not –the back of me.

(Yes, I know it looks like a hammerhead shark, darn you!)

I’d been warned the trail was steep, and my oh my! It started out right away, up up up. I got into a routine. Climb for a half hour, reward myself with a chunk of See’s peanut brittle, rinse and repeat. The trail was ruggedly beautiful. The views were pretty and of that foothill terrain that I love so much.

At lunchtime, I had to practically disassemble my packout to get what I wanted. But I had the chance to improve the assemblage, so not all bad. At least I thought. But that was until Schlepers Rock.

Up a long stretch; behind me was a straight steep trail. We took some pictures of each other, sort of bumping packs. Apparently my sleeping bag took one too many bumps and popped out of its lashing! (cheap Walmart lashing!) Like a happy log it began to tumble down the trail. I wailed, “Noooo! Come baaaaack!” as I ran down after it. I stabbed my walking stick at it, running past it before I could come to a stop. Again, I was the fortunate one who still had some strength, unlike Melinda who was again doubled over with laughter.

We had been confident that we would arrive at the camping area, Stewarts Camp, before dark, but the sun was low in the sky, and we still marched on. Now we were in the shadow of the mountain and leftover ice appeared in patches beside and on the trail. So many times, I thought we were “almost there!” that when we really were almost there, I couldn’t get excited at first. It was 4:30pm, almost dark, and we rehearsed our plan as we walked in. First get the tents up (really unpleasant to do in the dark!), then get our camp shoes and warm pants on, then make up some dinner.

We were so alone. It was so dark. I would have kicked back with a hot drink and meditated awhile, but it was also so cold, that we went to bed way early. We managed to wait until about 8pm before we gave in and hit the hay. I have to admit, I was jealous of Melinda’s tent. It was so cute, and all the poles, strings and loops were color coordinated and reflective. But mine was fine, and I stayed warm enough. Especially with my REI cozy pants and the red watch cap I had knitted.

I was happy with our day. I felt strong and capable. I was looking forward to a good night and a bright morning.

Not your childhood oatmeal

Melinda here from “Boots and Saddles” for a decidedly “non-horsey” topic.

Oatmeal.

Specifically, the best bowl of oatmeal I’ve ever had in my life.

Which is sayin’ something – I’ve eaten a LOT of oatmeal.

It started with a birthday present from my mom – a cookbook that looked a bit “new-agey” to me (my standard cook book is the plaid Better Homes & Gardens…..) but approached the idea of putting together meals in a way that was downright inspiring.

I was intrigued by the banana and peanut butter oatmeal. Mmmm…..Dried fruits yes, and even fresh of the “right variety”, but as much as I loved peanut butter and bananas together, I had never imagined actually putting the two in my beloved hot cereal dish.

Of course the authors of the cook book had saved the most startling variations for the side bar. Like, let’s say – oatmeal with scallions, soysauce, and a fried egg.

Really????? You have to be kidding me!

But nope – the authors even say “trust us on this one”.

So I cooked up a big bowl of Scottish style oats, and then with some trepidation, added some chopped green onion.

As I licked my fingers (you can do that when you are single and cooking for yourself you know!) I got the taste of the green onions and oats together and it was surprisingly addicting.

In fact, it was good enough that I DID begin to trust the authors, and when it came time for the soy sauce, I didn’t skimp. The soysauce went on top of the oat and onion mixture, after it was in the bowl.

Finally I plopped the egg that had been frying on an adjacent burner on top of the concoction.

Finally *I* plopped down in a chair and dug a spoon in.

What can I say? Except absolutely incredible! And far more so for being unexpected. I’m not sure I’ll ever eat oatmeal with fruit again! I feel like the person who had pumpkin as a squash for dinner everynight, and then discovered there was pumpkin pie – a totally radical shift in thinking.

Have you tried savory oatmeal? I hear it’s all the rage….but being a nonconformist (or so I’ve been told) I’m not exactly “hip” on the trends. Anyone have some favorite combinations?

Christmas, The Most Delicious Time of the Year!

Holidays are always good for spending a few extra hours in the kitchen, and spending them cheerfully to create those wonderful, special dishes that we cannot justify the costs of, the calories in, or the time spent in creating and eating them during the rest of the year. Nay! You’ll be a Scrooge if you turn down that second piece of pumpkin cheesecake that comes around; you’ll be a Grinch if you don’t set out something warming for the frost-nipped guests. And besides, isn’t that what New Year’s Resolutions are for, to try to mitigate Christmas Feasts?

I thought it would be fun to go through some popular Christmas songs that mention feast foods and find out more about these treats. I was quite surprised at how few turned up, but doing the research on the songs that did specify a feast food got me all fired up to do some experimenting and some sampling. Let’s start…

Egg Nog
I’m sort of fond of egg nog. That is, I do like custard, and I do enjoy rum in appropriate circumstances. It just always seems a little too… well, too sweet, or too thick, or too rummy, or not rummy enough. I think if I had just the right recipe, it might work for me. The song that validates egg nog’s place in my list is that beloved hymn “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.”

“She’d been drinkin’ too much egg nog
And we’d begged her not to go
But she’d left her medication
So she stumbled out the door into the snow.”

Two different stories tell how “egg nog” was named; that the small carved wooden mug used to serve alcohol, a “noggin,” lent its name to the drink; and that it was derived from “egg and grog,” a common Colonial term for the drink, eventually shortened to “egg’n’grog,” then “eggnog.” The ingredients were expensive in England; without refrigeration, milk was a rare drink, and those who could get milk and eggs to make egg nog mixed it with brandy, Madeira, or sherry. Then egg nog came to the English colonies during the 18th century, and that’s where the rum came in. Brandy and wine were heavily taxed, and rum from the Caribbean was a cost-effective substitute. Later, domestic whiskey, and bourbon in particular became a popular addition.

Now, for some of us, the icky part about traditional egg nog is not the milk, sugar or spices, and definitely not the spirits, but the raw eggs. Thankfully, the FDA, in its benevolent concern for our health has come to the rescue and changed the official definition of egg nog so that it no longer needs have any egg in it at all. In fact it needn’t have any milk in it either. Perhaps we should all just have a glass of spiced rum and call it “egg nog.”

Pumpkin Pie
From “Sleigh Ride”

‘There’s a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy
When they pass around the coffee and the pumpkin pie”

In my opinion, there are a lot of two-syllable pie species that can make me happier than pump-kin. Such as cher-ry, ap-ple, chok-lit, and pe-ach. It’s a vegetable, and I respect it for its carotene, but truthfully, it goes down easier with a big dollop of whipped cream. But lots of people find bliss there, so I guess we should ask, how long has it been around? Quite awhile. It was around in Colonial America, though baked in its own shell instead of in a pastry crust. In 1796 the first cookbook that developed recipes for foods native to America, by Amelia Simmons, was published. Her pumpkin pies were baked in a crust similar to present day pies. I like her brevity.

“Pompkin Pudding No. 2. One quart of milk, 1 pint pumpkin, 4 eggs, molasses, allspice and ginger in a crust, bake 1 hour.”

I can just imagine what she’s thinking; If you can’t take it from here, then you don’t deserve to wear an apron!

Figgy Pudding
Christmas puddings are just strange to Americans. It is hard for me to imagine why one would stir up a bowl of crumbs, animal fat, dried fruit, booze, and treacle (def: molasses, esp. that which is drained from the vats used in sugar refining. Gak! The dregs!), tie it up in a tea towel, boil or steam it for half a day, and call it a holiday treat. But nonetheless, we are admonished in “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” to:

“Bring us some figgy pudding…
We won’t go until we get some…
So bring it RIGHT NOW!”

According to Wikipedia, figgy pudding resembles something like a white Christmas pudding containing figs and blended with a custard. Along with treacle, one of the main ingredients is suet. Suet is a form of fat found near an animal’s kidneys. Anyone who would eat steak and kidney pie would also probably eat Figgy Pudding. Many traditional figgy pudding recipes also call for liqueurs such as cognac or rum. Since we are already having rum, also known as “egg nog,” then I vote for cognac. And let’s just call it good there.

Roasted Chestnuts.
Ooooh, they sound so good! I love nuts!

“Chestnuts roasting by the open fire…”

Of all the covers of “The Christmas Song,” I think Nat King Cole does it best.

So one Christmas, I decided my kids should experience chestnuts roasted by the open fire for part of their general education. I bought a little sack of them at the grocery store, and we slit little x’s on the top, so they would not go “Pop Pop Pop!” like another Christmas song. We did everything just like the instructions said and then, with great anticipation to see what the fuss was all about, peeled them and tried them. I was underwhelmed, and then finally my young daughter put a name to it.

“They taste like beans.” She was right.

So, if someone wants to prove it to me that they are worth trying again, feel free to offer me a small sample and I’ll try to be objective.

Sugar Plums
Technically, I couldn’t find a song with sugar plums, but since “The Night Before Christmas” (aka A Visit From St. Nicholas) has visions of them dancing in the little tyke’s heads, and “The Nutcracker Suite” features the Sugar Plum Fairy, every little budding ballerina’s dream role, I thought I could slip them in.

According to Wikipedia, sugar plums are dragees, a form of candy that can be used for decorative or symbolic purposes in addition to consumption. “Plum” doesn’t mean they had plums in them; at one time “plum” was used to denote any dried fruit.

Combine chopped, dried fruit, chopped almonds, honey and aromatic spices, such as anise, fennel, caraway and cardamom. Roll into balls and coat with sugar or coconut. And just because that seems a little strange to us, it doesn’t give you permission to buy plum-flavored, plum-shaped candies made by candy manufacturers marketed as “sugar plum candy.”

Wassail
Now this one sounds quite capital! When I was a kid, we learned the English song “Here We Come a’Caroling” in choir. Later I found out it is really called “Here We Come a’Wassailing.”

“Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green;
“Here we come a-wand’ring so fair to be seen…”

Wassail can be a salutation or toast to someone’s health or as an expression of goodwill at a festivity; it can be the drink used in such toasting, commonly spiced ale or wine; it can be a festivity characterized by much drinking. In Merry Old England, wassail made the holidays all the more festive, but many could simply not afford the cost of the ingredients. Apparently, carolers soon found out that if they went door to door singing, they were often invited in for a cup of hot wassail. So simply singing for its own reward gradually changed to “wassailing,” singing in anticipation of a nice shot.

Frankly, I’ve never been offered a cup of wassail for participating in a caroling session, but maybe those folks benefitting from our melodious chimes just didn’t know the rules. In any case, I’ve found a likely recipe I’m going to try, just in case some ambitious wassailers make it out this way.

And if they don’t, ah well, it’ll be a lovely cold winter’s night for me!

A New Brew in Yuba City!

There’s a new brew in town, boys and girls, and I’m proud to say that I enjoyed a pint of the very first day’s offering.

Sutter Buttes Brewing Company in Yuba City, CA had what they called a “soft opening” today. I’ve had my eye on the place ever since I heard that a new brewpub in Yuba City was actually getting ready to open. Getting a handcrafted ale from a local brewer is the best way to enjoy beer. But the Yuba-Sutter area has had, up till now, nothing to offer like that.

So I picked my daughter up from school and spirited her over the bridge to Center Street, just off Plumas to the attractive little storefront with the big street view windows and marked with the logo sign of Sutter Buttes Brewing. No one familiar with the area could miss the iconic Yuba City water tower highlighting the sign artwork. Standing just inside the door, a young woman in black greeted us. “Welcome!”

About ten wooden four-seater tables were arranged in the floor space, and a long bar filled with customers faced the gleaming stainless steel tanks along the wall. Several other black-clad staff were moving around behind the bar taking orders, figuring out the cash register, drawing beer and trying to answer questions.

On tap today was a bold Irish Red ale, the first Sutter Buttes-made beverage for sale. I inquired about any other beers available, and found a taster of pale ale in front of me on the copper-clad section of the low bar where I chose to sit. I found out that, to ensure more visitors could find something to their liking, they were carrying another brewery’s pale ale, “Bent Knife,” and a hard cider. But I was here to taste the local, so my daughter and I asked for a pint each of the red.

I was hoping enough to like it that I knew I would be very forgiving if it wasn’t quite up to my usual standards. But with great pleasure, I found that I didn’t have to make any excuses for this beer. It was excellent! Deep red, the flavor was as rich as the color, but hopped up enough to please any IPA fan. It had a good medium body, thirst quenching, but not thin. I also liked the level of carbonation. Nice and sparkly without being gassy. I took a long time over this pint; we ordered a plate of the fries to enjoy with the last half of the glass.

The final test for me is always in the last inch. As the ale warms and goes flat, does the flavor go flat also? That’s important to me, since I always linger over my drink. This one didn’t disappoint, I’m happy to say. If anything, the complexity of the brew became more pronounced and interesting as it warmed.

I’m looking forward to see what’s new as this business gets going into full swing. The fries were great, and if the rest of the food is like them, I’m sure I’ll be eating some meals there too. They serve lunch and dinner. The brewer told me they expect their growler program to be up and running in about a month and a half.

Of course, the hard part was coming home and telling my husband that we has gone and checked the place out without him. But I'm sure I’ll be bringing him with me when they get their IPA ready!