Lemon Curd

You may have heard that Melinda has just been accepted into UC Davis Veterinary School for this fall. More than a couple of corks were popped, but as long as there is inspiration, there is celebration. She was going to be up here this last weekend and wanted to share a customized celebration with Bethany, Tristan and me. After a few hours of brain-wracking, we both had a eureka moment at about 10pm that night---A Jane Eyre party!

We are all fond of the book Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte, and I am especially fond of seeking out all the movie versions that have been of that gothic novel. Melinda just finished listening to the Librovox audio version and was enthusiastic about the theme party. Her offering was a bottle of Robert Mondavi Napa Valley Cab. The time was set for Saturday, 9am. That seemed a bit early for wine, but figured I could easily work it in as the party progressed.

Tea. If you are going to have a book or movie party based on the work of a famous dead English novelist, you must be prepared to go through a fair amount of hot tea. It must be served from a silver-plated or china teapot into teacups WITH saucers. And even though Americans drink it black, milk and sugar must be available in little serving pieces with little spoons. If you have ever watched the very long and complete BBC version of Jane Eyre starring Timothy Dalton, you will know that every time an emotional or taxing moment occurs (and there are many), someone, usually Mrs. Fairfax, hauls the tea tray out and offers it around. Of course, only a sip is taken, or the lips are wetted before the tea does its job and everyone feels restored. When we had watched it a few years ago, we were not so reticent, and kept the tea coming, ensuring plenty of “Loo Breaks.”

Scones. No question, scones were required. Americans leave out the egg and call it a biscuit, but if you call it a scone, it is very English and is just right for this type of party. Lately, I’ve been trying very hard to eliminate simple carbohydrates, such as sugar, white rice, white flour, etc from my pantry. I knew I had enough whole wheat flour, but decided to stop by the grocery on my way home and get a small bag of white flour to make the scones.

At the very last moment, I turned the wheel the other way, and I committed to whole wheat. With enough butter and tender care in making them, they surely would be good enough for the party! I added lemon extract to the scone dough, and baked them at 400 so they would bake fast and have a nice toasty crust. I made a glaze of powdered sugar and lemon juice to drizzle over the top. A small shake of salt in the glaze seems to make the cornstarch flavor less noticeable. I was very pleased with the end result; crusty, tender inside, lightly sweetened and a tangy lemon finish.

(Just in case you want to try it…)
Whole Wheat Scones
1 ¾ cups whole wheat flour
2 ½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons cold butter, cut in pieces
1 egg
1/3 cup milk
½ teaspoon lemon extract

Mix flour, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Use your fingers to rub the very cold butter into the flour mixture until the butter is in lumps the size of flattened corn kernels. Mix together egg, milk and extract. Stir into the flour mixture, adding a tad more liquid or flour as needed. Dump onto flour-dusted waxed paper and lightly knead a half-dozen times. Pat out into a rectangle and cut into triangles. Bake on greased or parchment-covered cookie sheet at 400 degrees till done.

At the appointed time, I set out the tea and the hot scones on a side-board near the TV. And then, from the ‘fridge, I brought out the point of this post—Lemon Curd.

“Lemon Curd” sounds weird, sort of like “curdled,” along with a sour word, which makes you think of spoiled milk. But I knew, after a friend had served me some, imported from England, that it is more like a thick lemon custard that you spread on scones and crumpets.

I couldn’t find a recipe in any of my books, so I turned to the Internet. After scanning the recipe for a reality check, I did the next step on the checklist, reading all the reviews. The reviews can be really funny. It’s too runny, it’s just right, it’s too sweet, it’s too buttery, it’s perfect, it’s just like Lemon Curd from home (from an Englishman), it’s too sour, it has too many eggs, it’s fabulous.

Judging by the comments and my own reality check, I decided to cut the amount of butter in half. I also cut down the amount of zest and added a shake of salt since I use unsalted butter.

Lemon Curd
5 egg yolks
¾ cup sugar
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (1-2 large lemons)
zest of one lemon (avoid the bitter white pith)
¼ cup butter, chilled and cut into pats
pinch of salt

If you don’t have a double boiler (I don’t) then use a metal bowl that fits over the top of a medium saucepan without touching the inch or so of boiling water in the pan.
Combine yolks and sugar in medium sized metal bowl and whisk until smooth, about 1 minute. Whisk in fresh lemon juice and zest until smooth. Place bowl over simmering water in saucepan. Whisk until thickened, about 8 minutes, or until thickened. Remove promptly from heat and stir in butter, one piece at a time, allowing each to melt before adding another. (At this point, I decided to run the mixture through a sieve). Remove to a clean jar and lay a piece of plastic wrap across the surface. Keep refrigerated up to 2 weeks.

WOW! It turned out, and was absolutely delicious. It was almost too thick, though, so I might back off on the time I cooked it (I left it on the heat for 9 or 10 minutes), or I might use one less egg yolk. But it was wonderful and I would surely make it again the next time I need an English condiment.

See tomorrow for my Jane Eyre reviews!

A Few of my Favorite Things

I enjoy a good list. And I was inspired by Mel’s posting on favorite resources to come up with my own favorite resources. Kitchen tools, that is.

In my life of cooking, I have “made do” more often than I’ve had the best tools and ingredients on hand when making something. And I will brag that it has made me a better person. I’m flexible, adaptable; I don’t panic when I find out when I find out I’m missing a vital part. No baking powder? No problem! A pinch of cream of tartar and baking soda. No rolling pin? Hey, as long as you have a whiskey bottle you’ve got it covered. The oven doesn’t work and you have 4 pies to bake? Fire up the barbeque for some serious indirect cooking!

KitchenAid Stand Mixer
The household I grew up in relied on a handheld portable mixer. We used it for everything. We whipped divinity and 7 minute frosting. We made cakes and beat up frosting (which was difficult. You had to do it quick because the hot air vented straight down into the buttery frosting, which was stiff and hard-going). It was the standard tool for whipping up the foam on our mixture of carpet cleaner.

One day, it died.

It just so happened that I needed to supply a Cake-Walk cake for our elementary school’s Halloween Carnival. My mom wasn’t home, so my grandma was helping me. The recipe called for beaten egg whites. We didn’t have a whisk. (Remember, we used the mixer for EVERYTHING) I have an image etched in my brain of my grandma working a fork over a platter full of egg whites, whipping and beating them into something lighter than the clear viscous pile she started out with.

A dozen years ago I bought my first KitchenAid stand mixer. It is so effortless. I can make pie dough, batter, grind meat, juice pomegranate seeds, shred cheese and cabbage, knead yeast dough and whip eggs like those bad boys have never been whipped before. One trait I especially am fond of is that I can walk away from it. With a portable, once you turn it on, you’re committed for the duration. If you’re going to have a stand mixer, get this one!

Garlic Press
Garlic is probably the favorite seasoning in my house. If I want the family to swoon with delight when they walk in the house and say, “What’s for dinner? It smells good!” , I just have to toss a pinch of garlic powder in the air. Yes, garlic powder. So easy. So cheap. But… Just not the best choice for garlic. I used to use the minced garlic in the jars, but I drifted back into using the powder. Once in a while I would get ambitious and buy a head of garlic. All those little papery garlic skins! Sticking to your fingers which are covered with fragrant, sticky garlic juice! Chop, chop, chop! Mince, mince, mince! Scrape them up from the cutting board and then scrape them off the knife into the pan!

Then I got wise and bought a NICE garlic press. It is heavy and has a little tool for pushing the bits that are left out of the holes so they don’t dry there. You don’t even have to cut the skins off; you just push the lever and the garlic squirts out.

And for everyone’s comfort, the rule in our house is, if one eats garlic, we all eat garlic!

Lemon Reamer
I love to use fresh lemon in my dishes. I usually have a choice. Either pull out a cuppie of previously juiced and frozen fresh lemon juice ( if I have any), drag out the juicer (like I’m going to do that for ½ of a lemon!) or slice wedges and squeeze the juice out. Yikes! Juice all over your fingers, juice still in the wedge so you end up mashing the thing messily.

I saw a reamer used in a kitchen show once. (You may have seen this many times, but since I don’t get TV reception or cable or dish etc, I hadn’t) It was not only efficient and easy, but also cute. I’ve used it twice now and it was love at first use. I’m much more likely to keep whole lemons on hand now!

Instant Read Meat Thermometer
I would never be without one of these! How can you gamble and guess about whether poultry or pork is done, when the consequences of underdone meat is food poisoning? And how can you gamble and guess whether your beef roast is rare enough when beef is so expensive and is ruined if it is well-done?

I do enjoy my leave-in thermometers to give me a heads up when big roasts are about done. But the instant-read can confirm the doneness in different places, especially in a fowl, and they are useful for burgers, and meat pieces.

Rubber Scraper
Scrape, scrape, scrape! Can you hear the sound of a spoon raking along the sides of a mixing bowl, trying to get out the last of the cake batter? It is impossible! And that goes for any mixture that is on the stiff or thick side. I still remember getting my first rubber scraper when I was a teen. What it could do for folding, stirring and scraping was nothing short of miraculous. I didn’t anticipate the complaints though. Now there was no batter for my batter-eating family to lick up! Heh heh, (evil grin) I didn’t like batter myself and now I could force my preferences on them.

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?