We had a package of chicken thighs from Blood Farm, and not a lot of oomph, so we fell back on one of our favorite recipes — Beer-Braised Chicken with White Beans and Carrots.   This was a variation with rosemary, because that’s what we had.  It’s a satisfying, dependable recipe.

Freedom!

The last three days have been sunny and warm, with highs pushing 60. The chickens, who don’t seem inclined to want to leave their run when it’s snowy and cold, start a full-court press for freedom when the sun’s out and the ground begins to warm. They take up their little signs and pace back and forth along the side of the run. “Free range! Free range!” they squawk.

We want to let them out, but the risk-reward calculation is the same as it was a month ago. There’s still not much good foraging, and there’s no protective leaf cover under which they can hide from passing hawks.

What there is, though, is a garden full of the winter rye we planted as a cover crop. If we put them out in that, we can stay close enough to discourage hawks, and they can have a beautiful afternoon’s outing, eating some much-needed greens and taking dust baths on the perimeter. The grass is surrounded by a chicken-wire fence, so they can’t go rogue, and we can put them back in the run when play-time’s over.

I suppose there’s no real way to determine if a chicken is happy. They don’t smile or laugh, and they certainly can’t tell you. But, roaming around the grass field, eating their fill with the sun on their backs, they certainly looked happy. I know I was happy.

Chickens dustbathing from Tamar Haspel on Vimeo.

We broiled them in a cast-iron pan and served them with buttered green beans.

This was a variation on his recipe (the egg was just in the wash — no self-respecting bagel has egg in it). We substituted one cup of King Arthur’s rye flour blend for one cup of the high-gluten flour (King Arthur also — Sir Lancelot). I found it took extra flour to get the dough to be the right consistency, but they turned out beautifully.

Never trust a bagel that's perfectly round

One day last fall, as we were coming off the clamming grounds at Bay Street in Osterville with a peck of quahogs, we saw two guys loading their pickup with two full baskets of steamers. Steamers, as all you clammers know, are generally harder to come by than quahogs. They bury themselves much deeper than their hard-shelled cousins do and, although they do blow holes in the sand that give their presence away, steamer-clam holes look a lot like sand worm holes. I have also spent more time than I care to contemplate digging under holes that have been made by no sea creature I could find, and could have been made by gas bubbling up from the center of the earth, or by somebody’s ski pole. When it comes right down to it, alll holes look pretty much the same.

And the finding of them isn’t the only difficulty with steamers. Once you encounter a bona fide steamer hole, you still have to get the steamer out without breaking its shell. This isn’t easy. The rakes made for steamer digging are short handled, with tines at a right angle to the handle. You kneel on the beach, dig out the sand in front of the suspect hole, take a layer of sand off right above the suspected clam (being careful not to go too deep), and then use your hands to try and locate the steamer. Once you’ve done that, you still have to pry the thing out of the wet sand, a hospitable home he has no inclination to leave.

Digging up a steamer clam from Tamar Haspel on Vimeo.

I have only a tenuous grasp of the physical laws that account for the sucking vacuum behind a clam you’re trying to pull out of wet sand, but I have vast experience with the sucking vacuum itself. Electrolux should be so lucky.

All this by way of saying we had good reason to marvel at the two-peck haul of the guys at Bay Street.

Naturally, we struck up a conversation, hoping to wheedle their secrets out of them. One of their secrets, though, was lying in plain sight in the bed of their pick-up. It looked a lot like a toilet plunger.

“Hey,” I said, with the grace and subtlety that mark all my encounters with strangers, “What’s with the toilet plunger?”

This was one secret they were perfectly willing to share. They described how, when you get to a fertile steamer ground, you use the plunger to dig a kind of crater in the seabed (you use it under water), and the clams just drift up with with sand you displace. You scoop them up with a net, and Bob’s your uncle.

And just where was their particular fertile steamer ground? That, they weren’t telling. I understood.

Ever since then, I’ve been wanting to try the plunge method of clamming. It turns out that purveyors of shellfishing equipment actually sell something called a “clam plunger,” which looks suspiciously like a toilet plunger except that it has a longer stick and a net attached to the non-plunging end. Overall, it looked like the kind of thing we could improvise.

We have a stick. We have a net. And, of course, we have a toilet plunger.

Anyone who either knows me personally or follows this space understands that I am loath to buy anything I can cobble together out of stuff that’s lying around. The clam plunger was just begging to be cobbled. We had all the parts, and the duct tape to cobble them, but even I draw the line somewhere. Call me doctrinaire, but I think anything that’s used in the toilet should not be used in food procurement.

We bought a brand new toilet plunger, and headed out to our very own fertile steamer ground with it, stick, and net. We also brought our conventional gear, just in case.

We had discovered our steamer ground accidentally. We’d gone out for quahogs, but we kept spearing the soft-shell clams with our wicked, long-tined quahog rakes. Exactly where was that, you may ask? I’m not telling, and I know you’ll understand.

We got to our super-secret steamer spot, and Kevin waded out ankle-deep. We found an area that looked to have some steamer holes, and he started plunging. After two or three plunges, he came up empty. No clams, of course, but also no plunger. It had come off the aluminum pole and lodged itself in the sand. The threading on the end of the pole apparently wasn’t a perfect match with the threading on the inside collar of the plunger.

The same physical laws that create the sucking vacuum behind a clam apply to plungers, and it took a good deal of effort to dislodge it. Once we did, we put it back on the stick it came with, and tried again.

It works as advertised, more or less. The plunging creates a crater, and much of the sand and silt you dislodge floats away on the current. A great deal of it, though, seems to settle back in the hole, which we couldn’t make deep enough to reach the clams, which are usually about six to eight inches below the surface.

Whether the hole depth was the problem, or the clamlessness of the spot, we don’t know. We do know that we didn’t plunge up a single clam. We ditched the plunger and went back to the rakes.

Dinner, and then some

None of last year’s steamering excursions had been entirely satisfactory. The clams had been few and far between, and what there had been tended to be below legal size (two inches long). Although we’d never been completely skunked, the ratio of effort invested to clams harvested always seemed a bit high. This, our new fertile clamming ground, made for a much better experience — once we gave up on plunging. Most of the holes that looked like steamer holes proved to be just that, and Kevin and I both got much better at finding them and dislodging them without breaking their shells. Although we had a few casualties and a few shorts, we went home with five dozen steamers.

We had them for lunch, steamed and dipped in butter, accompanied by cole slaw and beer. 

It wasn’t only the clams, though, that made it such a fine morning. There were signs that winter was finally on the wane — fish were jumping, trees were budding. It was warm enough that I didn’t need a hat. The sun was out. It was a joy to be on the beach, clamming with my husband, looking forward to spring.

It was a beautiful day, and Kevin and I spent about an hour and a half digging for steamers at low tide.  We had them for dinner, with cole slaw and beer, and pretended it was summer.

The Sasquash was a giant winter squash given to us by our friends Al and Christl.  I defrosted a bag of it — about 2 cups, cubed — and stewed it with onions, green chiles, chipotle, and tomatoes.   I browned a cut-up chicken and braised it in the stew.  It was pretty good, but it needs work.  I’ll get it right next time.

It happens to the best of us, I think.  I had some frozen cooked lamb, and a bunch of beautiful shiitakes (along with two of ours), and some prepared polenta.  I made a kind of ragout with onions and mushrooms, red wine and stock, rosemary and mustard.  The lamb went in, along with some baby peas.  I sliced the polenta and pan-fried it, and piled the lamb concoction on top of it.  Should have been delicious, but it was only so-so.

It was time.

Last May, we made our very first batch of dandelion wine. Up until then, the only fermenting I’d ever done was accidental, a result of leaving fruit juice, or black beans, or cooked barley sitting in the refrigerator too long. As this was our first attempt at deliberate fermentation, we followed the recipe from Euell “Try Anything” Gibbons pretty much to the letter.

At the time, I was unconvinced that dandelions had anything to do with dandelion wine. Oh sure, you start with a bunch of dandelions, but then you add things like oranges and lemons and sugar and ginger, which are all way more delicious than dandelions. I suspected that the whole dandelion part – which involves hours of backbreaking labor and many, many insects – was just inserted into the recipe to build character.

Now I’m not so sure.

The glass looked clean at the time ...

Last night, we broke out the dandelion wine, which has been aging for almost ten months. There are two gallon jugs of it in the basement, but we reserved one small bottle that we keep in the kitchen so we can taste it without disturbing the jugs. Or shlepping to the basement.

First, we took a good hard look at it. It’s not completely clear, although it’s clearer than it was when we bottled it. It could be my imagination, but there’s a faint residue on the sides of the bottle that looks remarkably like pollen. In color, it’s like the dishwater you washed the orange juice glasses in. Which is not to say it’s unappetizing; it looks like something you can drink.

We each took a sip. It has a faint effervescence and a pronounced (surprise!) citrus flavor, but it also has very decided vegetal overtones that balance the sweetness and fruity flavor. I was forced to conclude that dandelion wine does indeed require dandelions.

Which means, come May, we’re in for another few hours of backbreaking work. It’s not ready for prime time yet, but we’re happy enough with our 2009 vintage to want to try it again for 2010.

It was promising.  More on that later.

Kevin did a reprise of the venison sausages braised in sauerkraut.  We often do this — if we really like a new dish, we make it again right away in the hopes that a second go-round will cement it in our repertoire.  This time, we used German-style pork sausages from Trader Joe’s, and a few of the bay leaves I’d collected on our fall hunting excursion.  The TJ’s sausages weren’t as good as the venison, but the dish was the same in its essence.

It’s particularly good with some grated Parmesan.

It was a form of venison sausage detox.

Today is the last day of February, and we planted our first seeds of the season.

Our cold frame -- that's our composter in the background

It’s just an experiment. We don’t know if it will work. We planted two kinds of romaine lettuce in our cold frame. One was a standard-issue Burpee, and the other was a fancy-pants organic Thompson and Morgan.

Last year, we used the cold frame for seed-starting, and we failed miserably, The cucumbers suffered a 100% mortality rate, parsley was almost as bad, and the few sunflowers that survived were destroyed by pests almost the instant we transplanted them. If that weren’t enough, we didn’t realize that you have to start root vegetables in situ, so the carrots and beets were naturally a wash-out.

It’s not that we’re giving up on seed-starting (although I can hear you saying that might not be a bad idea). We’re going to try and build a hoop-house for that, so the cold frame is freed up for our lettuce experiment.

We were concerned about viability because the cold frame, a rectangle of treated lumber with a glass door for a roof, was filled with some really crappy compost we got last year from a local supplier who shall remain nameless. (It wasn’t the dump compost, which we’ve been very happy with.) But last weekend we stumbled on an excellent estate-sale find that solved all our problems. It was one of those composting barrels that you spin on a frame.

At retail, one of those barrels could run as much as $200., but we got ours for a song – a mere $25. And, get this – it came with compost inside!

I have no idea whose estate the composter came from but, whoever he was, he really liked peaches. And hazelnuts. Regardless, we figured a stranger’s household compost would be a better bet than the stuff we had, and we wanted to use it, so in it went.

We put a thermometer inside the frame to see how warm it got, and the results were encouraging. Although the nights have been slightly below freezing, the temperature in the frame in the morning was almost 40. During the day, when the sun is out, it gets up to 70 or 80. Even on a sunless day, it’s in the 50s.

Kevin doing the first watering

The seeds went in today. We planted five rows, about a foot apart. We thought we had one of those watering cans with a showering spout, but we couldn’t find it, so Kevin improvised by pouring the water through one of those little plastic planters with a few holes in the bottom. We made sure the soil was wet enough, closed the cold frame, and crossed our fingers.

At night, we’ll cover the lid with one of those reflective screens you put inside your car windshield to keep your car cool. It’s not quite big enough, but we’re hoping not quite big enough is sufficient.

Our seeds are supposed to sprout in 7-10 days. We’ll see if they do. We’re by no means certain, but we’re cautiously optimistic. Experienced gardeners will no doubt have a good sense of whether this whole lettuce-in-the-cold-frame experiment is a good idea or a bad idea. If you think it’s a bad idea, you’ll do me a big favor by not telling me just yet. God knows, I’ll figure it out soon enough but, in the meantime, I’ll have at least a week of hope.

I know, I know – hope springs eternal. If only lettuce did.

It was only by maximum exertion of willpower that I didn’t eat it for breakfast.  I managed to wait until noon.

It was Kevin’s turn to make our every-other-Friday dinner, and he turned out what may be, in my estimation, his biggest success.

Those of you who follow this space will know that our plumber gave us some venison in return for the use of one of our shotguns, and Kevin decided he’d make something out of the sausage. Now, when you think ‘sausage,’ you naturally think, ‘German,’ so he looked for a recipe from that part of the world.

Epicurious came through. Kevin tweaked the recipe, upping the caraway and including a some of the Cape Cod Beer porter we had in the fridge, and turned out something absolutely irresistible. So irresistible that I ate it all before I had a chance to photograph it.

Up until now, I think I would have said that my favorite recipe on this site was the Lamb and Eggplant Ragout. Now, I might have to go with the Venison Sausage Braised in Sauerkraut. And it’s my husband’s recipe! What does that tell you?

Kevin made it. It makes me hungry just to write it up.

Venison Sausage Braised in Sauerkraut
(serves four normal adults, or my husband and me)

1 ¼ lb. German-style sausage (we used venison)
2 T. butter
1 large onion, chopped
1 T. caraway seeds
½ t. black pepper
2 lbs. sauerkraut, drained
1 ½ cup apple cider
1 cup stout or porter (we used Cape Cod Beer porter; Guinness would work fine)
1 T. sugar

Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the sausage, and cook until it is browned on all sides. If the sausage is already fully cooked, just brown it a little. If it’s raw, you should cook it almost until it’s cooked through, which will mean it will be quite brown on the outside.

Remove the sausage from the pan, turn the heat down to medium-low, and add the butter. When the butter has melted, add the onion, caraway, and pepper. Cook, stirring often, until the onions have wilted and are beginning to brown, 6-8 minutes.

Add the sauerkraut, cider, stout or porter, and sugar. Lay the sausages on top of the mixture. Bring to a boil and reduce heat to a simmer. Put the lid on ajar so some of the steam can escape, and cook about 20 minutes.

I grew up listening to Tom Lehrer. My father was at MIT in the late fifties, and anyone who poked fun at Harvard was very popular with his crowd. When I was a kid, the regular record-player rotation seemed to be equal parts Weavers, Clancy Brothers, and Tom Lehrer.

Although I’ve always liked “National Brotherhood Week” and “The Elements,” my all-time favorite Tom Lehrer song has to be “Lobachevsky,” about the eponymous Russian mathematician suspected of stealing the concept of hyperbolic geometry from German mathematician Carl Gauss some 200 years ago:

Plagiarize,
Let no one else’s work evade your eyes,
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,
So don’t shade your eyes,
But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize -
Only be sure always to call it please ‘research’.

Living out here on Cape Cod, though, I find that “The Hunting Song” is climbing the charts.

I always will remember,
’twas a year ago November,
I went out to hunt some deer
On a mornin’ bright and clear.
I went and shot the maximum the game laws would allow,
Two game wardens, seven hunters, and a cow.

I should have kept that song in mind when we got our Moultrie game camera a couple of months ago.  I had visions of capturing compelling photographs of all our local wildlife and, while I did get some coyotes, I haven’t gotten a single raccoon, opossum, fox, or even skunk.

Lately, I’ve been leaving the camera pointed at the compost pile. Even though Kevin thinks that’s not sporting, I figure it’s my best chance at a decent wildlife picture, and all’s fair in love and photography. It had been out there for the better part of a week when I took the SD card out this morning to see what I’d gotten. Basically, it was two game wardens, seven hunters, and a cow.

A crow, a squirrel, and somebody’s dog.

Two game wardens

Seven hunters

And a pure-bred Guernsey cow

Minestrone soup has become my favorite low-calorie, high-vegetable meal.  I made a variation on my standard recipe.

I came up empty for breakfast and lunch, and we had a birthday party to go to for dinner, so it was an emergency snack.  Not how I like to do this — I met the letter but not the spirit.