Thursday, May 9, 2013


"I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic. I try to give that to people. I do misrepresent things. I don't tell truths. I tell what ought to be truth."  ~Blanche Dubois

The Thoroughly Random and Disjointed Adventures of Foxmorton from Garden to Kitchen,
 in no particular order and with no particular rhyme or reason other than to post stuff I do that apparently amuses me at the moment although you really shouldn't trust anything to turn out edible or take me serious in any way whatsoever.

Verse I


So.  I have always made brave albeit mediocre attempts at gardening and
can boast a few return tulips and a couple of mums that made it  past the second year.
It kind of unnerves me when things actually grow, as though I haven't  the right to outdoor success.  I once threw out a half dozen tomatoes that hung on a vine in a forgotten corner of the yard because they surprised me so much.  I somehow felt that because I hadn't nurtured them they were somehow unsafe to eat.  (I know.  Try not to analyze me.  My world makes little sense.  Even to me.)

But lately as I grow older I find I have more patience with dirt and things that grow.
My wild violet garden thrives and the lavender hasn't died.   I boast an underachieving blueberry farm (five plants-some leaves-no blueberries) and just this spring planted 16 asparagus plants and four different varieties of Heirloom tomatoes.  My townhouse spread.

But cooking?  Ha.  I don't.  Ever.  I exist, like Blanche Dubois, on the kindness of strangers.
(Mainly my friend Deb, who lovingly packages apple spice and pumpkin bread for me and hangs it on my doorknob and also this cool lady at work who's a great cook and let's me eat stuff at lunch.)
But I just don't cook.  It exhausts me to think about it.  The planning alone forces me to take a nap.  I had to MapQuest directions to my kitchen to start this project.  Seriously.

But, call it what you will-a too long winter, old age, self-preservation-I have gotten a bee in my bonnet to make......wait for it.......wild violet jelly!


My obsession with wild violets
 has lured me to the kitchen.  Faerie magic, I'm thinking.

And so, we begin:

Procure violets that most likely have not been pee'd on by the dog or
that occupy a space within three feet of dog poo.
(Easier said than done.)
Arrange artfully for Blog Sisters so that eventual failure of project will still appear creative.


Wash and pray.
Put (mostly) clean violets into French Press.
Add 1 cup boiling water.
Let stand for 12 hours.
Keep peeking to see if there are any errant spiders that may have floated to the top.
Pray not to have Spider Dream.

Beautiful violet liquid!
Enough to make jelly for a corner slice of bread.
Realize many more violets need to be picked.
Repeat Step I
Feel sad about wasted violets in area of dog poo.

TO BE CONT'D....................


Millie said...

I can hardly wait for the outcome. I want to try violet jelly!

Marigold said...

The goatmother says, "Ah! Is that a Royal Patrician jug I see in picture one?' (She has a mug with the pansies.) I say, Darla, what a dashing hat! On with the jelly adventure!!! Hooray for the humble Violet!!!

Debbie @ Swampbilly Ranch said...

I've always been intrigued by flower jelly, but have never made any. I'm anxious to find out how yours turns out.

Mrs. Micawber said...

Oh the suspense ...

Another bloggy friend commented recently that she makes Violet Jelly - I shall await your results with baited breath.

I love the wild violets so much I scarcely dare pick them, dog poo or no.

P.S. I cook all the time, but the thought of making jelly turns me to ... jelly. Very brave of you to pursue it!

P.P.S. You may like this post from Stephanie at Millefeuilles, in which she makes violet sugar:

Granny Sue said...

I chuckled so much reading this! I do hope you made the jelly and that it turned out well. (You do know you can cheat a little and use some apple juice if you don't have enough of the violet water, right?)