"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
IN THE STORYBOOK GARDEN WITH FOXMORTON
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.
WILD THINGS ON MY MIND
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
(read about it here) http://thegoatborrower.blogspot.com/2011/04/wild-things.html
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....................