The Urbane Homestead

Good, and good for you

There seems to be a lot of talk about yogurt in the blogosphere lately (e.g. here and here). Why now, I wonder? Perhaps because as spring turns the corner into summer, we look for the refreshing, the cool, the light. Perhaps also our inner forebears come out from the back brain where there is no refrigeration and seek to prevent the spoilable from, well, spoiling. And perhaps it's fashion. Just as brown is again the new black, yogurt is the new mocha latte.

Anyway, for what it's worth, here's my recipe for yogurt:

Heat one quart milk, stirring constantly, to 180º. Then let it cool, stirring constantly, to 120º. Whisk in, thoroughly, two tablespoons of active culture yogurt (i.e. plain old yogurt). Pour into a jar, old yogurt container, or insulated jug. Place on heating pad set on "low," wrap in a towel, and leave overnight. Refrigerate. Eat.

And here's a recipe for ayran, a refreshing and wildly popular yogurt drink from Turkey: In a quart jar or shaker, put a cup of yogurt, a half cup to a cup of water, ice cubes, and a generous pinch of salt. Shake until smooth and foamy. Drink. Ayran is so popular in Turkey that they even serve it at the Istanbul McDonald's. Don't ask me how I know.

Aw, shucks

Thanks, Emily! The truth is that I find you inspirational, too, because of the clarity and straightforwardness of your interaction with the world.

Tempum virumque cano

My friend Steve at Deep Background has posted on the sad fact that careful and thoughtful reading is on a downhill slide. He's right, people don't read much, but a lot of the reason for that is that reading takes time, and no one thinks they have any. (That's one thing I've noticed absolutely everyone thinks: they're busy, busy, busy. The other thing is that no one can believe how old they have suddenly gotten to be. "I can't believe I'm 75/50/30/18/7 already! It seems like just yesterday that I retired/didn't need reading glasses/ got old enough to drink in a bar/was in junior high/thought that the Teletubbies were fabulous.")

And reading, when you're doing it to engage rather than disengage your brain, also takes focus. I often think about all the much more interesting things I could be doing if I didn't have to work, and one of them is reading, specifically, reading when I'm not totally exhausted and eye-strained from staring at a computer all day. I'm now at a stage in life where I bet I spend more time watching tv than reading because of the limits of my ocular physiology. And isn't that a pathetic comment on modern life.

Mother's Day

A few days ago, Joe said, "Mama, did you know you are the luckiest woman in the world?" I've often thought that for a variety of reasons I am very lucky indeed, but not knowing specifically what he was referring to, I asked him why. "Because your birthday is only two days after Mother's Day," he answered. Hmm. The proximity of the celebrations of a lifetime commitment to anxiety and servitude and that of the swift passing of time and my impending mortality—not something that would have occurred to me....

But this morning when I woke up, I felt very lucky, because there were two beautiful cards waiting for me on my night table. One was big and pink and decorated with glitter glue, foam shapes, and cut-out hearts with vocabulary words on them. It's lovely and I'm thinking that every mother of Mrs. Callahan's first graders has something similar. The other card, however, was unique. It's a postcard with a photo of a dog; on the back Joe had written: "For a mom so swweat and nice, our little puppy is your present, for a happy Mother's Day and a sihn of love." My heart melted. What could be a better gift? He did it all by himself; Henry didn't even know he was planning it.

Actually, I did know Joe was going to make a card of some sort, because last week he left a note for his confidante and advisor, the tooth fairy, asking what he should give me for Mother's Day, and she recommended this plan. But I had no idea it would be so sweet.

Of weeds and cannibalism

Vicki at I Love Orange has posted some pictures of garlic mustard with a (correct) exhortation to tear out this invasive weed whenever you see it. And here's an even better idea, from the Brooklyn Botanical Garden: eat it!

Think delicious winter invasive-plant salads, mouth-watering invasive-plant omelets, or perfectly cooked pastas infused with invasive-plant pesto.

Rather like eating the body of one's enemy killed in battle as a way of humiliating the enemy. E-e-e-excellent (rubbing hands together nefariously).

On the other hand, I've been waging a ten-year battle against Bishop's Weed, a rather pretty and very—ahem—vigorous plant which has been trying to take over my entire back yard. Over the years I've tried poisoning it with glyphosate (Round-Up), I've tried smothering it under old shower curtains and several feet of leaf mulch, I've tried picking it and pulling it and digging it up bit by bit, but however fast I worked at its destruction, it could grow even faster.

At some point I discovered that Bishop's Weed, too, is edible, having started cultivated life as a pot herb in England. This didn't surprise me since it has an astringent fragrance which would be not unpleasant under normal circumstances. However, when I steamed some up for dinner, I learned that the hours I had spent crouched in the yard, scrabbling in the dirt to remove every shred of root of this despised plant, had conceived a hatred in me so intense that I couldn't bring myself to eat it, however humiliating it might have been for my enemy.

This story has a happy ending, sort of. After our house was raised and our yard was razed, the Bishop's Weed has been greatly reduced, so that now all I have to do is stay vigilant and keep my trigger finger on the Round-Up, and victory is in sight.

Maytime

In the words of Toad, "Could it be May so soon?"