Morning Glory Wars
(and how to use of all those peppers and tomatillos from August’s garden)

The hottest year on record has just been punctured by cool air. My dog, Tula Boo, feels it.  A border collie-husky mix (a buskie), with a fantastic fur coat best suited for snow, has a new spring in her step. And I have come out of my usual humidity-induced summer stupor. I am like one of those people portrayed in a current commercial for a fast-food restaurant coffee: customers drink the coffee for the first time and suddenly wake up to realize to their utter surprise that they have been married for years or have a twin.

It has been so hot and dry even the weeds paused and pondered if it was worth it. I would say this is just the tip of the iceberg of climate change but that is too ironic, sadly. For weeks I have surveyed my yard from the safety of air conditioned rooms after giving up on watering. But this morning I walk into the yard, expecting dry shards of grass like nails, but the grass is soft and dew cools my feet. I survey the damage — hydrangea bushes full of flower heads not dried to perfection but burned to a crisp, droopy hostas, and zinnias that look as if they have been roasted over hot coals. The impatiens gave up long ago.

The only sign of color and vigor are the morning glories. They have overrun the entire yard and everything in it – trellises covered, bushes buried, tomato plants strangled, the badminton net full of blooms that look like shuttle cocks in a game gone crazy. The vines have crept and climbed and smothered all, and they have lived up to their name – they are glorious.

I declare defeat. War over. I have been bested by a beautiful flower. It started years ago when I became frustrated with the pure heavenly blue morning glories, stunning but coy, refusing to bloom till after labor day. I needed blooms in midsummer, the hot wasteland known as the dog days. I would go with a riotous mix of heirlooms – they looked so innocent and sweet on the seed package. My daugther, Lizzie, said – don’t do it Mom, they are weeds. Oh, no, darling they are flowers, just look at those colors, and they will bloom early! They are weeds, she repeated, don’t you remember me telling you how they took over my vegetable garden when I lived on Peralta Street?! I refused to believe her. I refused to understand that the folks who bred the Heavenly Blue variety engineered them so they did not produce seeds that persisted – so one has to purchase them anew each year. Clever sods. I scattered the mixture of seeds by the base of the arched trellis in early spring and by July 4th it was draped with a heavy curtain of blooms: white, deep purple, lavender, white with blue throats, magenta and striped. A silent riot of color. I was in love. They were not weeds, look how well mannered they are I said as Lizzie and I toured the back yard. They are weeds, Mom, you will see – next year they will be everywhere.

That next spring I did find sprouts several feet out from where I had planted the originals – I plucked them out and planted tomatoes, basil and parsley in the four square feet of full sun we own. And I kept on plucking for months. When we left for our annual two weeks up north the garden was free of morning glories. When we returned they had strangled the tomatoes. Murderous flowers, oh my. And so it has gone every year since; they sprout, they climb, they conquer. At some point each year I give up and let them take over. I now have morning glories popping up in my front yard and my neighbors have started complaining that they are finding them in their yards.

I should have listened to my wise daugther, I should have known from my own observations – my sister has a cottage on an island that was christened the Isle de Fleur by an 18th century priest – and it is overrun by morning glories. I have seen them in the wilds of Hawai’i. But so strong was my desire for flowers before Labor Day that I ignored all of this. The curse of the novice gardener is the blind thirst for blooms, unending blooms.

I will have to sell my house and move to escape them, and my angry neighbors. And you can bet I will check for morning glories before buying.

But at this moment I see them for their unstoppable beauty and the wisdom of weeds is made clear. Bloom where you are planted, do not give up no matter how dire the conditions. And put out seeds to ensure the next generation will thrive.

Tula disrupts my reverie and reminds me these flowers are my bête noire. I vow that next year I will kill them. I conjure up Google genie and type in “how to kill morning glory plants”. There are whole sites devoted to this noxious weed. One starts, “help! Morning Glory taking over my yard” another asks, “can I burn morning glories to oblivion?” Responses to these pleas are long on sympathy and purported “cures”. Many say to paint each leaf, carefully, with Roundup—that would take me years. Another writer says his mother managed to rid her yard by clipping off each leaf, and addes, to never, ever pull them up as that just encourages them. It only took her two years. But another writes: if you could x-ray the ground and see the thousands of miles of layer upon layer of that stuff, you'd just give up gardening all together. Good luck, you might get it to the point where you're not having your plants drug to the ground by it, but you'll never completely eradicate them, not even if you Crossbow the hell out of every inch of your property and put down asphalt. They WILL survive. Might as well accept it as a part of your family – the obnoxious Uncle Steve!

The world rests on a bed of morning glories.

I am optimistic that if I name it I can kill it. I dub it Uncle Paul; next spring I will cut off all of Paul’s leaves. I may have to take a sabbatical but I will conquer. I the meantime I know not to fall asleep in the backyard or leave my convertible out in the drive for too long lest we become but mounds of morning glories.



Chile Verde

Because my own garden produces only mutinous flowers I have been forced to join a CSA. This week a plethora (not quite a peck) of peppers arrived. I am happy to report that this recipe used up all the peppers, of all the varieties. And we topped it off with the first of the sweet corn, shaved off the cob, and diced fresh tomatoes. Something about the sweetness of the corn and the bite of the chilis made me swoon. Cheese is also a good addition but not necessary — which is something you will rarely hear me say.
(serves 20)

• 6 lbs cubed pork stew meat

• 1/4 cup vegetable oil

• 2 large yellow onions

• 6 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 tablespoon sea salt

• fresh ground pepper, to taste

• 1 tablespoon ground cumin

• 4 1/2 quarts chicken broth

• 8 fresh poblano chiles, seeded and chopped

• 4 fresh jalapeno peppers, seeded and chopped

• 2 yellow bell peppers, seeded and chopped

• 3 lbs fresh tomatillos, husks removed

• 1 cup cilantro leaf, coarsely chopped

Directions:

1. In a large stock pot over high heat sear the pork in the vegetable oil until browned.

2. Remove the pork from the pot, reserve 3 tablespoons oil in the pan.

3. Saute the chopped onion and garlic seasoned with salt and pepper in the reserved oil until onions are tender.

4. Add the cumin, then stir in pork and chicken stock.

Simmer for 1/2 hour.

5. Add in poblanos, jalapenos and bell peppers.

6. Puree the tomatillos and cilantro in a blender, and add them to the pot.

Cook for an additional 30 to 45 minutes.

How to Torture a Cold (and feed your family, too)

A cold is a cold is a cold. And it is a pain. Three days coming, three days with you, three days going. Science has yet to conquer this tiny mighty agent of infection and annoyance; so wily are they at changing their coats. This leads me to believe that these viruses may play a positive role in our lives and perhaps protect us from other, more deadly, viruses. This is just a lab chair hypothesis and  has not been tested rigorously. But there are some trials underway right now that are using the cold virus to kill cancer cells.


Yesterday a cold hit me upside the head ─ a rhinovirus without rivals; a post Christmas reminder (as if I needed it) that life is not all tinsel and cookies. With alarming speed it clogged my sinuses, and simultaneously turned on a spigot of, um, snot which the extra strength cold meds could not lock down. I moved from room to room, tissue box in hand, desperate to breathe free.

Today is day two. I wake, side step the pile of tissues the size of a ski run beside my bed, and head to the kitchen ... to roam. I have a tiny kitchen so roaming is really just spinning in place. I want to eat but why bother when I cannot smell, taste or chew without feeling like I am suffocating? Then it hits me, mid-spin, that all I want, and what I know will cure me, is Chicken Tortilla Soup. A survey of cabinet and cooler show we have none of the ingredients. Can I make it to the store in this condition? My family offers to go but in my enfeebled state I think this may be part of the cure so off I go to my local market ─ a wonder land of produce and foodstuffs from all over the world. This market is the third place in my life (home and lab being numbers one and two). It is nirvana. As a young, untenured professor I would often stop there on my way home to pick up a few things for dinner or special treats to delight the family. Just the sight of the fresh baked breads or pyramids of pomegranates were enough to cure the pre-tenure blues. My backup plan if tenure was denied was to work in this market, rotating from bakery to produce and finally graduating to the wine department where I would dazzle customers with my scientific knowledge of how fruit is transformed to a liquid with soul. I would be the market microbiologist.

Today is no different. Just walking into the store causes my body to tingle with the warmth of relaxation. Into the basket goes the free-range “happy” chicken, organic red onions, red and orange peppers, and organic chicken broth; avocados and cheese to heavily garnish the end product, and the tortilla chips (white corn, lightly salted). Just gathering the ingredients makes me feel hopeful that I can short circuit this vengeful virus. I am careful to avoid leaving behind virus bombs by wearing my gloves and not touching my nose. I feel virtuous but notice I am being given wide berth. At the checkout the young man politely asks, did you find everything you were looking for? My reply causes him to glance up and when he sees my red swollen nose and eyes, he quickly looks away and does not offer to carry my bags. I snatch the bag, and with one last snuff to avoid leaving a trail of slime, I make a dignified exit.

Home again I plunge into chopping onions and mincing garlic. A typhoon of onion tears (and other secretions) are loosed ─ nature’s decongestant ─ a flow that sends my husband and daughters scurrying. And I am alone with the head clearing, soul satisfying scent of onions and garlic simmering in olive oil. Time slows. Snot slows. The soup comes together and simmers. Soup moves to the table and we gather, as we always do, to share a meal. I bow my head and breathe.

Chicken Tortilla Soup


½ cup olive oil
2 medium red, orange or yellow peppers, seeded and chopped
1 medium red onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons dried oregano
1 teaspoon cumin
¾ teaspoon chili powder
2 tablespoons chopped Mexican green chilies (I use the canned type)
1 cup diced canned tomatoes with juice
4 cups organic chicken stock
2/3 pound boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 (15 ounce) can cooked black beans, drained and rinsed
2 cups fresh or canned corn
½ cup fresh cilantro, chopped
Sea Salt, to taste

Tortilla chips

Diced ripe avocado and shredded Monterey Jack cheese for garnish!

1. Heat olive oil in a pan over medium-high heat.

2. Sautee the peppers, onion garlic, oregano. Cumin and chili powder for 3 minutes, stirring often, until the onion is translucent.

3. Add canned chili peppers and tomatoes, heat and stir for 1 minute

4. Add the chicken broth and whole chicken breasts.

5. Bring soup to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer uncovered for 20 minutes

6. Remove chicken breasts to cool. When cool enough to handle cut into bite-sized pieces.

7. Add cut-up chicken to the coup, add black beans and corn and return soup to a boil.

8. Remove the soup from the heat, stir in the cilantro. Season to taste with salt.


To serve: crunch a handful of tortilla chips in the bottom of each bowl. Ladle soup over the chips. Garnish with avocado and cheese!

Wolf Moons and Mink Coats

“The timber wolves will be our friends. We’ll stay up late and howl at the moon, till nighttime ends, before going on the prowl.” – Hobbes the Tiger, from Calvin and Hobbes, by Bill Watterson

Tonight I feel like howling at the moon, which hangs full and bright in the winter sky. The holidays are gone, gone, gone. Lizzie is back to her studies at Pitt, Kat to the waning days of elementary school, and me to the grind of the winter semester with no vacation in sight. I am feeling heavy with pounds and heavy with envy of those who live in a warmer clime or don’t work for a living. It feels like there is a wolf at the door, or maybe a wolf within.

But snow, that white powder of hope, is covering the frozen ground, and few things are prettier than fresh snow under a full moon. January’s full moon is known as the Wolf Moon, according to the Farmer’s Almanac. Amid the cold and deep snows of midwinter, the wolf packs howled hungrily outside Indian villages. It is sometimes referred to as the Old Moon, or the Moon after Yule, and some called it the Full Snow Moon. I’m going with the Wolf Moon. It is said that wolves howl at the moon, but it is a myth. Wolves are simply more active at night and more visible in the light of a full moon. Wolves howl for many reasons: to claim their territory, to summon their pack for a hunt, to draw a mate, or to announce a birth. Or maybe because they have the post-holiday blues?

I think I know how my foremothers survived the Wolf Moon and long winters of the north country. Like my grandmother, they wore mink. As she swept into our house with the cold snowy air and picked me up in her arms, I’d press my face against the soft mink fur. The smell of leather and her lilies-of-the-valley perfume melded until it became my grandmother’s smell. I’d beg to wear the coat and she would always indulge me, a girl who loved luxury from the get go. I’d parade around, sweeping the coat past the adults, swiveling as I imagined mink-draped models would do in some exotic place like New York City. The lining was heavy and silky and felt so good against my skin. My mother, who had worked at Detroit’s J. L. Hudson Company, bought my grandmother the coat as a sixtieth birthday gift. Daughters, are you listening?

A childhood friend’s grandfather was a retired furrier who continued to make and repair fur coats. On a table in my friend’s basement recreation room, where we played while her grandfather worked, pelts were laid out and pinned in various stages of becoming a coat. The mystery of how animal pelts became clothing to adorn our furless fragile human bodies was revealed to me in that basement. My friend’s grandfather never spoke while sewing the skins together. As his sausagelike fingers felt and stitched the pelts, I’d wonder if he meditated on the lives of the animals that gave up their skins for human vanity. Was he curious about where they had roamed and what conditions gave rise to their thick and lustrous coats? Did he think about their deaths? Did he wonder about the person who had skinned and tanned their pelts? Had he ever made a coat for a woman he loved or lusted for, taking more care than usual or perhaps stitching in a secret message? Or perhaps he performed his craft while meditating on the stitching and not on the woman who would find comfort in the warmth of the coat. I wish I knew.

Coming of age in the 1970s, I eschewed fur of all kinds, even telling my grandmother, “Hey, Grandma, you really shouldn’t be wearing mink―don’t you know it’s cruel?” My grandmother kept wearing her mink coat defiantly; now it was not only a shield against the cold winters but her granddaughter’s frigid judgment. Today my own daughters are against wearing fur. But my grandmother belonged to the generation that survived the Great Depression and Hitler. Having dealt with such terrors, perhaps the politics of wearing fur seemed trivial to her.

When I visited the Pasteur Institute in Paris in 2003 I learned that Pasteur, the patron saint of microbiology, was his generation’s version of a rock star. This man not only had proven that microbes cause disease but he saved minks in Russia from rabies. A stuffed mink in a glass box sat in his living room, a gift of gratitude from the Russian government. Pasteur saved humans from rabies as well, but I wonder if the Russian government valued that as much as his efforts on behalf of their mink population.

I don’t know what happened to my grandmother’s coat, but I sure wish I had it now. The cold winds of middle age have suddenly sparked in me the desire to wear fur. I want the protection it provides against the cold, against the ravages of time. I want its beauty next to my aging skin. I wouldn’t save it for parties and holidays like my grandmother did. I’d wear it to the grocery store and out to walk my dog (who might even be envious, although her coat is more stunning). I would turn the thermostat down low and wear it around the house, invite my husband inside, and fall asleep under its warm weight. I would travel to my favorite beach―where I only go in summer―to feel the winds of winter and defy them with my coat, my shield. And each time I slipped my arms into the satiny sleeves I would give thanks to the animals that made the coat, their immortalized skins forever young and beautiful.

I check eBay, where I find mega bays of mink coats. One, listed as vintage, reminds me of my grandmother’s. No one has bid on it yet and three days and twenty-four minutes are left on the clock. Dare I buy it and risk the judgment of my darling daughters? It is snowy and cold today and the dog needs to be walked. Well, I have time to decide.
­­­­­­­­_____________________________________________________________________
Mink Coat Chocolate Cake
I make this cake in honor of my grandmother, a member of the mink-without-guilt generation; when a tyrant like Hitler is on the loose, wearing the pelts of small animals pales by comparison.
As soon as I had spread the word about my cake book, everyone started offering up family favorites. This is from my masseuse Lauren’s family and, of course, there is a story. Her great-grandmother always made this cake for Lauren’s grandfather, who loved it. When his mother died, he offered a mink coat to any woman who could make it as well as she had. He had many takers but no mink coats were given out, which sounded like a cake racket to me. I asked Lauren if she thought this might be true. She told me that her grandfather was definitely one to run a cake scam.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.

1 cup sugar
1 ½ cups all-purpose white flour
½ cup sour milk (you can make this by adding 1 teaspoon of vinegar to the milk)
½ cup hot water
½ cup oil
1 egg
Pinch of salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon soda
3 tablespoons cocoa

1. Mix all ingredients in order listed/
2. Spread into the prepared pan and bake for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
3. Leave to c ool in the pan on a wire rack.

When cool frost with caramel icing.

Caramel Icing

½ cup (1 stick) sweet, unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
¼ cup milk
3- 3 ½ cups sifted confectioners’ sugar

1. melt butter in a small saucepan on medium-low heat.
2. Add the brown sugar. Increase to heat to medium-high and bring to a boil, stirring. Cook and stir for 1 minute until slightly thickened.
3. Remove from stove.
4. Cool slightly and then add milk and beat until smooth.
5. Add 3 cups of sifted confectioners’ sugar and again beat until smooth.
6. Cool completely before spreading on cake.

How to Harvest Summer and Vanquish Melancholy

Summer is spent. Last weekend while laborers celebrated we headed to a small island in the great lake Erie, a stone’s skip from the Canadian border. Our oh-so-small family was gathering for a reunion.

Me, Kat (my youngest daughter) and our dog Tula crossed the waters to the island, coy as they are, in the 11th hour summer sunshine. On the other side my sister retrieves us from the ferry dock and we drive to the far tip of the island to her new lake house. Tula, a bordercollie-huskie mix we rescued at the age of six months, has never seen a lake in all her 5 years on this planet whose surface is 75% water. So I am curious to see her reaction. React she does. She springs from the car  spots the lake, and without a nanosecond’s hesitation runs flat out across the lawn, flies off the seawall into the waters and swims straight ahead as if her next stop is Canadian soil. Crazy. I stare, sun in my eyes, in disbelief and fascination. Into my reverie comes my niece’s voice, “she sure loves the water ... is she part portugese water dog or somethin' ... does she always swim that far out?” Before I can explain that she has never even seen a lake and as far as I know she has no water dog heritage (but I am now left wondering exactly who she really is) I am jarred by the reality that she might just keep going till she is simply too tired to swim. Suddenly anxious I call out her out her name and by some other hardwired instinct she turns and swims back,rolls in dead fish on the shore and bounds towards me.

The rest of the weekend was family fun; tubing, kayaking, biking, and gaming, all punctuated by lots of eating and lively political serial monologues that passed for discussions. It was hard to leave behind the sun, sand and stars at the end of it. That we were leaving summer was evident in the slant of the sun on the water we crossed. But home meant hooking up with the rest of my nuclear family – husband, Wayne, and Lizzie, my older daughter, who is visiting. Lizzie is coming home after a grand graduation trip with a purpose. For under a thousand dollars she traveled the rails across the US and Canada for 30 days. During those 30 days she made her way to San Francisco for a prison reform conference and then on to Portland and Vancouver to look at graduate schools. Then a long ride back through the Canadian Rockies, where she stopped to hike in Jasper, and then back home. I am excited to learn what she has learned.

The short work week felt anything but. Here it is Saturday morning, and there is a fall feel to the air; another summer over, another year older. And the world seems colder in spite of the predictions of warming. I cannot head to the pool and lap away the mantle of melancholy that is settling on my shoulders.

My morning amble through the garden revealed little in the way of tomatoes but the basil plants are bordering on bushes. Pesto! I will make buckets of pesto on this fallish day. Summer harvested and frozen, to be thawed and eaten over steaming pasta in the chill of January.

The recipe for pesto is my own variation on the traditional. I supplement with spinach because when my daughters were small an all basil pesto was too strong in taste for their tiny tongues and spinach just enriched the vitamins and minerals they would be getting.

Today I spread a thick icing of pesto on some great Italian bread and topped it with turkey and avocado slices. Melancholy be gone.

Jayne's Pesto

4 cups washed basil and spinach leaves (I generally use equal parts of each)
2 large cloves of garlic
2 tablespoons walnuts
¼ cup parmesan cheese
Sea salt (to taste)
1/8 cup Virgin organic olive oil (more if you like your pesto less dry)


Turkey Pesto Sandwich
2 slices bread of choice
1 tablespoon pesto
2 slices of turkey
A slice of avocado

The Tomato: nature’s antidote for anxiety

“You know, when you get your first asparagus, or your first acorn squash, or your first really good tomato of the season, those are the moments that define the cook's year. I get more excited by that than anything else” ~ Mario Batali

‘Twas the night before classes and all through the halls all the students are streaming making cellular calls.

A summer spent sweating and planning has all the classrooms fitted with the latest technology and laboratories awaiting the next generation of scientists. It all felt so Swiss, polished trains set to run on time. Then a disgruntled colleague detonates an E-mail bomb. I should have felt it coming since they have done this for the past two years of my four year sentence as department chair.

I wish I could say I bore it well. I wish I could say I was a genius at managing this sort of thing. But two years of trying every trick I know, every trick my husband the management guru knows, has me stymied. So this time I simply forwarded the E-bombs to my boss, the Dean, and waited. Moments later I discovered in sweat drenced horror that somehow I managed to send it to the disgruntled one instead.

E-mail is a modern E-vil. I cannot even figure out how I made this mistake but there it is in my send box. It feels oh-so-Freudian.

It is the morning after, Saturday, and I wake to fragmented thoughts of the impending fallout. It isn’t going to be pretty. I prepare chai and take the steaming cup with me for my walk around the garden with my cup of chai, my dog Tula at my heels. The display of morning glories and a busy hummingbird allay my anxiety for a brief moment. But then it is back. Anxiety follows me through most of my days, and often the nights. Anxiety is common among academics. I think we fall into one of two categories: those who are sure they are the smartest one in the room and those who worry that they are not.

I look down from the periwinkle glow of the morning glories and spy a few newly ripened tomatoes, red and gold orbs dangling like Christmas ornaments. Anyone can grow these miracles and what is better than a fresh unadorned tomato? We are crazy about tomatoes; Lizzie, my oldest daughter, even devoted her college essay to this royal fruit disguised as a vegetable. Kat, the younger daughter, called them tornadoes – for years. The last week of August in Ohio brings with it this gardener’s greatest triumph; tomatoes and lots of them if you’ve been diligent, and lucky. We’ve been eating them off the vine for a few weeks now, on grilled hamburgers and in salads. But now we cannot keep up.

Clearly there are enough to make a batch of sweet tomato chutney. Suddenly a calm comes over me. Sweet. Tomato. Chutney. Capturing sunlight in a condiment that is sweet and spicy and will last all winter long -- happiness in a jar.

I grab the recipe off the shelf and make a list of things I need from the store. I head out on my bike to my favorite indie grocery store. Home again I plunge right in and for the next two hours I chop, dice, grind and stir. The aroma brings my husband and daughter to the kitchen. The company and the aroma have lifted my mood. Now all I have left is to eat it!

What to eat it on? The list is long ... toast is great but it is dinner time. I whip up the curried rice and we dine on rice and chutney in the early evening sun.


Sweet Tomato Chutney
I found this recipe many years back in Madhur Jaffrey’s World of the East Vegetarian Cooking. This recipe takes time, time during which the tomatoes turn from fruit of the vine into something divine. The process is comforting.

2 pounds red-ripe tomatoes
1/4 teaspoon whole fennel seeds
1/4 teaspoon fennugreek seeds
2 cups distilled white vinegar
2 cups sugar
10 cloves garlic, peeled and very finely minced
1/2 teaspoon dried powdered ginger
2 bay leaves
1/4 teaspoon ground mace
1/4 teaspoon garam masala
1/4 teaspoon cayenne papper
about 1 1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup raisins or craisins

Wash the tomatoes and dry them thoroughly.
Grind the fennel and fenugreek seeds together in spice grinder

Heat the vinegar in a 7-8 inch wide, heavy stainless-steel or porcel;ain-lined pot over medium heat. When it begins to boil, put in as manyh of the tomatoes as the pot will hold in a single layer. Turn the tomatoes around for 15 to 30 seconds, then remove with a nonmetallic slotted spoon and place on a plate. Do all tomatoes in this way. Turn the heat under the vinegar to a medium low.

While the tomatoes cool, put the sugar into the vinegar and let it melt slowly. Peel the tomatoes and cut them into 1-inch cubes. Put the tomatoes and any accumulated liquid into the pot with the vinegar and the sugar. Add the ground fennel and fenugreek, the garlic, ginger, bay leaves, mace, garam masala, cayenne, and 1 1/4 teaspoons of salt. Mix and bring to a boil. Now bring the heat ot keep the chutney boiling fairly rapidly and let it cook this way for about 40 minutes. Stir every now and then during this period.

Add the raisins to the chutney and stir.

From now on the chutney needs to be watched more closely as it can stick on the bottom. Stir more frequently and contineu to cook another 25 to 35 minutes or until the chutney has thickened and is no longer watery. It should have a nice sheen to it at this point. It will thicken some as it cools. You should have about 2 cups. Taste for salt.

Allow the chutney to cool completely, put it in clean jars, and cover tightly. Keep it in the refrigerator where it will keep perfectly for months.




Curry Rice

1 can (14.5 oz) organic chicken broth
1/3 cup sweet tomato chutney (p. XX) or substitute your favorite
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup organic basmati rice
1 tablespoon curry powder
4 cups chopped spinach
1 can organic black beans
1 cup sweet potato cubes (1/2 “)


1. combine chicken broth and chutney in a blender and mix
2. heat oil in a 4 quart sauce pan
3. add rice and curry powder and saute for 1 minute
4. add spinach and sauté for 1 minute
5. add beans and sweet potato cubes
6. mix
7. add broth mixture
8. bring to a boil
9. reduce heat, cover and simmer for 25 min – until sweet potatoes are tender

serve with yogurt

Great with grilled meats or fish.

Chai

10 cardamom pods, crushed just enough to pen the pods or ½ teaspoon cardamom seeds
3 cups of water
1 cup milk
2 tablespoons sugar