October 12, 2004
Vivid Red
You would think Thanksgiving on a farm would be twice as special as Thanksgiving in the city. Particularly so when the farm you live on grows all sorts of winter squash, pumpkins, parsnips, carrots, rutabagas and all those other things you traditionally pile on your plate on turkey holidays. And this farm even has wild turkeys in the fields (though we have to take Lorenz's word on that one, *I* have never seen the wild turkeys). So you really would think, wouldn't you, that, at Thanksgiving, we go for a walk among the fields, marvelling at the unbelievable colours this year. On the way back, we could pick the last few sunflowers that haven't been killed by frost. After that, we might all pile into the house, cook a giant turkey and roast some parsnips and get all thankful for another growing season. And then perhaps we could call a photographer and have our day turned into a greeting card, because it's just so picture perfect out at the farm.
Ha! Clearly, that particular daydream does not take into account that yes, Thanksgiving fell after a killing frost but no, the harvest is not done. True, the weather was great, the leaves are perfect, there were a few last sunflowers and I picked them. I even went for a walk along the fields, marveling at the leaves. But if you really want to know how the Thanksgiving weekend went at Greenfields, you have to factor in 408 bunches of swiss chard and massive mountains of rutabagas. Particularly, you have to consider that the 408 bunches of chard were not bunches on Friday night. I'd fallen asleep on my couch with Boris on the floor in post-belly-rub bliss, and when Lorenz pulled in after an evening of hockey in Orangeville, we both woke up. I delivered the dog to his master, and sat, blinking and half asleep, in his office while he muttered something about getting up early to do chard. It being Thanksgiving and all, I offered to help. Lorenz tried to warn me in his gentle way - "it's not a fun job" - but I ignored it. No, I wanted to help!
So, in the morning, I wandered up to the field to do my helping. Lorenz went somewhere else in the row, and I started making my bunches. My helping in this case was probably much like that of my cousin's little boy, who, when he was three, always wanted to "help" with the dishes and consequently we would step into suds on the floor and there would be a small child splashing away in delight while the dishes stayed dirty. In other words, my bunches - though they took effort on my part - stunk. I somehow suspected that my sad little chard bunches weren't good enough, because I asked Lorenz to look at them when he wandered by with a full crate of beautiful, perfect bunches. Three minutes later, all my bunches 
undone again, he looked up and said "you shouldn't be watching this". I think he was afraid I'd cry. And then? Then he disappeared! He *said* he was going to go turn the water off in the red barn (he left it running to fill the big wash tub in which the chard would be dunked) and he'd just take what we already had with him. But he was gone for over an hour! I halfheartedly made bunches, annoyed by all the crappy leaves I had to wade through to find a good leaf if I wanted anything less than pathetic looking bunches. I made about a dozen bunches, and then I grabbed my camera and took pictures of vivid red leaves and stuff. Then I got really annoyed - my bunches stunk, the patch of chard I was in was lousy, my hair came out of its ponytail, and... I quit. That's right, you can quit a volunteer job: you can simply walk away from it, saying, this stinks. I don't wanna do it anymore.
Except, of course, I met Lorenz on his way back up when I stalked down the hill and he was all nice and good about it that I didn't want to do this sucky job. He said things like he understood, and he didn't think any less of me. Someone must have given him a tip sheet on how to push my buttons, because I of course lasted all of about five minutes sitting lazily in an Adirondack chair before realizing that the only thing that stunk more than the chard job was my attitude. I trundled back up the hill, not really wanting to bunch any chard but wanting even less to be a quitter. I stuck it out. My bunches didn't stink nearly as much as the ones Lorenz had pulled apart earlier, but I only made one bunch for every three that Lorenz did. I was pretty glad when he said, after we had enough chard for seven cases, that he had to stop because he had to go into Toronto to run an errand, and I left the chard patch to make a pumpkin pie (yes. I made a pie. Hang on a minute, I'll tell you all about it after I finish the chard story).
Fast forward past pie making and movie watching and all that, and now it's Sunday morning and I'm turning the space between the greenhouse and my garden into a construction site - I've dragged all of Lorenz's junk, sorry, important stuff, away from the fence and chopped down the foliage, because I'm digging a trench and filling it with mulch in an effort to keep the weeds which infest the important stuff pile out of my garden. Lorenz swung by to deliver a present into my garden: a live snake that he'd just fished out of the pool. Well, so much for digging in my garden for the rest of the morning - I don't mind snakes at all, but I don't really want to step on one or slice one in half with my spade. And thus, stalled in my gardening efforts, I found myself volunteering to go back up to the field and the dreaded chard. We needed 10 more cases - that's 240 bunches to those of you keeping score at home.
We started on a new patch. I went to the far side, where the red chard ruled. To my surprise, there were many, many perfect leaves with glowing red stalks and very few nasty looking ones. I didn't hate it, nope, as I made my bunches and trimmed the plant (because this patch will be harvested again), I got into a happy little rhythm of bunching. When I carried a full crate to the van at the other end, I passed Lorenz and noticed that I was almost as fast as he was. Hmmmm... I didn't comment on this and retreated to my end of the row. Next crate, same thing - I was more or less keeping up to Lorenz, and a surrepetitious inspection of his bunches convinced me that mine weren't smaller or particularly pathetic relative to his. It didn't take a lot of brainpower to figure out that I was on the good end of the row and Lorenz was working his way through the not as nice stuff, but it also didn't take a lot of smarts to keep quiet about this! I filled my third crate lickety-split, Lorenz said it was lunchtime, and we went down to the red barn with six full crates of pretty nice bunches. It wasn't until after lunch, when Lorenz had counted and announced that we only needed 81 more bunches, that I spilled the beans about how good the far end of the row was. And it wasn't until we were down to 30 more bunches that I casually said, you know, there's lots of good chard where I am, you could just work there too. (Lorenz would like you to know that *his* bunches were prettier than mine. Lorenz has pretty bunches, but then, he's also the man who bragged that he had nice melons. Heh.)
On Monday, I was appropriately thankful. No more chard. And I didn't get silly enough to volunteer to help with washing, trimming and packing the rutabagas. Because, you know, I was busy. I was baking a pie! I had announced my intention of baking a pumpkin pie early in the weekend, and Lorenz immediately informed me that he was all out of pie pumpkins. I came back with the information that 
I'd read somewhere that you can make a "pumpkin" pie out of any sort of winter squash, but decided to humour Lorenz and turn one of those "French" pumpkins (that's what he calls them - they're really called Rouge vif d'étampe pumpkins, which I think translates to vivid red embossed pumpkin, but you can also call them "Cinderella" pumpkins, according to the seed catalogue we consulted when I wanted to know their "real" name) into a pie. I didn't tell Lorenz, though, that I was making *two* pies - one out of the French pumpkin, one out of a winter squash. And then, the winter squash one would taste just as good, and I would have proven my point.
Alas, the winter squash pie was good, but nowhere near as good as the French pumpkin. Ruth called just as I pulled the pies out of the oven, and, without taste-testing either, I grabbed the winter squash pie and took it to her 
house for movie night. I thought it was okay, though not great - which is why I was particularly surprised when Lorenz, who had sampled the pie I left on his counter, said he liked the pumpkin pie. This man is not a pastry fiend, and though it's possible he was 
sucking up to me on account of the 240 outstanding bunches of chard at this point, I watched him eat another huge piece at lunch and he can't fake it *that* well. Clearly, this called for more pie making (we'd already eaten two thirds of the pie by Sunday afternoon, and there was still Thanksgiving proper, with lunch with my brother and all, to come!). And my second French pumpkin pie turned out just as yummy, even my brother ate it! Thus, the red barn troll weblog now turns into a recipe sharing site. Here you go:
Barn Troll Pumpkin Pie
1 Greenfields Farm Rouge vif d'étampe pumpkin (be sure to ask for the "French" pumpkin, otherwise nobody will know what you mean)
unbaked pie shell(s)
spices: 1 tsp cinnamon, pinch nutmeg, plus some cloves and ginger, and some vanilla extract
1 cup cream
1 cup milk
5 eggs
1 cup sugar (half white, half brown, or raw sugar, or the organic sugar that comes in the waxed carton that Lorenz has in his cupboard)
Take the pumpkin, cut it up, scoop out the guts. Peel it (peeling these pumpkins is no more difficult than peeling an apple). Chop the peeled pumpkin into little bits. Boil it until it is soft. Drain. Mash it all up in a food processor or blender. Dump the pumpkin puree into a fine meshed sieve or a sieve lined with cheesecloth. Let drain for at least two hours - the pumpkin mush will reduce to half its volume as the water drains out.
Put eggs, spices and sugar into food processor (or, if you are so inclined, beat by hand). Turn on food processor. Add pumpkin mush. Finally, add milk and cream. When all is smoothly beaten together, put into unbaked pie shell(s) (this is enough for two small pies, or you can do what I did and take a big "flan" dish and make one huge pie). Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 1 hour (somewhat less if you have two small pies). Pull out of oven and brag to all who will listen that you made a pie.
And, to conclude the domestic bliss entry, I will also share the kohlrabi-fennel bake recipe that Lorenz conned me into making yesterday (I claim to hate kohlrabi, why would I volunteer to cook it? Lorenz, however, spent over an hour digging through his cookbook pile to find this particular recipe while bragging about how good it was. Then, when he finally found it, he casually said, since you're making lunch, this would go really well with it, why don't I get you some fennel and kohlrabi... and you know what? it was really good! but not as good as my pie!)
Kohlrabi-Fennel Bake
2 large fennel bulbs
3 small kohlrabi
chicken stock
butter, flour, milk
paprika
parmesan cheese
Slice kohlrabi and fennel, and cook until tender. Make a béchamel sauce: melt butter over medium heat, add flour and make smooth paste. Cook without burning for 3-4 minutes, add milk to make sauce, keep whisking as sauce thickens. Drain kohrabi and fennel, put into greased casserole dish. Pour sauce over top. Liberally sprinkle with paprika and parmesan. Bake, uncovered, in 350 degree oven for half an hour.
