A confit of legs preserved in their fat is well served shredded over pureed green peas.
These are the tastes of our holiday farm table. And the final gift of a quart of fat from one bird, browning our roast potatoes for the next year, makes for an appreciative farmer. It seems a form of wealth. From the flush of green grass in March through the first cutting in late May that growth and then the rhythm of collecting those grasses ties me to the rhythms of the land and the seasons.
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The muscle ache from the hard work of fencing off lush pastures, constructing storage barns, cutting, raking, baling and the moving of this basic produce of our land is another definition for joy. It simply makes me feel useful to feed forage to our livestock, a handmaiden, if you will, to the meat on our table.
Late October and our valley gets its first hard frost. Busily stacking hay bales, finishing fence repairs, harvesting the last peppers, storing winter squash and cleaning the summer gardens while waiting for the long days of winter to creep onto our farm. Then summer plays its annual trick and elbows winter back for a few weeks of warmth. Like a tense interlude before the next act, a stale impersonator of the vibrancy of summer days, a guest who will not leave a party even as the decorations of fall drop from the trees, this is an Indian Summer.
And then one day winter arrives, the wind kicks up, the last leaves hit the ground and ice is found on the water troughs when we feed in the morning. Summer is now a memory we hold for the future. As a kid in south Louisiana I remember the keen excitement of being told at the breakfast table that Jack Frost had visited overnight. By the time we were off to school he had already gone, taking his artwork with him. On our Tennessee farm I still feel the same pleasure, walking a pasture dusted with his work, watching the sun reclaim with streaks of light.
Kraut, kimchi or kraut-chi: That simple alchemy of veggies and sea salt yields delicious and shelf stable nutritious food in a few short days, championed by Misters Price, Katz and Vaughn. Made from whatever is in season but always benefitting from the crunch of cabbage. Chop your veggies, mix with salt and stuff into a jar and you are off. Since joining the Church of the Holy Fermented Veggie we usually have a jar or two or five bubbling away on the kitchen counter.
Combine cabbage with celery and caraway seeds for a straight forward kraut. Or add in apples for a nice fall dish. Or consider turnips and greens, poblanos or Sriracha, ginger and fish sauce, tomatillos and even anchovies, kohlrabi, pears, garlic, onions or Brussels sprouts in any mad combination you wish.
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And you will have only begun to scratch the surface of possibilities. All will be tasty and good in the end. We promise… if not feed the extra to your pig. He will thank you and return the favor. We know. Fear of fat, fear of flavor has driven from our less enlightened contemporaries knowledge that the word larder originally meant where the lard was stored or bacon hung. Replaced in the mid-twentieth century from its rightful throne by such offensive mass produced products as margarine and vegetable oil, lard deserves to be reconsidered. Rendering pork fat into lard for kitchen use is simplicity itself.
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He pulled his draft out of the hands of the chartered accountant. I will see you tomorrow. The next day he sent his letter off and started waiting for the results. Where earlier he would work his way to it through National and State, the next couple of weeks he went straight to Opinions and started with the names of the letter writers.
But alas, his name never appeared. There were still the Mala Murthys from Thirunelveli alarmed at the perils of deforestation and the Vinayak Hegdes from Bangalore tired of delays in the construction of the metro rail system, but no Subramaniam Iyers from Chennai with concerns regarding the quality of commercial dairy products.
Though he did bemoan his letter not being published with a low comment to himself each day he found his name missing, he still read avidly each morning, and continued to write to the editor about the numerous shortcomings of the world as he saw it. I am afraid I have to say that the state of so-called comedy in Tamil motion pictures has deteriorated drastically in the past few decades. In the days of the late great NSK, comedy used to be funny and meaningful at the same time.
Today it is all one ruffian hitting another and calling him names in a weird accent. And the worst of all are puns. If one word sounds like another, why is it funny?
The youth of today are getting poisoned by these so-called comedians and imitating them in their free time. These youth are the future of India. How are we going to develop and prosper if they are exposed to such nonsense?korkutas.com/wp-includes/eset-ebeveyn-kontrolue-kaldrma.php
Deadly Tales: Raijin and Woman in the Mirror by Roy Apps
Such letters he typed out as often as he could find material and energy, eventually settling down to a steady rate of about one a month. He wrote about, among others, the abundance of potholes in suburban localities, the prevalence of corruption among lower rung officials of the Tamil Nadu Civil Supplies Corporation, the poor form of the Indian test team, the poor form of the Indian one-day international team, and the incessant greed of auto drivers who wanted seventy rupees to take him from Mambalam to Ashok Nagar.
And none of these were published. The Hindu itself, meanwhile, was beginning to phase out its hallmark of quality a little faster than its readers were willing to recognise. Spelling mistakes were growing in number, and once every few days even the editorial ended sentences with prepositions. The intrepid men and women behind the operations at Kasturi Buildings were working overtime and consuming nearly twice as much coffee as they used to, but every week or so they still found themselves having to resort to articles on the prospects of the call centre industry and the lamentable disappearance of small but long-beloved used-book stores in Mylapore.
Mama chose to notice none of this, however, not even the onslaught of benign discussion pieces on the growing popularity of worn-out pants and other such imported pretensions among incorrigible teenagers in the more affluent sections of society. In his eyes, The Hindu still bore all the glories of its century of existence. Yes, he was disappointed each morning the week after each unpublished letter, but he never stopped writing them. The letters, unread as they were by anyone else, still seemed to grant him an inexplicable sense of calm, much like tossing pebbles into a desolate pond does to a lovelorn spinster.
His general mood improved around the time he wrote one of his letters, and sometimes he even watched afternoon mega-serials with his wife without cursing any of the characters. Another thing his earnestness with the letters granted Mani Mama was a veritable nemesis.
Raijin and Woman in the Mirror
Across the street from him lived a retired civil lawyer, and he learnt that four letters of hers had been published in newspapers over the previous year, though one of them was in The Times of India and so did not count. She would come over once a week to learn cross stitching techniques from his wife, and he tried his best to be asleep on these occasions. Mama detested her because he thought she patronised him because of his lack of success with the letters, though in reality she only patronised him because she thought he was a misogynist.
She actually thought everyone was a misogynist, and this had nothing to do with him in particular. If there was one thing Mani Mama disapproved of more than adulterating milkmen, it was unsolicited advice from nemeses who he believed were patronising him. He turned around in his chair to face her with his best reproachful gaze. Started by a group of dedicated book lovers, over the past 8 years World of Books Ltd has seen the inventory grow from to over 1 Million books in stock. We appreciate the impact a good book can have. We know the excitement of a new page turner, or the familiar joy of an old favourite.
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