Best Granola EVER

I had hoped to x-country ski today, but my fears of being overly optimistic have come true.  Unlike my brother and sister-in-law in Boston who are happily snowed in, we got a whopping inch.  Maybe 2 if you squint really hard.  It is not enough to shake a shovel at, but it was nice last night to watch it snow for a while, anyway.

On a sunny post snow day, there is nothing better than the smell of baking granola wafting from the kitchen.  Unfortunately for me, Scotty made it yesterday, before I got home from work.   I missed the prep, but I can reap the benefits of his efforts today, and thought I would share the recipe.  I have not found a person yet who doesn’t like this stuff, and we have had multiple requests for the recipe.

Trust me.  It is the best granola ever.  Hyperbole aside, I’m pretty sure the olive oil that makes it all tender crunchy, mixed with the maple syrup and the bit of salt that balances it all out create some sort of kismet gestalt thing that puts this granola over the top.  I’m not a huge fan of granola in general, but I can eat this stuff by the handful. 

I forget where I first read the recipe… on some other blog, I think… but I do know it is a riff on Nekisia Davis’ Early Bird Granola.  Of course, I have modified the recipe a bit as all granolas are up for creative tweaks.   For example, I’m not a big fan of coconut, but the original recipe calls for chunks of the stuff.  I like it a tiny bit less sweet.  And a little bit more salty. And I throw in whatever raw nuts we have hanging around most of the time.  Always, though, Always stick with the pecans.    Here is my version:

Granola

4 C rolled oats

1 C raw pepitas (hulled)

1 C raw pecans

1 C raw sunflower seeds (hulled)

¼ C light brown sugar

¾ C maple syrup (dark B grade is my go-to)

¾ C light olive oil

1 rounded tsp salt

Preheat oven to 300 and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.  In a large bowl combine all the dry ingredients.  Mix the olive oil and maple syrup together until you get a lovely thick slurry.  Add this to the dry ingredients and stir until well combined.  Dump this out onto parchment covered baking sheet and bake low and slow until the granola is lightly roasted.  This will take about 40 minutes making sure you stir it every 10 minutes or so….  This is important because the bottom and edges will brown quicker and you don’t want to be like me when I have had to pick out overcooked nuts burned from neglect….  The more you stir, the less chance you have of that tragedy.  By the end, the granola will smell fantastic and be nicely golden.  Let cool completely before you put into airtight container.  Scotty likes to mix in dried cranberries post baking, but I like it straight up.  No fruit necessary.  They say this will last about a month, but we wouldn’t know.  We go through a batch almost every other week and it is a staple in our kitchen.

Let Freedom Ring

The Second Inaugural of Barack Obama (public version, noted).  Martin Luther King, Jr. Day Of Service.  The kismet of this historical duality -  along with the impending flurries - leaves my heart a little lighter.  

Last spring, I took a trip to the MLK Memorial where cherry petals covered the Earth like a layer of pink pure snow.  I remember that visit and wish just a little bit that I were there today to celebrate the ringing in of the President.  Of course, the idea of being surrounded by the throngs of undoubtedly much taller-than-me-people, has me instead planted solidly on my red couch with hot beverages at my fingertips. 

Scotty brought me a cup of coffee in bed this morning, and as I leisurely rose, I thought I would listen to the seminal I Have a Dream speech before I turned on the media coverage.  I forget how long it really is... and how full of hope and melancholy.  How times have changed since August of 1963.  I think Martin Luther King Jr. would be proud to share this day with President Obama.  

If you have a moment, and care to read the transcript (though if you listen to the speech recordings, you'll find it is slightly different), I've posted it below (courtesy of teachingamericanhistory.org).

Regardless of how you feel about the politics of President Barack Obama, the historical significance of this day rings wild and loud with the promise of democracy. With malice toward none and charity for all, we stand in the shadow of a massive history. 

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves, who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity. But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination.

One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation’s Capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.

This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism.

Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.

Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice.

Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all God’s children.

Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.

There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrong deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities.

We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one.

We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote, and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote.

No, no we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by storms of persecutions and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our modern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream.

It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed. "We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day out on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state sweltering with the heat and injustice of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor’s lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plains and the crooked places will be made straight and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.

With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.

With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning "My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring!"

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California.

But not only that, let freedom, ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last."

Holiday Freak Out

Holiday season:  a time to love people and to hate people.  

Cognitive dissonance. 

Here is the problem:  I'm behind with my shopping.  I am.  I admit it.  Therefore, I am hating people.  They get in my way and are a nuisance when all I want to do is get in and buy the book.  sigh.  breathe.  Get the fuck out of my way.  This is a HOLIDAY OF GIVING, NOT A TIME FOR FREAKING OUT.  Right?  Bunch of trouble makers getting in my way.

And so this:  with a few days of shopping under my belt... I'm working at changing my perspective from stressed, to actively easing into What-Ever.  I'm cool.  That's the spirit.  Right?

'Tis the season to be joyful.  'Tis the season to be happy.  'Tis the season to Go With The Flow. But, oh my God....  

Pretty damn hard.

Reminder:  Good.

Wish me luck.  

The Burning of the Bird

I can’t believe I haven’t posted since Sandy.   That is much too long a silent stint , but time flies come November and it is hard to catch my breath.    Even as we speak, I have marshmallows firming up and cookies in the oven – it is a rainy day and life is good.  This holiday season started off with a bang with Thanksgiving 2012 a blockbuster blowout of gluttony and sloth in gross proportions.  We fried turkeys, we brewed beer, we laughed and drank and lived large.  We discussed everything from Al Jazeera taking over computers to arguing about bubble surface tensions to Kermit flying into lamp posts.  We covered a lot of ground.  S and I detoxed for a week after the house quieted.   

And now, the day after the Pville Firebird Festival, the Holiday Fete season has begun!  I posted a blurb last year about the firebird, but hands down, this year was even more entertaining.  Good friends came over about an hour before the burning of the bird and we had a few apps, a drink or two, and headed out with the rest of the town to partake in this most weird of town festivals.  The streets were filled with folks not only walking, but also trying in vain to find parking spots on the crowded streets.   A constant stream of people flowed from their cozy houses to join us as we walked downtown.   I’ve never seen so many people in Phoenixville.  The energy was high.  The soft evening air was full of chatter as we herded our way to cathartically watch a two story bird burn to the ground with 16,000 of our neighbors.      

 

That’s right.   SIXTEEN THOUSAND people were expected and I’d wager that was about right.  We were a sea of humans moving to the beat of the drum circle and chanting Burn the Bird.  It was a blast and boy did it burn.

 

Welcome to the Holidays, everyone.  

Sandy just said 'Hi' and moved on

The Schuylkill River at the Valley Forge River Path south of Pville 

I feel obligated to admit this:  I’m a closet natural disaster junkie and I was excited.  Sandy was Coming!  And part of the fun is in the prep, and of course if something awful had happened directly to me or someone I love, I’m sure I wouldn't feel this way, but, I've got to say…. I feel a little gypped.  Let me tell you:  Sandy was HYPED up here in the Philly region.   We were bunkered in and prepared for 'the worst' - we had food, wine, beer, water, candles up the ying yang, fun non-power-needing projects, and of course, bacon.  And then... windy rain, but the power barely went off, only mild front porch furniture rearrangement, and very little flooding.  Things are pretty ‘normal’ around here today.  Folks are out and about cleaning up yards (raking) and talking about how bad previous floods were (apparently 18 inches of rain fell in 1977) and how we dodged a bullet (poor NJ folks).  Lots of folks and coffee shops (gasp) are still without power, but we have power.  We have coffee.  We have very little debris to pick up.   

@ Produce Junction in Pville

I know, I know.  I should be happy for us and really sensitive to the needs of others, but still.  This is one of my safe spots and I’m going to admit it.  I expected more, Sandy.  You know... some direct impact on me.   Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad, say, a tree didn't fall on my house (happened a bit here in Pville), or my basement didn't flood (it really has never flooded), and I could follow the Chris Christie news briefing this morning (wow does he have an ego), but at the same time…  a little time only relying on candle-power wouldn't have been so bad.  Instead, last evening, I took a bath, we joked our way through parts of 3 Bond movies, listened to some music, played some music, had some lovely un-needed candle ambiance, and enjoyed cold beers from a cold fridge and fully iced margaritas. 

River Path again in Valley Forge

Ok, Ok.…. come to think of it, that isn’t so bad, either.  I’ll take it and cease my self-indulgent, electric using, hardly effected blatherings.  As I sit here on my cushy couch drinking hot Assam tea, my heart goes out to the folks on the shore – some of whom have lost everything.  

All is well here, and that is no hype.

Take Off, Eh?

Another successful October field trip to the great white north.  Snowflakes splat against the windshield as we head south from Fort McMurray back ‘home’ to Meanook via the Mariana Fen, and we are all warming our toes after trekking through the very cold and soupy fen that buffers our site just south of the Fort McMurray airport.  Snow fell last night, too, and let me tell you, picking and finding vegetation and collecting water is extra fun with a cover of the white-stuff on everything.  Surprisingly, it went pretty smoothly: black spruce branches make excellent brooms, and thankfully, we restocked on hand-warmers last night.  We’re pros.

But, even for seasoned veterans of the bog world, this trip was oh-so challenging.  Cramming in a gazillion things in so little time with so little wiggle room is a dangerous thing to do, but we seem to seek out the challenge time and again.  To boot, the weather is unpredictable and the forecasters haven’t gotten anything right for the duration of this entire trip.  Thankfully, we squeezed in Utikuma early, though, even then, we barely made it in or out.  We only went sideways a couple of times on the treacherously muddy oil roads and by whatever grace we may have, didn’t end up in a ditch.  Getting stuck has happened before and I’m guessing it will probably happen again, but not this trip.  It makes me uncomfortable when the steering wheel is just a suggestion for tires that are perpendicular to the forward (or sideways) progress.  Agita.   

And speaking of feeling sick….  Fort McMurray was most ugly this time around.  I guess I say that every time, but ugh…. It is so depressing.  Two of our sites are heavily impacted by the pollution and bizarrely, our normally forest-green mosses are turning teal and then dying at the site closest to the processing plants.  Something very bad is happening at that smelly site, and this is nothing any of us has ever seen.  Fort McMurray, once in a most beautiful part of the world, now oozes mud and toxic grey destruction.  They are fucking the Earth up royally and are proud of it. 

And so it is good to be heading back to Meanook.  The forest along the road turns white from trees dressed in crystalline sweaters and dropping temperatures and as we finished up at Mariana, so, too, have we finished up the field season.  We are all ready to head home for good for a bit -- just in time for winter to hit Alberta.  It was a long run this year and I am tired and burnt out – I think we all are, but there is still so much to do in the lab.   As I bask in the white world around me now, I daydream of blue Caribbean waters and warm sunshine on my face and days and days of only having to remember to put on sunscreen.   I am feeling decidedly unhealthy. 

But for now, back to Meanook we go.  And then home again home again soon there-after.  The snow is good, but home is a much better trade-off.  I look forward to it being my island respite for a bit.

Lingonberries, Bogs, and Bears

I just got back from a quick and wildly jam-packed trip to Alberta.  Two days into it and our sense of time was acutely distorted, and by the end we were all spinning.  Exhausting, but enjoyable, these fall trips to the boreal wetlands are usually my favorites.  The trees are turning gold, frost whitens the grasses in the pre-dawn light, and I am reminded that the heat of eastern PA will soon be a memory.  I can deal with some cool after this summer, and wow it was nice to wear a scarf again.

Into the field and along the trails, we foraged with the bears for cranberries, sweet and earthy honkin'-big blueberries, and the best lingonberries I’ve ever had.  Evidence for bears sharing our space was both interpreted and direct.  They were busy leaving piles of evidence everywhere.  I don’t blame them.  Those berries are irresistible.  Unbeknownst to us, a very large black bear joined us at Utikuma as we sprayed our plots with water (a paradox, I know) tromped out in backpack sprayers, and as he wandered into view with his head in the verdure, we took our cue and left the bounties of the bog to our fuzzy and somewhat scary friend.  Our hopes of making a wild-berry crisp that day were thwarted.

 

Utikuma, as you may recall, was burned just over a year ago.  I hadn’t been there since earlier this summer, and since then, the changes in the vegetation are incredible.  The mosses are coming back, the vascular plants are everywhere, and tiny baby spruce trees, all spiky-sprouts, hide among the recovering moss heads.   The charcoal-ed peat no longer stinks, but instead, has a not unpleasant  hint of an old house with a recently used fireplace.  Snares of naked black spruce branches threaten you with bodily harm and impalement (which will only get worse as the dead trees begin to really fall), but on the whole, it is a joy to witness the transformation making Utikuma a highlight of the trip.

 

Because Utikuma is an almost 3 hour drive north and west of our home-base Meanook, we sometimes stay at the Boreal Center where we feel most welcome.  This stay included a side-trip to Marten Mountain, which has been on my to-do list for quite some time.  We scaled the cobbled gravelly road in our F150 and had a vista of Slave Lake and vicinity that you don’t usually get in Alberta unless you’re in a helicopter.  My sense of well-being as we ate good food and drank wine around the campfire that night was palpable; and to boot, the stars were incredible.   

It was a decidedly productive and over-all fun trip.  The day of rain and a little time off today is helping with the re-entry.  Fall is starting to ease in today with an onslaught of grey and rain and wind and it makes me want to start cooking soups again.  I think tonight I will braise.  I am glad to be home.

Acadia: Part Deux

Day 2:

Crows yawped before the sun peaked through the pines on which they roosted above our tired heads.  Not to be outdone, the ubiquitous white throated sparrow joined in soon thereafter.  The campsite was bustling before 8 and we were on our way to focus our efforts to the North and East. 

 

Cadillac Mountain was a top priority.  Given the availability of a road to the peak, we took it and saved up our tired muscles for another hike later in the day.  The moving abyss looming out my window made me queasy on the switchback road up the mountain, and the view were great.

And then… the hoards.  We were not prepared for the swarms of Homo sapiens plaguing the mountain top.  It was a beautiful day on a weekend, and so I’m not sure why we thought it would not be crowded, and I think the reality is that we didn’t really think about it, but to be confronted with it after such a beautifully solo experience the day before was a bit of a psyche shift.  Again, though, the views!  Oh the views!  We were glad to not have hiked up. 

It occurred to us as we dropped elevation down into Bar Harbor that these people on vacation were also taking a holiday from following basic traffic laws.  Countless close-calls and distracted dim-wittedness put us even more on edge.  We were really not here to see people.  Happy to be parked, we had an early lunch on the edge of the main thoroughfares and rebounded.  A quick walk through the cuter-than-expected souvenir-filled town and before you could say lahhbstahhh roll, we were out of there.  The tight muscles needed to be stretched.

Nitwits plagued us still on the loop road and the hoard stymied our attempts at swimming at the ocean beach, but we muscled our way into seeing Thunder Hole in hopes of a little drama.  No drama.  Quiet hole.  So, on to Gorham Mountain where the parking lot was crowed, but thankfully primarily for the ocean cliff walk located in a completely different direction.  Breathing a sigh of relief as a big group moved off with a ranger toward the ocean, we took to the wood.

A 1.8 mile round trip, Gorham Mnt. Trail was listed as moderate, so, again, we looked forward to a fairly easy hike.  Sharing the exposed rocky trail with only a handful of groups was a welcome afternoon escape.  Mostly exposed bedrock, the trail was expertly constructed with boulder steps exactly where we needed them.  Cairns marked our path over large-crystalled lichen covered granite.  Blueberries and mosses clung to thin soils bridging outcrops.  Cranberries nestled in the crevasses.  The forager in me enjoyed the tasty fruits of the trail, but S was hesitant.  Apparently, I was Eve tempting him with the tasty globes.  I didn’t care.  They were sun-kissed and delicious.  He was missing out.

Home again home again to grilled chicken thighs and potato/onion/pepper pockets, gin and tonics and waiting for the stars.  A quick ¼ mile drive to the rocky shore and we were in star-heaven.  The fractured rocks couldn’t have been more comfortable with that view of billions and billions of stars above. The Milky Way swooped across the sky providing for most of the light in the moon-less sky.  Satellites and planets nestled into the nooks and crannies and binoculars exposed  mini-constellations hiding in the velvety dark.  Shooting stars from all angles drew tangents across the sky.  With the sound of the surf, and a small breeze keeping the bugs away, it was incredible.

 

Off to Boston the next day via York, ME, and home again home again for real.  Two thumbs up. 

A note:  Now in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada, and man... what an opposite sort of experience.  Hopefully, I'll have time to throw something together about this trip soon.  For now, the memories of Maine make for a peaceful escape.