Saturday, September 23, 2006

The woodcutter's daughter's tale

I awoke this morning later than my wont, much encumbered with the cat. I petted her a time, arose, and made a pot of coffee and a hearty breakfast before retiring to peruse a chapter of the Holy Scripture and then the Saint Athanasius. You may inquire how a mere woodcutter's daughter would come into an acquaintance with such as these, but I was blessed with a better education than most in my time, whether male or female. After reading, I sat back and Contemplated Life, much as a friend of mine once did in Madrid.

I was aroused from my contemplations, not by a Spanish drug deal in my vicinity, but by the voice of my father inquiring if my mother was ready to go. “Go?” I shouted. “Where?"

“Hiking!” he replied. “Do you want to come?”

I certainly did, so I replied in the affirmative and clothed myself appropriately with much haste. Woodcutters, as you can probably imagine, do not ordinarily go for strenuous hikes with no purpose beyond the pleasure of the walk, but my father makes his living helping to reckon the finances of our local alchemists and weapon-makers, and only chops wood on weekends, and therefore has not partaken of that sad dislike.

The day was a beautiful particularity of late September at its best. The air was cold, particularly when the wind blew, but the sky almost clear and the sun hot. Across the valley fresh snow glistened on the highest peaks. Wildflowers bloomed. This is a good year for the yellows and purples: chamisa, mountain asters, sunflowers. We stopped at a trail near a mesa and hiked along its base, orange cliffs against blue sky. We took pictures—many, many pictures. I filled my memory card; though admittedly it already bore the results of two prior expeditions.

Upon our return home, Dad purposed in his heart to take out half a juniper tree in our front yard. It had been mostly dead for several seasons, and furthermore this year winter is setting in cold and early. So he pulled out the great saw and, when it was quite prepared, I joined him. We cut down the dead half, sliced off the branches, and generally took it apart.

It took us the full afternoon. Our front yard filled with piles of brushery. When we cut logs, we discovered that junipers have red hearts, much like cedar! They smelled like cedar also. When we expressed our surprise to Mom, she said, “Oh yes, juniper is related to cedar. I thought you knew."

We came in an hour or two before sundown and I started making Cornish pasties for dinner. I have long desired to try my hand at them, and some time ago in my researches found two different recipes. They were pretty similar, except for different amounts, so I sort of melded them and did my own version. I did use store-bought pastry, for the lateness of the hour and the hunger of my long-suffering parents, but the filling I made with beef, potato, carrot, onion, and celery—and they were very good. I understand in the high medieval era, pasties were a royal dish, but pretty soon the Cornish miners started making them because they were easy to transport into the mines for lunch. For a while they'd put meat in one half and fruit in the other, for dessert. You really can put anything in a pastry. I highly recommend them.

8 comments:

Dr. Bubba said...

I take it ole Woodcutter's daughter that you have not ever seen a cedar bush? Looks very much like a juniper.
So much so I call them cedars. ;)

-A simple Texan.

Pinon Coffee said...

Nope, that I hadn't. I'm seriously undereducated. :-)

Anonymous said...

Oh, your baking experiment sounds absolutely delightful! Can't you come back and make us cornish pasties? I assure you, we would be no end grateful! :-)

Anonymous said...

(sorry, I didn't think to sign above!)
~Duchess from the realm of Elmwood

Pinon Coffee said...

Oooh...I like that idea. I'd love to! We'll see if I can borrow someone's kitchen for the purpose. :-)

Lisa Adams said...

The woodcutter's daughter sounds like someone I know ... purposing to be content in her situation and to find and create delight :).

Campeador said...

I lived on pasties for three months in London. Now I don't have them anymore. :( Life is like that. Enjoy!

Pinon Coffee said...

Oh goodness, cooking humor. Okay, so Sunday night I was supposed to take mashed potatoes to a church dinner. The dinner was at six. It was a fifteen-minute drive. At five-forty-three, the potatoes were still in great lumps in the mixer and furthermore every time I turned it on, even on the lowest setting, the mixer flung them everywhere. So I'd wipe up the floor and counter and try to turn the mixer on while holding a big spoon over the bowl so, even if they did go flying, maybe they'd bounce back in.

I get up to the street and there are people parked on both sides, so I can't get through. I have to back into a driveway and go round to the other end of the loop. Then my mashed potatoes and I nearly missed the right house...

Yeah. Cooking humor.