Photo: Lucas Mulder

This winter, as Boston got pummeled with snow, I made a weekly trek out to the Norfolk Agricultural High School with thoughts of spring on my mind.  I had enrolled in Bee School with the Norfolk County Beekeepers Association and was making plans to broaden my farming knowledge to include the incredibly important (think: pollination) world of beekeeping.  If you have any inkling of taking up beekeeping, this class is the most incredible value you can find.  For $50, you receive 10 sessions led by experienced beekeepers including a book, discounts from local beekeeping supply places (including a free shipping coupon worth over $50 – so basically the class pays for itself), as well as some great stories from years in the field.  A friend who has started a Boston-based beekeepning business claims that this class was the single best investment she made in her business.  So while 10 classes may seem a bit exessive (and I have to confess to missing 2 or so) you will leave the class feeling as comfortable as you can given that you will soon be dumping about 10,000 bees into a small wooden box.  I finished the class (diploma in hand) and was excited to begin overseeing a hive at the Brookwood Community Farm.  I had made the decision not to buy my own hive for a few reasons: 1) I’m highly underemployed and a $600 investment seemed like maybe not the smartest plan 2) my landlord is crazy and I definitely can’t keep the bees in my backyard 3) see number 1.  If I actually get a full time job, I might have to move, thereby orphaning my bees.  Moving a hive is definitely not on the list of things to undertake as a first year beekeeper.

Photo: Lucas Mulder

So I was set to work with Judy, the Brookwood Farm Manager, as my mentor, helping oversee the three hives at Brookwood. One had not overwintered well, so we ordered a new package of bees and on a warm April day, set about installing them.  In retrospect, the signs that I might not be cut out to be a beekeeper were probably pretty clear for quite some time.  Last summer I stepped on a bee the same day I was moving out of the farm in California – forcing Lucas to do most of the loading of the car, the entire 4 hour drive to the coast, and a whole lot more driving the next few days as my right foot became very red and swollen.  Some time in December, shortly before the start of Bee School, when I was being a great student and had checked out about a dozen beekeeping books from the public library, I remembered what I have long considered my biggest fear in life:  lots of small moving things in a small space. There were these crazy fireworks in Guatemala that looked liked insects.  Those creaped me out.  I have often joked that I am not afraid of any individual bugs, I just don’t like lots of bugs moving around in a tiny place.  Some might call that a swarm.  And then it hit me.  Bees swarm.  By definition, a hive is a very small place with lots of tiny bees moving all around.  So as I was reading my beekeeping books, when I came to pages with pictures of big mounds of bees piled high, I’d quickly flip the page.  Bee School wasn’t going to be easy.  But I persevered, and by the time we were rolling into March and I had clocked several hours of bee videos, I was hopeful that my fear might be dissipating.

Photo: Lucas Mulder

When the day arrived to install the new bees, I wore the recommended light-colored clothing.  I put on gloves. I triple checked that my veil was tied correctly, and Judy and I headed out to the field. I should mention that Judy was wearing a full bee suit because she had forgotten her usual bee keeping attire.  Judy took the lead lifting the hive cover, and slowly placing the frames from the package in the empty brood chamber.  It was sunny, the bees had been delivered in a package, which looks a lot like a mini-hive, including a little hole that they can come in and out of, so the bees had been coming and going freely for about two days since their arrival.  It was warm and sunny and mid-day.  Many bees had already left the package and were flying around.  So they weren’t as calm as I would have liked, but it felt manageable.  I took deep breaths, let the bees crawl accross my body and took more deep breaths.  Until I got stung through my shirt and I let out a childish yelp and began walking briskly away from the hive.  When the bees had stopped following me, I returned to the hive and continued to observe, a little less eager to get my hands in the action.  Apparently my shirt wasn’t thick enough.  I was embarrassed, but I was also relieved.  The sting was painful, but nothing like the three stings I remember getting previously, where I found myself fighting back tears.  This was the test. If I could withstand the sting and keep focused, I was ready to really start beekeeping.  So while I didn’t participate as much as I had hoped, I left the farm that day feeling pretty pleased. I could hardly feel the sting any more and I vowed to buy a thicker white shirt.

Things changed that evening when my arm began to feel hot.  The sting was still a visible bump though I had removed the stinger which had actually just lodged in my shirt.  It began to itch.  By the morning, my arm had swollen to what Lucas called “my popeye arm”.  The entire lower arm, from elbow down past my wrist, was significantly larger than my left arm.  I headed to work, and my bemused worry grew.  After a day in the sun and using my arm quite a lot, it had swollen even more.  The swelling was making my hand feel clumsy, as I had less motion in my fingers.  I took some benedryl and promtply fell asleep at 8:30.  Taking benedryl wasn’t going to be an option if I needed to be alert and driving a tractor the next day.  So I left the arm alone, hot and swollen, and waited.  On day three, with no discernable reduction in swelling, I called my doctor just for some more information.  I didn’t really want to come in to the office,** but I wanted someone to assure me that just because I seemed to be having an allergic reaction to the sting, did not mean that the next time I was stung, I would go into anaphalactic shock.  They wouldnt give me that reassurance over the phone, so I scheduled an appointment for a few days later because I was headed out of town that weekend.  While out of town visiting my parents, my mother implored me to reconsider my new beekeeping hobby and my dad gave me a tube of some kind of Spanish cream he said had helped him when he got a weird insect bite in Spain last summer.  I quickly applied the mystery lotion according to the directions.  My knowledge of Spanish was good enough to read the directions clearly, but does not expand into pharmaceutical names.  So the cream remained a mystery until my Monday morning doctor’s appointment, where the doctor explained that it was a steroid cream.  At this point, either the cream or time had done the trick and the swelling, one week on, was largely gone.  But my doctor insisted that I go to an allergist for more info.  So, a few weeks later (having agreed to a beekeeping hiatus and not checking the hives until post allergy appointment) I went to the allergist where they confirmed, after several painful shots, that low and behold…I’m allergic to bees!  All kinds of bees – wasps, honey bees, other bees whos names I’d never heard of.  And there, my beekeeping aspirations came to a sharp halt.  They couldn’t guarantee that a sting would prodce a localized or systemic (read: potentially lethal) reaction.  They suggested I stop beekeeping and gave me instructions about using an epipen.  I love honey, but not really enough to risk my life.  So sadly, I think I’m going to stay on the sidelines again this  year.  I’m dreaming about tapping maple trees next spring.  I’m definitely not allergic to them, and there’s no risk they’ll swarm.

**My desire to avoid the doctor’s office was well warranted, given that when I did finally go in, I was exposed to measles and promptly quarantined by the City of Boston, leading to an prolonged fight with the Public Health Commission regarding my vaccination records.  ”Quarantine” only just ended a week ago.

It’s been a long while since I last wrote from the doldrums of February.  Spring has arrived here in Boston and not a minute too soon.  There are gosslings at Jamaica pond and they’ve turned the water fountains back on!  There have been a lot of changes, and a lot more of the same as I try and figure out exactly what might be coming next for me, all while trying to stay focused on what is actually happening now.  Since last posting, working here fell through at the last minute.  I decided not to be the farmer here, and I’ve ended up digging in the dirt here and stirring up some dough here.  A bit of a mish-mash of jobs, but as always, a tasty one.

So I’m hoping with the arrival of spring –  of lilacs, not-too-spicy arugula, biking to everything, a few pots of mint, and a baby on the way (!) – things will really start looking up.  I’m still eagerly awaiting the first local fruit and craving a sweet eggplant tart, but it’s close enough that now I think I can bear it.

This year marks a transition of sorts for me.  I’m trying to become a gardener.  I’m somewhat embarrased, but mostly proud, to admit that I am not a gardener.  In fact, beyond an old dresser drawer full of soil and salad greens on my back porch, I’ve never really had a garden.  I’ve had a farm (well, not MY farm, but same idea).  I can think about planting 1500 row feet of carrots at a time, 25 beds of tomatoes, and 400 feet of basil.  But if you try to get me to plant one okra plant and a few cucumbers, I’m kind of at a loss.  Fertilizing without a whole wind row of horse manure?  Watering without drip tape?  I’m gardening at my sister’s house this summer – an attempt to learn the trade, and help her out when she may get a bit busy for gardening (did I mention that baby on the way?!)  I’ll try and post some photos and chronicle my uncertain steps into the world of small-scale growing.  I somehow decide dto begin with the challenge of growing lemongrass – a favorite herb (or root? stalk? plant?  what are you lemongrass?) This is all part of my plan to grow what I’m calling a cocktail garden – so far I have lemongrass and mint, with basil on the way.  Not much more motivating for garden work than the promise of a cool mojito in July.  Everyone I mention my lemongrass to reminds me that lemongrass is a tropical plant.  I assure them that I do know this, but I also know that my favorite Maine-based seed company sells lemongrass seed.  So I planted those seeds and they’re sitting in the window, where apparently they need to be for at least 8 weeks before they’ll be ready to go outside.  It’s hard to imagine that in just eight short weeks it might feel pretty damn tropical in these parts as well.  I’m looking forward to basking in the heat, clutching a lemongrass and mint cocktail in my dirt-covered hands.

If you have any favorite herb-filled cocktails, send them my way and I will gladly post them here (after making up a batch, or course).

Credit: Mike Horan

February is the worst month.  I don’t care that it is the shortest. I’d be happy to do away with it entirely.  It’s saving grace is that it has slightly more day-length than January.  But January is all about new beginnings, and it’s hard not to feel hopeful in January.  But by February?  Please.  The hope has dissipated and spring feels like it will never come.

So aside from the fact that, much like a plant, I need a certain number of hours of daylight if I’m going to function (and many more if I’m going to thrive) and February above the 42nd parallel provides nowhere near enough, February is also terrible because there is so little fresh produce available.  The roots cellars are running low (and I live in a third floor apartment and am deeply afraid of the basement.  I truly cannot understand how one would even go about making a basement look so messy).  The day length is too short for those unheated greenhouses to be producing greens very prolifically.  And Boston, pathetically, has no winter farmers market.  You are probably beginning to wonder if this entire post is going to be one long complaint about winter, and if you know me, you may be wondering why I ever left California last summer.  But I promise, hope is on the way.

And hope arrived for me in the form of a winter farmers market last weekend.  I finally trecked all the way across the river to the Somerville Winter Farmers Market (something about that river makes everything seems so far away!).  I was really pleasantly surprised to find quite a bounty of locally grown produce, farmstead cheese, local wines, fish, and more.  The market is located in The Armory, a funky space I never knew existed, that’s really perfect for a weekend market – one big open hall with a small balcony area where there are some prepared food vendors and cafe tables set up so that customers can linger comfortable.  I stocked up on produce because I knew that it might be a while before I made the treck again.  And all week of been reminded of that wonderful feeling of plenty that I experience all season long.  The feeling that there are so many options for dinner.  The wonderful feeling of opening the refrigerator door and stealing a few carrots everytime I pass by.

The carrots really stole the show at the market.  There was only one kind at the Winter Moon Farm booth.  But it was definitely the right kind.  Bolero.  One of the best tasting carrots around.  Short and fat, it’s easy to harvest.  And boy does it get sweet after a frost.  For those of you who garden and are still mulling over those Johnny’s or Fedco catologs, do yourself a favor and plant some boleros this year.  While you’re at it, Nelson and Ya-Ya are pretty damn good too.  More on veggie varieties to come.  I’m still poking through the catalogs and lamenting my yard-less living.

Yum.  Ottolenghi comes through again.  Not much more to say other than that this cake was a very pleasant surprise – nutty and moist and not overly sweet.  A perfect winter dessert.

Cake

• 1/2 cup flour
• 1 tbsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 14 tbsp butter
• 1 cup sugar
• 3 large eggs
• 2 tsp orange flower water
• 2 cups ground almonds
• 3/4 cup quick cooking polenta

Caramel Topping

• Scant 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 tbsp water
• 1.5 tbsp butter
• 2 oranges

Grease a 9 inch round cake pan and line the base and sides with parchment.
Make the caramel: Put the sugar and water in a saucepan and stir to combine.  Bring to a boil over low-medium heat and remove from heat when the color turns golden brown.  Pour the caramel into the prepared saucepan.  Zest the oranges and put aside the zest.  Slice the remaining peel from the oranges.  Slice each orange into about six rounds.  Lay the slices over the caramel.

Make the Cake:  Preheat the oven to 325.  Combine the flour, baking powder, and salt.  In an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar.  Gradually add the eggs, then the orange zest and orange blossom water .  Next add the polenta and almonds and mix until combined.  Pour the batter over the oranges in the cake pan.  Bake 45 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean.  Let the cake cool about 5 minutes in the pan and then invert onto a plate.

Once again, it’s super snowy here on the east coast!  Over one foot fell on Tuesday night and we woke up to a beautiful and blustery winter wonderland on Wednesday morning.  It was a perfect day for bread baking!  I had a nearly full carton of buttermilk in the fridge and had been looking for a way to use it.  So when I saw a recipe for soda bread on 101cookbooks yesterday, I quickly got to reading lots of different soda bread recipes and settled on this one.  I of course didn’t have a few ingredients on hand and although I am only one block from a natural food store, I was still in my pajamas and not ready to venture into the snow for a mere 3 tbsps of wheat bran.  So the recipe below is a somewhat adapted version, but it turned out great.  This is definitely going to be one I try again.  I think there are a lot of other directions you could take it, adding various seeds or nuts or dried fruits, or varying the combination of flours.

So last night it was soda bread and minestrone – a great supper in the snow.

Ingredients

• 1 3/4 cups all purpose flour
• 1 3/4 cups whole wheat flour + 3 tbsp
• 3 tablespoons semolina flour
• 2 tablespoons old-fashioned oats
• 2 tablespoons (packed) dark brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons  butter
• 2 cups buttermilk

Directions

Preheat oven to 425°F. Butter 9×5x3-inch loaf pan. Combine first 8 ingredients in large bowl; mix well. Add butter; rub in with fingertips until mixture resembles fine meal. Stir in buttermilk to form soft dough. Transfer dough to prepared loaf pan. Bake until bread is dark brown and tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 45 minutes. Turn bread out onto rack and cool.