Last week, they announced to subscribers that they had an abundance of chard and that if we went to get it, we could have some for free. I all but RAN to the drop site to get some and made a frittata immediately.

Since they’ve agreed to let me share recipes again this season (my 8th!!), I’ll be back here on Fridays with a locally focused recipe.

Here’s a pretty basic frittata, adapted from Eggs on Sunday’s recipe.  I mix and match greens, cheese and veggies I have on hand.

Enjoy!

Potato & Greens Frittata

Ingredients

extra-virgin olive oil
about 5 small or 4 medium potatoes,  cut into 3/4-inch cubes
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 large onion, cut into julienne strips or several large leeks (cleaned carefully) and whites sliced
2 cups of greens torn into 1 inch pieces (kale or chard, stalks removed, spinach works great too)
8 eggs
1/2 cup grated parmasean cheese (feta or blue cheese is lovely too)
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Directions
Pour enough olive oil into a cast-iron skillet so that it generously coats the bottom. Heat the olive oil over medium heat until it shimmers, then add the sliced onions, garlic and potato chunks. Cook over medium heat until the onions are golden brown and the potatoes are just cooked through when you pierce them with a fork. Add the chopped greens and cook just until they are wilted and bright green.

Turn off the heat and season the skillet generously with coarse kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs with parmesean. Pour them directly into the skillet, and shake it a bit to distribute the eggs and fillings evenly.

Turn the heat back on to medium, and cook the frittata until the edges are set but the middle is still somewhat runny. Place the pan under the broiler to finish cooking, just until the top is starting to brown a little and the eggs are set.

Serves 4 to 6.

Not surprisingly, after Monday’s bombing, and then the ridiculous week that came skulking in behind that, I found solace in music.

The lyrics to this song have been an open window on my phone all week. I keep looking at them, like a touchstone. . . finding strength and comfort there. It IS a slow revolution, but the world keeps spinning through space and time. Our place here is so brief when “all of this matter soon won’t matter much anymore.”

All that was after is now as it was before

So look at the shadows bent forward tryin’ to break through the night
Huddled against the darkness, so close to the light
My voice is breaking out here in this wilderness
For I see a time that is coming, I see a time of change
Sun is burning the deserts, but water’s filling the plains
Noah’s chipping crazily away at his ark
While all of us ready ourselves to go into the dark
It’s a slow revolution that quietly turns
As the true word burns
Yeah the true word burns
And all of the people marching dancing out cross the floor
And all of this matter soon won’t matter much anymore
~Alexi Murdoch (from Slow Revolution)

And then, today, after spending most of the day in the house with only a brief foray up to the library by bike, we all 3 sat down and read and read and read. I finished this book. . . oh. SO GOOD and full of the words and thoughts I need to keep faith and hope strong.

This song came on and I can’t say I’d ever heard it before. . . at least I’ve never really *HEARD* it before. . . and despite everything, “things grow toward the light.”

Things grow towards the light
Looking to find what they are looking for
Grasses grow high
So have I
Looking for something more
Now and evermore

Let your breath fill the empty space
Where you used to keep the dead dead weight
Where you stand is where you belong
The place you’ve been looking for all along
Let your breath fill the empty space
Fill you up like a warm embrace
Where you stand is where you belong
The place you’ve been looking for all along, now
Let your breath fill the empty space
Let it fill you up till you fly away
Where you stand is where you belong
The place you’ve been looking for all along
All along
All along
~A Fine Frenzy (from “Untitled: Grasses Grow).

And, OH! I am where I should be. . .
with hands in the garden beds pulling weeds

running shoes on the feet, pounding out miles in honor of Boston. (15 out of 26.2 miles so far).

riding bikes to the library with my sweet girl.

watching these two bake cookies
curling up on the couch reading and reading and reading.

The bombing and subsequent violence, the horrible Texas explosion, even that bizarre Elvis Impersonator threatening our president’s life. . . all of it. I could DROWN in the media surrounding it all, or I could simply click “off” on all of the devices and live THIS life.
As Brene Brown says:

Information may reduce anxiety, but media saturation generates anxiety, fear, blame, and even rage.

Am I any less compassionate because I didn’t pour over the twitter feeds and facebook posts after the first few hours on Monday? Does my heart hurt less for the families of those injured and killed because I turned off my computer after the first picture of a man with his legs blown off came across my screen?

No! If anything, I’m preserving my sensitive soul. . . the part of me that DOES feel so much empathy when things like this happen. I am definitely holding my family a tad closer this weekend. I’m running harder, laughing more, living as full-heartedly as I possibly can.

I hear the songs and feel it all.
“My voice is breaking out here in this wilderness.”
“Where I stand is where I belong.”
“Things grow toward the light.”

When Abby was very tiny and crying all the time, we used to sing, “You know, it’s hard out here for a kid.” To the tune of “It’s hard out here for a pimp.”  (Seriously, Mom. . . don’t play that at work!)

Really.
At some point, Abby started singing it too and we put that little diddy to rest.

Here’s what I was singing this morning while poachin’ up some eggs (hers with tortilla to dip, mine over salad greens with a few cranks of freshly ground salt and pepper).

I’m on a quest to get my poached eggs PERFECT.
Here’s some of the inspiration I’ve been finding around the net.

Poached Eggs by Spilled milk

Poached Eggs by Grace.

Poached eggs: foolproof method. This is the winner for me. I love Grace’s ideas for how to use poached eggs and to drain them a bit before hand. Molly and Mathew really do crack me up on Spilled Milk, but this last one (WITH VIDEO!) is what snapped it all into place and I can poach eggs like a champ now.

Now you can poach yer eggs and sing along with me! Yer welcome!
*Edited to add: If you don’t get the joke, just watch this.*

Bumblebees, all plump body and barely-visible wings, defy physics
weaving about– seemingly drunk on
the nectar from the red flowering currant we planted ten years ago.

Our child climbs to the tippiest, toppiest most precarious branch of the apple tree
to perch
and read her book.

You walk home from work
swinging your keys,
whistling a nameless tune.

All while I sit still.
Sun sinking.
Clouds gathering.
Breathing in these
great
daring
feats.

Look. I KNOW. I know all of my scientist friends are shaking their heads at me. I am too. But, and without fail, every.single.time. I’ve found myself saying, “What in the hell is going on with everyone right now?!?! Everything feels SOOOOO off!” every time, I look it up: BAM, Mercury’s  just gone into retrograde.

Color me tickled: Mercury goes direct today (at 1:03pm PST). Thank god!
I made this little graphic in celebration. Phew!

Oh, and . . . are other people out drinking really dark beer and wearing green today?
Huh. NOW who’s superstitious?! ;)

Okay, I am NOT cool. I never really have been. I’m always a beat off from the song everyone else is dancing to, a minute late to the party, a laugh ahead of the rest.

I’ve been described as Kookie, Nutty, Zany, Weird, “funny” (but said in that way people say it when they mean utterly insane), and on more than one (hundred) occasion: Crazy. As in: Crazy Carrie!

So, whatever, I don’t always fit in, I don’t always get the joke, I definitely do NOT dress the part. . . um, case in point: here , here, here, here oh. . . and don’t forget the GOLD!

This weekend, we found ourselves in the suburbs of Seattle without the kid. (Thanks, Mom! Oh my heck, she LOVED her date with you!) So, we thought about what to do and decided to see what Woodinville has to offer the mid-life crowd. Turns out I’m a little old to hang out with the folks winery hopping along the slough!

We started out by a tasting at Facelli Winery. Such sweet folks. . . been in that crazy industrial park for 24 years. . . long before the beautiful people arrived!

Then we moved on to Woodinville Whiskey. Tom likes whiskey and the distillery has been on my list for a while, so we went for it. Free tastings and a full HOUR LONG tour. Um. . . that was a LONG TOUR! The building is merely 2 rooms! I had to laugh though. . . so many non-ironic beards, so many black rimmed glasses, so many earnest 20-somethings! And that one guy with an honest to god mono-brow who fancied himself a Whiskey Expert that asked 100 million questions about so much crap I did not give a SPIT about! The tour guide continually saying, “KEN-tucky.” The girlfriends leaning into their boys, feigning interest. The 80′s faux-hawks on girls. The dudes trying to look distinguished and non-frat brotherly. All of the posturing made me grateful to be so close to 40 and NOT in the dating scene! I could gulp back my tastes and leave without worrying what anyone thought!

I did have a decidedly Portlandia moment at the distillery. To bridge an awkward pause when the gal pouring looked expectantly at us for some sort of comment, I actually asked: “So, are the grains you use local? I mean, are they from near here?” I totally laughed at myself before mocking the whole thing even more in my head: “and, and, and. . . do you compost the spent mash? or is that fed to local pigs? Can you tell me about the composting process?” I stopped short of asking after Colin. (FYI, they DO use local grains and they DO feed the spent mash to local pigs!).

And then, we moved on to the Collective on Tap, a spot with 20 brews on tap (24 more taps coming!), large screen baseball, and candied bacon on the menu. *Candied BACON!* You seriously cannot get any more hipster than that! ha!

We finished our bacon and beers by about 6:15 pm and our evening turned decidedly less cool after that. . . we walked to Barnes and Noble Books, Ross Dress for Less, Top Foods (to buy grapefruit gummies!), then Trader Joes. . . pretty hot stuff for 8pm on a Saturday Night in the suburbs! Ah well. It’s what we wanted to do. I had my brief moment among the people who take themselves seriously and I’d so much rather wander around my small town in wonder woman socks and a jam jar full of box wine. ;)

]]> http://rhubarbsky.com/2013/03/11/that-one-hipster-day/feed/ 1 rhubarbsky MjAxMy0zOWQ4MThlNWUzMWUyZGY0 20130310-201445.jpg 20130310-201458.jpg 20130310-201517.jpg l_c148b5a0-d81f-11e1-b112-1ff2d1e00005 http://rhubarbsky.com/2013/03/07/in-your-satin-tights-fighting-for-your-rights/ http://rhubarbsky.com/2013/03/07/in-your-satin-tights-fighting-for-your-rights/#comments Thu, 07 Mar 2013 20:18:51 +0000 Carrie @ Rhubarb Sky http://rhubarbsky.com/?p=4356 Continue reading →]]> Look, I can have my teen angst moments, but I can also live out loud and make the most of the mundane too.

True Story. Just taking care of business.
These socks. . . my new lady parts doc was a good sport and complimented the capes.

TMI? Oh well. . . I’m nothing if not amusing to myself and that’s sort of what matters most to me. ;)

No joke. . . when was the last time you heard THIS song?!

Wonder Woman, Wonder Woman.
Now the world is ready for you, and the wonders you can do.
You’re a Wonder, Wonder WOMAN!

P.S. In case you were wondering, just a routine appointment. . . all’s good under the hood!

On the morning of your 8th birthday, I went to your room and crawled in bed with you. I do this sometimes. I slink into bed and rub your back to wake you up gently and slowly. You turn toward me, open your eyes and then snuggle in close for a cuddle before we get going for the day. Your birthday was no exception. You wiggled close to me, pressed your forehead into mine and said, “Today. . . I am eight” with such solemn seriousness that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

When you wake up on the weekends before us, you typically read in bed. Last weekend, you stayed in bed for more than an hour, completely absorbed in your book. I had to almost pry you away to get you to come down for breakfast. Some mornings, you skip downstairs and make breakfast for us, all by yourself. Other mornings you pull out your clipboard and draw with markers, or write letters. You are so often making something for someone else. Your love languages are gift giving and physical touch. You are a snuggler. For that, I am very grateful because I am a snuggler too.

You are so grown-up. You are so very competent. You are so stinking cool.

The night before your birthday party, you came to me in a quandary. Seems you’d failed to invite someone and though you still felt okay with that choice, you realized that this girl’s feelings were going to be VERY hurt and you didn’t know how to go about fixing the situation. You asked for help. You talked it out with me and then again with your dad. I offered to call the girl’s mother and see how we could minimize the hurt feelings, but you insisted on calling the girl yourself and to work it out on your own terms.

Honestly, I was a little stunned at this display of kindness and heart. I shouldn’t be surprised. . . you are extraordinary. You are a highly sensitive person, like me, but you are already so much more competent at handling your big-huge-impossible feelings than most people I know. And, I think you can already see the gifts that come with being tuned into other people’s hearts. You called your friend, you owned your choices and you made it right. I could not have been more proud of you in that moment.

Yesterday, we took your bike and drove out to a trail where you could ride and we could walk. You rode 4.5 miles and STILL it wasn’t enough. You wanted more adventure, more activity. So, we took you to a playground and even then, you needed more. So, we drove around a bit in an area near home that we’d never explored. We stumbled upon a county park on the water. Content to just look out at the water from the car (it was COLD!), I suggested we head home after a few minutes. But you, YOU insisted we get out and SEE. “I can’t get a sense of this all through the WINDSHIELD, MAMA!” You skipped ahead. You climbed on rocks. You threw your arms around me in a blissful hug, exhilarated and so very full of life.

You inspire the people around you, Abby. You lead with love. You touch people’s hearts. You are so full of wonder and curiosity, and joy and adventure. You astound me every day.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Cheeks.
I love you so,

Love Mama

Love Letter 7
Love Letter 6
Love Letter 5.5
Love Letter 5
Love Letter 4.5
Love Letter 4
Love Letter 3.5
Love Letter 3
I didn’t start writing these until Abby’s 3rd birthday, so that’s it.