The girls were gone this past weekend, drastically reducing the amount of hullabaloo that goes on around these parts and allowing for the boys to get more of our attention and/or get away with a bunch of stuff they don’t normally get away with, like using the machete and driving the truck.

Yep, Yo-Yo got his very first driving lesson! He did a pretty darn good job, too.

Though he could hardly see over the steering wheel.

He always likes to tell me about how he’s going to drive 120 miles per hour as soon as he can drive, how he’s going to race cars, how he’s going to take corners on two wheels. In one attempt to give him a lesson in reality, Mr. Handsome has wibble-wobbled the car all over the road, demonstrating how new drivers typically drive. But the questions and bragging don’t stop. I pretty much ignore him, figuring he’s all bluster (though his papa has some hair-raising driving stories to tell about back in the day when he was a bloomin’ 17-year-old fool so I suspect Yo-Yo will rack up some of his own tales someday, but I don’t like to think about it so I don’t).

The driving lesson came about like this:

Mr. Handsome and I were sitting at the kitchen table shelling peas when Yo-Yo approached us and asked, “Can I have a driving lesson?” Mr. Handsome, without missing a beat, said Sure, and Yo-Yo’s eyes about popped. Then he quickly ducked his head and attempted to suppress the grin that was threatening to split his face in half. He finally gave up, threw back his head, and half-yelled, half-crowed to the heavens, “I CAN’T STOP SMILING!”

We just sat there, shelling away, placidly watching as he valiantly struggled to regain composure.“You have to clean the bathtubs and do some other jobs first,” I said, in an effort to help him out. It worked for a minute. He steadied himself, took a slow, deep breath … and then resumed smiling.

Later that afternoon after he did his jobs (and he did them well, too!), the boys all piled into the truck. Mr. Handsome and The Baby Nickel sat in the passenger seat and Yo-Yo manned the controls. He drove down through the field, behind the chicken coop, and back up to the barn. Twice.

When the kid got out of the truck he was two inches taller and had a deep voice.

Pretty impressive driving lesson, that.

Actually, he walked around with his hands in his pockets, kicking at some rocks with the toe of his sneaker, trying to pretend it was no big deal and failing miserably.

About one year ago: A public service announcement that was then quickly followed with There’s a red beet where my head used to be. I have no excuse.

Back in May (or was it April?), I phoned our local orchard and signed up for eight gallons of pick-your-own sour cherries. The call came last Wednesday: “We like to let the cherries ripen a little longer, but people are taking them so you better come get yours now.”

Okaaaay. Um, “Thanks! I’ll be out in the next day or two.”

“Well, don’t wait too long or else there won’t be any left.”

Huh? I hung up the phone and then shook my head several times, hard. The people who run this orchard, dear folks that they are (and kinder towards the fruit and more honest in their dealings than another local orchard), strike me as rather odd. They say things sideways, appear surprisingly clueless, and are all-around unhelpful. All except for the informed, accommodating man who runs the show, bless his heart; the rest of them, well—I just shake my head a lot and move on.

So the next evening, we loaded about eight 5-gallon buckets into the back of the car (not that we were planning to fill them—we just didn’t want to pack the cherries too high and risk smashing them) and drove to the orchard. The woman weighed our buckets and then said, almost reproachfully, as though she were scolding us, “I hope you get your eight gallons.”

Once in the orchard, we pulled up alongside the thickly-laden trees and commenced to picking. In an hour and a half, we had eight gallons, and we had only made a small dent in the trees we were picking from.

Whatever, lady.

Back home that night, I called up my friend and asked to borrow her cherry pitter. I had never before in my life used a cherry pitter, but I figured that 49 pounds of cherries deserved something higher-tech than my thumb. Let me tell you, was it ever worth it! Mr. Handsome started pitting at 9 pm and worked straight through for an hour and a half and did them all. I bustled around, washing cherries, cutting them up to dry (½ a dryer load yielded two pints), packing them into quart boxes to freeze (8), and canning 9 quarts. We had a big bowl left over that I, over the course of the next couple days, turned into jam and assorted pastries and cakes. By 11 pm we were washing up, the cherries done, done, done. Never before have cherries jumped into jars so quickly.

(Now, to be completely honest, the cherry pitter left behind more pits than I’m used to, but it was perhaps Mr. Handsome’s fault more than the pitter’s—he was moving like greased lightening. But I’ve learned that a couple pits here and there is not all that terrible. A hawk’s eye catches the odd pit fairly easily enough, and as long as you don’t chew too lustily, your teeth probably won’t get too bunged up.)

Some of the sour cherries got turned into these crostatas, mini free-form tarts.

I learned about crostatas from Joy the Baker—she recently did a little tutorial on how to make apricot crostatas. I thought the crostatas enchanting, dainty yet rustic, and a blessedly unadulterated way to showcase seasonal fruits.

For the sour cherry version, I thickened the cherries with some Therm Flo and sugar and a bit of almond extract. And for a variation, I mashed up some creamy goat cheese with lemon zest and spread it directly on the pastries before piling the cherries on top. While the crostatas were still warm, the goat cheese appeared curdled (and yucky-looking), but once they cooled completely, it was simply a nice layer of cheesiness. Mr. Handsome surprised me by preferring the goat cheese version (and he says he doesn’t like goat cheese).

These can be eaten out of hand (and then you can de-fancify them, calling them hand pies instead of crostatas), or served on a plate with a blop of whipped cream. (I plan to try a goat cheese cream variation in place of regular whipped cream: 1 ½ cups whipping cream, 3 ounces goat cheese, 1/4 cup powdered sugar, ½ teaspoon vanilla, whipped together till soft peaks form.)

Sour Cherry Crostatas
With thanks to Joy the Baker for the inspiration

Keep in mind that the crostatas will need to be refrigerated for an hour before baking, so make sure you have sufficient room in your fridge before starting.

This calls for only half of a butter pastry recipe, but I recommend you make the full amount and then freeze (or refrigerate) the remaining disk for later; fruit comes into season thick and fast now, and I’m sure you’ll find a way to use it up in no time at all.

½ recipe rich butter pastry
3 cups pitted sour cherries and their juice
½ cup white sugar
1 tablespoon Therm Flo or cornstarch
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice, optional
½ teaspoon almond or vanilla extract, optional
1 egg, beaten
2 teaspoons milk or cream
1-2 tablespoon demerara sugar

Stir together the Therm Flo and white sugar and add it to the cherries. Cook the mixture over medium high heat till it just begins to bubble and has thickened a bit. Remove from the heat and add the extracts, if desired. Cool completely.

Mix together the egg and cream and set aside.

Lightly dust a work surface with flour, divide the butter pastry into eight pieces, and roll the pieces into circles, about four inches in diameter. Brush the circles with some of the egg mixture, spoon some of the cherries into the center, and fold the pastry up and over the filling. Brush more egg mixture over the sides and tops of the pastry, and sprinkle liberally with Demerara sugar. Repeat till you’ve filled all eight circles of pastry (you will probably have some cherry filling leftover).

Slip the tray of crostatas (it might be a good idea to use a rimmed tray as the crostatas do ooze juices) into the fridge to chill for an hour. Bake at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes. (Mine could’ve used another five minutes in the cooker; yours should be a little darker than the ones in the photos.)

Yield: eight beauties that disappear in no time flat.

I don’t usually fly apart, running hither and yon like a chicken with its head cut off. I get very busy, yes, and I run around doing multiple things at one time, but usually I pace myself. I’m loathe to give up my routines for anything, least of all work, and I will fight to the death for my breaks.

I have a philosophy which goes something like this: there is a time for every season under heaven, a time to do dishes and a time to do email, a time to boss the kids and a time to let them play, a time to hoe the beans and a time to veg on the sofa…and all that jazz. I just know I’m going to be one of those ploddy old ladies who gets up at 5:30, brushes her teeth at 5:32, gets dressed at 5:34, goes for a walk at 5:40, showers at 6:25, eats her bowl of oatmeal at 6:52, washes her bowl and spoon at 7:06, and so on.

Seriously though, I love routine. Deciding to brush my teeth in the upstairs bathroom instead of the downstairs bathroom involves forethought and deliberation, and then I get a giddy feeling when I do the unusual.

I kid you not. It doesn’t take much to rock my world.

My sacred morning routine, pre-old lady stodgy behavior, is thus: I make my coffee, check emails and blogs while my eyeballs de-fuzz, and then—BOOM!—it’s up and at ‘em (with plenty of little breaks sprinkled through out my day).

Truth be told, my Ecclesiastical seasons go more like this: there is a time to rest on the green sofa and a time to rest on the brown, a time to sit at the desk and a time to sit on my bed, a time to write at home and a time to write at Panera, etc. I’m a freakin’ connoisseur of breaks.

This morning, my normal routines got tossed to the wind and I plowed through my day in quite uncharacteristic fashion:

*Up at 6:15, I dressed and walked to my brother’s to take care of their garden/cat since they’re on vacation. On my way up their drive, a ring-nosed bull roared repeatedly and then stared at me in a most menacing fashion, which caused me to panic and make a mad dash for the gate. (I ascend the stairs at night in a similar fashion, petrified some hairy arm is going to reach up through the banister railings and grab my ankle—eek!) The whole time I picked raspberries and blueberries, I plotted my escape plan. It ended up being a lot easier than I expected, considering that the roaring bull was off over the hill chasing some bovine damsel, but even so, I had to force myself to walk calmly and sloooowly down the drive. Cows creep me out.

*Back home, I headed straight for the pea patch, and then, pea-picking still unfinished, I went into the house to wash my hair and dress, help Mr. Handsome restock the newly defrosted freezer, and make my coffee and toast.

*9:15—off to town with the boys, to help out a friend of mine and to stock up on library books.

*Once back home (now noon), I went back out to the garden to finish picking peas (and have a rousing fight with Mr. Handsome since peas and fighting go hand-in-hand in this house), then lunch, pea hulling/blanching/freezing, dessert making (times two), dish washing, email checking, list making, and coffee concentrate straining and iced tea brewing. Whew!

*Now it’s 5:30 and the sofa feels oh-so fine.

I had a point to all this when I started writing, but now I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. I think I done did wear myself out all over again just writing about my day.

[Insert pause while I think, check my photos in hopes of jogging my memory, check facebook just for anyhow, give up and come back here.]

So since I have no point (perhaps there is no point to be had), let’s talk about … cabbage!

I have six bulbous ones out in the garden, and they keep swelling at a most alarming rate. That’s not even the half of it, though—I already have two partially used cabbages rolling around in my fridge, cabbages that I bought back when I was hungry for cabbage and mine were still too little. So now I’m already tired of cabbage and I have yet to cut one of my own.

Serves me right for jumping the gun.

I did, however, discover a marvelous new slaw recipe.

Slaw is such a finicky thing, or perhaps it’s that the people who eat it are finicky. (Or maybe it’s just me, finicky, ol’, stodgy, routine-ridden me.) I’ve done a fair bit o’ experimentin’ and the vast majority of recipes fall short. It gets rather discouraging after awhile.

In any case, I finished assembling this slaw while on the phone with my mother. I took a bite and then screeched in her ear with my mouth stuffed full of crunchy, lemony, butter, nutty goodness: “Wow this is GOOD, Mom! You gotta make it! Just cabbage and green apple, lemon juice, salt and pepper and then some toasted, buttered and sugared pecans. Wow, Mom, wow! Oh my lands WOW!” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Cabbage Apple Slaw with Buttered Pecans
Adapted from Epicurious, the December 1998 issue of Gourmet

The original recipe calls for 1 tablespoon chopped chives. I, however, did not use them (either forgot or didn’t know to), but I think they would probably taste great. Next time…

It’s the pecans that make this slaw, so don’t you dare leave them out. The granny smith apple is pretty important, too. As is the fresh lemon juice. Come to think of it, don’t mess with this slaw at all, understand?

There. I’m glad we got that straight. You may proceed.

2 cups thinly sliced green cabbage
½ granny smith apple, cored and chopped into matchsticks
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
salt and pepper, to taste
1/4 cup chopped pecans
1 tablespoon butter
2 teaspoons sugar

Melt the butter in a small skillet, add the pecans and stir for one minute. Add the sugar and stir around for a few more minutes, until the pecans start to brown. Transfer the nuts from the skillet to a plate and set aside to cool. They will harden and clump together, but no worries—just break them apart before adding them to the slaw.

Toss the cabbage and apple with the lemon and some salt and pepper. Add the nuts.

Yield: two servings

Still, no matter how good the recipe, I don’t think I can eat six heads of cabbage worth of this slaw. Plus, it’d be mighty expensive what with all those pecans. Other suggestions? What’s your favorite slaw recipe? I’m thinking I might chop up a couple heads of cabbage and simmer it in beef/chicken broth before freezing it for winter soups. Do you think that would work? Do you employ other cabbage preservation techniques? Do tell, please.

About one year ago: Nothing, so how about cabbage previously? There’s braised cabbage (more a cold-weather recipe, but ever so delicious) and Chinese cabbage and apple salad (it appears I have a thing for cabbage and apples).