Garden bounty.

Lewisburg.

The best of the garden's pleasures, of course, comes at this sort of moment:



That moment when you get inside with everything ripe, and think that, just a few months ago, all you had were a handful of little seeds. Especially, as in our case, when you've got something in your hand that you've never had successfully before. In this case, it's everything on the plate.

Technically, at least, because this is the first year I've had success growing my own seedlings. Sure, I've grown cucumbers from seed, though they didn't get far before the cucumber beetles destroyed them. And I suppose that summer squash aren't surprising, but the eggplant's thrilling. Even when we'd tried from purchased seedlings, the plants never looked half as good as the ones in the garden now. And those fruits that did start to grow were all ruined by something that took a single bite from each eggplant. Never ate more than that, which was rather frustrating. Presumably, if it didn't like the first one, the rest of them weren't going to taste any better.

On the plate, in case you're wondering, are: Listada de Gandia eggplant (the white and purple streaked ones); Lao Green Stripe eggplant (the white and green one); a cucumber (Parisian Pickling - the smaller ones are for cornichons); a zucchini (Black Beauty); a patty pan squash (Sunburst); and jalapeno and serrano peppers. We've been pulling more from the garden, too, including new potatoes, Dragon's Tongue snap beans, and scallions. Not to mention the greens, radishes, turnips, and other cold-weather crops from the spring. It's a lot of work - I've already spent several hours of my day weeding - but it feels worth it. Maybe it's just me, but is there anything quite like picking your dinner ripe from the backyard?

In a few minutes, I'm going out to see if the first Sun Gold tomatoes are ripe yet. They've been taunting us for days.

Orange bitters.

Lewisburg.

I love a good martini:



As I make 'em, the recipe goes something like this:

Martini

Ingredients:

• 3 parts good gin (such as Hendrick's)
  
• 1 part dry vermouth¹
  
• Dash orange bitters
  
• Olives
  
• Ice

Directions:

1. Add three or four ice cubes to a shaker, then pour in the gin and vermouth. Add a drop or two of orange bitters, to taste. Cover and swirl about for a moment, or shake if you're really feeling it.
   
   
2. Strain into a glass, and garnish with a toothpick loaded with olives. Like, say, three. Taste and add another drop of bitters if it needs a sharper edge.

Pretty straightforward, as long as you can find orange bitters. Which, living in Pennsylvania, is something I can't do easily. Next best thing? Make my own, of course.

To be honest, I have no idea if this is what orange bitters are supposed to be like, though I rather like them. Enough that I add a drop here and there to give a cocktail a nice edge. In a margarita, for example, it adds an extra dimension to the sweet and salty character, and the orange aroma fits in nicely. Ain't so bad in a Manhattan, either, though the traditional angostura bitters suit best.

A little Google work turned up one orange bitters recipe in a handful of places. It goes like this:

Orange bitters

Ingredients:

• ½ lb. dried bitter seville orange peel
  
• 1 pinch cardamom
  
• 1 pinch caraway
  
• 1 pinch coriander seeds
  
• 2 cups grain alcohol
  
• Water
  
• 4 tablespoons caramel food coloring

Directions:

1. Chop the orange peel finely and mix it with the herbs and alcohol. Let it stand for 15-20 days in a sealed jar, agitating it every day.
   
   
2. Pour off spirits through a cloth and seal again.
   
   
3. Put the strained off seeds and peel in a saucepan, crush it, cover with boiling water and simmer for 5 minutes. Pour into another jar, cover, and let stand for 2 days. Strain this off and add it to the spirits. Add caramel coloring, filter again and let it rest until it settles perfectly clear. Target: 45% alc.

Sounds easy enough, except for a few minor details:

1. I can't get grain alcohol in Pennsylvania, and the drive to New Jersey, or whatever other state might have it readily available, is awfully hard to justify.
   
   
2. Dried bitter orange peel isn't cheap. At about $2.50 per ounce, it's better to pick up a pound ($12) at a homebrew shop.
   
   
3. Food coloring? Seriously? (Some versions of the recipe call for burnt sugar, i.e., caramel.) I don't like the way the angostura bitters pinken up a martini, and it seems like a concession to aesthetics.

So I swapped those out for Bacardi 151 and some fresh sour orange peel - why not? - from the grocery store. And skipped the caramel. At least this way, should it turn out nasty, I'm only out a few bucks. Fortunately, it worked out perfectly:



My modified recipe, for an aromatic, boldly orange-colored orange bitters is as follows:

Orange bitters

Ingredients:

• Rind of three sour oranges, finely diced
  
• 1 pinch cardamom
  
• 1 pinch caraway
  
• 1 pinch coriander seeds
  
• 1 cup Bacardi 151 rum
  
• ¾ cup water

Directions:

1. Pack the diced orange peel - with the white pith - into a pint glass jar with the spices. Pour in the rum to cover, seal the jar, and set aside for at least two weeks, shaking at least once a day. Smell and taste every few days to see how it's progessing; the aroma and bitterness really build.
   
   
2. Strain off through a fine sieve, then through a coffee filter, saving the peel and spices. In a pot, crush the peel and spices, cover with the boiling water, and simmer for five minutes. Strain this liquid through the sieve and another coffee filter, and add ½ cup to the spirits. Seal tightly.
   
   
3. Allow the cloudiness to settle. This will seem to take forever; this batch sat for about a month until the cloudiness had sunk to the bottom. Strain through a coffee filter, bottle, and enjoy.

* * * * *

¹Or, for a sweet martini, swap out the dry vermouth for sweet, and the olives for a twist of orange peel.

Alpine strawberries.

Lewisburg.

Strawberries are genuinely awesome. And, for those who don't have the space for a bed of Sparkle or Honeoye or whatever, may I wholeheartedly recommend the Alexandria alpine strawberries?



Man, are they ever good. Small, about the size of the last joint on my pinky finger, and the plants don't produce tons and tons, but they are powerfully aromatic and delicious. They're almost like strawberry candy, with a sort of concord grape foxiness. Best of all, they do really well in pots. Find a relatively sunny spot, keep 'em well watered, and you've got tabletop strawberries for years to come. All for the price of a pack of seeds.

The mighty mushroom haul.

Lewisburg.

I enjoy walking in the woods; it's generally relaxing, often great exercise, and increasing levels of engagement reward with more and more interesting things to see. There's just too much out there to take it all in.

Saturday, I went on a day hike with my dad and Ben, my sister's boyfriend, in the nearby State Forest lands. Ben hadn't really been on a hike since he was a kid, and my dad's been anxious to get out and get some exercise, though other obligations usually get in the way. So we picked a spot, parked the car, and just headed off. There was plenty to see, including vast fields of wild blueberries¹ ripening and ready for nibbling. Not much in the way of views, unfortunately, but I was busy staring at the ground for hours. This is, I discovered, a prime time for mushroom hunting.

Behold the haul:



I wasn't expecting to find much, but I did toss a few paper bags in my pack, just in case. Then, to my surprise, there was so much to find that I came home with my pack² completely full of mushrooms. Everything there on the table plus a monstrous bolete that ended up a bit too smashed for identification. With a cap about eight inches across and four inches high - plus stem - it was enormous. If I could have identified it, and it turned out to be edible, it would have been a meal for everyone.

Mushroom identification is, generally speaking, difficult. A few species are easy and straightforward; others are actually impossible. Of the thousands of different fungi growing in the central Pennsylvania woods, some sizable fraction is unidentifiable by anyone. Another chunk requires chemical tests and powerful microscopes to be certain. And often, even when you can figure out what it is - scientific name and all - there's no one who can say whether it's edible or not³. That doesn't mean it isn't fun to try, though.

When I arrived home, I spread them all out on paper, both black and white, and did my best to keep the same types together. With some, I only had one or two of the fruiting bodies. Of one type, I had eight. And some had made the trip back in better shape than others.



There were, of course, numerous types of mushrooms that didn't make the trip home with me. One rather prevalent was the tough-to-miss fly mushroom, Amanita muscaria. Orange and yellow, flecked with white, and alarmingly toxic. Even more alarming was what might have been Amanita verna or one of its close relatives, which get charming common names like "Destroying Angel". Sure, I brought a few home that turned out to be inedible, and at least one that's definitely poisonous. Next time, I can skip over those.

The reason for the two papers is to get what's called a spore print. Leave the spore-producing surface - gills, pores, etc. - still for a while, and the spores will fall onto the paper. Some are light-colored; some are dark; it's rarely apparent what to expect. With both black and white, you can be sure to get a good reading.



With that information in hand, and a selection of reference guides, it's time to examine characteristics. I'm limited in that regard, since I can't pretend to afford a microscope that can distinguish between amyloid and non-amyloid spore shapes, and I don't keep potassium hydroxide and other handy mycological solutions around. Generally, if identification needs that sort of thing, I'm not going to try to eat it. Even with a number of positively identified mushrooms in my bag, I opted not to eat any. Though I might the next time out⁴, since I know better what to look for.

I couldn't identify everything. In some cases, all I have is a possible genus. Sometimes not even that. There was only one that I knew for sure when I picked it up. For those who're curious, the mushrooms I found, more or less counterclockwise from upper left, are:

• Craterellus fallax, the black trumpet. The only mushrooms I knew without even pausing to think, I'd've eaten them if they weren't infected with a white mold. Even though they're just a bite.
  
  
• Possibly Lentaria byssiseda, but all I really know is that it's some sort of coral fungus. Most likely inedible.
  
  
• Another guess for Mycena strobilinoides, though the genus seems likely. Not the sort of thing I'd want to put in my mouth, but it was definitely an attention-grabber, and gave one of the best spore prints.
  
  
• Something in the Lactarius genus, so called because it exudes a milky fluid when cut. Some are edible; some aren't; this doesn't appear to be.
  
  
• I don't know. Crepidotus something, maybe, but even that's a shot in the dark. Not food.
  
  
• A small member of Boletellus, Boletus, or Chalciporus, I think, but nothing seemed to fit beyond that. Since it didn't give a good spore print, I can't be any more confident than that.
  
  
• No real idea. Possibly something in the Leccinum genus. Or not.
  
  
• Boletus affinis, which means it's actually edible. Not the most exciting mushroom around, from what the guides tell me, but it was exciting to get a positive identification for once.
  
  
• The Chanterelle Waxy Cap, Hygrophorus cantharellus, which I'd expected might be poisonous out in the woods. Bright reddish-orange doesn't always suggest safe to me, but apparently these are.
  
  
• Not sure again, though Cortinarius seems likely. Which means it's best left on the forest floor next time.
  
  
• The Jack O' Lantern mushroom, Omphalina olearius, I think, unless it's the other poisonous false chanterelle. If I'd had an inkling earlier, I could have peeked at it late last night. Like fireflies, these mushrooms produce luciferin and luciferase, which makes them glow pale green when it's pitch black.
  
  
• No clue. None whatsoever.
  
  
• Boletus affinis var. maculosus, which is almost the same as another one of the edibles I brought home. Aside from the yellow-brown spots on this one's cap, it's really the same mushroom; the nice part is that those spots make it easily identifiable.
  
  
• And last, the Bitter Bolete, Tylopilus felleus. Some folks mistake it for a tasty mushroom, and though it won't do you any harm, it's nasty bitter. Just a touch of the raw mushroom to the tongue leaves a taste that lingers, quite unpleasantly, for a minute or two. Though, should you be one of those rare people who lack the gene for sensing bitter flavors, it's apparently quite choice. Oddly enough.

* * * * *

¹They were a great trail snack. Sweet, unmistakably blueberry, and in such near-endless quantities that you could reach down, without slowing your pace, and swipe a small handful to enjoy.

²Which is an entirely inappropriate way to carry a fungus harvest, but I needed my hands for rock scrambling, and I couldn't bring myself to leave it all there.

³In other words, it's not. Given that the world of mycotoxins is poorly understood, at best, and runs the likelihood of being the worst food poisoning you'll ever have.

⁴Some of mine weren't in prime shape when they got here, and the need to wait until a house full of company had left meant that a few picked up some mold growth. And some were in such small quantities that the half-forkful they'd have been after cooking wouldn't justify the cleanup.