Eat Stracciatella!

On Saturday, with more than two gallons of delicious stock in the refrigerator, and no real inspiration to use it, I found a recipe for Roman Egg Soup, or Stracciatella, in Nourishing Traditions.

2 qt. chicken stock
4 eggs
4 T. finely grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano
sea salt and pepper
2 T. very finely chopped parsley

Boil stock. Whisk eggs and cheese. Add the egg-cheese mixture in a thin stream, whisking all the time. Season to taste, and stir in finely chopped parsley.

This is now my go-to meal. So simple, so incredibly tasty and rich.

Phil and Butch worked together on a project at Butch's; soon Butch will come here to help us on a project. Phil is starting to fence the final 35 panels down the south side of the property, so we can move the pigs. We need to move the pigs so we can use the gorgeous compost they are turning over for us. That compost will go in the greenhouse, and the ground should be ready before we erect the greenhouse overhead.

The amount of steps before any one thing gets done always surprises me.

I planted some bean seeds, next to my little corn sprouts, and near my melon and summer squash transplants. As time and rain and sun keep happening, my vision of the garden as an orderly, beautiful place is fast become a feeling of sheer overwhelmedness. The tomatoes, rather than climbing neatly up their strings, have sprawled all over the one foot walkways, making an almost impermeable bed of three foot greenery. It's beautiful, and I see no red yet, but I think about harvest and I shake my head.

The lovely, water-catching swales, which work well, I think, continue to grow up as weedy strips, despite my intentional planting of melons, raspberries, and sweet potatoes along them. This is perhaps the worst: I don't know how to manage them. They are so far outside the mainstream market garden that I am entirely at a loss.

The recalcitrant cabbages have again produced enormous leaves and no heads; the mustard greens are setting seed (as is the cilantro/coriander), which is all fine, but should I feel bad that it didn't get harvested and sold?

We did start to market today, and that feels like a huge step forward. Phil and I talked and talked over the price, and I grew more and more frustrated until I realized, "When I think about this endeavor, it's like there is no price that I would find fair. There is no price for living in a construction trailer for who knows how long. No price for 26 dead chickens on waking. No price for no leisure time except a few moments snatched late Sunday night."

But that's silly. As much as I can rattle off the difficulties, the (more thankful) other part of me can list the benefits, that also wouldn't show up in the price: the interesting animals we get to interact with, the interesting skills we've acquired (or tried to). The opportunity to eat what this bit of earth produced. The early morning sun and the brilliant stars at night.

Once I removed my emotions from the pricing discussion, the conversation became much easier.