I did a lot of chopping and shredding and baking and boiling and bagging this past fall, in anticipation of this very moment: it’s a cold, snowy day … the perfect excuse to dig out some of the carefully prepped and frozen bounty from our garden.
My thought was to make beef stew. That way, I could use up some of the potatoes, onions, and green beans I’d harvested last year. Plus, we’d bought some beef a month ago on clearance at Walmart, and it wasn’t until I got home and looked at it, graying in the package, that I realized perhaps buying beef on clearance at Walmart was not going to result in the highest quality meat. The only way we were going to choke down the stuff was by simmering it in water until it disintegrated. I'd labeled it “for stew” and thrown it in the freezer.
With the Crock Pot on the counter, ready to go, I tossed in some water and beef bouillon, then went downstairs to the chest freezer for my main ingredients. The meat came out, along with the green beans, cubed potatoes, and … wait, where were the onions? I glanced out my basement window to our now-snow-covered patch of dirt. There, poking up from a half inch of white, were the unmistakable tips of our onion stalks. It seems I’d forgotten to actually pick, wash, chop, and freeze them. Oops!
No worries. I had onion powder. I grabbed a frozen container of peppers to add instead, and to make the stew look heartier. I dumped everything in the Crock Pot, set it to low, and went upstairs to nap.
A few hours later, it was time to see how my concoction was doing. I dipped in the ladle, and came up with … well, gross. I wasn’t going to eat that.
The green beans were white. (Turns out you can’t just zip ’em in a sandwich bag—they’ll get freezer burn.) The potatoes, which I’d partially cooked before freezing, had disintegrated into cottage-cheese-looking clumps. And the peppers had lost their skins, so now everything had strips of sharp-edged green slime stuck to it.
The good news is, I hadn’t cubed the beef yet, so I could fish that out easily, rinse it off, and dump out the rest of the pot. I did so, leaving a steaming stain of what looked suspiciously like stew vomit in the snow outside our front door.
I rinsed out the pot, started with a fresh new batch of water, more beef bouillon, and the meat. Opening the cupboard, I found a dusty old can of sliced carrots, and two fairly dust-free cans of whole potatoes. I rummaged around, finding Jason’s hidden stash of canned green beans behind a stack of recipes we never look at. He prefers canned green beans to fresh. And I hate baking, thus the ignored recipes. It was a brilliant hiding spot, all in all. Everything got dumped in. This new batch of stew took me exactly ten minutes to throw together.
Feeling guilty, I looked outside again.
A withered onion stalk waved back at me from the snow.
I put on my boots, trudged out to the garden, and dug out the onion. Snow and half-frozen dirt clung to a bulb the size of my thumb. I brought it inside, cleaned it, chopped it up, and tossed it in to the new batch of stew.
When Jason came home, I handed him a steaming bowl of beefy yumminess.
“This from our garden?” he said, beaming.
“Sure it is,” I said, eyeing the onion peel in the trash.
“I guess it is worth it to do a garden, then,” he decided, like he’d done any of the planting, weeding, pruning, dusting with Sevin, flicking off of Japanese beetles, picking, washing, chopping, and freezing.
“Sure it is,” I said. Next year, I’m planting canned vegetables. I doubt he’ll even notice.
My thought was to make beef stew. That way, I could use up some of the potatoes, onions, and green beans I’d harvested last year. Plus, we’d bought some beef a month ago on clearance at Walmart, and it wasn’t until I got home and looked at it, graying in the package, that I realized perhaps buying beef on clearance at Walmart was not going to result in the highest quality meat. The only way we were going to choke down the stuff was by simmering it in water until it disintegrated. I'd labeled it “for stew” and thrown it in the freezer.
With the Crock Pot on the counter, ready to go, I tossed in some water and beef bouillon, then went downstairs to the chest freezer for my main ingredients. The meat came out, along with the green beans, cubed potatoes, and … wait, where were the onions? I glanced out my basement window to our now-snow-covered patch of dirt. There, poking up from a half inch of white, were the unmistakable tips of our onion stalks. It seems I’d forgotten to actually pick, wash, chop, and freeze them. Oops!
No worries. I had onion powder. I grabbed a frozen container of peppers to add instead, and to make the stew look heartier. I dumped everything in the Crock Pot, set it to low, and went upstairs to nap.
A few hours later, it was time to see how my concoction was doing. I dipped in the ladle, and came up with … well, gross. I wasn’t going to eat that.
The green beans were white. (Turns out you can’t just zip ’em in a sandwich bag—they’ll get freezer burn.) The potatoes, which I’d partially cooked before freezing, had disintegrated into cottage-cheese-looking clumps. And the peppers had lost their skins, so now everything had strips of sharp-edged green slime stuck to it.
The good news is, I hadn’t cubed the beef yet, so I could fish that out easily, rinse it off, and dump out the rest of the pot. I did so, leaving a steaming stain of what looked suspiciously like stew vomit in the snow outside our front door.
I rinsed out the pot, started with a fresh new batch of water, more beef bouillon, and the meat. Opening the cupboard, I found a dusty old can of sliced carrots, and two fairly dust-free cans of whole potatoes. I rummaged around, finding Jason’s hidden stash of canned green beans behind a stack of recipes we never look at. He prefers canned green beans to fresh. And I hate baking, thus the ignored recipes. It was a brilliant hiding spot, all in all. Everything got dumped in. This new batch of stew took me exactly ten minutes to throw together.
Feeling guilty, I looked outside again.
A withered onion stalk waved back at me from the snow.
I put on my boots, trudged out to the garden, and dug out the onion. Snow and half-frozen dirt clung to a bulb the size of my thumb. I brought it inside, cleaned it, chopped it up, and tossed it in to the new batch of stew.
When Jason came home, I handed him a steaming bowl of beefy yumminess.
“This from our garden?” he said, beaming.
“Sure it is,” I said, eyeing the onion peel in the trash.
“I guess it is worth it to do a garden, then,” he decided, like he’d done any of the planting, weeding, pruning, dusting with Sevin, flicking off of Japanese beetles, picking, washing, chopping, and freezing.
“Sure it is,” I said. Next year, I’m planting canned vegetables. I doubt he’ll even notice.
Our Garden, 2019
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