recipe::pasta salad with roasted corn & fresh herbs

This tasty pasta salad was a Fourth of July invention that seemed worth sharing. Just about everything in it should be available at your local farmer's market right now - if not in your own garden! This is great to make while you're cooking some other things on the grill. It's also wonderful made a day ahead - the flavors intensify and meld nicely overnight in the fridge.


pasta salad with roasted corn & fresh herbs


prep time: about 20 minutes
feeds 3-5 people as a side dish (doubles easily)


1/2 lb pasta of your choice (we used tricolor fusilli)
2 ears of sweet corn, shucked & cleaned
1 cup of cherry tomatoes, halved
1/2 of one small red onion, minced
about 1/2 cup olive oil
2 Tbsp fresh basil, minced
2 Tbsp fresh cilantro, minced
juice of 1 lime
1 tsp ground cumin seed
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat your grill.

While the pasta cooks, roast the corn. Brush each ear lightly with olive oil, and then place directly on the grill. Use tongs to turn the ears frequently until they are beginning to brown lightly all over, about 5 minutes.

Once the pasta is cooked, drain it, drizzle on some olive oil to keep it from sticking, and put it into a bowl & into the fridge to cool.  While the pasta and the corn cool, prepare the rest of your ingredients: halve the tomatoes and mince the onion and the fresh herbs.

Mix up the dressing: in a small bowl combine 1/4 cup of olive oil, all the lime juice, cumin, salt and pepper. Mix well.

Once the corn is cool, use a knife to cut the kernels from the cob. Put the corn, onion and herbs into the bowl with the pasta. Pour over the dressing, and toss well to mix and thoroughly coat everything. If the pasta seems a bit dry, drizzle in a little more olive oil til it looks right to you.

You can serve this right away, but the longer it chills in the fridge before serving, the tastier it is!

home

Dad and me, 1977. In this photo, I am just about the age that my daughter is now. 

This week, we made a family pilgrimage to the place where I grew up - where my Mom and Dad grew up and met and got married and had us.

We're spending time with family and friends and re-living a lot of good memories. The Little Pea is getting to see so much of what made my childhood here so happy, and we're surrounded with the love and support of wonderful people who make this place special.

Today my family piled into my Uncle Jeff's boat the way we did on so many summer afternoons when I was growing up. But instead of fishing poles and crab traps and a cooler full of snacks and beer, we had a mission to carry out. We took my Dad's ashes out to the tip of Brigantine Inlet where he had told his brother many years ago that he wanted his ashes to be spread one day. The same spot where they had spread their father's ashes together.

We sped out through a calm bay, holding on to each other and wondering what we would find, finally becoming aware of the anxiety that had been gripping us, as we felt it falling away with the salt spray. Laughing at the beauty around us, laughing at the Little Pea's delight in the boat ride. "The wind is taking my words away!" she yelled to Uncle Jeff.

It was beautiful. The late-day sunshine warmed us, slanting across the marshes, and as we approached the inlet we began to rock over ocean swells, rolling into the protected bay. Uncle Jeff slowed the boat down to a crawl as we passed under the pilings of the Brigantine Bridge, which he and my grandfather had both helped to build so many years ago. He sped back up as we tooled along the jetty my grandfather had been part of building. Out to the tip of the land, and just beyond, to the spot where the bay spills into the Atlantic Ocean through Brigantine Inlet.

Our boat rocking gently on the swells, we each spoke a few words of goodbye. Some out loud, some silently. The Little Pea cried a little, unsure about what we were doing, but certainly feeling all the emotions around her. We all hugged each other. We all felt a bit better.

The little boat turned around and we sped back in towards the shelter of Absecon Bay again. The breeze dried the tears on my face before I could wipe them away with the back of my hand, and my heart felt lighter than it has in many months.

We passed several pairs of nesting osprey. I watched one papa osprey feeding his chicks as we approached the last turn towards the dock where our short trip would come to an end.    

This week has really just begun, but the moments I most longed for - and dreaded at the same time - have come and gone. As we planned for this trip, a shell of tension and grief has been ossifying around me. It is broken now. I hope that as we spend the rest of this week lounging on the beach, taking long walks, playing together, the pieces keep falling off so that I can breathe again. I have so much grieving and healing to do. We all do. I think this trip was the first step.

Me & Little Sis, Brigantine beach, around 1984

i want to say something, but

I can't type the words. That makes it hard to say what I want to get off my chest.

I would like to be able to write about knitting, spinning, gardening, the doings of small children and the other day-to-day niceties that I am habituated to writing about in this blog. I can't seem to write about those things - as much as they bring me comfort in tough times - because I am weighed down by grief.  I really don't want to write about grief.

So instead, I have been saying nothing.

Many weeks of nothing.

Losing my Dad to cancer was by far the greatest loss that I have ever experienced. And even as I say that, I know it was the first of many, because a life that is full of love will inevitably have many painful losses. That knowledge is like a lead weight around my neck.

It's been 6 weeks and just typing these words is pretty crushing. So, I think that this is all that I will say about it.

Because I want to get back to writing about fiber and color and fresh peas from the garden, posting designs and sharing random enthusiasms. I want those things to seem like they matter again.

I don't want to fool myself that writing about knitting again is getting back to normal. There won't be a back to normal. This is normal now.

A friend shared this graphic with me. It represents grief as experienced over time.

My little container is a bit overwhelmed right now. There is only a tiny, tiny bit of room for happiness, or fun, or for anything much really. I hope that this graphic is right, that I will continue to grow enough - even with this big dark hole inside me - that there will be lots of room again for the small joys.

There is nothing good to say about cancer.

It's been tough times lately in the Pea household. I haven't had much to say about knitting or my garden, so I haven't been posting here.

But I do have a lot of other stuff on my mind, and probably none of it is foreign to any of you, so maybe I will say something about it.

This is my first up-close experience with cancer treatment. Going through this yourself, or with a loved one, is the last thing that anyone should ever have to do.

I hate that my Dad has to go through this. I hate what it does to my poor Mom. I hate cancer. I hate chemotherapy. I'm angry at the whole world. I'm especially angry at industries who pump cancer-causing pollutants into our air and water and say it's too expensive to do things differently. You know what's really too expensive? Cancer treatment. In every conceivable way. Too expensive.

So I am full of anger and frustration.

I'm also full of sadness, as you can imagine. I can't say more about that now, because I don't feel like crying in public and I'm writing this post on the train.

Here's something good that I have to say: If you have lived a good life and been kind and generous with others, it is amazing how kind and generous they will be with you when you need it.

My Dad is my hero. I have always admired and emulated him. He is one of the kindest, funniest, most generous people you could meet. And now that he's going through the trial of his life, I am just overwhelmed at the kindness and generosity of our family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, old acquaintances... frankly, of the whole world. Karma is an amazing thing.

In the darkest moments, at the worst times, I feel spiritually and almost physically lifted up and buoyed along by the love of everyone around us. I have never experienced anything like this before. It reminds me of stories of drowning people pushed up to the surface by dolphins and somehow carried safely to shore. It's so beautiful and sustaining. I can't imagine how we (or anyone) could make it through a time like this without the support of friends.

All the same, I would rather not be experiencing it. I would rather be enjoying this beautiful spring, which is somehow bursting with life and beauty even though it seems more like the world should be ending right now. I would rather be building new garden beds, working with my Dad on home fixer-up projects, or learning to use the spinning wheel that a dear friend lent me recently. I would rather be taking the Little Pea on visits to the playground, instead of the hospital.

When people write stuff about cancer, I think they usually are supposed to put a positive spin on the whole thing, like about the amazing life lessons that cancer taught them. Or what they learned about themselves while going through hell. I have learned a lot of stuff that on the whole, I think I'd be just as well off without knowing. I didn't want to know what I know now about chemo, and all its various complications. I don't have anything good to say about cancer. Not one good thing.

knit through it

an old picture of my home knitting nest, circa 2007. today's nest is sadly lacking in feline companionship.

I'm not sure what exactly I want to say about things right now.

I am blessed, that's for sure. I have a roof over my head, a loving companion and a sweet healthy child. We have enough food. We have jobs. We have friends and family. It's important to remind myself of these things, to keep everything in perspective.

As my sister said, it could be a lot worse. Some families have much worse to deal with. Abuse. Neglect. Nobody who loves them.

We have lots of love. We are lucky.

My dad is sick. My dad is 62. My dad was the picture of health until very recently. Now he is sick. Now we are spending too many long, boring days in the hospital waiting for the next test, the next update, the next procedure.

The knitting nest on my couch is frequently transformed into a bed for my mom, since our house is so much closer to the hospital. The Little Pea is so happy to see more of her grandmother, but bewildered by the absence of her buddy, my mom's other half, her grandfather.

He is at home right now. He is waiting... we're all waiting... waiting to find out what the course of treatment will be. Waiting to know what the prognosis is. Waiting to find out what to expect.

There is certainly lots of time for knitting. Miles and miles of stockinette stitch, acres of repeating patterns... I could be knitting afghans or men's sweaters, or many many pairs of warm socks. I am struggling a bit right now with what project to pick up and take for these long hours of waiting. As if something in the choice I make will tell us something about the future.

winter catch-up

January: finally there's time to stop and sit down and clear one's head.

It's a mad dash through December. I knitted like a madwoman from the middle of November until the week after Christmas when I was still furiously finishing gifts for visiting relatives (one right under the recipient's nose!). I knitted so much and so fast that I didn't manage to snap a picture of any of it, which is kind of pathetic for Ravelry addict like me.

Above are a pair of mittens I made for myself in November when I realized one day that my hands were cold, and I did in fact have the power to do something about it. I fished out some wonderful Noro Kureyon Sock that I'd bought specifically for mitten-making, from a clearance bin at a yarn store in Vermont during our summer vacation (I think this yarn has been discontinued). I rocked through them in a few days, picked up the needles again and started powering through holiday gifts.

Here's what I made in December: three pairs of mittens, a little birdie, a lovely hat, four twisty cuffs, and a Christmas stocking (which was actually mostly knitted in November). I can't believe I finished all that in a month. I am generally a slow, plodding knitter, but in December I was a machine.

But it has left me wanting to do more creative knitting this winter - having fun making things for me, or maybe not exactly for me, maybe for someone else to have in the end, but because it's a particular technique or color or something that I want to explore. Not just because I think that maybe someone else will like it.

So I'm working on a design for a little girl's jumper in Malabrigo Ríos (UK and Aussie readers, I mean a little dress thingy, not a pullover). And I'm getting ready to write up a fun post on some of my learnings about mitten knitting, since I've done rather a lot of it lately and feel like maybe I have a nugget or two to share about it.

But most of all, I'm dreaming of knitting myself a big, warm snuggly old-fashioned-looking sweater with the wonderful yarn I got in Vermont over the summer. And I'd like to have it ready rather soonish so that I can wear it in this winter weather... but I'm not exactly a speedy knitter. So maybe it will be for next winter. Maybe it will be one of the spectacular fishermen's sweaters from the book I got for Christmas: Patterns for Jerseys, Guernseys and Arans: Fishermen's Sweaters from the British Isles, by Gladys Thompson. What a wonderful book! I am snuggling up with it when I go to bed at night, leafing through wonderful historic photos and reading about the author's anthropological ramblings through the British Isles in the first half of the last century. It's as good as a Henry James novel for transporting you to another time and place.

voodoo yarn

Sometimes I think that knitting projects have ju-ju associated with them that cannot be broken, no matter how many times you unravel, re-knit or re-think them.

Is it me, or is it the project? That's what I always wonder when a project continues to perpetuate the funk that first envelops it when things start to go wrong... even when you've tried to right the wrong, every which way.



Exhibit A: the unfinished Muande vest, which I'm afraid is now permanently unfinished. The particular ju-ju of this project is Will Not Be Completed. It's an old story that you've surely heard before.

You've heard it before right here in fact, because I was just griping about this vest a few weeks ago. After two - yes two - unhappy endings that were ripped back to the armholes, this vest seemed to gain a new lease on life when I took a workshop on steeking at SAFF. Steeking! The solution to my design problem - to maintain the stripe pattern, I needed to keep working the vest in the round. But how to get armholes? Steek them, of course!

So I did that. Choppy-Choppy!

Then I finished off the shoulders, and all I had to do was work the neckband and the cuffs - cuffs? What do you call the finishing around the armholes of a vest? They're not cuffs. Anyway, you know what I'm talking about. That's all I had to knit. A tiny bit. And that's when I ran out of yarn. Just millimeters from the finish line...

Unfinished.

The sad part is that this was a wonderful one-of-a-kind gift yarn sent by a friend from France. So it's not like I can just go run out the LYS and grit my teeth while I pay for a full ball of yarn needing only 18 inches of it to finish a project. That would suit me fine right about now! I'd be happy to pay for 100 yards of yarn and use 0.5 yards, thank you very much.

And it's not like I can just rip it back and rework it a bit to economize on the gray yarn because I CUT IT UP WITH SCISSORS. CHOPPY CHOPPY.

Unfinished.

Bad ju-ju. It hangs around a knitting project like preteen girls at the stage door of a Justin Bieber show. Go away, project funk! Go funk up a political campaign or something and leave me to my quiet little hobby.