Kale and Garlic Frittata Starring Yoga Eggs

Note: If you're reading this on email, everything looks better if you click on the blog headline to get to the website. Also, if you could care less about my ramblings and just want the recipe, scroll down about 10 inches and you're there: Kale and Garlic Frittata.

I didn't realize how much I missed my yoga teacher's eggs until I opened her egg carton this morning and cracked a smile that lit up the kitchen. Yes! A rainbow of farm-fresh eggs from Shanti's clutch of quirky hens fresh out of their winter slump. A couple years ago, when I first scored eggs from Shanti, she was selling them for $2 a dozen. What?! Too cheap, I told her. She said $2 was enough to almost break even, and that wasn't counting the hens' entertainment value. She finally came around to $3 a dozen, still a major bargain considering that hers are truly cage-free happy hens wandering her little farm hunting bugs and greens and eating organic feed and enjoying Shanti's admiration. Despite our recent cold, wet weather, her "girls" have responded favorably to longer daylight and are pumping out the protein. Cluck, cluck, such luck.

Shanti Chagnon, unconventional yoga teacher and
keeper of hens. This is what she
wears to teach kick-ass power yoga. Love her.

To show off the difference between eggs laid two days ago by happy hens and one that came in a $5 carton claiming it to be "all natural, vegetarian fed, produced without hormones or antibiotics, containing 350 mg of Omega 3." In addition to the paler yolk, the store-bought egg white is runnier. Even with the one anemic loser, these eggs made a fine frittata. (Yoga eggs are nice, but not required.)

Kale and Garlic Frittata

4 large eggs, beaten

5 ounces of fresh chopped kale (about three large handfuls, chopped. The kale, not the hands.)

3-4 medium-sized garlic cloves, minced

1/4 large onion, chopped

3 T olive oil, butter or coconut oil

1/3 cup shredded Parmesan, cheddar or other cheese (or more)

salt and pepper to taste

Two servings, low-carb, gluten-free.

Directions

Heat the oil in a small frying pan, if you're cooking for two. Add the chopped onion and saute over medium heat until translucent. Add the minced garlic and stir fry until fragrant, about a minute. Add the chopped kale, stir with onions and garlic and cover. Steam over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes, or until the kale has wilted. NOTE: I used Trader Joe's. kale-for-cooking, about half of a 10-ounce bag. It had some nasty chunks of thick kale stems, which I picked out and bestowed upon the compost pile.

Kale, onions, and garlic before steaming.

Beaten eggs setting up. At this point, it's good to gently turn them over. 

After turning, cook until the eggs are set, a minute or two, season with salt and pepper,

then add cheese. Turn heat to low and cover for a few minutes to melt the cheese. NOTE: I used a great product, chipotle finishing salt, from Salinity LLC. Check it out. They have lots of natural flavors. Made in Southern Oregon.

If you eat this nutrient-packed kale frittata, you might be able to do this!

At Sundance Healing Arts Studio.

Or this!

Shanti on the farm tractor, hens foraging nearby.

And now, what you've been waiting for, a cold frame update! I can bend over to work in the cold frame and lift its heavy cover more easily because of yoga.

Russian kale is starting to surge in the center while endive lettuce and puny spinach are wondering

if I forgot to add enough compost when I planted seeds in October. 

My favorite kale variety, lacinato, AKA dinosaur kale, is emerging in pots where seeds were planted a week ago. Yeah! Seedlings will be thinned to one per pot and transplanted to the garden in late March, early April.

 BE BRAVE ABOUT WINTER. SPRING IS ON ITS WAY. IN THE MEANTIME, DO YOGA. 

EAT KALE.  MAKE A NICE FRITTATA. 

Winter gardening? Not a lot of action...but some fun.

The resident wildlife enjoying his own shadow as he strolls past the cold frame.

I've been fixated on Africa posts, because, as you may have noticed, I gathered so much richness so quickly that I've  focused on digesting the African experiences with words and photos. I'm not finished. But ordinary life does intrude, and it is the predominant reality, and so it goes. While in Africa the lions prowl, the giraffes gambol, the elephants lumber, the springboks bok, and in Southern Oregon the gardeners twiddle their thumbs, mostly.

The January garden looks sad, even on a sunny day. There's no sense in working it until late February or early March. If then. The white cloth near the back protects overwintered chard. Sorta.

But time moves on, and my attention turns, briefly, to the garden. We've had a cold dry winter, despite one storm that blanketed everything with snow then slicked roads with ice for a couple weeks. Still, the seed catalogs arrive in their seasonal flurry and seeds planted in early fall are struggling in the cold frame.

Spinach, lettuce and kale in the cold frame are sulking. At least they survived our unusual single-digit winter temps.We'll be harvesting out of the cold frame in February. The shadow? The cat.

One garden chore that can be tackled in January is digging and separating leek bulbs. Somehow I like the mindlessness, the Zen, of crumbling dirt and pulling apart the bulbs, laying out the plants and separating into bunches, some to replant, most to give away. The earth's heady fragrance, the warmth of the winter sun, the chirruping of the birds at the feeders. All good. All these little starts came from one clump. I'll end up with enough to plant the whole garden in leeks, should I be foolish enough to do so. Separating and replanting the bulbs is tedious but I know what happens in June that makes the work worthwhile.

Here it is. Leeks in action! We eat few leeks, because onions are so much easier, but leek flowers?

They're major bee magnets plus they make great dried and cut flowers and are stunning three-foot tall additions to the garden. I know they're coming back. I can't wait.

In the meanwhile, we consider travel to South America and boogieing at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. We also think about a new roof and replacing a deteriorating living-room rug. And also about leaving resources for our children and theirs. After 40 years of marriage, purchasing a headboard and a dresser for our bedroom also rears up. How boring. How to spend money when it is limited? Always a question, but I'm tending toward South America and away from a new living room rug. But on to January gardening.

  A geranium that loves winter. I almost threw this 15? year-old plant onto the compost, but I'm glad to have it as a mood booster. It is great to having something that loves winter. It lives in the solarium of our semi-solar abode. And we live in in our home of umpteen years in a semi-nomadic mood. 

Serendipity then and now

Serendipity officially means accidental good fortune. When I started this post, I intended to write about January gardening. That took me, somehow, to Africa and travel, and then to discontent with my ordinary life and then to childrearing, marriage, and the march of time. And back again. You'll find no gardening here.

 Serendipity—a pleasurable outcome of  brain exploration translated to fingers on the keyboard.  Writing.

 Ever since returning from Africa in mid-October, I've been discontented with ordinary life. No one is cooking for me. No one is driving me around. No one is concerned minute-to-minute with my entertainment. (Thank you, Kara Blackmore and TIA.) There are no giraffes, elephants, lions, gorillas, rhinos, impalas, springboks, cape buffalos, chimps, hippos, exotic birds or even crocodiles parading or posing for my enjoyment.

Oops. Forgot to mention zebras, who seemed eager to have their picture taken.

There's also a terrible absence of drifts of exotic flowers, and forests consisting of what look like giant houseplants. 

Pincushion proteas, indigenous to the Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden in Cape Town, South Africa, is among 7,000 species thriving in one of the world's great botanic gardens. We spent nearly four hours exploring the eye-blasting magic at the foot of the famous Table Mountain.

Sometimes in Uganda or in South Africa—which I haven't blogged about yet —you can't decide where to look. There's so much to see, so much to do. And the people. Suffice it to say that ordinary life for most Ugandans is different from mine. Their realities make me embarrassed about the luxuries of my privileged never-had-to-think-about-food-or-water ordinary blue-eyed life. Also makes me ponder, what do we really need?

This beautiful Ugandan teenager is making her fifth one-mile round trip from her home to the Nile River balancing 50 pounds of water, which must be boiled at least an hour to be potable. Note that her balance is so good the jerry can lacks a plug. Such are the skills necessary for survival. 

Back in rural Southern Oregon in the dead of winter, I am having to work at being delighted, excited, awed or inspired, as if those are the states-of-being I expect or, more importantly, deserve. That's what Africa did to me. I got accustomed to daily delight, excitement, awe and inspiration. I can tell you, it's not a bad way to live.

Except for a couple spectacular days at the Oregon coast in mid-December, (photos here), dullsville is where I'm at now.  Usually, when returning from a "holiday" as vacations are called in South Africa, I am ready to be home. This time, not. I'm restless, resurrecting that irresistible urge to be on the move that spurred me back in the early 1970s, before babies and jobs and house payments tethered us.

 I say "us" because I've been partners with the same man for going on 41 years. We have our own early histories, but at this point, our shared time predominates. We've been together a couple decades longer than the ages we were when we met. Who knows when you commit to someone that this can happen? If you're lucky, it does.

In Mexico 2006

When our first child arrived in 1977, the itchy feet gave way to nesting and to kid-loving to the center of my being and back. The reason most parents can put up with sleepless nights and toddlers screaming in the grocery store, is that kid-love consumes them.

Chris, left, and Quinn Korbulic, 1999

I love our adult sons, but not as viscerally as when they were babies, toddlers, young children, and even despicable (sometimes) teenagers. They're cut loose and my oh my, who they have become pleases me so. How I adore them still. We won't even get into the grandchildren. Another time.

Back in the day, and besotted with kid-love, I was content with camping and rafting and the occasional two-week summer vacation along with the pleasure and pain of raising children, sustaining a marriage, developing a writing/editing career, and getting acquainted with the Earth in our backyard: the garden, the Rogue River and environs.

I often told myself, and others who would listen, that there's more than one way to travel. Explore your life and journey philosophically, if you can't get out there into the world geography. Having two kids, two jobs, little money, and two or three weeks vacation per annum, I embraced the philosophy route. Time flew. It flapped its wings and dive bombed year after year, pecking me on the head, "You're another year older!"

Now time is pecking me in the eyes, dammit. Get away! Slow the hell down!

Still, I don't regret any of it. I would never give up having raised our sons because both are gifts that keep on giving. And life has come full circle with me being the touchstone for my 98-year-old mom who is in assisted living one mile away.

However. I'm now thinking ours would be a great place to be coming back to. Someday. In the meantime, I will continue to appreciate the small things, and large, that have made this piece of ground home for more than 40 years. It won't be long before we'll be on road longterm and so glad to have a piece of the Earth to settle back into, as birds returning from migration.

Ironically, as I was working on this post, I excavated, from the bottom of a trunk, a diary from 1972. Here's something I wrote August 24 of that year... I was 28 years old.

Driving over the Big Horn Mountains. Stoned. Looking at cows through binoculars and talking about time. A little poem:  

I'll travel til there's no wind left in my soul. Then I'll be old. 

Well, now I AM old, so I'll say the same thing today except for one word:

I'll travel til there's no wind left in my soul.

 Then I'll be dead. 

Leeks in all their glory in our garden. What you can't see or hear are the bees. The bees. Hundreds of bees. Maybe as many bees as there are in all of Africa. Right in my own backyard. Just in case.

Oregon's Steens Mountain with Four Wheel Camper

I'm taking a hiatus from my Africa obsession to revisit a trip to the Steens Mountain Wilderness last year. Email subscribers, if you have trouble viewing, click on the blog title. 

The road to  the Pike Creek trailhead into the east side of the Steens Mountain Wilderness. If you go, that yellow grate might help you pick the right road because there are no signs. You'll know you've arrived when you spot the juniper rock after about a mile of rough going. 

It's cold and dank in Southwestern Oregon. Our lonely Four Wheel Camper is balanced on saw horses and drained of fluids for the winter. Sigh. I am missing the freedom it provides for quick get-aways. But of course camping trips close to home are not that desirable November through February so....nostalgia. One of our best trips ever was to Oregon's Steens Mountains in September 2012. 

This camp is close to the Pike Creek trailhead on the east side of the Steens Mountain Wilderness on an unmarked 4 WD road. Perfect! You can find directions to get there, but there is no such thing as a sign. A creek flows behind the rock from which grows a juniper that apparently exists on minerals, scant moisture, and profuse admiration from occasional campers. 

A closer look at that amazing tree, which is the largest hunk of wood I ever saw rooted in rock.
The trunk actually looks like the rock. I couldn't stop admiring it. The tree seems stronger than stone, but will wither and die long before the stone disintegrates, and eons after these admiring eyes are dead and gone. Wilderness/nature is a time gauge. It isn't going to make you feel any younger, but may inspire you to treasure your remaining moments on earth and ponder the mysteries.

PK, long an enemy of invasive species, pulls the evil puncture vine weed from around the juniper tree camp and piles it into a fire pit.

In the meantime, his sandals picked up
numerous punctures.

Something pretty near the juniper tree camp.

After walking for 10 minutes from the juniper tree, we finally know we're on an official
trail into the wilderness.

Pike Creek is an up and down trail with stream crossings as well as slide crossings such as this. We walked for about 2 hours before deciding it was getting late and time to turn back.

Getting there is half the fun, of course. The Steens are an easy day's drive from our home, and a detour onto Hart Mountain to camp and soak in the hot springs was a bonus.

Here PK, lower right,  lounges with a bunch of naked strangers (me too, but I covered up to take photos, as if anyone cared) in the Hart Mountain hot springs. The younger ones were with a tour group studying medicinal high desert plants. Judging from the fun but erratic conversation, I think there had been some medicinal plant sampling before the hot spring soak. After dark, under a full moon, PK and I made our way a short distance to an undeveloped hot spring and slipped into its shallow hotness surrounded by silence. Divine. It was one of those times when I didn't really want to go because it was cold and dark, but was so glad when I was gazing at the moon through the steam and holding hands with my partner of 40+ years.

It's great having a traveling partner who always wants to know

 where he is and where he's going. Then I don't have to navigate.

Where is he now? A hot springs in the Alvord Desert just down the road from our juniper tree camp. 

What the Alvord hot springs enclosure looks like from the road. It's way back at the end of the trail on the right. A private landowner has made it available to the public and even provided a changing room! Traffic is scant out here on the edge of the desert, so I don't think the "public" is much of a bother. I appreciate that rancher, nonetheless. Thank you.

Typical cattle sighting along the East Steens Road, AKA Folly Farm Road.

The blind around the pond at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge visitor's center. We saw birds on the pond, but not on the refuge, which is reportedly teeming with wildlife at other times. We visited in the fall of a dry year. A bust. Malheur borders the Steens Mountain Wilderness, and more savvy travelers might time a visit when they could enjoy the benefits of both.

Wildhorse Lake as seen from a trail dropping in from the Steens Mountain Loop Road. We walked about 1.5 miles to this point and decided against the steep descent to the lake. 

The Kiger Gorge, carved by a glacier, from the Steens Mountain Loop Road.

Looking east from atop the Steens Mountain Loop Road.

A trail out of the Page Springs Campground, where we camped for two nights, just a few miles from Frenchglen, features immense stands of cattails and teasel along the Wild and Scenic Donner und Blitzen River.  On a late afternoon hike, we met an ecstatic but exhausted trout fisherman who claimed to have just had the best day of his life fishing on this creek, which he has been visiting for 15 years This is his "life place" he tells us. He was radiant, and it wasn't all sunburn. He told of catching and releasing 18 inch to 22-inch redside trout, and taking 45 minutes to revive one trout before releasing it. He'd accomplished seven or eight river crossings in his waders. I don't know if I've ever seen a happier person, so excited to tell his stories that he gave it all up to strangers along the trail. I'm sorry I didn't get a picture. A few minutes after seeing him, we had a wonderful moment spotting a flock of cedar waxwings alighted in a snag near the river, producing at least some lower-wattage radiance on our faces. 

The Alvord Desert outside the camper window looks fine as I prepare food cooked ahead at home.

You can see that although the Four Wheel is small, it has amenities. Next to the stove is a roomy refrigerator with a freezer! Propane powered. The battery-powered electrical system is charged by driving the truck, and we can charge phones and computers, pump water from the storage tank, have lights etc. I know that veteran RVers are accustomed to far greater luxury, but it wasn't that long ago that we were tent camping. The last-straw experience was at high elevation and the low was 16 degrees. The first time we slept in the Four Wheel we about keeled over of happiness. In case you're dying to know, the camper does not have a toilet. But we use a small portable unit to prevent having to exit into the night when nature calls. We don't want a giant RV because we still want to 

use 4WD roads and get away from crowds and explore and have adventures.

I cook. PK cleans up. 

En route home, we scout a potential road biking route out of Klamath Falls. After a few hours, we decide poor road conditions, mediocre scenery, and relentless hills make this route undesirable.  

Still, we need to find a camp. But, hello! It is the night before deer hunting season opens and the campgrounds, the pullouts, the nooks and crannies, are jam-packed with everything from minimal campers to huge RVs. We're able to locate, an hour before dark, this level spot not far off the road. 

Night night in the camper. Lights off. I'm climbing into our cozy queen-sized bed soon.

Trying to be a traveler, not a tourist, in Uganda

I don't so much like being a tourist. I like to think I'm a "traveler" instead. I mean I want to get out of the tourist conveyance, whatever it may be, and walk around as a regular person. I may be delusional, because in places so foreign as Uganda, there's no way I'm going to pass as ordinary.  I'm white. I'm old (the average life expectancy there is 55. I have that beat by decade+).

And I'm rich. I don't think of myself as rich until I'm in a country where just the fact that I can buy an airplane ticket and hire a driver puts me, puts US, as I travel with PK,  in the "rich" category. We cannot imagine their poverty. They cannot imagine our wealth. So maybe the native people are not so poor as we think? And we are certainly not as rich as they perceive.

But anyway. During our recent whirlwind time in Uganda and South Africa, I managed some solo adventures where I pretended to be just a regular person.

On this October day, on my little solo journey, I witnessed lumber production at its most basic; was accosted by a gang of 10-year-olds; was saved by a young non-profit manager; got caught in a torrential storm; and was rescued again by the non-profit guy with a miraculous umbrella.  Here's how it went down.

Ugandan school children on a sales mission headed my way. 
Can I run faster than they can? I don't think so.

PK and I had been gorilla tracking (blog post) in the morning, then survived (and enjoyed, oddly enough) a jolting teeth-clenching but spectacular three-hour 32-mile drive back to our lodge over what PK called a "class 5" road.

Grinding through a serious slick-clay hole, one of many.

We had tea and biscuits on the veranda, then, after making a phone call,  PK decided he'd like a nap.

PK on the phone as I'm plotting my getaway.

I decided I wanted to walk from our hotel, the Silverback Lodge, into the village, Buhoma, Uganda, about 1.5 miles distant. Buhoma is not a village in the sense that there's a 7-11 or someplace to buy a drink or a tourist trinket or groceries or a bite to eat. It's more that people live closer together and walk in single file to their water source with 5-gallon plastic containers. That kind of a village.

I did this because I'd been frustrated by driving through countless roadside settlements,  as well as the huge sprawling lung-searing capital city Kampala, en route to the remote corner of Uganda where gorillas live, having had little contact with Ugandans. I feel like such a voyeur riding in our fancy (by Ugandan standards) Toyota van, just the two of us and our driver, Nesser (pronounced Nahsah). We are incredibly privileged in their eyes. In some areas, children run alongside, hands out asking for money.

Nesser, our wonderful driver, and guide for five days
One of the few Ugandans we got to know a little bit.

To be safe, for my walk to town, I  have left behind my passport and fancy camera,  but have with me my cell phone, for photo purposes,  and a few dollars. With my perky little Panama hat and long skirt, I start down a steep crooked rock-strewn rain-gullied road toward the village. Far-away thunder rumbles. I ignore it. A couple guys are making boards alongside the road.

I'm struck by the labor involved in lumber production. I raise my phone to take a photo and am approached by a man who indicates this is not cool. If I want a photo,  what is it worth? One dollar? Sounds good. I hand him one of my eight one-dollar bills and take two photos.

I can't tell who has the harder job, the guy on top or below. They have been at this since the sun came up. 

If there's a power saw in Uganda, I did not see it. Or any other power tool. And speaking of power, there is precious little in villages, and even at our lodges lights were dim and generators ran sporadically. Hairdryers? Don't even think about it. Being equatorial, it gets dark around 6 p.m. and light at 6 a.m. There's your structure. Live with it.

Back on the rocky road. Trucks and motorcycles roared and rumbled past, ignoring the ruts and rocks and the kids who leaped aside. I hugged the bank. I wondered why traffic victims are not pulverized alongside the road. One must be nimble. One must be quick. One must possess a safety schtick.

Thunder grew louder. The village still seemed far away. I continued.

Around a bend, a flight of school children bombed my way. They saw a big ole white tourist, a gorilla tracker who can afford $500 for an experience that has nothing to do with survival. They saw a mark for their school-art-project gorilla-tracking postcards. I saw trouble.

The children are proud of their artwork and I am appreciative. As I reach out to take one for a closer look (bad idea!) every child piles his or her postcard into my hands. They are not going away.

There are nearly 20 of them. One of me. I have no small change and only a few dollars. What to do? Simon to the rescue!


This is Simon, age 21, who saw my predicament and alighted from out of nowhere. He selected a group leader from amongst the children, suggested I give two bucks and let the kid divvy it up. This was probably unfair and maybe impossible. But I handed over $2, and Simon led me down the road (away from my lodge, away from the bewildered school children, and toward the village.)

Simon insisted that I  must see his office, which he says is "right down the road." We walk and walk. The thunder is now alarming and the sky is charcoal. I feel obligated, and, let's face it, I'm rotten at saying NO.  I'm worried about getting caught in a hard rain at least a mile from "home". And I know that PK will be worried. Right now, I know, he is looking at the sky and muttering, 'Where the hell is she?"

"I need to get back," I say. "My husband is waiting."

"It is just right here," he motions ahead. I don't see anything that looks office-like. We continue.  Another five minutes and we've arrived. A few women sit in the grass,  but flee inside as sprinkles begin. One is his grandmother, who seems ancient. I ask Simon if he knows her age. "I think she's 55," he says.
My eyes grow wide and I clam up. Fifty-five! We enter his office, which adjoins, it appears, his family's home. Both are typically small and dark, windowless.

Simon is so proud. Behind him is a list of projects the nonprofit aims to fund. Goals include harvesting rainwater, building a gravity water scheme, planting trees, vegetable gardening, providing mama kits, and more.  I sign the guest book and make a $5 donation. Terrible, but that's all I have with me. Later, back in Oregon, I am emailed a heartfelt thank you for my" generosity." I wish I could send money, but I don't know how. 

Here's the organizational chart for the nonprofit, which appears to be named the Environmental and Health Concern Organization. 

By now the malevolent sky is hurling rain from shipping containers and Simon continues to ramble.  I cut him off insisting, "I really must go now. If you have an umbrella, I would like to borrow it and drop it off here in the morning."

He disappears to see about an umbrella, but alas.  Despite the fact that the village is smack in the center of a tropical rain forest, the family doesn't own one. I wave and rush onto the road and charge up the hill, water parting around my ankles.  I protect my cell phone as much as possible, hence no photos of the rising tide in the road ruts, the pelting sheets of rain, the darkness. This is a serious sideways downpour. rivaling any hard rain I've experienced in Oregon.

I lean into the wind and rain, and my Panama hat has sprung a leak. I hear shouting.

It's Simon. He's running toward me. This is odd because I left him behind in his office. AND he has a  huge umbrella! Apparently, he has sprinted to the village, borrowed an umbrella, and raced up a short cut to shelter me. He swings in beside me, unfurls the umbrella and up we go, now using the center of the road as the roadsides have become growling rock tumblers.

Ten minutes later, I arrived at the lodge where PK, as I expected, was distressed. I am soaked and chilly, and stand by as the lodge shower runs for five minutes for the water to become at least tepid, then step in to wash off the mud and begin to digest my experience.

Two months later, I'm still thinking about it. I'm sorry that PK had to fret about me, as I would have about him, if he'd disappeared for an hour during a significant storm in a strange place. But I'm glad about everything else.

Especially the kindness and concern that one human being, the young and earnest Simon, showed for another, the older and more vulnerable me.  Take a look at this kind face again, then consider— He is Uganda. Without a walk in the rain, I never would have known.