I made cheese a couple of days ago, and saved the garlic- and rosemary-flavored whey. Then I froze a few quarts of broccoli, and saved the greenish blanching water. I dumped the whey and the green water into my five-gallon pot and added a bunch of roughly cut, unpeeled carrots. I turned the burner on high, grabbed a basket and went into the garden.
The zucchini did not disappoint. Poking out from under the raspy leaves were three that had grown thicker than my arm. The kale, looking like broccoli with a permanent, was at its peak. In the kitchen, I emptied the basket into a sinkful of water, scrubbing off only slugs and other major offenders. I cut the zucchini into egg-sized pieces, tore the kale with my bare hands, opened four cans of mackerel, and dumped it all into the pot.
I was working fast, trying to produce a maximum of food in a minimum of time. But I wasn't stressed, the way I get when I have to fix supper in a hurry. I knew what I was making would be well received.
When the pot came to a boil, I threw in some rice. Twenty minutes later, I had seventeen quarts of a smelly, heterogeneous gunk that, combined with some kibble and a raw chicken leg, will be the highlight of Wolfie's and Lexi's days for the month to come.
“A disorderly mixture, a hodgepodge,” is how the dictionary defines a dog's breakfast.
But if my dogs had to write a description for a restaurant menu, it would read like this: “A textured melange of fresh, organic garden vegetables and herbs highlighted with the aroma of wild-caught seafood and enlivened with undertones of pastured goat's whey on a base of sushi-style rice.”