Brianna Walker

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “If life were predictable it would cease to be life, and be without flavor.” At the rate our summer is going, we will never have to worry about a bland life — our home seems to be built on love, shenanigans, and unpredictability … flavoring it up like frog leg pie.

Recently, I was planning on a day in the swather: an audiobook, snacks, and company from my 5-year-old and the dog — a pretty enjoyable way to spend a summer day. I stopped at the chicken coop to let the chicks and ducks out before I left — and that’s when unpredictable hit. One of the baby ducks, Mrs. Beakley, wasn’t walking right. She would walk a few steps then tumble forwards to the ground. Her wings and legs seemed fine, but she continued to stumble as the rest of the flock headed toward their mud pond. I called a friend who offered some advice, and 20 minutes later, I was in the field swathing — with only one small feathered change to the plan. In the dog’s place sat a duck in a box.

Every little bit I syringed water with nutritional yeast into her mouth. The first few hours were awful. The duck was getting weaker, and her head was starting to flop. Soon she was laying out flat and I regretted taking her along. With a loud crunch the swather sucked an irrigation pipe through its rollers. “Welcome to unpredictable farm life,” I grumbled as I stepped over the dying duckling and headed out to move an entire line of forgotten pipes.

Fifteen minutes later, upon opening the door of the swather, I was flabbergasted to see the baby duck sitting up — and even more surprised when she seemed to be hungry, pecking at the grass in her box. I cut up pieces of cucumber, and she greedily devoured every last one. We had a great rest of the day together. In between naps she would peck the window as the bugs swirled safely around outside the glass. If we hit a bump or the sound of the engine changed, she would jump to her feet and quack loudly. For anyone interested, a swather duck is much more entertaining than a swather dog — but a whole lot smellier.

Unpredictability at our house isn’t just relegated to the things that happen outside our control — we currently have a cousin living with us who has a fetish for blackberries. Lucky for him, many of our fields are lined with those accursed brambles — and he brought home gallons of the tasty berries each week.

But what does one do with so many blackberries? We made blackberry pies and blackberry cobblers, blackberry smoothies and blackberry oatmeal — and one evening I made a savory blackberry and basil pizza. Everyone seemed a bit hesitant — but once you got over the fact that it was purple, it was quite unpredictably delicious. The success in such a bizarre recipe emboldened me to try a recipe I had read years ago in a Great Depression cookbook: green tomato pie.

Here is where the shenanigans come in. My husband loathes tomatoes. Put a diced tomato in his salad and he gags and chokes and says, “Tomatoes cause cancer. My mom ate tomatoes and she died of cancer.” His idea of a good tomato is one that is puréed and seasoned and smeared on a garlic crust under pounds of melted cheese and olives. So I smiled devilishly to myself as I rolled out the dough for a tomato pie.

It smells delicious, but, if I was to be totally honest, the green goo oozing out of the pie slits was more than a little off-putting.

“What is that?” everyone asked, sniffing the delicious aroma which seemed incongruous to the green, goopy glop setting in front of them.

“Dessert!” I declared proudly, “because I love you all from my head tomatoes.” I slipped a knife into the pie — and nearly lost my appetite. I had followed the recipe exactly, which directed that the tomatoes be cut in thick quarter-inch slices. Those big green tomatoes oozed like cooked frog’s legs out from under the pie crust. I snuck a glance up at everyone’s faces. They looked just like mine — a little nauseous at the ghastly sight.

“You’re eating that first,” my husband said definitively.

“I’m going to tell you it’s amazing,” I said, with more bravado than I felt. “Because if it’s good I’m going to be soooo proud of myself — and if it’s bad, well, misery loves company.”

I took a glop of oozy green tomatoes and watched in horror as they made slime trails across my plate. Everyone watched as I took a slow, apprehensive bite. It tasted surprisingly like a cross between apples and pears. It was delicious. Everyone finally took a piece — and it was the consensus that if only one could eat it blindfolded, the pie could be considered a success. The next time I modified the recipe, dicing the pieces and adding a bit of red food coloring. It looked better, but everyone still referred to it as frog leg pie.

“It’s just backwards to have blackberry pizza and tomato pie,” my husband said, shaking his head. What can I say? It’s an unpredictable household — overflowing with shenanigans. I think my kitchen needs a sign warning our guests of our unpredictable menu: Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad. Philosophy is wondering if ketchup classifies as a smoothie … and shenanigans is serving frog leg pie for dessert.