Kale is King

There is a particular stretch of highway headed south from San Francisco which brings to mind some of the best moments in my life. Highway 1 or the Pacific Coast Highway is a dramatic live ride slicing through land and skirting sea. At least once a year I would wind down this ribbon of asphalt surrounded by a wild tactile beauty which would deliver me exhilarated and undone to the wide open mouth of the aquarium perched at the edge of blue beyond. As much as I delighted in the strange colorful water world contained within this fish bowl, the kinesthetic experience of the drive alone was worth the three hour shot of time. If I was lucky I traveled as passenger, free to dissolve into the meandering grind of pavement, the crash and tumble of the cliffs, and the metallic glitter of waves below. With each twist of road I would shed muscle and bone, split skin and human form and become something otherworldly: a speck, a dot of light, complete and utter joy.

So imagine how nostalgic I became when sweet V_ lulled me back in time with news that her twin lives at Esalen in Big Sur, a neighboring town off the PCH. Already she disarms me with a bell like voice that brightens a room with mirth and a sound of purity. My new friend also possesses a gracious earthy presence of one that pleasures in plants- and she is kindness personified. When she opened up a spacious potato basket to reveal a hidden salad, I sensed that I would soon be enjoying an extraordinary feast. Tender organic greens were hand picked locally by friends and assembled by script born from the holistic coastal kitchen of that magical place. All at once a hyped up tumble of sun and movement, robust plant life, and a general feeling of satisfaction came together as overlay to the crisp vibrant greens which sat begging to be known.

I have a lot of respect for the mighty Kale, Brassica oleracea and it has graced my table for many years. But I admit that I see this cruciferous plant as uptight vigilant taskmaster reminding me to consume adequate amounts of vitamins and minerals, hydrate, and detoxify when I would rather be snacking on bon-bons. I can never entirely relax around this highly reticulated green. It may be the fact that this wild cabbage is packed to the gills with substance. It is hard to slouch around a thing so wholesome. I’ve eaten the leaves steamed and sautéed, puréed and boiled, dehydrated and juiced. It takes a proper cooking method to subdue the fibrous plant and an assertive hand to season it. But try as I may to enjoy this nutritiously dense vegetable for taste alone, I fake and I falter.

Until now--Now, kale is king! Maggie’s Kale Recipe is perfect preparation for those that fear this strong willed green. The dressing a simple emulsion of lemon, oil and Braggs Liquid Aminos cooks up raw onion and kale much like a ceviché. The result is a tussle of beautiful emerald curls lightly anointed with nutty oil and the brightness of citrus. Pungent onion and dreamy avocado rouse and round out the flavors and textures of this perfect food. Greens never tasted so good. I offer this as gift for the New Year. It is a food that captures the strength and vibrancy of life and the place that captures my heart. It seems to contain the sun, the sea and the earth, pure potency. Eat and Be Blessed.

Maggie’s Kale Recipe from Esalen Newsletter
Ingredients:
One large head of kale such as curly, Russian red or dinosaur
½ medium sized red onion
Several handfuls of sunflower sprouts
¼ cup each sesame, pumpkin, and sunflower seeds.
1 avocado cut into chunks
1 handful thinly sliced shitake mushrooms

Dressing:
1/3 C of Braggs Liquid Aminos
1/3 C lemon juice
1/3 C flax seed oil

Directions: Combine the Braggs and lemon juice in a blender and slowly drizzle in the oil until emulsified. Slice onion into thin moons and marinate in dressing while preparing the salad. Toast the seeds until golden and fragrant and cool. De-stem the kale and slice into ¼” ribbons. Toss the kale, sprouts, seeds, avocado and mushrooms with the dressing/onions. Let sit a few hours to allow flavors to combine and the kale to wilt.

A Match Made in Heaven

A friend recently pointed out to me that I seem to gravitate towards ingredients which usually garner scorn from others. I have a feeling that this is primarily due to my childhood shock and awe education which introduced me to a wide range of potentially upsetting tastes and textures. I can confidently say now that there is value gained from watching a honeycombed expanse of cow stomach float about in a bubbling broth or from tearing apart a leathery cuttlefish half the length of the kitchen table into sinewy rubbery shreds. These food experiences might have sent a more tendered hearted individual scurrying behind their mother’s apron strings-- but not me. These times strengthened my gut and stretched my yet formed palate. It might be that I became more resolved to explore the unknown, a reckless food junkie thrilling and scoring an adrenaline rush with the sampling of each new and exotic ingredient entering my horizon.

But when it comes to vegetables how risqué can it get? They do not possess snouts or rogue bristly hairs on protuberances. They do not undergo body functions with identifiable parts which too closely resemble our own. No shiny eyes peer down at us nor are ungainly sounds emitted. The entire rainbow of the plant kingdom should have been unearthed and employed within my kitchen at least several times over. I’ve indulged in racy red beets and become entangled with cruciferous kale. I’ve been enamored with the peppery bite of radishes and the silky seduction of eggplants. Somehow during my romp and trample through the garden of eating, I managed to skip past the greens which form the foundation of a very basic salad.

The ubiquitous appearance of mesclun mix in the produce aisle hailed my downward slothful slide. The simple ease of throwing down a medley of lettuces into a bowl with a few nonchalant additions freed up time and energy for other culinary pursuits. The formula’s success was short lived as it became increasingly more difficult to find pre-made mixes unmarred by slime or wilt. Luckily the delightful discovery of names like rocket, lamb’s quarter, frisée, endive and radicchio played upon my imagination, encouraging the once familiar search in new and far places.

And then I found escarole. It is no denying that this produce is easy to overlook. A too quick glance would categorize this type of endive as merely green leaf lettuce. A closer examination would reveal a pale broadly ruffled leaf which exudes a hardy vigorous appearance which one might discount as “too tough” or even “stringy”. But let me assure you that this concern is trivial in the pursuit of a wonderful new vegetal friend. It is true that escarole has character, substance. If one enjoys the bitter tone to radicchio, frisée or Belgian endive then escarole will effortlessly slide right into your well oiled salad bowl. However if the rugged taste is too burdensome to be taken raw, do not fret for a reprieve is close at hand. Cooking tames the beast and soup is the fix.

I actually discovered escarole when making Italian Wedding Soup. I had recently developed a fondness for frisée and knew that the two were distantly related. While lettuce in soup sounds like a bad idea I can assure you in this case, it is not. Eating this magical elixir is like wearing a vintage buttery-soft silk robe over freshly bathed skin. One is enveloped from the inside out with a deceptively simple luxuriousness that takes over all senses. First the greens reduce down to a slippery gulp of unmistakable nourishment. In conjunction with tender orzo which slides so amicably down the gullet making one feel safe, young and content, one is at least doubly satisfied. This happy convergence is then wrapped in a chicken broth thickened into velvet with the gentle introduction of a frothy egg. Lastly the marriage is officiated by a brood of tender meatballs and celebrated with a sprinkle of cheese. I promise you that this soup will have you positively greedy for escarole and sounding out its beautiful sonorous name.

Italian Wedding Soup

Ingredients:
12 oz. ground turkey
¼ cup grated parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
1 egg
2 tablespoons milk/soymilk/water
¼ cup breadcrumbs
¼ tsp ground black pepper
Pinch of salt
8 cups plus of chicken broth
¾ cup of orzo
1 small head of rough chopped escarole
1 egg whisked with a bit of water
Sprinkle of grated parmesan cheese

Directions: First put the stock in ample sized pot to gentle boil. In the meantime, gently mix the turkey, cheese, thyme, egg and milk, breadcrumbs, salt and pepper. While the stock comes up to heat, form the mixture into marble size balls and drop in. You’ll want to work rather quickly so that the meat doesn’t overcook. Once the meatballs mixture is complete, stir in the orzo and then add the escarole roughly in thirds. When all the escarole has been added and wilted, slowly pour the whisked egg mixture in to the soup while gently agitating the broth. Ladle into bowls and sprinkle with cheese.

Spuds Aren't Duds!

I’ve been home a scant week and have already coined a new phrase which I cannot get out of my head. Tangentially it seems pertinent to now. In a random movie file sent to me I caught sight of a frozen visage similar to one that might have accidentally locked eyes with Medusa. Somewhat haunted by this image I was compelled to know more about the person behind the face. Was she anything like this one stuck frame? Ironically when released from her slumber “on play”, the woman emphatically espoused a belief that we attract the kind of energy that we put out. Her buoyant words bounced between optimism and dramatic enthusiasm while her hidden face betrayed her game: one frame, a fraction of a moment in time, a grimaced expression immortalized for the world to remember—her default face.

In a slightly different vein, I can relate to this fixed attention. Back at therapy camp when I was eating three square meals a day, I was reintroduced to the modest baked potato. After a week plus of slogging through puddles of waterlogged vegetables, a once neglected alternative came to the fore. Without realizing it, potatoes have silently retreated from my horizon for much of my adult life, receiving a bum rap for being too caloric. These starchy tubers are the perfect companion to all things dairy, graininess mollified by a swift pat of butter and a pool of cream. While I don’t like to admit to marching to the drum of a food fad, it seems the potato got the boot with the overwhelming condemnation of carbohydrates. Going away brought them back.

My potato arrived perfectly baked. Skin browned a paper crisp husk to a steaming moist yet fluffy interior. Split and mashed with a smidge of butter and a sprinkle of salt, the resulting jumble is nothing short of honest revelatory satisfaction. The single food contains a delight of tactile experiences. The body of the spud a meaty mouthful, belly filling and dense yet easily diminished into a digestible swallow. The skin, an earthly shell with a taste of iron and a hint of dirt, in places eager to peel clean off, a tease and contrast too. In other spots the flesh holds tight to the edge baking to an irresistible sweet burn chew. I stumbled upon these subterranean beauties in my hour of deprivation, first as a treat which then swiftly became a night time routine. Now they seem to reside within me. Potatoes are my default food.

I have been standing by patiently these past two weeks, hoping for space to open up magically to describe these newfound friends. Like silent watchdogs, they wait ready and faithful. Instead of sugarplums dancing in my head this holiday season, I envision squat blunted ovoid forms spinning in slow stunted motion. Certainly they are not glamorous enrobed in glitter and shine, but they do provide ballast and comfort not to mention potassium, vitamin C and fiber. While there is always room for gingerbread, candied Kumquats and lacquered Goose on a festive holiday table, this year there is place for another and other.