FOODChair

Food for Thought

2010-06-01T14:42:00.008-04:00

Though I haven't posted here for what feels like ages, my mind continues to return to this place wondering when I'll be inspired to write something new. For me this small corner has been a place to explore my creativity and inquire into the expansive universe both large and small. There is so much to experience and share, and still- I got bogged down. Initially I thought it was from the process of writing/drawing and recipe finagling; and that has undoubtedly been some of it. But I think a bigger part is that food is both metaphor and vehicle to explore the natural world, and when it comes down to it- it is hard to separate me (alternately, us) from it. I am dazzled and inspired by the beauty surrounding, but the counterpart is that attached, there is an underlying aspect of heartbreak. While I put great efforts towards expressing myself in writing, if I were to be truthful, there was an element held back in the name of equanimity. Not surprisingly, this growing awareness coincided with longer absences.

Now with the ongoing devastation occuring in our Gulf coast, I don't feel I have the luxury to pretend that my heart isn't breaking when I consider all that is happening in our environment. Please take the next 20 minutes to look at this video. If you are unable to spend that time, bookmark it for later! May it serve to educate, re-inspire, and re-dedicate our collective vision and efforts.

Breakfast of Champions

2010-03-29T19:26:00.006-04:00

I'll keep things brief because truth be told, I'm feeling once again sheepish for posting so infrequently. Stammering and apologies pushed aside for instead, a rather spectacular approximation of my latest sandwich of my dreams...

The PEEP-wich: the mishmoshing of a chocolate croissant with the thin crackle of brulee and a dose of creamy nutbutter for good measure.

1) Plug in your trusty Forman Grill

2) Lavishly butter 2 pieces of sliced whole wheat bread. It is best to go for a loaf that is light and sprightly with visible holes. Bear with this process and I swear you'll end up with something buttery and pastry like. You'll thank me for passing on the dense wholegrain bread.

3) Spread nutbutter of your choice on the unbuttered side of a piece of bread. I used sunbutter to my great satisfaction. While this may be a matter of personal preference, I'm still guessing that a thin skim is Not enough, but an eight of an inch is just about right.

4) Gently apply two peeps about equidistant upon the nutbuttered side. If feeling especially peckish, go for three.

5) Bedazzle the surface with some good chocolate chips. Too few and you'll miss out on the lava flow, too many and the bread slides around in an unkempt manner.

6) Press down with the leftover bread, buttered side up.

7) Place the Peep-wich into the mouth of the grill and resolutely lower the top down.

8) Wait until sizzling and peeps subside... take a quick peek to make sure that the top surface is golden and buttery.

8) Slice in half and pause. Note that this most clever bird pulls an utter Houdini and simply disappears into the bread. You will most likely notice a gossamer thread-o-peep or two when the sandwich is cut. Eat and enjoy- Happy Easter!

Somethin' This Time Around

2010-01-05T20:18:00.012-05:00

"Sacrifice, if you please, three mutton cutlets for every one required. Tie them together, with the choicest and tenderest one in the middle. Grill them, turning them over often so that the juice of the two outer cutlets pervades the one between. When the outer ones are more than cooked, take all three off the fire with infinite precaution and serve only the middle one."
-King Louis XVIII of France (1755-1824)

Mutton is majestic meaty morsel. This is surely what the Mutton Renaissance Campaign had in mind with their logo of a vaguely recognizable distinctly proud animal standing within a windswept field, which incidentally reminds me of Heaven. Endorsed by Charles, Prince of Wales no less, surely the profile of this antiquated Dickensian food must be on the rise. Who knew that in the locals of my freezer, I would find such a thing?

I vaguely remember that afternoon a year to two ago when a small brown package arrived tidy and unassuming, along with another of its kind tethered, to a friend. Attention instead towards eggs, there was I believe a distant blur of the hand and then out of nowhere mumbled words sounding like, “pig’s liver and --mutton”. Unable to process the heft and meaning of either word or package, they unceremoniously made their way into the holding area of my freezer until a time when any of those things just might suit an occasion.

No closer in understanding or need of mysterious meats from yore, actually forgotten entirely but still in want of an organized freezer; the unearthing began. The inside door most closely akin to things that remain on the surface, a social veneer completely respectable offering bulk foods and inobtrusive choices. But past the freeze line a lively assortment of tidy mislabeled packages: undrunk portions of wine sloshed into chutney jars, tidbits and tufts of bread, bricks of stew-y things, unfortunate food projects, and the designated meat corner consisting of bacon ends, one individually wrapped hotdog, 2 sausages, oxtails and-- mutton.

Being a new year, it is time to take inventory of our lives; question the contents for freshness and purpose, extracting the undesirable for something more fitting. Old barmy sheep get out, hello refined lamb! While it is hard to pull the wool over my eyes, I’m still sold on this rebrand clever or not. Marketing minds hard at work it is true, but it is still a way to see our lives and the things in it with new eyes and feeling. Starting over is a break from the acquisition of days, a reboot and glad news for those of us unsure of how our freezers ever got so full.

Mutton Kofta approx 20 batons: Chief criticism seems to be that the meat is quite gamy (oily and such) and tough. Make sure that your mutton has been aged properly! Since chief populations still enjoying this venerable sheep do so with a flourish of spices and a quantity of sauce, I’ve combined a bunch of Indian recipes using a fry/steam technique. Of course lamb and other non-animal protein may be replaced.

Ingredients:
1 lb. ground mutton
1 ½ tsp yogurt
1 tsp. grated ginger
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
¾ tsp. salt
½ tsp garam masala
1 ½ tsp. ketchup
1/3 tsp. cayenne pepper
3 Tblsp. Grapeseed oil
2 cardamom pods
1 stick cinnamon
½ C water
2 Tblsp. Yogurt

Directions: Mix first nine ingredients together until just mixed and shape into ovals 2 inches long and 1 inch thick. Heat medium sized skilled until hot and heat oil. Add cardamom pods and cinnamon and toss around for 10 seconds. Lower the heat and add meatballs, turning them occasionally until they achieve a golden brown coat. This takes about 15 minutes. Drain any oil. Mix the yogurt and water and pout into the skillet. Heat to boil and then reduce heat. Cook until most of the liquid is evaporated. Serve with basmati rice and some sort of mint/cilantro chutney. As for Dickens, Our Mutual Friend is a fine pairing with any mutton meal.

Holiday Treats

2009-12-11T15:48:00.006-05:00

Fool for Fruitcake and Torrone (Montelimar) too... This song one of my favorite Beatles tunes, capturing the pleasure and pain of oh, so many good things.

Maitake Madness

2009-12-08T20:35:00.006-05:00

There has been very little as of late to thrill my taste buds to the point of audible exclamation. Food ingredients I will never blame, rather the issue occurs when there is a severance from the source of inspiration, and this small tragedy strikes when too long operating within the confines of the tried and true. Fortunately a recent trip to the market unearthed an exotic fungal beast, a cluster of vigorously formed maitake mushrooms jeering for attention. Grifola frondosa or playful, hen-of-the-woods are praised for their health virtues. This I presumed might make them medicinal and at best pithy, perhaps more apt for brew. With relief I found this assumption to be utterly wrong as I jogged to memory of a man stuffing a sizeable vegetal hen into his knapsack whilst crowing about his find. Inappropriate behavior within a National Park, but now I understand his misappropriation and find myself likewise scanning dark corners where the trees hit the forest floor.

Apparently maitake is named the dancing mushroom because foragers tend to jump about excitedly with glee upon discovering some. The descriptor is no exaggeration. To behold Grifola is to be captivated by honey brown plumes erupting forth from a base somewhat wiggly, irrepressible, and full of musty mushroom odor. Cap-less, the fronds shred easily revealing nested recursive forms and if not mindful of the time, one could get lost in the maze of wonder. Where to go from there? A quick trip to the fry pan with some oil and a flash of heat, nothing too long or too gentrified. A steady squeeze of lime, umami rich fish sauce, cilantro, mint, and yes I believe some sugar too. Now at long last, a fork. Pleasing on so many levels, this might be one of the best things eaten this year.

The preparation is reductive; bowls, measuring spoons, and all other instruments of cooking drop out of sight, leaving only intimate connection to the land and its fruits. The flavors, clear singular notes which play upon the entire terrain of the tongue achieve triumphant perfection. But what makes these bites so revelatory for me, is undoubtedly the texture. Some describe it as meaty which is partially true, but that suggests an experience full, rotund and muscular. This has the slight weird factor which Asians adore and demand in their food. Reminiscent of jellyfish, though not as crispy, it has a slightly dry mouth feel which calls to mind shredded turkey or deep fried tofu, a tad spongy, the barest hint of elasticity… thoroughly interesting and hard to describe. Meanwhile the whole time one is thoughtfully masticating and attempting to identify the essence, this nutty sweet fungal perfume fills ones entire head cavity. The chewiness which connotes funky things like collagen, innards and the cartilage-in-between, mixed with the secretive flavors of the earth, wakens me to my animal self, to the being desirous to sample dirt and all connective tissue tethering firmament to ground.

Maitake mad now and wanting to growl and claw, I race over to tree stump barely noticed the week before; sure I had seen a huddle of hens. Disappointed I find instead shelves of handsome calcified ruffles, velvety striped accessories decidedly non-edible. At the mouth of the Royal View, a 50 plus acre development overlooking the Mt. Washington Valley, I enter with the usual swell in my heart. The spectacular view is gaping expanse of water colored profiles melting into mackerel skies. The foreground is a clear cut hill side community standing nearly vacant, money pouring down the granite sided drains. I find myself contemplating man vs. nature, as I observe swift aggressive decisions made in the name of development and wonder what the trees out yonder think about their domesticated brethren. Rather than people, most lots are occupied by Zeussian plugs of Sweet Fern; one of the first to move in after brush and trees are removed. Spicy rich oils emerge from scalloped leaves, perfect for imparting enigmatic flavor into a mug of hot water. A slow amble later, tiny winterberries peep underneath low lying plant matter. Bold red mints disguised in cheery form, the electrical boxes’ hum recedes behind the wind. A hawk stands watch- and suddenly it is apparent that there is a wildness to life that cannot be squelched. This gives me great relief as I leave the Royal View, heart swelled still. The search for mushrooms for another day.

Back to Basics... with Man-Bread

2009-11-17T20:16:00.005-05:00

Right at home with bony rickety things outside my window, I love creeping around the edges. While folks consider the peak of leaf season, when the leaves are kissed by the sun, to be the royal view worth gawking over, I’m finding immeasurable beauty in the barrenness left behind. The leaves on trees are near fallen exposing stunted misshaped limbs injured from last winter’s ice storm. The giant stores of acorns once unloading playful vengeance upon industrious critters are now spent, crushed into dust underfoot and the crabapples last week- waterlogged and eerily luminescent are now slightly wizened. It is all happening fast as nature scrambles to tuck in and close the shutters. Finally it seems I’m back in synch with time, smack dab in the decay and decline of the season.

We are down to the wire, the last few weeks before the holiday tumble, every bit of summer sensuality wrung out. The bare trees now expose ungainly piles of junk from the neighbor’s too-close-for-comfort yard. Roots have grown in; highlights faded out, in fact most I know are sporting hair more akin to shrubbery. Once horrified by the unrelenting practicality of an entire town’s wardrobe, I too have submitted to the unspoken wisdom of fleece. This is territory unspeakably honest- without the gloss and cosmetics of warm month pageantry.

So it is really no wonder that I’ve been gnawing on what I’ve dubbed man-bread*, for about a week now. Yes, the loaf was overcooked a hefty 10 minutes which further accentuated the coarse nature of the beast, yet didn’t destroy it at all. Sure this fig, nut, and lentil bread sounds exotic and sophisticated first upon the ear, but a slight scratch below the surface reveals a substance possibly representative of the entire category of Food- at its most base requirement. Mortar like and gnarly in batter form, it bakes into a stout brick durable for adventures far and wide. No need for fancy Tupperware or plastic wrap, just cut a slab, stick it in your trouser and go. Surely some version of this bread stowed away in yesterday’s traveler’s bindlestiff serving as head rest, hammer, and staff. Man-bread is primitive, touching an ancient survival memory long lost. Not plied with deft hands like baguette, nor fanciful as cake, this bread’s sole purpose is to feed the hungry masses and do so in an inobtrusive way. I suppose that is what I’m really responding to. Durable, plain faced and practical… it fits the bill this November month. No cozy, No fluffy, No decadence- it is unadulterated food that shames all the crock pot-casserole-monstrosities we will be inundated with come January. And yet, man-bread manages to help me dig in and occupy the bones of this place in season, and that is no small feat.

* this name bestowed upon the loaf is reference to Sam Martin’s study of manspace.

Balsamic and Lentil Bread: one loaf adapted from Susan Jane Murray great site.
Ingredients:
1 C millet flour
½ C quinoa flakes
½ C sunflower seeds
½ C pumpkin seeds
1 C walnuts
½ C dried figs
¼-1/3 C chopped dried cured olives (optional)
2 Tblsp. balsamic vinegar
3 Tblsp. Olive oil
2 eggs
1 C of cooked beluga lentils plus ½ cup of leftover water from the cooking.

Directions: Dump the dry ingredients (first 6 or 7 if including the olives) into a large bowl. Mix the rest of the wet ingredients into another smaller bowl with a fork. Dump the wet mixture into the dry and mix with a few strokes until just incorporated. Pour into a greased loaf pan. Pop into a 325 degree preheated oven. I did 350 degree for 50 minutes and mine was a little too brick-ish. Could have been not enough lentil “juice”, too high of a temperature, too long? Bake until just firm. It is quite nice with scoops of cottage cheese/avocado. Enjoy with other manly people.

The Last Tomato

2009-10-23T15:29:00.003-04:00

While one might imagine that I’ve been hufflepuffing my way through these dazzling autumn months, I haven’t. My mantra revitalized me long enough to become temporarily obsessed with the porcine power of Kevin Gillespie’s bacon jam, which tamed the otherwise inaccessible escargot and momentarily stunned a seemingly unflappable Daniel Boulud on Top Chef 6, episode 4. “Bacon Jam” became my new fixation, a word tonic uttered repeatedly in strange wonder. Like its predecessor it became a symbol, a question to be lived and in a series of screwed up turns, changed into hyped up shitake jam posing as pig. Good- perhaps even excellent without the expectations heaped on, but in the wake of such anticipation, instead… a red faced sham.

Figuring it wasn’t a favorable sign starting an entry feeling sheepish; I scrapped last month’s post. Flummoxed, a bittersweet chocolate-meyer lemon tart also went “the way of the pig” and turned into something odd and a little rubbery. That tart was grand in meaning, representing the lyrical play of light and dark of the harvest season and of relationships too. It seems my food has become steeped in mental meanderings in an attempt to distract myself from the grim realities of the fast approaching end of the year. Lamenting over squash, confused over good-food-gone-bad, I missed the peak of the leaf season when flaming fluorescents light the valley in colors almost unreal.

But V_ to the rescue again, has magically coaxed tomatoes late- in an otherwise barren season with Houdini like prowess. As many plants much earlier across the eastern states have succumbed to blight, these paeans to summer have survived just barely, raising their status to something a little unearthly. Determined to no longer pine for the months passed by and revel in what surely must be the most handsome dignified time of the year, I offer a tomato dish that takes the sunny carefree orbs of summer and with a wave of a wand, transforms them into a sophisticated concentrated concoction. The tomato has grown up. Swirled in red wine, introduced to the briny seduction of capers and olives, the vinegary sear of pepperoncini, and dressed in a feathery cape of aged parmesan, herbs and crusty crumbs- this dish is happy marriage between summer produce and fall winter technique. It is lusty food with bold flavors leaping with the confidence to assert not dominate. The red filling has the darkened jammy patina of age, not the mere blush of youth. This tomato crumble is completely beholden to the season, conveying quiet knowledge of the passage of time. In possession of this, everything is just a little grander, richer for the existence. What a relief to know that I can still have my metaphors and- eat them too!

Spicy Tomato Crumble adapted from Savory Baking by Mary Cech: Not only is this basically a dump and stir sort of recipe, but it begs to be played around with. I can equally envision anchovy fillets to cracked eggs to chunks of goat cheese baked in. Just the thing to get one’s mind finally off of bacon jam.

Crumble topping:
1/3 C dry bread crumbs (I used 1/2 panko and 1/2 oyster cracker crumbs- I think leftover crusty bread would be perfect to make adhoc chunky bits)
1/4 C rolled oats toasted
1 Tblsp all-purpose flour
1/4 C finely grated Parmesan cheese
1 tsp dried oregano/marjoram
1/2 tsp dried sage
1/4 tsp salt
2 Tblsp unsalted butter, cold and cut into cubes

Tomato filling:
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tblsp. capers, rinsed and roughly chopped
2 Tblsp. finely diced pepperoncini
2 tsp. clover honey
1 tsp. dried basil
1/2 C dry red wine
6 fresh large tomatoes roughly chopped and seeded or one 28 oz. can whole tomatoes with juice, roughly chopped
1/2 C kalamata olives, roughly chopped

Directions: Combine all ingredients for the crumble topping in a food processor and pulse a few times to break down the oats a bit and bring the mixture to a crumble. Put aside. In a large shallow pan bring all the tomato filling ingredients to a simmer for about 25 minutes, reducing the liquid down. (I found there was still so much liquid I reserved about half a cup to reduce further at a later time- tomato jus, delicious!) Pour mixture into a casserole pan and crumble the topping on top. I think a little drizzle of olive oil would be highly appropriate. Pop into a preheated 350 degree oven until the top looks brown and the filling is bubbly. I believe the author has the crumble cooking for 15 minutes, but we cooked ours for at least 35 minutes… but then again our recipe was doubled. Enjoy hot or cold. Nice with a piece of fish, atop pasta...heaven I tell you.

Hufflepuff and Blondies

2009-09-08T18:07:00.007-04:00

The other morning I drifted out of the depths of sleep vocalizing, “HUFFLEPUFF! HUFFLEPUFF! HUFFLEPUFF!” Without the usual need to wrestle with the detritus of my dreams, I instantly knew that the repetitive sounding of the onomatopoetic word served to inflate me with a good lashing of affectionate merriment which has been in woeful short supply around here. In other words, my corset has been bound a wee bit too tight. It is hopeful that with these HP inspired morning mumblings, perhaps the spell or at least my laces have been broken.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, virtuous as well as very adult; to give my sugar intake a rest for awhile. I plunged forth fortified with a whole arsenal of information on the ill effects of sugar on body and mind. But rather aggressively, similar to the manner in which one clears out an overstuffed closet, I wholesale dumped other foods out of my diet as well. Kind of wondering what all the fuss was about gluten, I tossed out wheat and then gave dairy the boot since it too is a common allergen. A few weeks in- I hit the slightly erratic point of the clean out process. I decided to curb my enthusiasm for cussing, rid myself of the phrase “you guys” in my daily speech, and really if all of that weren’t enough, I thought the world would be a better place if we stopped complaining so much—so I tossed that habit upon my growing list of insanity. I can say with certitude, this little investigation hit deep, though not at first.

The provocateur in me baited for some reaction when I calmly waltzed through the first three weeks. I kept thinking that I would feel radically different; that my eyes would sparkle and my skin would glow or on the other spectrum that I might become completely unhinged. Nothing so obvious occurred; the biggest difference was that I consistently felt hungry. The kind of hunger that had me obsessing about drippy fully loaded cheeseburgers especially at night. It became apparent that the many innocent snatches of treat that I was used to: lovely nibbles and forbidden morsels translated to something more substantial over a week’s span. And without—oh drear, my diet haikued to foods straight out of a 70’s dietician handbook. Bland limp green beans, boiled kale, rough hewn tomatoes and cukes, and leathery chicken, over and over with little variation again. Along with the abstention of a few ingredients, also went the ability to cook and enjoy foods. Strange but true, but the flourishes of attention that make a meal fabulous simply walked out my door.

In sugar’s absence I was finally able to see its value a little more clearly. I set about this project from a health stand point assuming that the physical body would function optimally without sugar, a not so nice vice right? It became clear that I plunged forth without a clear understanding of what I was actually letting go of. I certainly didn’t think that anything needed to be added in as fair exchange and as a result -well I became quite lop sided. Roughly life without sugar translated into less emphasis around food and pleasure, which freed me up to work that much harder* thereby spending more time in my head and consequently sleeping less. As the weeks accrued, I observed this growing imbalance and became more aware of how food dissolves and occupies the soul, a sort of energetic signature. Generally acquainted with the macrobiotic principle of balancing expansive and contractive forces in cooking, this idea especially became clear. Sweets have an open, uplifting quality. As do simple carbohydrates, joy, and laughter. With the brute attack on my diet and eventually other ways of being, I settled into a seriously contracted place. Every rule and should-not added atop every indulgence departed, allowed the pattern of school marm consternation and rigidity to ripple through me, leaving me small, colorless and pinched. While it may be misleading to say that sugar is the lynch pin that makes my life run well, I’ll just conclude that bright open skies make good companion to the dark terrain below.

* Here is a link to my new ETSY shop named Wonder Room. The images that I create for this blog have really inspired me to continue creating more art. Thanks to all of you who come by to read and share!

HUFFLEPUFF BLONDIES- adapted from White Bean Blondies at Healthy and Green Living: Eating the words in my dream was the first step. These blondies were the second. Blondies have sentimental value. I love the contrast between vanilla with a hint of butterscotch, against the chocolate. Moist, almost fudgy, but still utterly winsome. I thought these were interesting and wholesome in a balanced even slightly virtuous way. The right amount of expansion with contraction!

Ingredients:
1 stick butter melted
1 ½ C pinto beans (basically a can drained and rinsed)
¼ C brown sugar
¼ C maple syrup
2 eggs
1 ½ tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. carob/coffee substitute (optional, I didn’t try this but suspect it would be great)
½ tsp. salt
¾ C oat flour (pulverize almost a cup of oats in a blender)
1 C millet flour (can substitute another flour)
1 C chocolate chips
½ C toasted walnuts

Directions: Deplorably easy. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Melt butter in a pan and cool slightly. Toast walnuts and chop half the chips to give them a more unstandardized look, after all some “work” is needed. Then throw melted butter, beans, sweeteners, eggs, vanilla, and salt into the blender and whirl into a smooth consistency. In a medium bowl, place your dry ingredients. Gently mix the wet into the dry until just mixed. Grease up an equivalent to a 9inch round. I would have preferred this in a square pan, since I don’t care much for wedges but use what you have. Place in oven and bake until it comes out clean in the center when poked. I forgot the time, perhaps 35 minutes? Mine was in a little too long and I don’t think it suffered as much as typical brownies would, as the bean puree gives this definite moistitude. Cool and cut. I think the flavor develops better by the next day. Remember, one can embellish with the enthusiastic exclamation, ”HUFFLEPUFF! HUFFLEPUFF! HUFFLEPUFF!” Loosen girdle appropriately.

Start From Where You Stand

2009-07-09T19:26:00.010-04:00

(... apparently atop a soapbox. I wrote this initially for a magazine, the topic being Think global and Act local. I thought it would be apropos here.)

When I first began to regularly floss my teeth, I was admittedly close to thirty. One would think that threats from a hygienist wielding a sharp rotating pick might convince me to start flossing, but it didn’t. Rather my leap into responsible dental health was in fact a new sense of self care and awareness. It slowly began to dawn on me that this boring and frankly unappealing task was actually a small labor of love and burgeoning gratitude for the teeth that I had the good fortune to care for.

The expression Think Global and Act Local has been on everybody’s mind, coined and applied to divergent areas of life spanning the environment and even business. Many people are beginning to become mindful of how and when to spend their hard earned dollars, even educating themselves on lowering their carbon footprint. Whenever I hear the rally to switch perspectives in order to understand the impact of the individual, I get downright literal. Past the country, to the town, on the street, at the front door to my house and smack dab, to the mass which makes up the entirety of me. Five foot four and a hundred and something pounds- Local!

I think about the myriad choices that I make for the actual care of this body, my earthly vehicle. Naturally next, I think about eating. Now as a person who has boundless enthusiasm for everything food, I have no problem scaling the highest peaks to achieve some illusory culinary ideal. But I understand that not everybody has the patience or interest for complicated fussy foods which yield little more than a sink full of dishes, a depleted wallet, and maybe even a stress induced headache. Most I know however, would like to feel more energized, maybe fit into a certain too small outfit and let’s admit it, eat more vegetables.

I have one suggestion that could improve people’s health and that is to begin consuming Green Smoothies. The green smoothie is the sleeker, fiber filled, grown up version to the primped up too sweet fruit smoothie. The ingredients are variable to an individual body's needs and to acclimating taste buds. Essentially it is a fruit smoothie which has bred with some good alkalinizing greens like kale, lettuce, parsley, and celery. Because the raw leaves and stalks are all blended up, the mouth and gut do not have to work so hard to digest the foods. Relief! It is much easier to consume an extra two or three servings of vegetables and fruit a day, and the body is actually assimilating the amino acids, phyto-nutrients, minerals, and vitamins. Don’t you feel better already?

The power of the drink is deceptive. Kids love it, in spite of the fact that dark leafy greens are hidden within. Yes it is true that small health issues might resolve themselves, weight might be lost, and one’s outer beauty begin to sparkle. But I think the power of the drink is that it is a signal to the self about deep nourishment. Somehow I feel we have lost connection with that which cherishes life fearing we don’t have time or thinking that care is self indulgent. One change begets another, and the power of reverence wedded to action, cataclysmic. As we come to this cross road and find so many aspects of life in need of healing, I say we raise our glasses to the health of all: our cells, our communities, and our world. Salut!

Basic Green Smoothie:
2 kale leaves, washed and torn
A handful of spinach
1 ripe banana, roughly chopped
1 handful of frozen berries
½ -1 C water/soymilk/juice
1 Tblsp. Of any: Hemp powder, flax seed oil, coconut oil, carob or cocoa powder (optional)

Directions: Most basic recipes call for about 40% greens to 60% fruit. Experiment and see what you like. Many variety of fruits and vegetables can be used, but be aware of vegetables that are too bitter. As well, consider the power of your blender. I put all my vegetables and fruit in first and then add a bit of liquid to start with, jiggling the container every once in awhile to allow the food to come in contact with the blade. Add more liquid if need be, as the mixture begins to break down and you get the desired consistency. Enjoy!

Still Life with Potatoes

2009-06-13T17:38:00.020-04:00

It seems that discoveries can occur even in the lost hours of the night when the mind is a smooth slippery sea creature unencumbered by the weight of reason and rule. Tucked in and relieved of the tumble of my dark hour vigil, I succumb to the charm of infomercials; easy companionship which in the buoyancy of tide becomes pertinent, even fascinating, and for those inclined towards the affable, have simplistically happy endings. Not only does the girl get the boy, but she rocks herself to flatter abs, makes a million bucks, and brown roasts a frozen turkey in an hour or two. With little next to none to hold me down, my subliminal desires for the effortless and aerated foamed dairy products take over and I’m duly impressed by ease connected to speed. Surely the gist of life could be solved, hints the announcer in my head handling the once compact Magic Bullet now replete with multi functioning attachment blades. On screen a husband holds a pie plate in front of the shoot catcher style; the wife pummels a whole cored apple through the opening after which apple rings are violently spit onto the plate, my nocturnal oasis abruptly disrupted. Within 3 seconds, the sugar and spice content s of a ramekin are ceremoniously dumped upon the disheveled heap and applause erupts forth for the doppelganger pie complete in 5 minutes minus. Fully lashed to my senses, I find myself awake and offended by the brutish mess passed off as masterpiece. Are we so stretched for time that simple tasks must be whittled down to unrecognizable form and each minute accounted for? Only strictest opprobrium now- gob smacked I am no longer. On the flip side of nighttime tutorials I get back to the serious business of herbs and forgotten hypocrisy. Last summer before I could think sensibly, I acquired a sizeable amount of scented greenery in generous installments. Initially I was enthralled with the possibilities, as life tender and fresh rising out of the earth tends to elicit. Tarragon, Sage, Mint, and Rosemary: redolent, intoxicating finery born to embellish life and romance victuals. Admittedly before too long, it is true; the regal bounty became an unspoken burden. While bright clusters of basil demand to be transformed into a royal emulsion, other aromatics may certainly be used with satisfactory results. Under self imposed demand to keep up with supply, I donned a rather unfortunate production house mentality and scrap heaped the herbs into an overzealous processing bowl: hoarding oil, skimping on the nuts and sacrilegious- sometimes even forgoing the cheese. Dark times indeed, my pesto more akin to mortar of the daub and wattle days than a sumptuous perfume built for pleasure. Could I be blamed further that in true poverty mindset, the miserable sludge went straight to the freezer for future humorless night, long and cold?

Memory of the frozen remains is square punishment and as I am of the pedantic sort, it is finger wagging reminder to sit quietly in the lap of abundance and allow the fullness of the moment to reveal itself rather than mine away at time until there is nothing left to hold. Wearing my full mantle of shame, I am now contrite and figure some lavish penance is needed to rectify the wrong.

The outline is clear: focused simplicity, meditative and slow, banning any impulse to cut corners. The herbs once again are plentiful but not deserving of any pre-emptive strikes this time around. After all they are ancient paean to both bounty and beauty revered by Gods and mortals alike. They are frisky agents of flavor and blooming bouquet to the senses needing ballast that can only be found in the humble potato of behind-the-scenes kitchen duty.

The potato, earthy fellow needs no introduction to any. Starchy and full figured it is the quintessential food to sate the most basic hunger. But I confess my own has existed on the opposite end of the spectrum where wants are located. They have the luxury of being both transient and susceptible to the winds of suggestion. Therefore subterranean tubers are rarely on my radar except when drunk on oil when the food transforms from the staunch practical to the magnificently fabulous.

This fittingly brings us to technique. While it is a no brainer, this is a method I’ve avoided for the quantity of oil used and for the unhurried nature of the process. In short it is perfect for my reparations. I’ve decided that the cure to continuous scuttling about and throwing down sloppy ingredients in perpetual fear of the dwindling sands of time is to good naturedly slow sear potatoes to crisp crust perfection. No fussy ingredients or fancy procedure needed. Everything else is certain distraction.

Smallish thin skinned potatoes are needed an inch and a quarter is nice. Into a pot of low boiling salted water they go. Keep an eye on them as they need to be just pierceable but not so well done as to become mushy. Rinse quickly under cold water and pat dry. Now the fun part- place a single brave spud upon a flat surface and gently lean upon it with the steady unsqueamish heel of your palm. The skins will heave before splitting and some interior flesh displayed but this is perfectly acceptable and part of the charm. We’re going for a smashed patty that is approximately half an inch thick, much thinner and one is in danger of losing circular integrity. A nicely weighted shallow fry pan is needed, ample the better. After being heated on medium high and olive oil is poured in, wait until the surface shimmers. Just how much oil is needed I suppose is open to interpretation. Bear in mind, this is a dish to properly fix one of miserly pinched up ways. For reference however, I used a lavish skim but not a submersion. Young sage leaves can now be tossed in until they shrink up into friable crisp. Quickly remove and set aside for future garnish. The potato pucks are now ready for their debut but not before lowering the temperature to below medium. The rounds cook for almost 30 minutes on each side, therefore handle the fire appropriately to ensure a beautifully browned patina and hearty crust. It is important to note that Trust is just as much an ingredient in this affair as Patience or Potato. Because it dawned on me that the Magic Bullet really preys upon our fear of not enough. And in life opposites seem to be truer; the easy is the harder way and the too-quick is ultimately wasted effort. With this, I beg you to allow the now flattened bottoms of the pommes de terre to sit undisturbed like the wise silent teachers they are. Sneak a peek somewhere around 20 minutes when unbearably good scents warm and rustic waft forth. If you sigh audibly and feel your heart quickening in your chest, these beauties are getting close. The only other advice to dispense is that a golden color is not enough, in fact that alone is too cosmetic. You are looking for a mouthful that will be sure to contain both crunch and chew, where the darkened caramelized exterior is distinct from the tender interior portion. At this point and only then, should they be flipped so that the other faces can become burnished bronze too. Extra movement in this symphony of simplicity is a bare minimum with a generous flourish of coarse salt and then a few minutes before completion, a festoon of chopped herbs.

I’ve been hearing folks recently refute the reasonability of “multi-tasking”. I used to actually pride myself on this skill before noticing its inherent deficiencies. Reformed I’m throwing away all Magic Bullets, beans, and pills for something true like zaftig frenchified peasant food eaten alongside sautéed baby radish greens. A simple still life with a few ingredients steeped in old fashioned values has me slowed down to a more opulent way of being. Live well, banish the fear of oil, and eat more potatoes!

I am the Jagermeister!

2009-05-24T17:31:00.005-04:00

These are the words thus pronounced after imbibing one teaspoon, rapidly followed by another. Even though it has taken some forty years to discover this herbal digestive, I feel confident consumed by this unnamed power. After all- I am the master of the hunt.

Jȁgermeister tastes exactly like I hoped it would. I am excited to report; it is the unmistakable eye widening, growl inducing taste of melted down tar and black jellybeans. The secretly guarded recipe of 56 herbs, fruits, woods, barks, and roots has helped this potion, along with eye witness accounts of shocking behavior exhibited by those who partake, and laughable rumors of elk’s blood being part of the enigmatic mix; gain cult status. Truly of the love it or leave it ilk, there are those clamoring voices crying out that it tastes exactly like treacle-y cough syrup which is really no surprise given that this 70 proof brownish red halbbitter was created as an herbal remedy for respiratory and digestive issues . Indignities such as being affectionately called Leberkleister/ liver glue and the ancillary use of being an ad hoc insect trap only serve to endear me more. Fruitless distraction, this is one of those moments when I hold absolutely no impartiality. Nyquil, licorice, Jȁgermeister- I love you all the same.

One hit of the nectarous dark stuff from the eerie green bottle has been my undoing these past few weeks. I cannot focus clearly, my mind returning to an ancient obsession formerly and inadequately subdued. Medicinally revered yellow murky extract from the root of the Glycyrrhiza glabra shrub is combined with sugar, starch, molasses, salt, and other spices like anise to achieve the complex flavor that pulls the unsuspecting in with a sweet almost fruity hello before tumbling down the taste escalator and finishing with a bittersweet thud. Though I detect a skosh of aspartame and am reminded of the hoppy aftermath to warm ale, I am nonetheless besotted. Dreamily I find myself thinking about spice gumdrops again, the way I’d stealthily ferret out the white and black ones happily munching on the warm musky clove- allspice mixture. I imagine a bank of handsome 24” glass confectioners jars full of ebony sugar encrusted chews lined against the short side of my kitchen. I have even returned to perusing international licorice sites, cruising candies from England, Germany, and Finland. Toothsome Pontefract cakes toiled over by industrious monks, banana flavored confections shaped like a mini ape’s head, stout licorice toffee logs, and strawberry crepuscular bats; dare I go for the formidable face scrunching Dubbel Zout? Inevitably I throw about seven must-try bags into my virtual cart and a half dozen curiosities, spend at least an hour or two twiddling my life away before I realize that I am uncomfortably close to spending too many dollars on candy. The shame of this and killjoy- the hellish thought of licorice plaque forever wedged between my molars, reel me quickly back to safety.

Fortunately being the newly appointed meister, I am not completely deterred as I ruffle through the bag of tricks in my mind. And I peruse to almost 8 years back at preparations for a party which included a licorice ice cream fiasco. Beside this and over to the side, a fussy recipe for candied fennel garnish almost forgotten. Like lightening to a rod, brilliant inspiration. I channel the best European bakers and emboldened by my favorite pear and licorice jelly belly combination- decide that a fruit fennel Jȁgermeister concoction is in order. The thought leaves me gleaming.

Since apple and fennel is a classic duo in savory dishes, it seems only natural that they can lean the other direction which would serve to brighten the complexion of the spicy brew. Whereupon the salt mineral earthiness of licorice brings to mind all those tongue warming spices that perfume gingerbreads and fruitcakes and pfeffernüsse too. Consider the cascading flavors which peer out of the shadows like fig, chocolate, tobacco, kerosene, aluminum, and root beer and suddenly it seems possible to marry the unfathomable flavor with a whole flock of previously ignored suitors. It is at about this point that I have an insight into the trouble with this hodgepodge of hues. Perhaps it is just too broad to wrap our palates around, a frightening mirror into the expanse of possibilities. Then inconsiderately swaddled up in: black cat, black sheep, black plague…black; an insult on top of a misunderstanding. I consider what the California Dried Plum organization has done for the humble prune and I’m heartened. Turning back to the strudel with focused resolve, the work of St. Eustace is far from over.

Apple Fennel Jȁger-strudel serves 6: This pastry was made to convert even the most devout black licorice hater. While a spoonful of the herbal spirits is quite potent, within the compote it's character broadens to something almost more floral. The anise was a quick sub-in because it didn't really have the intensity I desired. I believe Pernod, Ouzo, Sambuca would be fine as well and truthfully I might prefer them.

Ingredients:
1 C fennel thinly sliced
1 C water
1/3 C sugar
3 ½ tsp. Jȁgermeister
Pinch of cloves
2 tsp. butter
2 granny smith apples cored and sliced into ¼” slices
¼ tsp. anise extract
Pinch of aniseed (optional)
Coarse raw sugar
10 Fillo sheets thawed
Melted butter/olive oil

Directions: Place the fennel, water, sugar, Jȁgermeister, cloves, and butter into a shallow medium sized pan and bring up the heat to the point that the water gently bubbles. Keep cooking, gently stirring the fennel around from time to time until the vegetable softens and the liquid is almost reduced. Stir in the apples and continue to stir and cook until the apples are about 2/3 of the way cooked. Add the anise and taste the mixture for more liquor/extract if desired. Allow the fruit to cool completely. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. On a cookie sheet place a layer of Fillo and brush the dough with melted butter. Place another sheet on top and keep repeating with butter and another layer of dough until the sheets are all used up. Spread the cooled mixture in log formation on top center of the dough. Sprinkle with aniseeds and raw sugar and fold the dough long edge over the fruit. Brush a little butter on top of that upward facing edge. Fold the dough on the opposite side over the buttered top. Press lightly down to seal the package a bit. Now fold the short ends up using a little melted butter as glue and press down to seal. Again brush a little butter on top of the streusel and sprinkle a little sugar on top of the entire log. Place in the oven for about 45 minutes or until the streusel is golden brown. Cool a bit and serve with vanilla bean ice cream or some softly whipped cream scented with anise extract.

The Magic of Woodland Ways with Sweet Aunt Vi

2009-05-16T16:15:00.013-04:00

A violet in the youth of primy nature,

Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting;

The perfume and suppliance of a minute;

No more.

Hamlet- Act I, Scene III

******

There are tiny alcoves scattered throughout the garden out front. I don’t think they were intentionally placed, that is directed by mere human hands. Rather these cozy nooks seem to have evolved, a natural trajectory of events coauthored by man and nature. There is a medium sized rock- stoic and dependable with a slender bleeding heart leaned over it, a creeping brocade of moss, lady’s mantle, and a few leggy ferns shielding a secret or two. Each character is an enchanted creature in a world held apart and I for the few moments that I gaze am welcomed denizen.

***

What I love most about these woodland hideaways is the sense of stumbling upon a moment held in abeyance, both young and fragile. The air and ground damp with dew. Everything absorbed by the silence. The plants too seem to have just emerged, green like juicy apples. Neither garden gnome nor faerie, I am nonetheless quite at home in this glad pocket where life springs forth.

This year to my delight, pincushions of violets from amethyst to palest pink have sprung. I can’t help thinking they would make pretty corsages for some wee folks and perhaps a few frogs too. With its heart shaped leaves and elusive scent, the wild violet is joyful ambassador communicating how powerful life is. After many arduous months of a New England winter, it is hard not to feel tender towards any tiny plant capable of sending up a shoot or two, let alone one which does so with such mirth. This miniature scene which is hard to pry myself away from is both marvelous and complete. It is a study in sufficiency.

Perhaps that is what has been at the root of my desire to eat more wild foods. It is about connecting to the untamed and vital of course, but more convincingly about seeing the whole. Rather than being perpetually on the cycle of filling empty hunger and desire on the treadmill of plenty. We could be moving into relationship with enough. As much as I was in love with the abundance of California, it was easy to take it for granted a little. And overindulge, all the time. Living with the dramatic change in seasons, one is made powerfully aware of the transient and the perishable. Looking at these prolific yet delicate flowers is another reminder. Close in, show cased, naturally one moves towards the slender edge of the moment which is potently alive and holds everything.

With the help of Euell Gibbons and Steve Brill on the sidelines to stoke my broadening curiosity, the garden has now become my outdoor pantry. Everything is fair game as I cast a wandering eye upon its borders. Thankfully the inhabitants are far too preoccupied bursting forth in springtime finery to even suspect what is on my mind. At this moment my attention is back to sweet Aunt Vi with her beguiling face and plentiful greenery. It is true that this plant packs a punch of ascorbic acid and Vit. A in its leaves and herbalists of yesteryear have lauded the virtues of this fine lady. Pluck a leaf and chew it up a bit, you’ll see that it tastes like young fresh spring. Wait a bit longer and soon you’ll see that the masticated bits get surprisingly slippery. It is this salicylic acid which helps to dissolve tumors and hardened tissue and resolve inflammatory issues within and without. Apparently even the easing of skin and reproductive cancers is on this gal’s resume. But as compelling as all of that hard working achievement is, I am more enamored with V. papilionacea’s purple winged petals and fluttering grace. The glee and magic of childhood discovery comes rushing back as I spend time in this diorama for one. While cuteness is something normally to be avoided, springtime fervor has hit and the imaginary tea set brought out. Youth and beauty should not be wasted only on the young!

Magic Violet Elixir feeds two medium sized gnomes: This is the kind of green spring soup that is so simple, delicious, and cheery- it will be an instant favorite. Once again approximate amounts for the ingredients, but it is infinitely tinkerable. The best thing of course is the color, bright and saturated. Should be served in tea cups, imaginary of course, are welcomed.

Ingredients:
1 cup of frozen baby peas
1 garlic clove hastily chopped
3 sprigs of thyme, leaves stripped
Small bundle of chives, rough chopped
2 fistfuls of violet leaves
2 cups of water/vegetable/chicken stock
1 cup of rice milk
Salt and white pepper
Skinny tablespoon of butter
Violet blossoms

Directions: Heat up your water in a medium sized pot and when the water begins to stir, just before the boil, dump in the peas, garlic and thyme. Lower the temperature so that the ingredients don’t go into shock. After two or three minutes, dump in the chives and violet leaves and cook until well wilted. Add the salt, pepper and butter. At this point retrieve your trusty slotted spoon and transfer the cooked bits into a blender with about half a cup of the cooking liquid. Blitz up and slowly add the rice milk/dairy to the level of creaminess desired. Taste and add more stock/rice milk as desired and carefully pour into your small serving vessels. Garnish with violet petals. I actually preferred my elixir on the warm/room temperature side rather than too hot. The petals are a visual must. Be forewarned, imbibing the elixir makes one a little giddy.

Dent de Lion, a Toothsome Tease

2009-05-10T15:58:00.001-04:00

The disturbing sight of radiant yellow blossoms scattered about an otherwise impeccable emerald lawn has caused many a homeowner to clench their fists and reach for their ever ready weed whacker. Children- at home with things that move about in jagged lines and attuned to that which pokes out of the earth, puzzle over this magnificent creature otherwise cursed at. This weed, this mis-placed plant, Taraxacum officinale is a glorious beast better appreciated in earlier times when this harbinger of spring brought vital nutrition and medicinal relief to a body succumbed to torpor.

Aptly named, this plant is something of a dandy with its frilly foppish collar and a dazzling flower or two rising from the waist. Each winking golden yellow flower head, preconception pushed aside; embodies a joie de vive that encourages the young to pluck, sniff, and chomp upon them whilst merrily fashioning looped necklaces, rings, and fanciful head dresses of yore. They are not alone. Honey bees and other winged creatures too are dazzled and dine daily upon a bounty of nectar where upon this zesty spiral of life finds momentary pause when graceful seed heads waft forth far and wide. Though appearing frivolous and easy going to the outer eye, this plant has impressive survival skills evident in a presence seen throughout the world. Between seeds capable of traveling over five miles, the ability to self pollinate, adaptability to many environments, and a brittle taproot that easily splinters off in the hands of inpatient gardeners- this plant has looks, humor, and street smarts too. It is hard to imagine why this dandy lion has been cast out of the earthly garden, so woefully maligned.

Early in spring serrated leaves emerge in tight rosette formation. Not only do these spiky mandalas incite folks to get moving but the leaves bitter flavor also helps shake off winter’s coat. The bite of bitter is often associated with wild foods yet to be tamed and our modern proclivities have required cultivators to breed out disagreeable hues in our food to something more subdued. Nonetheless this acquired taste has been prized by the practical for its effect upon the body, evident in the number of tonics and nostrums created throughout history to stimulate appetite, aid in digestion, and innervate the feeble. Remove congestion in the liver, constipation, dreaded piles? Not a problem. In fact the genus name Taraxacum roughly translates to “remedy of disorders”. Not too bad for a mere backyard weed.

While domesticated taste buds may have gone flabby and soft, there is a new tide turning in the world of taste too long dominated by sweet and salty. Bitter no longer needs to be thought of as bondage and slavery, or the acrid repulsion of medicine forced upon- but now, it is being rediscovered and even celebrated a little. There is a food culture growing that is exploring the outer limit of flavor, consider the rising popularity of dark chocolate, micro brewed IPA beers, dark roast coffees, and of course digestifs. Bitter flavors are a sensory jolt which needs to be mollified and coaxed by a skilled culinary magician, to be truly enjoyed.

Perhaps this is partly why the dandelion has fallen out of favor. They are irrepressibly wild. They run rampant, refusing to stay in perfect straight lines. They’ll polka dot a lawn given half the chance and their astringent taste is unabashedly assertive, especially in summer months once festooned with flowers streaming like the sun. For those with little patience, who want life “as is”, straight-out-of-the-shoot; move on. Because a tangle with the Dent de Lion requires understanding, just like any dance with a formidable opponent. Patience, study, and appreciation are needed to realize that bitterness can actually bring out the best in other flavors, just like shadow does to light. Beyond, a tussle with the wild brings out the complexity and verve of the inner workings of things and that- plus an arsenal of nutrition is a bonafide bonus.

Note: A very grateful thank you with a dandelion bouquet to my sister for the redesign...and to Lobstersquad for help with the banner. Hope the look is easier on the eyes & the squids and jellies? Just because I love them so!

Spring Tonic Greens: I have been nonstop eating these greens for the last 3 weeks. It is quite fine with an egg on top and some of that fermented ketchup. Chock full of iron, calcium, Vit A, B complex, and potassium. Mother says, “Eat yer Greens!”

Ingredients:
Bunch of dandelion greens, cleaned thoroughly and rough chopped
Bunch of spinach, chopped
Bunch of ramps, bulbs cut lengthwise and greens chopped (these are spectacular if you can locate some, they deserve their own post…)
Chopped onion
Chopped garlic
Olive oil/bacon fat
Salt and Pepper
White wine/splash of lemon

Directions: After cleaning and chopping all ingredients a decision needs to be made about how much bitter one can take. Nibble a dandelion leaf. Is it pleasant enough as is? If so fry up your onions and garlic in a good amount of fat, and then slowly add in your dandelion leaf and begin to cook it down. Hopefully you’ve begun with a big enough fry pan! After they’ve begun to cook down a bit, you can add your spinach, salt and pepper to taste, and some acid if you like. If the dandelion is too bitter, blanch it until bright green in boiling water- drain the water off and then add it to the already fried onions/garlic. Have fun with the process, dandelions are showy things and respond to rowdy behavior. A little chili pepper, a few raisins. Eat them hot, eat them cold, on some toast, with an egg. You get the picture.

Where the Wild Things Are

2009-05-01T20:10:00.000-04:00

It is a pretty straight forward strategy, nothing particularly radical or unique to me. I am what some might call a cultivator of qualities. That is, my senses are dialed in for the internal grumblings of wants unmet. Once targeted, simply- the hunger becomes the hunted. Just like I remember the contents of what is in my refrigerator, what is not, and consequently the big or small hurdle needed to create the latest culinary creation; my internal tracking system knows how to keep myself in balance, in check, and on the map. If I’m cruising to the right too long, it is a good idea to bank to the left once in awhile to keep from spinning round in circles.

My most recent contiguous uni-directional aversion occurred in the latter part of winter, mind and heart numb from the cold. There was such yearning for something fresh and green, a want for vibrancy and growth. I knee-jerk dabbled with mung beans sprouts to fill the no-grow zone of January only to find the over and done-too-soon process was too overly overt for the season. I needed something slower, a little quieter, and perhaps even something a smidge turned under.

Lacto fermentation is an ingenious food preservation process that no doubt evolved from one of our forefather’s errors when misplaced foodstuff went funky not foul. An ancient protracted, potentially risky version of the Five Second Rule; observation, a hospitable environment, and a bit of luck mixed together to create something worth repeating and improving upon. For those with adventurous palates, there is an international smorgasbord of surströmming, skyr, injera, natto, and poi waiting, sans chafing dish, to name a few. Admittedly a bit more timid and hardly wanting to sully my hands or home with exploding cans or stinky meats, I set my sights instead on a humble head of cabbage gussied up with plain old beets, ginger, and garlic. Though many a times I’ve acknowledge being crazy about kraut, it still didn’t prepare me for how captivated I would be, thoroughly inoculated with fermenting fervor.

In the snowy depths of winter my internal logic only reasoned that I needed some leafy green to nibble upon. The thought of espresso colored soil and tidy rows of charming fruits and veggies filled me with a canned contented sigh. What I yearned for truly was something a bit more elusive and eternal, an elixir of life. Pickled home craft might be just that. This “invisible” transformative process is a bit mysterious with mutually beneficial exchanges occurring at the micro level. Lactobacilli ever present on leaves and roots digest sugars and other carbohydrates in jarred captivity before giving off lactic acid which staves off the growth of bacteria capable of spoilage. Fermented foods are therefore more easily digested as well as being safely preserved. The bonanza of healthy bacteria or probiotics produces enzymes, increases vitamins, and strengthens the flora of one’s intestines all the while infusing the pickle with saliva inducing lip smacking flavor which continues to refine and deepen as it ages. These zingy comestibles are an artisanal food, lovingly nurtured, and unique each time it is made. Intimately connected to variables in the home environment such as the temperature of the room, the types of bacteria present, and the salinity and moisture content of the brine and food; they are antidote to a world full of standardized sameness. Thinking about it further, fermented products promote biodiversity at the individual level. They are a window into the cooperation and strength of a thriving ecosystem. Participating in the process, one begins to appreciate the myriad interconnected relationships that sustain life, and that is simultaneously wild and a quiet kind of knowledge too. So while I’ve been having fun with fermentation and my kitchen counters are crowded with kefir, kvass, kraut, and ketchup; I have also been nourishing the body ecology and dreaming up a healthier world- one pickle at a time.

"I therefore advise you to lay in a Store of Spices, ... neither ought you to be without ... Kitchup, or Mushroom Juice." The Housekeeper's Pocket-Book and Compleat Family Cook

Lacto-fermented Ketchup: Adapted from Sally Fallon’s Nourishing Traditions. This is a great first project because it is so simple and there is no fear of anything going off. This makes quite a thick ketchup which can be thinned out later with water. Fish sauce and maple syrup? Move over high fructose corn syrup!

Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups organic tomato paste
2 Tbsp. whey (strain good quality yogurt by placing it into a cheese cloth covered sieve set upon a bowl)
1/4 cup pure maple syrup
2 Tbsp. fermented fish sauce
2 cloves garlic crushed
1 1/2 teaspoons sea salt
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1/2 teaspoon cloves

Directions: Mix everything together in a non reactive bowl. Place the mixture into a wide mouth mason jar and cover tightly with the lid. Let it ferment for 2-3 days at room temperature. Refrigerate and enjoy.

Misunderstood

2009-03-27T20:21:00.000-04:00

It was bound to be noticed at some point. A cursory glance at something rumpled and starved within a plastic container on the middle shelf wayward towards the back. Out at last, of this less than air tight time capsule, are two packages with labels expertly torn and saved for now-once future reference: Guajillo and Pasilla Chili Pods, the remnants from a party long and in fact approximately two years ago. It matters not that it is days after the Vernal equinox and the outdoors have taken on the chirpy tones of a Lilly Pulitzer print. I am taken by the smooth mahogany contours, the resiny aroma, and the deep brittle contours of a landscape southward facing. Something more yet less tangible calls out to me: reminiscent of the paper thin etching of a moth wing under night light or the hollow feeling of neglect and wither. It is precisely the un-nameable loss of something available never used. It is of sudden paramount importance to give this food the proper attention, to allow its purpose to unfold to fulfillment.

With diligent efficiency water is boiled and the desiccated chilies are stemmed, split, and shaken before being plunged into a long overdue quench of moisture. Onions and garlic are systematically sautéed and pureed with the newly supple magenta flesh. A bit of soaking water, some salt, oregano, sugar and allspice. Easy magic. At once the sauce is deep and rich, assertive- coming from yesterday, from a forgotten place like a rabbit jumping out of a hat.

In this moment I actually have good intentions to bring some uncustomary precision to my sauce. I gather the names on the labels, sure to be helpful clues to pinpoint my next direction. Then a kerfuffle of sorts, inconveniently the names of some peppers transform when dried from fresh. Frankly this nonsensical change in title leaves me perplexed. But before I can balk too much, the confusion reaches a climax as I realize that the images on my computer screen don’t match the faces once in their labeled baggies. Are my Guajillos in fact, Anchos? Mine are admittedly ungainly giant raisins, not smooth as leather coronets. Several differing images leave me even more in doubt. And now, it seems rather pointless to make distinctions between types at all.

The irony here is the care with which I structure the physical artifacts of my life, with the sole aim that others might easily locate and retrieve objects from chili peppers to books for me. I memorize where objects are in relationship to another and keep items bundled together in the hopes that this intuitive organization will facilitate this process. Then there is the steady stream of details I am happy to dispense about where, when, how, and why. Still- this one got away, twice. First, by being overlooked and existing beyond its prime; and second, when inadvertently becoming a question. How many others are out there?

To recognize that this tight armature of existence has many black holes is a bit unsettling to consider, and that I do in small turns. Our slow warming weather gets broadsided by flurries and freezing cold. Maybe the newly dubbed Earth Magic Heat Sauce would be good with tamales or even a little ice cream. A corn pudding frittata fusion might be delightful. I can’t help thinking again about the delicious meanderings of a creative process which spills out well beyond form. It is spring again, which for many is welcomed reassurance. But it is also a time of new beginnings, a stroll through unchartered territory, a no man’s land yet to flourish. For those with a smidge of courage, not-to know is freedom from ordinary constraint and perhaps permission to dive into questionable puddles.

Earth Magic Heat Sauce-
Ingredients:
5 Dried Pasilla Chili, seeded and stemmed
3 Dried Guajillo Chili, seeded and stemmed
1 small onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, sliced
1 Tbsp. of brown sugar
½ tsp of salt (to taste)
½ tsp of allspice
½ tsp of oregano
soaking water

Directions: Place chilis in bowl and soak in hot water until supple. Meanwhile fry up your onions and garlic until there is a little color. Place the softened chilies and the remaining ingredient in a blender and whirl with some of the reserved soaking water until sauce is thinned to your preference. Taste and tweak. Then fire up the pan once again, adding a little oil and then "fry" up the sauce for a few more minutes to allow the flavors to deepen.

Corn Pud-ttata Fantastico:
Ingredients:
1 onion sliced and fried
1 C of rice milk
1 C of corn kernels
4 eggs
½ tsp of salt
½ tsp of ground cumin
4 Tbsp of amaranth flour
2 roasted poblano peppers, stemmed and seeded
½ C chopped cilantro
¾ c pinto beans
1/3 C feta cheese crumbled

Directions: Place milk, corn, eggs, salt, cumin, and amaranth flour in a blender and whirl until the corn is properly pulverized. Grease a 9" pie plate and place fried onions, poblano pepper strips, cilantro, beans, and feta into the bottom. Pour the corn filling over and bake in a preheated 350 degree oven until golden and set. I believe this was about 40 minutes. Cool and slice. Nice on a bed of watercress and some Earth Magic Heat Sauce tempered with plain yogurt/sour cream.

In which she sees pink

2009-03-18T18:49:00.000-04:00

Shamefully my writing has withered on the vine of no inspiration with little done to resuscitate breath or form. My time has been spent in part, patiently waiting in mock scholarly fashion upon the odd laboratory set up in the recesses of my kitchen cupboard where lacto-fermentation experiments age to near perfection. In unison it would seem, I too slung slow in quiet invisible reverie, imitating the very manner of my closeted minuscular cohorts. After all who needs the fuss of too many singular ingredients chopped and cooked just so, added to the synchronization of each moving part into one harmonic whole? I’ve got kraut with pow, zip, and swing; and I don’t mind saying that it has become my “go to” accessory which enlivens and occasionally even rectifies just about every food scenario.

But months of crunching upon lactic acid soaked veggies has created a now gnawing need for an opulent, richly marbled counterpart, something perhaps- like a fatty pink patty. As it is a rare occasion when I purchase beef and though devilishly armed with my beloved Foreman Grill, something quite extraordinary must stroll my way in order to be steered in that direction. Something perhaps like a bejeweled burger richly anointed.

The first iteration of this beef motif showed up with the same friend who brought me the B-52’s and LOTR. Armed with sliced butter pickles and cheese, we formed hunks of ground chuck into lumpy softballs and wiggled our thumbs into the sides, meat doughnuts asking to be filled. Coins of pickles and wads of Kraft American were obligingly stuffed into their hidden caves. Pan fried and no nonsensically slapped onto a bun, this was a true gustatory revelation eaten in hungry silence. Years later I would upgrade to a slightly more refined version of the“secret” burger now containing a royal cache of blue cheese and chopped onion. However as delicious as it was, I couldn’t help feeling led astray by the name. The tell tale crumbles of Blue which should have hollered out “Ahoy!” instead melted down into an invisible nonexistent whimper, a mere whiff of eau d’bleu.

So rightfully pleased I was to discover this third and most charmed version in a recent Saveur perusal. In this Swede inspired dream, cubes of pickled beets make merry with chopped pickles, onions, and even chunks of dairy rich butter. Being ever so efficiently designed, the pickled bits and creamy counterparts are simply mixed into the venison/beef/reindeer rather than stuffed and sealed. Served in my mind on rye bread with a hearty back slap of stout mustard and blue cheese, this burger brings the best of all worlds seen and in between. To boot, the red cabbage kraut I have been nurturing these past months would make a most welcomed mouthwatering and visual partner.

In other terms this burger represents at least one of my favorite flavor profiles, the one that might wear a handmade fisherman sweater, smoke a pipe, and shout out, “Ahoy”. But then there is that confusing pink coloration which makes one fear the meat is far too rare, all the while flaunting a somewhat feminine lilt of allspice. In deep consideration of this little bit of heaven lovingly seared in butter with a barely sweet tender center; perhaps pink holds more complexity than previously assumed. No one liner relegated to bubble gum and soda fountain drinks, this intersection between red and white just might be where intensity and gentleness play. And that is absolutely worth writing about.

*Thank you to everyone who continues to read in spite of my travels to faraway places...

Biff à la Lindström: adapted from Saveur issue no. 117, serves 4
Ingredient:
1 lb. ground beef
½ C bread crumbs
5 tbsp. chopped pickled beets
2 tbsp. pickled beet juice
3 tbsp. chopped pickles
2 tbsp. dark beer
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp black pepper
2 eggs beaten
1 clove garlic chopped
½ onion, finely chopped
2 tbsp. butter diced
2 tbsp. parsley chopped

Directions: Combine all ingredients in a bowl until just mixed. Divide mixture into 8 patties, one inch thick. Heat butter in a nonstick pan over medium heat. Cook half of the burgers, approximately 5 minutes each side until browned. Repeat with remaining burgers. Enjoy with coarse mustard, blue cheese, rye bread, and kraut.

They Love Me, They Love Me Not

2008-10-04T15:55:00.000-04:00

There will always be onions and garlic hale and pungent, for safe and sensible measure- a few carrots too. But in darker regions below the belt, like those closed refrigerator bins which promise secrecy as well as crisp veggies, things are not so pristine. Barely hanging onto its dignity head bowed low, there is celery; meek and pallid, gasping towards yellow. While it is a reliable participant within the kitchen community showing its soulful side within a mirepoix, the holy trinity or Italianized sofrito too, I fear these stringed from within stalks are sort of an underdog too often considered for supporting roles only.

What a shame, according to Wikipedia, “celery is widely eaten by guinea pigs, dogs, horses, birds, squirrels, and small rodents”. Even this two legged once upon a time, enjoyed plunging three inch nibs of barely green crunch into a thick unapologetic shag of blue cheese. How could I know that within a dingy hole of a dive, hot and addictive Buffalo bar food would become the magic key to the glorious vista of this otherwise overlooked vegetable, where staccato like chomps would serve as quenching counterpoint to every bone sucking gnaw of hot from the fryer wing. For a short time heaven existed in a small central NY town and I don’t mind saying, that celery was a big part of it.

But it hasn’t always held such a lofty position. Surely some of the blame must fall upon those dreaded vegetable platters hauled out at confirmation parties, fad diets, and the oft felt fear of looking foolish in public places. For a time in junior high, most girls I knew munched their way towards thinner thighs by consuming veggie sticks, cottage cheese and Crystal Light. By high school we had actual science behind us to prove that digesting celery creates negative calories at least if no chicken wings are involved. Sure desiccated crudités sprinkled with salt might eventually gain one access into a smaller pair of jeans, but they’ll never end up on anyone’s last meal list. And how many times have I been poking about the buffet table, avoiding radishes and the always ponderous cauliflower only to pick up a celery stick and then be hopelessly stalled into talking to someone I don’t know well? Conveniently at hand, celery stick will serve as an impromptu mix of security blanket, pointer, and party food whereby buoyed by an unusual sense of ease I will gesticulate about and absentmindedly whittle away at my edible talisman causing doom in the form of an unflattering jute-like piece of stalk now hanging from my embarrassed face. It takes years to recover from that kind of food shame, years.

Yet in spite of these personal set backs and experiences, I know what food adventurers before have known, that is Apium graveolens has a wild earthy flavor coupled with a rousing aromatic reputation which makes it an indispensible seasoning in the kitchen. Lest we continue to view these pale petioles as rather insipid consider the fact that the entire plant has been used medicinally since ancient times and the leaves were once associated with the under world and fashioned into crowns for the dead, even making an appearance in King Tut’s tomb. While some of the offensive coarseness has been cultivated out over time, the ever popular Pascal celery has a crisp slightly sweet taste that is perfect for palate cleansing, but retains a tint of salty bitterness that allows it to stand up to assertive partners. As food in its own right I find celery to be absolutely refreshing, even spritely, and who wouldn’t want that in a dinner companion?

Still, stacked up against it in my mental pro and con list, are bothersome facts like: all bunches look alike, it’s just indiscriminately diced and thrown into every picnic salad type food, and even- it has little sex appeal. For these rather sad reasons and the reality of plain forgetting about the ever present bunch hidden in my drawers, I miss out. But something about the slow plunge towards winter makes me want to hold up a graceful wand of celeri in defiance, before the sweaty stews and bakes take hold. It is finally time to take a stand for the love that has always been there, and be rewarded with percussive nibbles of joyful exuberance that our dear steadfast friend provides.

Ode to Celery Salad, servings infinitely variable- If I were a Top Chef contestant and had to modernize blue cheese and celery sticks, this would be my take on "the classic". I was inspired by the clean and contrasting flavors/textures of carpaccio too.

Ingredients:
Thin (1/16”-1/8”) slices of cleaned and dry celery stalk
Your best extra virgin olive oil/ walnut oil
Parmesan cheese
Fresh cracked pepper
Fresh thyme leaves/ tarragon/chervil

Directions: Look to use light green even stalks which have the most “meat” on their ribs. Leave the one in the crisper drawer for your hamster or some future stock. Slice your celery into cross sections as thin as possible. The point is to reduce the “chaw” factor and just leave behind the delicate effervescent crunch. Find your prettiest circular plate and if time allows begin to arrange your celery slices into a floral pattern. Yes, I’m quite serious. Begin in the center by arranging 2 pieces, ends touching to create a circle. Build the next layer by encircling the center piece, end-side pointing inward. Keep going, patience! If the concentric circle design is too frustrating, rows of slices pointing the same direction a la fish scales would also provide effective drama. Next dress your masterpiece with lusty splashes of good oil, scatter about nice shards of your parmesan, and scatter about some pepper and herbs. I have no doubt that a few toasted walnuts/ pomegranate arils would be nice, but after such a long wait in the wings, I think celery deserves to steal the show- don't you?

The Elusive Kabocha

2008-09-23T15:20:00.000-04:00

In a dimly lit room that always smelled vaguely of stewed tomatoes, I confessed in hushed tones to match, that dinner the night before had been a handful of stale chips with salsa. True, this wasn’t every night’s fare but I hadn’t yet mastered work with all of the other chores necessary to sustain an actual living human being. My acupuncturist without skipping a beat and with only a subtle raise to her eyebrow proceeded to offer simple and nutritionally superior alternatives. Pre-baked sweet potatoes left in their too big jackets were definitely out with mental images of shriveled paper bag brown bodies oozing sticky goo onto a plate. But eventually, lulled by the lush reverberating washes of Enya and utterly slack from the effects of well placed needles, I submitted to the notion of nourishment wedded to ease and decided to try out a macrobiotic delivery service to see what would happen.

In closer truth, my resistance to real food and sensible self care was a backlash to the corset of puritanical do not’s punishingly worn when I so doggedly pursued health as if it were something so far outside of me. For a time in gleeful defiance I romped through wine and soft ripened cheese, devoured more dim sum dumplings than was decent, and chased down big fat cookies with more. Soon it became clear that a more balanced approach to food might actually cultivate the health I was trying to regain. So with cautious curiosity I opened my bento style box waiting for life to change. Most of the suspects were typical characters in my former world: the reliable foundation of brown rice, barely marinated tofu triangles, steamed oh so drab and practical collards with a few whiffs of pickle. But off a little to the side, away from the pack, lured a wild streak of color that promised something fresh and a little unusual. Taken by a coterie of playful jack-o-lantern smiles I soon discovered that Kabocha has an intensity and superiority that its relatives lack. A forkful through saturated territory the color of the southwest setting sun, delivers a mouthful of sweet density reminiscent of eating New York style cheesecake straight from the refrigerator. The mouth feel too, reminds me of perfectly cooked if not a little bit under, hard boiled egg yolks. There is a substantial richness within that makes this flesh lean a little on the meaty side rather than that which dabbles with fruit.

But what makes me give this squash the final seal of approval is not that it tastes like the perfect amalgamation of pumpkin, sweet potato, chestnut, apple, and honey, making it stem over blossom-end better than various other orange flesh varieties I have sampled. But I adore the fact that once cooked; even the skin can be effortlessly eaten.

In a big salute to practicality, these compact low center of gravity winter squash store and stack quite well. Impervious to the outside world with their tough exterior, these Zen like emerald green boulders mind their own. In fact our superior beast continues to improve and ripen even a month off the vine in quiet contemplation. There is no extravagant loopy neck or outlandish asymmetry to distract hands and eyes once cutting commences. A focused intent filled split with a knife just off center is relatively all the effort needed to enjoy this cherished son of Japan. Quickly deseeded the halves can hastily be chunked or sliced to be incorporated into a myriad of soups, stews or bakes, or more simply left as is and roasted cut side down. Aesthetically, the glorious blaze of color only intensifies during the cooking process ultimately providing well needed balm to somber feelings associated with cooler temperatures. The transformation process is complete when outer skin and inner flesh meld into one another relaxed and nearly indistinguishable, rendering that which is usually wasted into something satisfying and edible.

Be forewarned that Kabocha is a bit of a koan initially appearing quite aloof when in reality it embodies mellow seasoned passion. Coincidentally on the east side I have spent the last 4 years earnestly chasing look a likes that disappointingly turn out to be Buttercups. Handsomely dignified Cucurbita maxima are nutritious and certainly economical in terms translated to time, dollars, and yield. But ultimately food that will feed and heal needs to thrill the soul and capture poetry in some small way too. This pumpkin from afar wrapped in a shawl of modesty has been the food to open my eyes beyond good and bad, restriction and permissiveness- and the one to finally close the chapter on stale chips and salsa. That is for dinner anyways.

Roasted Kabocha with Miso Butter and Scallions: adapted from Epicurious. After finally locating a kabocha, I am now waiting for it to ripen. Meanwhile I enjoyed this butter with Japanese sweet potatoes and decided it would work well with my favorite squash.

Ingredients:
2-3 lb Kabocha cut approximately in half
3 Tbsp. softened butter more or less
1 Tbsp. brown rice miso, to taste
2 Tbsp. finely chopped green scallions

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees and place Kabocha cut side down on a slightly greased baking sheet. I usually do not even remove the seeds and strings until afterwards when less scraping is involved. Plus, somehow I think it keeps the interior moister. Prepare the miso butter by mashing the softened butter with the miso and folding in the scallions. The ratio of ingredients is dependent upon your taste buds, tinker accordingly and remember if there is extra it can be used for other cooked vegetables. Bake the squash for about 45 min. but begin checking after half an hour for doneness, when the flesh will pierce easily with a knife. Once done, cool enough to safely handle, remove seeds if necessary and half each half again. Place a small pat of the seasoned butter into each of the cavity to melt and then serve.

What It Is Not

2008-09-12T20:44:00.000-04:00

“There’s a little black spot on the sun today.” Sting

When I moved here some four years ago, I couldn’t see much when I looked out across the stubble straw stretch of brown. That one secret buried deep in my tightly held chest confirmed that I was too rooted to another place and another view to look fairly at any other. For that spread of time, the handsomely bordered deep sprawl of a window framed a scene that while without fail elicited “oohs” and “ahhs” from others, in cruel ruse turned flat and imperfect for my searching eyes.

I’d fix my gaze at nature’s playground with one hard eye scanning a mountain profile which didn’t crest quite as dramatically as certain others that I knew. I silently smirked at stick like trees that would pale and tremble at the thought of West coast giants, but this non stop comparison between here and there didn’t prevent the other eye from darting about in hope to find one small thing to seize upon. Still is the hard driving need within to forge a connection to the immediate environment, but that realization would have to wait until later.

Meanwhile deer and bears boldly ambled by separately but sometimes in pairs and startling Maxfield Parrish hues splashed the atmosphere with voluminous light and drama while I was too busy counting what was not. Things like cilantro, awful limp herbs at the local grocery store- never mind the grand eagle that soared by. And shocked I was to discover that people actually buy lemons and rosemary; even as poplar, birch, and fir seedlings seemed to exponentially populate the view. It is funny to say but I look out at the array of greenery, a rapidly filling in, once clear cut space- and try to find order within it by editing out unruly portions within my mind’s eye, cutting and pasting at whim. Perhaps if these few clumps were trimmed back and this area was taken out, the whole scene might look a little nicer. While I think that I have a good eye, one that catches shapes, proportions, and discerns proper hierarchy. At times more recently I wonder if my eyes see rightly at all, too often viewing the missing element or the one that irritatingly and erringly gets in the way.

Is it any wonder then when a friend rustles through that unruly back drop of wild and later plunks down a container brimming with slim waisted brambles- that I’m caught unaware? Twinkling blackish reddish blue, they are obvious accessory to some creeping low lying hitherto invisible bush. The captivating dark eyed beauties in my palm no longer escape attention and finally bring well needed adjustment to my limited view. With natural instinct, V_ followed the captivating arch from behind her truck to the woodpile out in back. While I was looking at poorly positioned trees; she was foraging nature’s bounty.

Almost four years later and deserving of some kind of certificate I should think, I settle down to a deep bowl of yogurt splattered with honey and royally crowned with backyard blackberries. Impossibly in the past, I avoided blackberries and their ilk because of their seeds. But now I dig in with a sigh, as I impatiently wait for same time next year and marvel silently at all that finally is.

Christmas in July

2008-07-27T17:04:00.001-04:00

Shiny faces boasting a complexion the royal color of wine aswirl with cryptic mystical glyphs, spill onto the counter wise men from afar. They are complete mystery each with their own countenance bearing stories to tell. I have waited for the arrival of these beans, and now midsummer I feel excited for the bounty that waits in the eating.

I soak them overnight and squeal with amazement at the sight of brawny tattooed chests, now swollen double. Circus creature, dappled pony or pretty pebble on a beach? I reckon it’s too soon to tell. All at once, these freshly bathed beauties cascade into a pot to bubble away for a promised hour or two…perhaps perchance three or four. Exceedingly tedious and no longer in jest, I fear the final cooking time clocked in at six hours plus and would have if allowed, gone much, much longer.

The dream and the stubbornly crisp remains lurking in a sooty pot alas, far distant relatives. Somehow the holy name alluding to levitating miraculous eats falls surprisingly short. The beans get pushed to the side, waylaid until composure is composed.

At the same time but different place, M_ has the face of spring innocence which captures my breath off balance and fills me with maternal protection. She conveys constant eagerness to please with pushed up voice to match. In unpredictable moments when I’ve called catching her unaware, I hear instead a voice from the inside that is dead with a flat eerie edge. It is the escaped sound from the environs of the heart that records and reveals the more intimate truth. She stands before me all prior lightness thrown off, underneath a thin huddled shadow. Suddenly I am in the position to understand and reassure, just like that kindly professor did for me all those years ago when I stood in disastrous almost collapse. He granted me asylum, a kindness and understanding for my suffering, this relative stranger. And in just one moment, he touched my heart although I couldn’t really fathom that kind of generosity at the time. It has been years since I’ve thought of him- but I do now.

Another kind of Christmas.

My attention back to my overcooked-yet-underdone DHL delivered Rancho Gordo heirloom Christmas Lima beans. With loving compassion and a tiny cry of protest, they get one last treatment as they are herded into a blender. Finally-- elevated bean dip, albeit one with stellar flavor. The path indeed is never straight forward or obvious*. Disappointment, surprise, and occasional disastrous almost collapse gets thrown into the mix. However if lucky, they too might be received with a generous smatter of big heartedness.

*Dedicated to Sher, your generous presence touched me. Thank you- for sharing the journey.

Christmas Lima Bean Salad/Dip

Ingredients:
1/3 lb of dried Christmas Lima beans, soaked
4 garlic cloves sliced
¼ C chopped sweet onion
6 oz. reconstituted porcini mushroom slices/ shitake
Thyme sprig
Rosemary
Sage leaves
Salt and Pepper
Olive oil
Optional: finely chopped jicama/celery

Direction: Soak and properly cook your beans. Do not use an immoderately small pot with makeshift lid like I did. In a separate pan gently fry up your garlic and onion. After they begin to sweat, add mushroom slices and toss in fresh herbs. In a bowl, place drained beans and herb mixture. Toss with olive oil and dress with chopped jicama/celery/apple. Taste and adjust seasonings as desired. If all else fails, dump into the blender and whirl until satisfied.

Peanut Love

2008-07-13T14:49:00.000-04:00

There is no Santa; of this I am now sure.

Of the prudent sort, I have always been leery of pinning hopes, projections, or fantasies onto just any chimerical illusion. I have steered clear from teen pop star sensations, sparkly objects made to attract friends in high places, and even can’t-miss-Nick with his fire engine red sleigh and entourage of elves-n-deer. Yet for the simple love of peanut butter, I have ventured out of my box of safety late in life, to pen my first ever fan letter sprinkled with a modest flourish of gush. It was sincere, abbreviated and sent to a specialty PB company featured in Saveur #39, with only one slightly heavy handed compliment embedded with the singular hope to procure a recipe sadly and long misplaced. Dejected a month and a half out, I am just now realizing my call has been left unheeded, a sooty lump of coal- cold response to a heart unusually visible upon my sleeve.

Truth is I am a romantic sort falling long and hard, and probably a bit too easily. This cookie was it; my numero uno, the bee’s knees, bewitching rhapsody in peanut, easily out edging black and whites, the snicker doodle, and even Grandma A’s oatmeal cookies. Though pretty standard in many American kitchens, charmed- I viewed peanut butter cookies as rather snappy with their handsome tictactoe brandish. However most recipes left me disgruntled, merely kissed with a whiff of the nutty stuff and I pretty much abstained until I discovered that issue back in 1999. A few twists and tweaks later yielded what I not-so-humbly thought of as my secret weapon, a devastating bite of goodness that instantly delivered a state of content euphoria. Such I discovered, was the power of a good cookie.

It was an elevated baked thing rising out of the hands of babes and into the mouths of adults; toasted and earthy, almost gravelly with the unusual addition of buckwheat/rye/spelt flour (an idea born from eating PB on pumpernickel), a definite lick of salt, and a satisfying wallop of groundnuts. These sturdy half dollar sized buttons were more reminiscent of salty peanuts followed by a chaser of hoppy micro brewed beer than treacly PB&J on white bread. “Assertive spin off of a childhood classic,” they cried. And then, I lost that recipe.

Among other things, I have been quietly sulking for a few years now and in utter rejection of any other peanut butter cookie recipe out there. Too afraid to be disappointed, so substantial were they. But recently a little pang started murmuring inside which roused my stoic mantle and led me down an alley which involved super sleuthing, an out of character plea, the dismissal, and finally up to the moment, now. It is a little foolish describing a love for a cookie, a recipe, and above all, a peanut. But these singular things are never entirely removed from the others surrounding. Yes these cookies are hard to describe terrific, but they were also bites signifying a happy mingle of domesticity, friendships, and a certain place and time. Utterly shocked I was to lose the recipe I so carefully packed and unpacked twice. Contemplating my recipe-less situation and the effect of loss on love, it seemed finally clear that true powers are never really lost but endure, albeit perhaps in a slightly different guise. And that the only response is- to keep on baking.

‘Nutter Time Around Cookies makes about 3 dozen- A riff on a recipe from Bob’s Red Mill. I didn’t want to be caught in the trap of trying too slavishly to recreate PB#39, but I couldn’t help nudging it slightly in that direction. Amaranth gives the texture the slightest microscopic crunch which is very pleasing. Next time I would toast it up a bit before hand. Maybe the time after that I’ll try substituting in a bit of rye flour, after all some loves are hard to forget completely!

Ingredients:
1 C amaranth flour
¼ C spelt flour
½ tsp. sea salt
¼ tsp. baking soda
1 stick unsalted butter softened
1 C chunky peanut butter, most recipes specify not to use the natural PB but I do
1 C sucanat, I would knock this down to ¾ C sugar if I were using straight brown
1 egg
1 ½ tsp. vanilla
Coarse salt

Directions: Sift the first four dry ingredients into a bowl. In a medium mixing bowl place the rest of the ingredients minus the coarse salt. Start your mixing slow and amp it up to medium high for a few minutes. Stop the mixer from time to time to scrap the sides well. Add the pre-sifted dry ingredients into the peanut butter mixture. And incorporate everything on low until just combined. Place the bowl in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. when time to roll out cookies. Line at least 3 sheets with parchment paper. Grab a small knob of dough and roll quickly into a ball about the size of a quarter. After completing the balls, go back and lightly press down on each cookie top with a fork. I like the chic look of tine imprints in one direction only, but of course this is personal preference. I finish each cookie with a light sprinkle of coarse salt. In the oven they go for about 13 minutes. I am the sort who likes to burn marshmallows… therefore I definitely go a few minutes longer than that. Naturally good with milk and probably not too bad with beer either. Perhaps Santa would be a tad bit more generous with that kind of midnight offering.

Bountiful

2008-06-30T20:17:00.000-04:00

“If you study life deeply, its profundity will seize you suddenly with dizziness…” A. Schweitzer

If I were to distribute my calling card these days no doubt I’d extend forth a collard leaf in silent introduction instead. Who needs a sloppy hash of pronouns, adjectives, and verbs when one spectacularly dignified object says it all? Too much time alone might account for what others view as eccentric biophilia, but I believe I’ve walked this path towards quiet adoration for long and from afar.

For about half of my life, every node of my existence has led back towards a body that I have struggled to accept. Half of half of this time, I’d say begrudgingly so. While loss of mobility has resulted in an interesting hyperawareness of the sensations of movement that can actually be experienced as enjoyable now, it still manages to pierce me with a longing and grief that hollows me out. I have been guilty of juggling several (some questionable) modalities of healing with desperate crazed zeal masquerading as optimism in the clever attempt to swiftly outrun my tears. Not surprisingly rushing towards the hale and the whole ever hopeful to get a quick fix, mostly managed to highlight the distance between myself and other.

But something does happen in the cracks of darkness, in the emptiness of self. And that is that singularly and then a few at a time, the grains of one’s being manage to reorient themselves and find new direction, the miraculous sprout of new growth. Food has been pivotal companion in this transformation. In the early years a relatively shallow understanding of “food as medicine” created a cooking style cramped with the weight of dogma. I looked towards food to fix the broken places inside. As one can imagine a few of my strangest meals were born then. Somewhere a shift occurred in this hungry search and I went from “looking for something” to feed the fragmented-- to seeing and appreciating, which exalted the whole.

About the span of two hands spread wide in wicked delight, this collard green radiates robust vigor. Where does it come from? It is flat like a plate but could it be tectonic scale from a prehistoric reptilian? Perhaps this is solo petal from one reluctant cantankerous brussel sprout or royal plume from emerald green macaw. Do its tributaries wend down to the great blue ocean or burrow instead through strata of soft dark humus? These alchemical cells of light, water, chlorophyll, and sugar divide and build, sacrifice themselves and then die. We are recipients of nature’s bounty and perpetually feasting on the gift of life. It is too much really to put into clear words, this kind of seeing. All I know is that when I look a little deeper- past the visible, the monumental, the cohesive, the socially acceptable; I catch glimpse of the unformed, the incongruent, the abstruse, the ambiguous and the holy. And it is in this quiet misinformed place where life is born wildly beating ready to spring free.

Collard Wraps: Coming off of my last post on layered constructions, I’ve been a bit obsessed with wraps inside of wraps, puréeing and pesto-ing every veggie/herb I can get my hands onto, and lots of color. I have always reduced my collards to a shredded olive heap on the plate but have been inspired to use leaves whole as a wrap for burrito/dolmas/sushi style fun. Raw foodies use the leaves uncooked, but nutritionally I understand that heating increases the availability of nutrients. Plunge the greens in boiling water to retain the vibrant color and texture. I went a little too long (started to turn olive colored) and found the greens slippery, challenging to make clean bites out of.

Ingredients:
Collard leaves cleaned and stems notched out
Toasted nori sheets

Cauliflower Filling: inspired by Melody @ MELOMEALS RAW CHALLENGE
½ cauliflower head destemmed and cut into florets
2 garlic cloves
1/3 jalapeno deseeded
3 sundried tomatoes
½ C toasted walnuts
1 ½ tsp curry
1 tsp Bragg liquid amino/ tamari
3 Tblsp olive oil
Small handful of cilantro
Smaller handful of raisins

Direction: Get water boiling in a heavy medium sized pot and plunge the leaves in a few at a time for approximately 30 sec. As mentioned above I went too long and would next time take them out when they achieve the bright green color. Have a bowl of cold water ready to douse the blanched leaves and blot dry. Finish how ever many leaves you want. I made a slew of wraps for the week. Toast nori sheets over a hot pan until the seaweed starts to curl and buckle a bit, can brush sesame oil over before and salt a bit afterwards. Put aside. Blitz the entire filling ingredients and taste. Hmm, this is interesting but like I said I’ve been sticking everything and anything into my processor… Take a leaf, dry it if necessary; place a nori sheet on top and then a few spoonfuls of the cauliflower filling in the middle. Fold the lateral sides of the leaves in on each side and then roll up like a burrito/eggroll. You may need to experiment with filling/leaf ratio or the need to cut in half. I found some of my rolls horrifyingly sloppy and the filling does tend to tumble out. All in all very interesting! If this doesn’t interest perhaps a brown rice/avocado/marinated tofu/ume paste filling would be nice. Go crazy.

Pastabilities

2008-06-15T18:41:00.000-04:00

I didn’t want to be a curmudgeon so I held my tongue instead. While N- enthusiastically described his concept for an upcoming dinner party I had my serious doubts. Throughout the years we would discuss the merits of various meal schemes while simultaneously scribbling down depictions of these food fantasies. A giant corkboard in the kitchen oversaw our mock debates and in due time, the top two contenders would be slapped up in pretend attempt to gain some kind of neutrality. We explored, re-invented, and finally exhausted what we dubbed the “layered” concept which spanned the gamut from whimsical pastel hued ice cream bombes to things stuffed into bigger things. For this particular event, it was carbohydrates that were up for investigation.

Now right off, the idea of a layered carb dish sounded redundant and heavy hitting. Since when do elastic topped pants and a soft sofa for snoozing make for an exciting night? Moreover, the beige on beige color issue really bothered me but N- was untouched by such trivialities. Instead he persuaded me with a beguiling cross textural description of chewy twisted pasta against crispy cubes of potato and to make matters worse, there was absolutely no sauce in any way, shape, or form to help reconcile the two. Suffice to say that night did go down in history as the second worst dish he had ever created and served. The first place was affectionately reserved for a disturbingly viscous okra studded gumbo. Tough crowd I know, having been singled out earlier with my own cake-of-shame.

While I don’t doubt I have blissfully consumed at least a few million hydrates of carbon, I’d still irreverently say that I don’t much care for carbs. Far from a nutritionist and more of a generalist, muddled into my own layered complexity are the contradictions that rise and abound ad infinitum. I miss living in Italy and eating giant spools of egg rich pasta, and who can resist slurping up sprightly noodles in broth á la Tampopo? Yet the heavy consumption of these enticing forms of sugar and starch, not to mention the breads and pretty pastries atop fancy cut doilies leave me gorged and lethargic. Cut to the chase, the magic of photosynthesis resulting in stored carbohydrates in fruit and vegetable tissue- yes, the metamorphosis that transforms these whole foods into something that clogs- thank you, no.

But empathy sent me scuttling recently for rice sticks, influenced by a friend who had been waxing on about pad thai for weeks now. In a series of events including mistaken identity, I found myself pleasantly surprised to discover my rice noodles were in fact- lithe and magical bean threads, and that is perfect if you want to slink around in summer heat feeling svelte. Bean threads, cellophane noodles, shining noodles, and even powdered silk noodles are some of the poetic names given to this slender Asian noodle. Dried this food staple made of mung bean starch is whitish, fragile, and almost opaque. Bundled into a haphazard mass they look possibly suited for scrubbing pots. However, after a restorative fifteen minute soak in warm water and a quick toss into the fry pan, this once brittle crone turns translucent and shimmery, the now gossamer hairs of a mermaid picking up the glint of sun and surf. Receptive to liquids and a splash of seasonings, the supple strands take on the flavor and hue of any sauce it happens to share space with. Occupying the world of the unseen, it can be seen as a humble sort. Alone the taste is invisible and rather shapeless, but in cooperation with other ingredients these transparent filaments create a luminous web that brings out the best in all other elements. In spite of a definite presence these carbohydrates do not dominate, obliterate, or obfuscate, rather they are skillful collaborators with a light touch and a magical sense of beauty. It seems odd to consider a mere noodle as having the power to influence, yet with constant conversation in my head about the interconnectedness of things, perhaps nothing is too small or too irrelevant. Perhaps the ability to recede into the background, relax our borders, and dissolve into the soup isn’t such a bad thing, but exactly what we need. And hands down, I’d take that over heavy handed potatoes descending upon a plateful of gemelli, chewy or otherwise.

Ondine’s Tresses, serves 1: I admit this is a simplified take on chap jae, a Korean noodle dish I grew up with. Really any vegetable could be used, just think of slicing the veggies into longer elegant pieces. I didn’t have any hijiki at the time, but would make this addition since these noodles remind me of the glinting reflection of the sea. Also, although this noodle seems lighter than regular pasta- I discovered that it has more carbohydrates and a higher glycemic index. So if you are watching what you eat, please be aware of this.

Ingredients:
Bean thread bundle approx 1.2 oz
1 garlic clove minced
2 scallions sliced into 2” lengths
4 shitake mushrooms, destemmed and sliced
Handful of watercress
1 small carrot grated
A bit of reconstituted hijiki
1/3 C water/broth
Oil
Tamari
Mirin
Toasted sesame oil/seeds

Directions: Place the tresses in a medium sized bowl and cover with warm water for about 15 minutes. Get a large fry pan and place over medium high heat. Swirl some oil into the pan and begin frying up the veggies in order of hardness. Sauté for a few minutes until the vegetables soften. Add the water or broth, about a teaspoon of mirin, a tablespoon of tamari, and the soaked noodles. Cook for a few minutes while stirring. The noodles will soften and become stretchy and transparent. At this point anoint with sesame oil until the threads glisten. Taste for additional seasoning tweaks. Garnish with toasted sesame seeds.

Esprit de Cookie

2008-05-27T20:15:00.000-04:00

Some women stockpile shoes, a socially acceptable semi-closeted addiction which supports crammed toes clad in sleek leather perfection no matter the price. Well my Achilles' heel is infinitely less glamorous or costly; it comes in the unassuming form of the humble cookie. My house is a haven in large part because of the stash momentarily secure in my tea drawer. In actuality this large cupboard of comestibles is a microcosm of my ideal world. There is a rotating appearance of goodies from thoughtful friends hailing from exotic locations and local haunts. It is hospitable place where sweet and savory nibbles unite over an enticing hot brew, respectful of both private reverie and fanciful fun. Blueprints for the tea drawer actually started quite young. While some girls dreamt about their trousseau whilst playing with Barbie, I was planning the future many-splendid-things-I-would-eat and the very big chest needed to safely stow those treasures away. From the looks of my well padded cupboard, I would say I have finally arrived.

But the teas, honeys, and spreads really just set the stage for the convivial cookie ever ready to play. Ever since kindergarten snack time when we wee tots were given one chocolate cream biscuit with a half pint of milk, my Pavlovian response to the pale thud of cookies sprawled upon a ready surface has been less than ladylike. But mind you, there are rules to follow nonetheless. First, there must be a handful-- at least three, neatly stacked preferably sans plate to keep a casual handle on things. For the cookie that is cupboard tin worthy, it must be of modest size and easily cupped within the palm of the hand for discretion. It also must be able to be stuffed within the mouth in one fell swoop (for the sheer joy of restrained gluttony) or at most two bites. The one cookie limit pretty much ended in kindergarten. There is strength in numbers and while I pretty much don’t care for even digits, four is a particularly desirable CQ (cookie quantity). This may be redundant information but it also dovetails into issues like “over-the-topness”, and that is the giant Mrs. Field’s type confection crammed uncomfortably full with superlatives, white chocolate, cocoa covered raisins, marshmallows, toffee bits, and frosting-- is completely and utterly rejected. The sugar beast is at least 5 bites wide and to my estimation if four of those bad boys were to be consumed; there would be serious gastrointestinal debt to pay. There is no dignity to tell tale chunks of goo left behind on the face, keyboard or lap. One would pretty much graduate from the restrained glutton to the full fledged and cherished well behaved guests would justifiably stare.

Well providence showered down upon my tea drawer these past few weeks as experimentation with chickpea flour turned towards the sweet. In stupefying swiftness, a North African honey hued delight crossed the Atlantic to become new house favorite. Ghoreyba soumsoum is not only whimsical word sound but is a shattering mouthful of sandy textured crumbs which perfectly conjures a mirage of palm trees amidst dry desert heat. A few cupfuls of hot tea would make good travel companion to quell parched throats and unravel any remaining discernable tension. Additionally appealing, the creation of this exotic treat is a delightful breeze leaving more uncensored moments for cookie dreaming and eating. Flour to flame unleashes earthy color from within as the raw taste of legume is exchanged for a substrate toasted and nutty. Melted butter and oil combine and then are quickly turned into a handful of other unremarkable ingredients. One, two, three- fetching, soft dough is born and quietly exclaimed over before rolling, slicing, and baking. Yes, there will be a few moments of wait in cooling, but think this breeds patience and possibly a few other virtues. Mark this moment in your mind, as this cookie obliterates all others that came before. It is the power of the flour, the perfect crumble of sun and sand, simplicity, and rich lingering taste that will elicit eternal allegiance and firm standing in any tea drawer. Dessert it is not- the good natured cookie needs no fan fare, no doily, no runcible spoon…only nibbles and a few pauses for pleasure.

Ghoreyba soumsoum: Adapted from Is that my buréka? Thanks to burekaboy for permission to re-tell/interpret his recipe. Check out his post for more detailed information and directions. There are also a lot of interesting recipes on his site, like pickled turnips! Back to the cookies…

Ingredients:
1 ½ C toasted chickpea flour
½ C spelt flour
¼ C tsp. baking powder
½ C sugar

¼ C grapeseed oil
6 Tblsp. melted unsalted butter
1 Tblsp. water

½ C sesame seeds

Directions: Spread the chickpea flour on a shallow pan and toast in the oven watching closely for the color to darken somewhat and a nutty smell to emerge. Cool and sift with the remaining dry ingredients into a large bowl. Mix the wet ingredients together and pour into the dry- giving a good stir and then turn the mixture out to give it a light knead. Cut the dough into 4 balls and roll into ropes approximately ¾ inches thick. Place sesame seeds into a shallow dish and roll each rope in the seeds. Cut the ropes into slightly bigger than ½ inch diagonal slices. Place the slices on parchment covered baking sheets and bake at 325 degrees for about 15 minutes. Cool.

Unlikely Bed Fellows

2008-05-19T20:39:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I suspect that pâté is the glue that binds my being together. Its savory richness is a recurring echo good naturedly chasing my thoughts. While I do not indulge nearly enough, every cell is dialed into that lingering flavor in deep recognition. From varieties with guttural stick-to-your-rib names like ‘Braunschweiger’ or ‘liverwurst’ to kingly ‘foie gras terrine’, these pastes of organ bits, trunks and ankles were no doubt the brainchild of one resourceful cook determined to coax strong flavored scraps into manageable palatable form. In the end a triumphant blend emerged; protein, wine, and herb lustily delivered upon a flavorful raft of fat. Some have pronounced the satiny spread a veritable mink blanket for the eternal soul and I without pause- agree.

Still there are foes to fat amongst us: breatharians, dieticians, and cardiologists to name a few. But they are not the only contrary ones. Surprising a turncoat on occasion I find myself- eschewing the cornichon and capers, mere accessories before hurtling past the baguette loaded with liver. It is my inner ascetic hard-at-work delivering a well crafted sermon, scornful of things opulent and earthly, which gets me waffling.

“And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” Matthew 19:24

As necessity is the mother of invention and pâté essential for happiness, I find myself in search of something that creates an umami rich blend with pleasing mouth feel that can be indiscriminately scooped and slathered onto crisp bread while boosting body and soul. In quick divinely inspired succession, “tofu…miso…tempeh” started a search that revealed, necessity struck the heart of former porcine loving vegans as well.

Tempeh is that thin rectangular block stacked patiently next to the tofu. One must be forewarned that the appearance is unusual and a touch off putting if caught unaware. The first time I bought it, the package hung in the back of the cold cut drawer for an uncomfortably long time, an irksome reminder of things-good-for-me-to-do. Rescued just before the expiration date I uncovered a mottled, ever so slightly moldy looking, shiny in some parts, beige-ish pressed form. This fermented Indonesian “meat” loaf is after all the result of partially cooked soybeans inoculated with Rhizopus oligosporus. It is a complete protein, full of fiber, B vitamins, and calcium- and hard to overlook. Unlike tofu its mild mannered cousin, tempeh is a more assertive form of soy announcing glutamate rich top notes as well as undertones of ‘shrooms and nuts. This heterogeneous toothsome textured mat lends itself well to being sliced, diced or grated while providing physically gratifying chew. Tempeh works hard to fill the gap that animal meat leaves behind.

While I look for ways to reduce, stretch, and recycle- an abstemious way of life will alas, never be mine. No doubt I will always eye the Saint-André and smack my lips at the thought of Lardo di Colonnata; but now at least I can finally say I am tempted and for the moment, tempered- by tempeh.

Tempeh Pâté: Adapted by The Vegan Chef, Beverly Lynn Bennett

Ingredients:
8 oz. multigrain tempeh, crumbled
12 oz. crimini mushroom, chopped
1 onion, chopped
2 Tblsp. Olive oil
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 tsp fresh rosemary, finely chopped
3 Tblsp. Bragg Liquid Aminos
3 Tblsp. Red wine
1/8 tsp. fresh ground black pepper
Scoop of Mayonnaise, few blocks of silken tofu, and/or handful of finely chopped walnuts

Directions: Heat up a medium sized skillet to medium hot and add the oil. Sauté the onion, 2 cloves of garlic, and the mushrooms for several minutes to get a bit of color going. Add the crumbled tempeh and continue cooking and moving the mixture about for another 5 minutes. Add the rosemary, liquid aminos, red wine, and black pepper and lower the heat continuing to cook the crumbled bits. Allow the mixture to cool a few minutes before blitzing up in a food processor. I made mine in two stages allowing one half to be mashed up into a smoother paste, while leaving the other half slightly chunkier. Remove to a bowl and stir in the remaining minced garlic clove. Refrigerate for a few hours and taste. Without hesitation I felt that a good scoop of mayo was just the thing to get the right mouth feel, but that would un-veganize things. I think a reasonably good alternative would be to add a bit of silken tofu or chopped walnuts to the food processor while blitzing. This is an appealing pâté that can be easily adjusted to capture the right taste/texture. Who knew?

An Apple a Day

2008-05-12T17:09:00.000-04:00

“The effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive, for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts, and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life.” An excerpt from Middlemarch by George Eliot

She lovingly, thoughtfully brings me some token from the great outdoors every week. V a gardener by profession is a seer of the subtle, ostensibly tending the wildness but in reality, between planting and pruning helps those that “possess” plots reconcile their own true nature. This week’s bounty, rescued side road clippings, assertive dramatic angles of branch punctuated with finials of curved leaf and bud. The uninitiated might swiftly pronounce the whole lot, a tangled confusing mess. But we look upon the handsome striking framework of form against space- and marvel. Hobble bush, Moosewood, Viburnum. And just like that, breath by breath it reveals the changing face of its being from modest angular reserve to blushing baroque majesty.

It is little past spring and far from fall yet anyways, I fumble towards the moist hug and welcome of apple cake. My mother-in-law used to make a particularly good one, if not a little on the sweet side. Regardless of variation and breeding I am perennially charmed and calmed by the thought of this wholesome and usually autumnal bonny bread. Its wrap around goodness reminds me of a combination of two different things; Duncan Hinds Snackin’ cake discontinued from the 70’s, an unusually moist commercial mix snug with its own pan and frosting packet, and a homemade version that my mom made utilizing far too many apples. These days I find myself wanting to curl up around a Cheez Whiz jar due to indiscriminate sensory overload. I’d like to jump back a few decades earlier when the weightiest thing on my mind was how many pieces of toast I wanted to consume with or without cinnamon sugar. Instead, I dream about apple cake.

Usually I try to not think about apples having been plagued by only Red Delicious and Macintosh almost daily in childhood past. Undeterred they’d show up again and again in my lunchbox pummeling the sandwich, even making the rounds to stalk the cornstalks and pumpkins, harbinger of the candy corn and cornucopias to follow. By the time September turned up, apples were okay as long as they were enrobed in candy, smashed into cider or sauce, bobbed or baked. But I exaggerate. The original fruit is a robust and cheery sort and must be in possession of some mysterious allure to be worth leaving paradise over. Still I am a little hard on them, as typical of things taken for granted and I confess too-- this ingratitude has on occasion spilt over into friendships.

See P was that friendly face that was there before the want existed- a little too available, good natured, and too often the brunt of the joke. Yet we became inseparable like best friends or maybe twin siblings, annoyed with each other at times but unmoored without the definite assurance of the other. At a time when my diagnosis, thesis, and resulting insecurities swelled large, I had a crushing need to have P there as I finished my final drawings and presented. There was a distinct sensation of feeling disconnected from my self while being suspended within a hollow metallic void. The only thing that kept me moving one foot in front of the other was the stabilizing presence of this person sitting in the same room.

Stunned to realize that the antidote to my overwhelming fear was in the form of that singular steadfast friend who over time, I had in ways ceased to see. Now when I reach for apple cake and gravitate towards comfort, I know I hunger to see the unwavering goodness that exists within the everyday and little; the friendships, kindnesses, and beauties that are framed by all the rest. I happily eat some as an act of appreciation for all those hidden delights which more than definitely includes, that certain special friend.

Super-Moist Apple Cake adapted from The Arrows Cookbook by Clark Frasier and Mark Gaier

This type of recipe usually has me tweaking and clipping the cream, butter, and sugar content. I was intrigued by the technique and did not have high hopes for substituting soymilk over the top, so plunge ahead I did. Boy was I glad. The texture is a marvel. Use of teeth optional as this is crushingly soft. It achieves what those puddin' cakes from the 70’s tried to create and more. Could be eaten with a spoon!

Ingredients:
1 ½ C sugar
1 ½ sticks unsalted butter
3 large eggs
1 C plus 1 Tbsp. AP flour
1 C plus 1 Tbsp. spelt flour
2 tsp. baking powder
Pinch of salt
¼ C plain yogurt plus ½ C water
¾ tsp vanilla
3 medium apples cored and sliced
¾ C heavy cream
1 ½ tsp ground cinnamon
Turbinado sugar

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a 9 inch cake round. Cream butter and sugar in a stand mixer at medium high speed for about 5 minutes until light in color. Beat eggs in one at a time and scrape in between additions. Sift dry ingredients together and put aside. Mix yogurt, water, and vanilla together. Alternately add half the yogurt mixture and then half the dry ingredients to the creamed butter, mixing gently and scraping from time to time. Finish alternating the wet and dry ingredients and mix until just smooth. Do not overbeat. Pour the mixture into the prepared pan and arrange apples in a concentric pattern on top. Pour the cream evenly over the apples and sprinkle with the cinnamon and coarse sugar. Bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean when poked in the center. Of course this could be gilded with a splot of whipped cream or scoop of vanilla, but I suggest you hold off for another time. This cake deserves all of the attention.

Eau d'Anchovy

2008-04-19T15:10:00.000-04:00

Ingredients:
1 small tin of anchovies in olive oil
1 garlic clove
1 teaspoon of dijon mustard
juice of one lemon
few capers
grinds of black pepper
olive oil

Directions: Puree and add oil until you get the perfect drippy consistency. This dressing was intended for a nicoise style salad minus the tuna. Drizzle over new potatoes, watercress, green beans, hard boiled eggs, hearts of palm. You get the idea, potent edgy stuff. Extra points for dabbing behind the ears, though I won't be held responsible.

Un-tethered

2008-04-03T20:35:00.000-04:00

I am my mother’s daughter and like her, whenever I go about and see something out of the usual I am compelled to make a beeline towards that waving particularity. I can still hear her ask, “Doesn’t that have special juice?” as she draws me towards a piece of costume jewelry perhaps a lion’s head staring hard with cubic zirconium eyes and a face emblazoned with emeralds. Kohlrabi another rare sighting to be sure, when glimpsed must be bought directly on the spot. I’ve gone years at a time without noticing any in the near vicinity. As exciting as witnessing that juvenile eagle unleash its wing to the wind outside my window, I spy a bunch with its flailing leaves muzzled in feigned submission at the grocers. But I know different, in spite of how unassuming they look amidst the bok choy and the turnips, given a chance they’ll stand their own unique ground.

In their environs these squat bulbs look respectable enough, unobtrusive and orderly in militant rows. But hold still a moment, allow the distracting wave of leaves to cease, and what begins to form between two blinks of an eye is a creature somewhat topsy turvy and a little higgledy piggledy too. Blink again, it’s still true. Shouldn’t these globes exist below the earth pushing up when ready like a turnip or a beet? Do leaves emerge where roots should be? Instead this cultivated plant of the cabbage family sits decidedly upon the ground with gadabout leaves radiating knowledge of the inside joke. A quick Wikipedia scan further adds that the root-bulb is in fact a swollen stem.

But I really didn’t notice that then. Though I made a beeline to her house day after day perhaps I was desensitized by my own dissimilitude and unable to truly appreciate contrast, preferring perfectly ordinary instead. Along with cookies and salami sandwiches, lemonade and pancakes, I inadvertently ate a few knobs of kohlrabi on the way. I will readily admit--more than here or there. Nothing exotic but the name, pale cubes of cabbage-turnip plied in butter proved to be mild, sweet and exceedingly tender. They were truly a vegetable to be embraced by the young and timid or those unsure of strangeness. Easily, I fell into all three. Since then I’ve grown a soft spot for this under appreciated vegetable which lulls me back to a quiet time when I sampled new things in inconspicuous surroundings.

Back in my current kitchen I am surprised that I never really looked at these odd characters and simultaneously amazed that kohlrabi existed with me in the forever bemoaned non-descript suburb of upstate New York. I didn’t think anything happened “outside of the box” there, but there they plainly sat. I couldn’t really see anything except in comparison to another. Perhaps if I really saw splendid kohlrabi with its whirligig of leaves, I would have understood why it hurled itself out of a straitjacket called earth or that it liked to streak through the sky at night. And just maybe, I would have dared to fly solo too...

Vernal Kohlrabi Krunch: I usually peel, cube and steam young globes preferring to stay close to my old memory. This time after looking at them freshly, I decided to grate them and experience them anew. Raw they are exceedingly mild with the faintest bite. They are a bit weepy which I didn’t mind as it corresponds to the slow melt around me. The taste is the inner most core of spring.

Ingredients:
3 small kohlrabi bulbs peeled and grated
Golden raisins
Meyer lemon juice
Flax seed oil
Mustard
Dill/ celery seed
Salt

Directions: Have fun, it’s slaw after all! I kept it simple just wanting to let the clean taste shine through. A nice way to clear the palate after a winter of soulful eating…

Beginning End Again

2008-03-27T20:08:00.000-04:00

I decided then and there after a cursory squint at a new recipe, that I was going to eat a burger. Only after purchasing the ingredients and making the patties did I pause long enough to realize that this demarcated a first meal of sorts. Times when I considered the various possibilities for a hypothetical euphemistic last meal, I have inevitably looked towards foods which throw all caution to the wind. Foods of extreme expense, from hard to reach locations, which create a sensatory experience that touches on the wonders of being alive. First meals seem to be altogether another kind of animal born of innocence, symbolic observances tinged with hopeful glad tidings. Certainly they must stand on different territory than anything associated with longing and imminent death. But too late for all that, I had unconsciously selected a non-symbolic burger and suddenly the day was upon me- the first day of spring, my first colonoscopy, and the subsequent need to break the fast.

Going a little deeper I shouldn’t be all that surprised with my choice. After all I still look upon my days working at Burger King with a special gush of fondness. As gatekeeper to the French fry world I felt that I held an important position which deserved to be amply rewarded at break time when I would lower my mantle of responsibility and just go cow crazy. More significant than maintaining order at the salad bar or dispensing orders at neck breaking pace, learning the ins and outs of having it your way opened my eyes to a permissive world of individual taste with its rousing provocation for variation. Dare I add that tangentially I began to understand a little bit about propriety as well? There is actually time and appropriate place for a Whopper with cheese, extra everything minus the meat. So while initially I may have embarked upon this life with some hard fast rules about hamburger, fillings and the importance of a good seeded bun my ideas have expanded somewhat. Move over extra pickle; clear the way ketchup, git along cheddar and bacon. While I still crave a good burger, it is now more often than not stuffed with wholesome and considerate sunflower seeds, whole grains and even some carrots too.

But as much as I relish the veggie burger and rely upon them with more regularity than I care to admit, I felt this nagging inner voice dissatisfied with my rather mundane choice. Had I really fasted for just about two whole days in which I salivated over everything that practically moved, to break the fast which happened to coincidentally fall upon the first day of spring and also preceded Good Friday, the End before the Great Beginning… with a veggie burger?

Well yes I did, and satisfyingly so. My mind drifted back to the catchy Have it Your Way jingle and I couldn’t help feeling a little foolish falling for the inducement to always want something more. And this is often how I go about chasing the world: a pluck of color, a splash of flavor, a galloping hunger to taste something new and alive. Sometimes it happens too that one stops tasting and seeing, and all difference becomes strangely the same. And the real asking and meeting is on the razor’s edge between end and beginning.

Mushroom Quinoa Burger makes about 8 patties: adapted from Epicurious.

Ingredients:
1/3 C quinoa
2/3 C water
1 small red pepper chopped fine
1 small onion chopped fine
10 oz. chopped mushroom of choice
Olive oil
1 can of chickpeas, liquid drained
4 Tbsp. chopped cilantro
½ C dried bread crumbs
1/3 C oatmeal
6 porcini mushrooms ground into a powder with spice grinder
1 tsp. toasted ground cumin
1 Tbsp. nutritional yeast
1 egg
Salt and pepper

1 C dried bread crumbs

½ C mayonnaise
1 Tbsp. Chipotle Tabasco
2 tsp. ketchup

Directions: Put quinoa and water in a saucepan and simmer for about 15 minutes until the grain is translucent and cooked through. Wipe mushrooms clean and remove the stem end (I usually only chop off the very end unless it is apparent that the stem is too tough to eat) and quickly blitz in a food processor. Heat up fry pan over medium heat and add a tablespoon or so of oil. Add pepper, onions, and mushrooms along with a touch of salt. Fry vegetable mixture up until onions sweat and mushrooms give off their moisture, about 8-10 minutes. Add mixture to a medium sized bowl along with the cooled quinoa. Meanwhile drain the chickpeas and blitz in a food processor until more pasty than chunky. Stop before the chickpeas are completely smooth. Add this bean mixture to the vegetables. Add the cilantro, bread crumbs, oatmeal, porcini powder, cumin, nutritional yeast, egg, and salt and pepper. Mix through. Set up two plates, one scattered with the remaining cup of bread crumbs and the other to receive. Make approximately ½ inch thick, 3 inch wide patties and coat on all sides with the crumbs. Allow them to rest on the plate and cover with wrap before placing in the refrigerator overnight to firm up. To make the chipotle mayonnaise, mix together the mayo, Tabasco, and the ketchup. When ready to eat, heat up a good heavy weight pan or non stick pan to medium high and add a few tablespoons of oil until shimmering. Carefully load up the burgers and cook until golden on one side before flipping and browning the other. I am sorry to say that I don’t quite remember the time involved. Epicurious recipe says about 4 minutes total, but I recall more than that for each side. I trust you will cook it just right! I will say that I cooked my burgers this way and also with the Forman Grill, and hands down the FG was my favorite creating a great crust. Either way this is a great tasting burger with or without all the fixings wherever you are beginning, middle, or end.

Like Moth to a Flame

2008-03-18T17:53:00.000-04:00

Groping through the dark leather landscape of my mother’s pocket purse as if on secret mission, my small groping hands flutter atop compact and facial tissues before settling upon the sharp tell tale crinkle of a cellophaned buttery Brach bow. As a child, spaces big and small loomed large like a puzzle to be inhabited and understood. This was not the quest of a swashbuckling conqueror full of grace and bravado, but rather the impulse sprung from an unnamed place bounded by fear of the unknown and boredom with the familiar.

Sometimes a seemingly unremarkable moment sticks-- longer than a few seconds and gains reverse momentum to still another unremarkable moment in time years earlier. These two points then form a bridge which the mind attempts to pass through repetitively in the hopes to wear a connection. Recently a picture of butterscotch sauce and ice cream, which I have never eaten except as components to a banana split sundae called out; sending me back to a chilly forlorn day made up of shades of grey where I sat pushed on a cold metal swing by my mother. I leave the desolate park hand in hand with her, butterscotch candy the only burst of color in this scene, slowly melting in my mouth. This scratchy recollection shorn down to the bare details, a few frames only manages to captivate me with its striking ominous mood. Like a detective I match this alien feeling, a brutish sky bearing down suggesting a summer storm to come, to other fragmented moments where I rubbed elbows with some yet-to-be-defined sensation. Suddenly I am deluged with snippets of memories of a younger me creeping about, pushing the edge of my small existence: at the silent bottom of a tiled pool, in the tangled decay of woods out back, in the weirdly lit dank basement, exploring my parent’s shadowed closet. Each dark and unsettling interaction with the world, destabilization of that once known, without exception was followed by scared stiff legs bounding back to the safe shores of mother.

Under the present spell of butterscotch, I hypnotically follow my tracks from tottering out of the park that day to now stirring thick golden syrup as it gently cascades billows of confectionary perfume into my kitchen. The taste is smooth and haunting, a lyrical sublime flavor similar to the toffees and caramels consumed in the past but I detect something more. It is longing and nostalgia mixed into the lingering taste of molten butter and sugar. Lulled by the rich color of flaxen honey, I recognize the arms of my mother that were always there, the wide embrace of welcome, the creamy succor of safety, and the enticing promise of sweetness. All those times I discovered that lone piece of candy or stick of gum in the bottom of her sack I pounced upon it- a prize I feared would be seized from me, all attention and focus placed upon extracting the goodness out of it as if life might blossom into something extraordinarily marvelous. My world in its smallness grubbed about pilfering doses of candy, scouring the corners of home looking for the seams to bust out of. I never could have understood or imagined the magnitude of the love of a mother always on the flip side of danger who could give everything, least of all a little sugar- and did.

Butterscotch Sauce makes 2 cups: Adapted from March 2008 issue of Saveur.

I never grew up with anything the likes of this. It is fantastic, buttery and sweet without being too rich or cloying. This sauce already feels like a staple along side the ketchup. I envision plunking, shmearing, and dripping this into everything. And though a food sharer, I paused a moment before passing the spoon…

Ingredients:
8 Tbsp. Unsalted butter
2 Tbsp. Corn syrup
¼ C Water
¾ C Sugar
¼ C Brown sugar
1/3 C Half and half
1 tsp. Brandy
1 tsp. Vanilla
½ tsp. Sea salt

Directions: Put butter, corn syrup, and water in a saucepan over medium low flame. Stir until melted and add both sugars. Scrape down sides and then allow the mixture to come to a boil without further mixing. Syrup will turn a golden brown and when it reaches 245 degrees, remove from heat. Stir in half and half, brandy, vanilla, and salt. Cool and serve over ice cream. Broken pretzels and toasted nuts would be nice.

Slipping Out of Winter

2008-03-11T19:56:00.000-04:00

Dare I consider the oyster, bold yet finessed bivalve partial to a bed of ice and a bracing splash of mignonette sauce? I travel on the long bushy tale of winter, weary and still numbed by the cold. The thought of something so ephemeral flitting upon my tongue, splay of a thousand colors, while interesting is ultimately too brilliant for my blunted turned in senses. My favorite briny sweetmeat which quivers in tandem with my own pulse, cradled in concave shell one part porcelain and ‘nother part nature’s fossilized gnarl, captures life’s interplay between humble fragility and arching strength. This pale body loosely formed somehow manages to capture the quickening of senses where taste, impulse, and movement coalesce to form a single diaphanous shape which rises, settles then dissolves into the next lingering moment. Raw unmediated potency.

“He was a bold man that first ate an oyster” -Jonathan Swift

But I’m simply not prepared for such aliveness, for so much personal involvement. I have been in temperature induced torpor and am more in need of gentle ministration. While I listen to the siren song of bony mollusk holding onto tide’s brackish edge, I’ve got my eye fixed upon a restorative elixir which will melt the remaining corners of winter and cast a spell for pleasurable things to come. The formula is simple. A soup with enough body to provide sustenance without overdo, the temperature comfortably hot without scalding tongues, served straight from a teacup- spoons be damned, and flavors whittled down to bare components, uncomplicated, clear, perhaps even the basis of taste.

Barely there onions cooked to a sweet buttery note represent the earth and thereby require the smallest amount of toil. Pre-shucked oysters gently heated turn edgy raw cores into creamy tender pillows-of-the-sea where the focus shifts from the bracing explosion of life to the matrix behind which sustains. Finally, the amalgamation of saline liquors is the primordial milk which binds the entire creation. The entirety puréed and then effortlessly gulped--relief. This slip of a soup, this mineral sweet bisque of faraway place is really the final thing for coming out of winter.

Oyster Bisque
Ingredients:
2 tsp. of butter
½ onion finely chopped
8 oz. of oysters shucked, liquor separated
1 bottle clam juice
1 cup half and half, plus a dribble or so more to taste
Cayenne pepper
Ground pepper and salt
Oyster crackers, buttered toast points

Directions: Melt pat of butter in a pan on medium heat and add the chopped onions with a pinch of salt. Cook until onions are translucent and sweaty. Next add the oysters and continue cooking until their skirts gather and bellies turn opaque. Put into a blender. In a saucepan heat up the clam juice, half and half, and oyster liquor to a simmer. Add some of the hot liquid to the blender until just covered and blitz until smooth. Pour puréed mixture back into the hot cream and heat through adding a pinch of seasonings. Taste and tinker, perhaps even drop in another swoop of butter before promptly ladling into a thin lipped teacup. Oyster crackers and toast optional.

Devil's Dung and Cauliflower

2008-02-26T18:44:00.000-05:00

I mean no disrespect, but this monolithic flower fails to draw even slight smile from my lips but rather elicits a bored yawn of tolerance. Hardly first choice in any matter of thinking, every random once in awhile particularly knee deep in winter when vegetable friends of delicate constitution look worse for the wear and edible pickings are slim, a snowy rumpled head manages to stow away into my unsuspecting grocery cart. Cauliflower or Brassica oleracea, those ghostly florets of bland- are a hearty hale food unenthusiastically consumed whilst dreaming about produce from exotic locales elsewhere.

More like the plastic centerpiece for a child’s Playskool environment than actual food meant to be cut, steamed, and chewed; cauliflower is something of a red herring in the vegetable world. The faintly textured nodule suggests something fearsome hatched from the skull of an alien invader or sprung free from endangered coral sea mass. I almost forget that chou-fleur born of sun and soil is precariously tethered to the plant kingdom by stem and curvaceous leaf. No ordinary poster child, this albino vegetable curiously boasts a high nutritional profile. And it isn’t so much that this cabbage cousin actually tastes bad but its flavor and texture is mild, vague, and generic; a sort of tofu of plants- which conveniently lends itself to inventions such as fauxtato or comforting casseroles bathing in cream and cheese.

But alas, I can’t get around it. At heart I am unrepentantly shallow sneaking furtive peeks at hot house tomatoes and multi-pack peppers. While I have described a food that could easily be seen as reliable, unconventional, nutritious, and adaptable; all I think about is its– overwhelming lack of luster. Squarely at the intersection of flabby and colorless is a plate of boiled cheerless lumps gasping for attention and a little differentiation.

I decide that this is exactly what I should do-- what I must do, as I catch myself daydreaming about the sherbet green spirals of Romanesco cauliflower and dallying with the exotic sensations of faraway produce. I don’t even try to enjoy this vegetable’s subtle charms but perhaps if I did, I would extricate myself from the dissatisfaction that comes from looking elsewhere but here.

To the rescue Indian spices which breathed new life into my diet last week. In perusing the good book, I stumbled upon a dish which promised to change my attitudes about that unfortunate head of no goodness. Asafetida that rascally trickster, the pungent resin which smells of rotting garlic yet tempers rumbling bowels, wards off colds, pregnancies, and evil spirits, and compels both wolves and catfish. Devil’s dung, hing, or food of the gods: anyway it is called--I love it. While it is used as an onion and garlic substitute by some spiritual traditions, the flavor has a hard to describe depth and sulfurous edge which provides interesting counterpart to anything mild. In addition the recipe calls for two kinds of heat, lemon juice for sparkle, and just the right amount of turmeric to give the florets a tasteful golden glow. In the end those grainy textured sprockets which used to feel too mealy in the mouth, are poised just right to hold onto the fierce bright interplay of spices. And bathed in just the sheerest tint of color, each floral cluster suddenly blossoms, the beauty of awareness itself.

Is it possible that my food could be teaching and singing to me as well? I now stand before a very different kind of bouquet, a flower head alive with taste, possibilities, good looks, and fetching Zen wisdom too. Commit myself to the here and now, it urges me. And I swear it crooned…

Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you're with.

Cauliflower with Cumin and Asafetida- serves 4 adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking

So good that I am making it again this week. I am looking forward to tossing it into an omelet. This time I would like to add more chili and brown up the cauliflower a little longer before adding the lemon water. And of course, more coconut butter.

Ingredients:
1 head of cauliflower broken up into florets
3 Tblsp. Grapeseed oil
Good pinch of asafetida
½ tsp. of cumin seeds
1 small onion, thin half moon slices
½ jalapeno, deseeded and finely chopped
1 tsp ground cumin
¼ tsp. ground turmeric
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
¾ tsp. salt
4 fl. Oz. water
Juice of half lemon
Optional: a little snub of coconut butter
Chopped cilantro

Directions: Put the oil into a large pan and set on medium high heat. Sprinkle the asafetida and cumin seeds into the oil and enjoy the aroma for a few moments before adding the onions. Lightly brown the half moons and then add the cauliflower pieces and jalapeno. Sauté for a few minutes until the florets gain a little color. Turn the heat down and add the ground cumin, turmeric, cayenne, and salt. Add the water and lemon juice, toss and cover on a low simmer. Cook until the cauliflower is just tender and stir in chopped fresh cilantro and/or some decadent coconut butter at the very end. Enjoy!

What About Beans?

2008-02-19T18:46:00.000-05:00

Anna was an old flat mate of mine. Plainly said, we butted heads on a semi regular basis around domicile activities and our vastly different ideas about home. Enough years older than me to assume the role of elder, she did so with zest and annoying all-knowingness. Once she was rude to my mother on the phone. And then she almost killed the motor of my Kitchen Aid Mixer. These two incidents were sufficient enough proof to indicate that she was no ordinary roomie and I would be wise to creep around the perimeter of my apartment and when possible, stay holed up in my room.

I quietly endured the voluptuous flowery scent of Nag Champa which wafted into every crevice high and low, tuned out the constant hypnotic drone of kirtan, and made do with a living room converted into an intentional-yoga-meditation space. For awhile I even avoided the kitchen, cowering away a shivering culinary wimp. But over time I pushed back, albeit in a passive aggressive kind of way. Whenever I had enough of her insolence I would pressure cook rice, seaweed, dried shrimp, and astragalus root and allow the roiling bubbling stew to rattle and hiss; to let the low tide aroma do the talking. While my remembrance of our devolving relationship was something akin to an on-off game of Whac-a-Mole, it is fair to also say that in spite of our growing battle of the wills, Anna was an excellent cook with a genuine desire to nourish the soul and body. All was not lost on me.

With one eye, an ear, and an antenna or possibly two fixed upon her stove pot it was there that I sensed a slower rhythm to cooking. At the stage in life where I fabricated furniture out of milk crates, spare boards and cement blocks, I could barely commit to home accessories let alone spice-in-whole-form. Our kitchen cupboards were a charming mishmash of tins, pods, tinctures, and dark brews. The countertops alive with the necessary instruments required to beat, mash, and sieve reluctant seeds, teas, and pastes. It soon became apparent that much attention and reverence was lavished by her upon that which I simply regarded as the funny yet forgettable bean. Beans, the subject of low brow jokes, shaken from a can, and pushed aside in a meat filled chili bowl. Other than hasty greeting cast towards a quickly devoured burrito or bowl of lentil soup, the lowly legume remained second hand filler.

Out of Annapurna’s hands, I ate my first black eyed peas simply simmered in water, perfumed with the floral green of marjoram and the delicate crunch of coriander. I had my first warming spoonfuls of dal, observing as she dropped whole seeds into hot oil, intensifying the flavors of already fragrant seasonings. This was stirred into that- the kitchen marvelously alive with layers of noise and exotic delicious smells. Those moments and probably many others that I couldn’t comprehend served as backdrop to the contrasting beat of Beastie Boys and the melodrama which characterized my own fledgling life.

Now whenever I eat beans I am humbled just a bit thinking of these nutritional powerhouses which give so much, without much fanfare. Inexpensive yet high in protein, calcium, fiber, and other vitamins and minerals, “poor man’s meat” also enriches the soil in which it grows with essential life giving nitrogen. Their beauty and flavor subtly modulated does not shout out, “look at me” but rather patiently awaits often being overlooked. Gratefully the noise in my life is tempered and by dint, spaces opened up to see the obvious. Things like beans, the sky, dirt-- and inextricably teachers who show us the way.

Black-eyed Beans with Mushrooms or Lobhia aur khumbi, serves 6
Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking

These beans are cheery little fellows who seem to want nothing more than to make one smile. Thin skinned, sweet, a tad smoky, and almost succulent they are good choice for an avid bean hater. It is tempting to skip steps with Indian cooking. I do it all the time and then reprimand myself later. I also tend to reduce the oil and salt when following Jaffrey’s recipes and regret this as well. Time, oil, and proper seasoning give the appropriate depth. The proportions below reflect my choices and still offer satisfying results.

Ingredients:
8 oz. dried black-eyed peas
2 pints water
6 oz sliced crimini mushrooms
Grapeseed oil
1 tsp. cumin seeds
Cinnamon stick
Onion chopped
4 garlic cloves chopped fine
14 oz. diced tomatoes
1 ½ tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground turmeric
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
1 ½ tsp salt
Fresh ground pepper
Chopped cilantro

Directions: Put peas and water into a heavy pot and bring to a boil. Cover and turn the temperature low to bring the beans to a simmer. Turn off the heat after 2 minutes and leave covered for an hour (I didn’t wait the full hour). In a large skillet on medium high fire heat some oil (I believe she asked for 3 Tblsp) and then toss in the cumin seeds and cinnamon stick to toast for a few seconds. Then put in the onions and garlic and brown. Stir in the mushrooms and cook until they begin to wilt, add in the tomatoes with its juice, ground coriander, cumin, turmeric, and cayenne pepper. Cook for about ten minutes to allow the flavors to come together and then turn off. In the meantime bring the beans to a boil again and then lower the flame to bring the beans to a simmer. Cook until the beans are tender which should take 20-30 minutes. Add the mushroom mixture, salt and pepper to the mix and cook on low for an additional 25 minutes. Add the cilantro towards the end and serve over rice with some yogurt on the side.

Can't Hide From Love!

2008-02-13T19:59:00.000-05:00

"The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along." Jalal ad-Din Rumi

In celebration of Valentine's Day and all the big and little loves in life, I'd like to send each reader who emails me their physical address (by 2/20/08) something *delicious* that I have discovered recently. Thank you for coming here time again and sharing your friendship and thoughts on food. Let us feast on Love!

Food of the Gods

2008-02-10T14:50:00.000-05:00

Along with crow there has been an inordinate amount of citrus fruit being shucked and consumed over the past few weeks in this dainty household. Approximately 6 navel oranges, a sanguine colored one, 4 Clementines, 2 grapefruits, and one can of mandarin oranges. On paper the evidence is hard to ignore, I have polished off the equivalent of a medium sized over-priced fruit basket from the Sunshine State all the while considering myself indifferent to this entire food group, really indeed.

I think the root of this life long sometimes chilly reception has been the contemptible red delicious apple and possibly partially the banana of my youth. Either/or, both, and on occasion grapes have been served up, saddled alongside and indelibly printed upon an unsuspecting sandwich. Healthy “dessert” riddled with seeds, mealy mouthful complete with waxy rind, or bruised flabby fruit. Any way you sliced it from beginning to end, it added up to be destroyer of school kid lunch and therefore justifiably bullied at the bottom of the rubbish bin.

If it weren’t enough, in addition to ruining a good named sandwich, and simultaneously being too delicate for its own good, fruit seemed to be code for sensible, wholesome, and boring. No time for breakfast, need a snack, hungry, restless… a tad antsy? Any adult worth their age would assuredly plunk down a piece of fruit with the authority of the final word while any child younger than ten would certainly balk. And almost never would a truce be drawn with the playful exchange of Hostess Twinkies or the like, not in my world anyways.

Down yonder past the age of ten and with a diet leaning heavily on the vegetal side, I have carried my fruit folly far too long and wide. It isn’t that I never partake in the stuff. I adore pies, crumbles, strawberry ice cream, and especially fruit cake. But the other half of this truth is that I find the lot of them too precious, roving towards rot, and winsomely seductive yet too often crushingly vapid inside. I confess in these matters I gravitate towards substance preferring handsome to pretty, reliable to capricious, savory to dimply sweet, the turn of the earth to the gossamer loft of sky.

So it is quite by accident and good fortune that I have taken the fork in the road. Somewhere in my wasteland I noticed that a friend of mine was always eating pre-peeled grapefruit in a cup which meandered into a conversation about the price of convenience. While I initially thought it odd to pay twice as much (I am serious and cheap) for something as easy to do such as segmenting citrus, I began to relax into J’s obvious pleasure in this simple luxury. And as if by osmosis, soon I wanted to be pampered by pamplemousse.

I want to take off my corset of seriousness, be unbridled, happy and free. I want to stop laboriously describing my meals in terms of how and where it is grown, not think about fat grams and fiber, food pyramids and serving sizes. I want to eat unencumbered by information and luxuriate simply in the senses. By Jove I want fruit ambrosia! Here in New England where daily we unbury our homes from blankets of snow, nervously salt slabs of ice, and bound our limbs in high performance fleece- bodies need rich fuel in the form of stews, biscuits, and bakes. But some levity is needed if we are going to make it through until April.

I suggest for starters, naked slippery fruit. Imagine lying back upon a divan while being hand fed peeled grapes, figs, and other succulent dainties. I assure you no one will be thinking about the strains which come about from shoveling driveways. Instead the instant explosion of sun, life, and flavor will play upon the tongue, vivid immediacy rewarded by labored efforts to skin bland membranes surrounding each jeweled segment. Smiling perk of citrus against the cool hand of cream, golden goo of honey graced by the tropical kiss of coconut. Daily digs into this food for the gods and I am beginning to feel immortal. Maybe cushy, hedonistic splendor isn’t such a frivolous thing, but an ingenious survival imperative. Move over vegetables?

Sunshine Ambrosia for J

Ingredients:
1 grapefruit peeled and de-membraned
2 navel oranges peeled and de-membraned
1 blood orange peeled and de-membraned
1 can of mandarin segments
Pomegranate seeds
Greek yogurt
Unsweetened coconut
Honey
Fresh mint

Directions: Obviously one can use any fruit that one is partial to. I like the idea of sticking with veils of citrus flavor. The key thing is peeling the membranes since the succulent crush of pulp against tongue is really something to experience and the ultimate in luxury. Place all prepared fruit into a bowl and carefully mix, if desired sprinkle with pomegranate seeds or some other pop of color like dried cherries. Serve in individual bowls with a dollop of yogurt, drizzle of honey, some coconut and mint.

I Hunger Therefore I Am

2008-02-01T18:10:00.000-05:00

Chomping exuberantly on a dark green gnarl of gum in a most un-ladylike manner I feel utter satisfaction not to mention resurgent crackling joy. On any other day this behavior would ratchet down a notch or two, but tonight I am back from afar. If there has been one thing, a beacon in the night, a touch stone against my crooked palm which has steadfastly wedded me to self, it has been my unflagging appetite which sends me scuttling about in divergent directions. For the past two unbearably long and strange weeks I have been marooned, dried up and just about unknown amidst a white out sea of nausea, antibiotics and a just won’t quit humorless apathy for sustenance.

The sort who breezes through moment after another considering, anticipating, and adoring food in its glorious guises, I can scarcely remember time or space without the accompaniment of something refreshing to quaff or delicious to nibble upon. Whether located at an all you can eat buffet, atop an airplane, slopped out of battered cafeteria pans, or squeezed out of tubes or stuffy boxes; when food is involved I am happy to gaze and converse, but mostly downrightly devour the subject at hand.

So confusion and disbelief hit hard when I found my teeth clamped shut at the mere thought of any vegetable which would normally solicit feelings of warm affection. The strangeness of it all set off a ricocheting earworm which had SpongeBob SquarePants and Patrick Starfish gleefully shouting in tandem, “It’s Opposite Day!” every time I settled upon some unusual food choice. It was as if the salt laden overly processed food loving taste buds of a teenage kid got swapped with mine along with his kidney- I swear I became another. In between negotiating quease, the only things remotely appealing were packaged hotdogs, mac-n-cheese, toast, bananas, and canned soup. In opposite land I reverted to eyeballing soda and Doritos, doughnuts and Ho-ho’s, rejecting anything green or fiber rich all the while staring numbly into space.

In the end it wasn’t really significant what was eaten as odd and noteworthy as it was, but rather to notice there was such a startling absence of joy in this strategic eating to survive. The whole treading slowly to nowhere had me thinking about the push and pull of hunger which is sewn into the fabric of our being. An appetite is intuitive utterance from within urging us outward towards new worlds whether physical, mental, emotional, or even spiritual. Every call and response broadens and amplifies our circle of being as we return each time another part of us discovered. Eating is a response to some original desire, conscious or not. While it stands to reason that the absence of desire is equally appropriate for certain moments, I found it to be lonely territory nonetheless. In that space rather than stillness or restorative rest-I found myself squeezed inward and disjointed, cut off from the vibrancy and color of both inner and outer worlds. To think that too long, pinched off of the vine of life, we would succumb to unripe death. I cannot think of more rousing reason to dig deep into our souls and enjoy all shapes and sizes of our hunger, to discover and be fed over and over again.

Shchi: Serves 6 Adapted from SoupSongs
Sauerkraut is almost always a palate pleaser and just the thing to get my appetite rolling. Don’t let the fear of stodgy cabbage fool you. This is light, pretty and delicious. A Russian version of sauerkraut soup, this is considered humble fare and really gussied elaboration upon cabbage, salt and water. If pickled kraut, V-8, or borscht is your thing forge ahead. Serve with pumpernickel bread and butter.

Ingredients:
2 Tblsp. butter
2 cups of sauerkraut rinsed and drained
2 cups shredded cabbage
2 Tblsp. tomato paste
2 Tblsp. butter
½ onion diced
1 garlic clove chopped
10 dried porcini mushrooms rehydrated in boiling water, chopped fine
1 small turnip peeled and diced
1 beet peeled and diced
1 16 oz. diced tomato
10 -12 C of beef stock (could use miso paste & stone ground mustard to create a “meaty” vegetarian broth)
Salt and pepper
Pinch of hot pepper flakes
Pinch of dill

Directions: Sauté in a Dutch oven over medium high flame, butter, shredded cabbage and sauerkraut for about 15 minutes. Stir in tomato paste and a cup or so of broth and continue to simmer on low for another 40 minutes. Meanwhile in a separate skillet, fry up the remaining butter, onion, garlic, chopped mushroom, turnip, and beet for about 15 minutes. Add the sautéed vegetables to the Dutch oven, the remaining tomato, stock, and spices. Bring to a boil and then lower the heat to simmer for another 20 minutes or so. Check for seasoning. Ideally allow the soup to sit for a day before reheating. Serve with a dollop of sour cream and more dill.

Back Soon...

2008-01-25T18:20:00.001-05:00

Sizzle Burn and Smoke

2008-01-15T19:39:00.000-05:00

I wasn’t even aware there was that particular hole in my life. Looking back I can say that it was definitely not a chasm of a gape, all echo and need to be filled, but more like the spot left after a book is withdrawn from a shelf. There is evidence of a departure, but in itself the action quiet and therefore of seemingly little relevance. Nonetheless- and this may be a bold statement, I feel as though a subtle dimension has been added back to my life expanding the colors of my Crayola pack from 96 to about 102. What is the commotion, the sizzle to my wizzle, the Blizzard Blue to my Carnation Pink? It is what other folks besides me have been talking about since 1995, namely the formidable and affordable George Foreman Grill.

Now I like food related gadgets and gizmos, doo dads and wing-dings as much as the next cook. But two moves later, with my ever reducing kitchen-- truth be told, the last accessory I acquired was a Microplane in 2001. There was also a very nice rice paddle made from coconut shell in 2005. Simple compact efficient niceties that make the food prep a bit more pleasurable. For the moment gone are the hours of elaborate cooking in the kitchen. With the realities of having four other people with varying knife skills prepare my food; my culinary adventures are curbed a bit. There will be no pizzelle making, no homemade pâté wrapped in caul fat, no interpretive dance in spun sugar, in fact nothing that requires the attention, adept precision, or sequins of a Cirque de Soleil acrobat.

But similar to the sentiment expressed when a friend mused over how shocked he was when he donned his first pair of glasses and realized that trees weren’t just round lollipops, but were actually made up of individual leaves; I too realized that over time my cooking had become somewhat generic and flabby the result of a multiplicity of shortcuts. With the first auditory sear of poultry on heat, a satisfying amalgamation of primal fire, the thrill of the hunt, and immediacy; my heart quickened a little. In the attempts to create a cooking process which would not befuddle any caregiver regardless of whether they had ever cut a carrot stick, heard of an avocado, or baked brownies from scratch, I have unwittingly manufactured a defensive style of cooking- anticipating the lowest culinary skill set and simplifying every aspect of the process. In the absence of nuance and feel, at the worst my food has become ponderous and removed from its source. Aliveness, spontaneity and panache sacrificed to the gods of ease.

Sent from up above, the lean clean grilling machine is a dream when it comes to efficiency coupled with the ability to approximate the sensatory experience of barbeque. Over high heat, food is quickly seared driving moisture in, ensuring a moist and flavorful convincingly grill-marked product. Yet there is no danger of smoke inhalation or teary blood shot eyes, no sunburned necks, or the tempting ingestion of charred carcinogenic bits. Short cooking times and that clever clamshell design mean that doneness is easy to check and difficult to overdo. Perhaps secretly best of all the non stick heating plates are effortlessly wiped clean rather than hopelessly accruing an additional layer of grime to be ignored until later, which is perfect coming from a gal who admittedly feels that food mess interferes with eating pleasure. Save the white molded plastic design which is more postmodern convenience than rustic outdoor charm and the absence of lingering wood flavor which could be ameliorated by a drop of liquid smoke, this accessory fits that unnamed space left behind.

The creative process at best takes one further than point A to point B; it also creates a story, a place to inhabit more fully. I am slightly embarrassed to say, but my GFG of infomercial fame does just that. After weeks of excitedly formanizing chicken cutlets, tofu steaks, veggie burgers, mushroom caps, ham and cheese Panini, and my latest mu-shu eggrolls, I was not surprised to read about the grill’s popularity in an NPR article on hidden kitchens. The cooking accessory has filled an unexpected niche amongst college students, inhabitants of shelters/single room occupancies and those that are homeless. Like a Murphy bed, this easy to use invention becomes a working kitchen which can later be conveniently stowed away. In a different way yet similar to me, this tool has opened up the cooking experience to those who have intentionally or unfortunately been quietly removed from the hearth. Listening to the crackle and sizzle of my modern day Promethean Fire I am enfolded into the heart of community, back into the warmth and the glow of that which I love best.

Mu-Shu Ham Thing: Formanizing has inspired a flurry of ideas tossed onto the grill and served up fast. There has been little time to assess whether or not the ideas ultimately pass the so-what test. This creation is nod to an impressive ham sandwich eaten at the Everson Museum long ago. It is also homage to hoisin sauce, mu-shu pork, and finger food served up hot. Authentic it is not.

Ingredients:
Mung bean sprouts
Shredded carrot
Slivered green onion
Crushed garlic
Sliced ham
Sliced shitake mushroom
2 eggs

Eggroll wrapper
Grapeseed oil
Hoisin sauce

Directions: Take up a large pan and heat it up good. Add a little oil, toss in some shredded veggies and ham until desired doneness is achieved. Crack an egg or two over the top and vigorously stir until golden webs appear. Do not overcook. Stir in a small dollop of hoisin sauce. Cool off mixture. Heat up Foreman grill. Place one eggroll wrapper on a clean surface, pointy side facing your bellybutton. Spoon veggie filling into a log shape in the center and wrap envelope style or eggroll style (there are diagrams on the back of the package to assist). Lightly brush the packages with oil, place on the grill and press the top down. Peek every once in awhile to get the gist of how fast it is cooking. The wrapper will get golden brown and crispy. Eat up with some more hoisin sauce drizzled on top or dunked in a quickie soy- vinegar sauce. Take that Rachel Ray.

Sugar Shock, Janus, and the Redeemer

2008-01-09T19:48:00.000-05:00

This past Christmas I hit the mother lode of childhood dreams. Not counting the ones that involve outwitting sword toting gnomes in faraway groves or flying upon the silver winged backs of sunset bound geese, but rather the indulgent sort which has one locked hostage within a chocolate factory where one must eat their way out. A box of chocolate truffles, one assorted mix, 2 kinds of peppermint bark, Andes candies, homemade marshmallows, candy canes big and small, Mozartkugeln, Baci chocolates, chocolate covered Oreo cookies, 2 kinds of Ferrero Rocher, Toblerone, and bespectacled chocolate Santas, each beckoning silently within the snug glitter confines of a tweaked out confectionary tower. It is now abundantly obvious that I am all talk and of meek mousy action as I measure youthful ideal against current truth in the easy recollection of that horror felt so long ago. I was in my best friend’s room a good month and a half after Easter, content- when I accidentally spied a hapless squashed basket discarded thoughtlessly upon injured side, sugary contents splayed across the unsympathetic floor of her closet. Brimming with more than a little scorn and rushing towards a single purple jelly bean, I vowed with all of the fervor that my nine year old self usually reserved for Muppets and Mad Libs, to treat all candy which should happen to fall under my possession with respect and proper gluttony. Who knew that today I would eat crow instead.

It may have been the fact that I turned 40 last year and the perils of periodontal disease kept entering my mind a few seconds after popping a sticky gooey treat into my mouth. This recent concern with tooth decay had me gracelessly swishing water about my mouth every time I took a drink. But really this home spun prevention didn’t do much to allay my fears. In the end at a time of plenty and over the top, I ate very little, meager and uncustomary. To boot the rush and gorge of food, people, and things had me stuffed and overwhelmed long before I hit December. Much to the dismay of my nine year old candy worshipping self, there never was a chance for a sugar induced coma. Rather than romping, devouring, and tra-la-la-la-ing through the usual holiday bonanza, I nibbled, grazed, and skimmed and consequently the Simon Says of Christmas Feast was forced to strike me out, sequestered to the side lines to contemplate my social misdeed.

Passing through that invisible portal delineating one year from the next, I couldn’t help but feel the whiplash. Whoa and behold our plates are ripped away from us, the all you can eat buffet is buttoned shut, and we are collectively shamed into looking at our belly fat. In strange Rip Van Winkle off beat tempo, I find myself hungering for some post season fruit cake instead. After all what better trail of crumbs is there to find my way home? Diligently working through dense heavy slice after another, morning after next I consider the secret delight of eating a particular food out of context with its associated surrounding. And it blossoms into growing insight as I also wonder over how I could like something so crammed full of fruit, when at other times I can really do without (another story). Or marvel over how I am enjoying the thick citrus perfume of kumquat rind-shouldn’t that be impossibly disgusting? and the warm slow meander of brandy- gross. The path of our days weaving through time is more than a collection of events shuttled together. It could be reconciliation, a thoughtful response between what one assumes and what actually is, our past meeting up with our present. It really is no surprise that Janus the two faced Roman gatekeeper blesses thresholds or nodes along the path because to navigate effectively we need to locate ourselves in relation to several differing positions or perspectives. The more the better. May we move forward into 2008 sure footed, tentative, sideways or galloping- but always embracing the All that comes our way. Feast on!

Better Late than Never Fruitcake: This is an adaptation from Alice Medrich’s Fruit and Nut Cake. Really it is fruitcake devoid of those giveaway holiday spices. Amazingly one, one inch cube when famished takes away the edge. This would definitely be my choice for stuck-on-a-desert-island food, with the booze of course.

Ingredients:

¾ C flour
¼ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
1 ½ Tblsp. Unsweetened cocoa (next time would increase this)
½ tsp. allspice (didn’t really taste this)
¾ C light muscovado sugar
½ C dried pitted prunes halved
½ C dried cherries
1 ¼ C dried pitted dates quartered
¾ C kumquat in syrup (slice and seed kumquats, throw in some sugar and water and cook until the mass is vibrant orange, soft and gorgeous. Freezes well, an interesting add in to chocolate chip cookies).
3 C walnut halves
3 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Directions: Preheat oven to 300 degrees F. Butter a large loaf pan and set aside. In large bowl lightly mix all of the dry ingredients and then dump in the dried fruit and nuts. It is easiest to combine the lumpy mixture with clean hands. In a small bowl whisk the eggs and vanilla together and pour over the fruits and nuts. Mix well until everything is coated with a light batter and then dump into the reserved pan. Bake until golden brown and when a knife pierced through comes out relatively clean. This is a little tricky since I kept going through fruit. My cake took about 1 hr and 45 minutes but I believe this was because of the extra moisture from the kumquat syrup. Alice’s recipe calls for about 1 hr. 10 min. When cooled, remove the cake from pans and brush or pour brandy over top. Enjoy anytime!

All I Want For Christmas is a Cheese Ball

2007-11-27T19:19:00.000-05:00

“…and now the eyes of my eyes are opened” e.e. cummings

I do not know what kind of cheese it was. Merely that a singular cheese ball served upon a platter was offered to famished guests one clear Christmas evening. This audacious act of stingy (according to tale) in turn fueled a growing appetite (according to me) for the re-telling of this mingy meal and just like clockwork along with stuffed stockings and bellies past full, the cheese ball story rolled out making its yearly grand appearance. I’ve tried to make sense of this story as one outside of the original scene struggles to do asking pertinent questions, viewing the situation from various vantages but always alas- eluding the point.

I wanted to know what comprised the cheese ball, a little Blue with Neufchatel or perhaps a blend of Cheddar and Swiss. Was it enormous with jolly scoops heaved out surrounded by a moat of bright seedy crackers or fist sized, tight lipped, and shunned? Was the fromage plated ceremoniously in the middle of a well polished table, diners with fork and knife in hand and silence hanging askew in the air? I fill my head up with every variation of cheese ball eating on Christmas day and still come up with satisfaction, which always leaves the story teller who understands the obvious irony of the tale just a little exasperated.

With no clarity in the actual details and only the dramatic flourish that family legends are famous for, I wisely abstained from the “why?” and the “how could they!” of the matter, focusing instead on composition, atmosphere, and shape. But I tell you some ten years later after the story reveler has come and gone- that maligned slump of curd still shadows me. Every year as I trace the hazy outlines of myth, the cheese ball glows a little brighter swiftly gaining odd momentum, even threatening to overtake the fruitcake which reigns supreme in my mind.

Its forename is unintentionally derisive, albeit truthful and to the point. It possesses neither elegant shape nor stature holding low center to the ground, rotund and spheroidal. It dons a casual coat of toasted nuts, parsley, even crushed Chex mix, occasionally livening things up with a tacked on cherry top. Shrink wrapped phosphorescent orange wedged between the jellies and the beef stick, the Hickory Farm cheese ball of the 70’s was coveted childhood prize.

This pudgy amiable cheese food harkens back to a time when things were simpler and choices fewer. It reminds me of that treasure trove of miniature goodies nestled within a paper grass filled box each item a beautiful gift waiting to be nibbled or rapaciously torn into. Instead of children we became mice, gallant princes, or far-from-home paupers, transformed in equal measure by magic and merriment. We ate Ritz crackers and onion chip dip and canned fruit cocktail with a smile, we inhaled Vienna sausages smeared on bread. There were no spun caramel creations, no turduckens, micro greens, or finishing salts- no blowtorches or advanced cooking degrees required to pull off elaborate show stopping affairs.

It is not that I don’t appreciate the latest and the greatest or sometimes covet the furthest and the widest. However mixed into the nostalgia of my childhood past is a desire for real presence more than presents*. I think I am beginning to understand why that cheese ball commanded so much attention after all these years. It sat in humble defiance to all that is fussy and expectedly over the top, oblivious to holiday gyrations that leave folks weary, bleary, and broke. Lucky to sit at the table of plenty and truthfully too much, the cheese Buddha serenely asks: "What is enough?" And after all these years, I hope to know the answer.

* Thank you V for the appropriate phrase.

Simply Cheese Ball- A quick look around and I became overwhelmed with all of the variations out there. Basic rule seems to be roughly equal parts cream cheese to hard shredded, then mix in any extras that sound appealing. While an aggressive horseradish version wins my vote, I have been flirting with the idea of Liptauer cheese for some time. Pinochle, salami, and beer anyone?

Ingredients:
8 oz. softened cream cheese
8 oz. grated sharp cheddar (a mix of whatever you like)
2 tsp. finely chopped green onion
1 Tblsp. Prepared horseradish (to taste)
Chopped toasted walnuts/pecans

Directions: Combine everything but the nuts until well mixed. Chill mixture about an hour and then form into a ball and roll into the toasted nuts to coat. Chill again covered for about a day and serve at room temperature with assorted crackers or crisp apple slices.

Weathering Persephone's Folly

2007-11-15T18:27:00.000-05:00

Behind the scenes alongside several mealy apples: One baggy rust colored zip up topped with a lemon lime t-shirt which unabashedly broadcasts the bunched outlines of underlying fabric. Black high performance fleece socks ensconced within fuzzy cotton candy pink anklets. There might be a black shearling vest with faux leopard print involved. And yes, also pants (black denim) hardly worth mentioning. I am not sure which the worst crime is, wearing this jumbled up assembled ensemble, or not caring. After a month of dressing like I’ve been camping out in cold weather carelessly smashing together several days’ worth of outfits at once, I am beginning to feel like a local.

More notable than this makeshift attempt to mind the clothing gap between fall and winter, or the reassuring glint of duct tape in the glove compartment of my vehicle is my growing preoccupation with weather. Once a time ago I noticed this small town banter which everyone seemed to participate in and assumed it to be polite folk’s filler employed when no other topic was close at hand. It seemed cathartic and unifying, collective worried fret over what it was going to do to someone’s tomato plant, late hour football practice, or throbbing arthritic back. Slowly I began to sense the formidable presence of this mercurial character through the whips-o-wind, squeeze of barometric pressure and the dips and glides in humidity, presiding as honorary person at the start of a conversation before silently retreating to the background. Between straight talk of moose sightings, bear break-ins and wild turkeys hurling through living room windows, there is plenty of gazing into the vast sky slack jawed and silent, waiting for the next big hit.

Well the forecast of now is gloomy. The trees have dropped their leaves in panicked mass exodus and I am being watched by the growing odd assortment of winter squash in my kitchen. While I am sure that in few month’s time I will relax into the mellow embrace of Butternut, Kuri, and Hubbard and root for rutabagas diced and roasted, for now the mere thought of squat vegetables pried free from the ground or behemoth gourds anchoring a straggling vine leaves me flat. With months of steamy Dutch oven meals lined up on the frozen horizon, I crave a reprieve in the form of zip, juice and fire. For this brief moment in time feed me sweet and plucky pomegranates.

Put aside the fact that in recent years these juicy jeweled orbs have been touted non stop as the latest super food capable of slowing the ravages of age on plump tender cells. Pomegranates have been sought after a long while, even suspected for being that infamous apple in the Garden of Eden. They have been found dusty and entombed headed straight for the afterlife within a mummy’s coffin. Even Persephone, kidnapped fair maiden took pause to partake of a few kernels capturing the heart of Hades, thus committing her a season out of the year down under.

Punica granatum originally hailed from the arid sunny region of the great Persian Empire before sprawling wide laterally. Perhaps they have captured the taste and fancy of people across time because the fruit joins the inaccessible sacred with the secular and even profane. Their red leathery hides provide ample protection from the elements and surprising contrast to the delicate jam packed delicacies inside. Cradled and partitioned within filmy membranes are some six hundred and thirteen ruby colored seeds which are thought by some to correspond to the number of mitzvot in the Torah. To break the seal of this seeded apple is to witness another small miracle, the sign of thirst quenching abundance in the desert. And who can look at the parting of this open juicy harvest without blushing just a little? Under taut puritanical cover there is bursting vitality and carnal pleasure waiting to be known. On the one hand pomegranates are seen as symbols of fertility and marriage decorating religious scrolls and ceremonial bed linens, on the other its associative imagery (shrapnel looking blood soaked seeds) has caused its name to be linked to destruction begetting grenades of the hand.

Finally getting to the point, the fruit’s nectar is cranberry like but brighter with a pronounced tannic bite. Popular in Middle Eastern cuisine, the time is ripe for adopting some sun and sensuality into my own New England kitchen. Standing one timid toe on the cusp of winter with temperatures plunging, this royal globe adorned with its own diminutive crown encourages me to take heart. There is juice to be found within the hardest substrate and thankfully, there will always be spring to follow on the mean heels of winter.

Muhamarra (Turkish Walnut Garlic Dip): Adapted from Fiber for Life Cookbook.
I really can’t say enough about this nosh. It is sweet and fruity with a swift burn. No long hours in the oven reducing to oblivion. Plus it is hard not to pronounce it (practice rolling those “r’s”) without feeling a little racy. Warning however to those that take offense in too much garlic.

Ingredients:
2 roasted red peppers seeded, skinned, and stemmed
2/3 C toasted walnuts
2 crushed garlic cloves
¼ C olive oil
1/3 C toasted breadcrumbs
1 tsp toasted ground cumin
½ tsp red pepper flakes (more or less)
3 tsp Pomegranate molasses, can use a little lemon juice too
½ tsp salt

Pomegranate seeds and chopped parsley for garnish

Directions: Blitz all ingredients except garnish in a food processor until it forms a uniform consistency. Allow the flavors of the dip to develop a few hours before eating. Garnish and serve with crackers/ pita. Actually it works on just about anything.

Nice to Meet You

2007-11-06T18:22:00.000-05:00

“The Net of Indra is a profound and subtle metaphor for the structure of reality. Imagine a vast net; at each crossing point there is a jewel; each jewel is perfectly clear and reflects all the other jewels in the net, the way two mirrors placed opposite each other will reflect an image ad infinitum. The jewel in this metaphor stands for an individual being, or an individual consciousness, or a cell or an atom. Each jewel is ultimately connected with all other jewels in the universe, and a change in one jewel means a change, however slight, in every other jewel.” --Stephen Mitchell, The Enlightened Mind

I didn’t intend on getting philosophical right off the bat while baking my cake, I originally just wanted a good transition food that would assist in keeping my lungs clear for the approaching winter. After listening to a Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner rattle off a number of medicinal foods appropriate for the long cold months ahead, I latched onto sweet and soulful adzuki beans, a favored childhood treat (which incidentally is rejuvenating to the kidneys and heart but is moisturizing to the whole system, said to give one a rosy complexion, and is the most yang of beans). Earthy rich with a chestnut like crumble; red bean paste stuffed into chubby sticky rice mochi makes me feel tucked-in, small and a wee bit nostalgic. Away from any Asian communities, it has been far too long since incorporating legumes into my desserts. Perhaps a simple rice and adzuki porridge would provide nutritive ballast for the day as well as recreate some facsimile to memories past.

In one hard blink I fly to J-town in San Francisco where I used to ritualistically crane my neck forward to peer behind the glass counter of May’s Coffee Shop angling to see if any fish-shaped waffles pocketing a dark magenta magma center might be hatched, stacked and steaming. If not, I’d leave disappointed and a tad disgruntled forced to feed my hunger down some other tributary or side lying nook.

Further in the pursuit of silky bean puree, I recall the tall silent men dressed in crisp suits, lean as shadows that would pop into my work place on rare occasion to sell pieces of bean pie shrouded in plastic on flimsy paper plates. Never having tasted such a thing, I no longer remember whether or not I bought the pie out of curiosity or out of strange discomfort with the severity that would descend upon a once ordinary room. Delightfully, the pie stood in odd contrast to the bean bearers’ cool disposition, full of homey comfort and redolent with honey and spice. Both baked goods and men were straight from Your Black Muslim Bakery in Oakland and years later I still think about them both.

So in a pull towards three parts (more or less) to the past, porridge became sticky rice which turned to pie, before finally shape shifting into a tea cake. And it is no secret; I have been lavishing sweet admiration upon my newest creation which seemed to miraculously emerge from my oven but in reality has been quietly gestating until now. Beautiful with an understated elegance, it seems impossible for anyone to refute this simple fact. But indeed even this upstanding cake has garnered its own share of opposition ***and once again I find the contrast in opinion to be just the thing to open my eyes.

It isn’t like I have never encountered various perspectives before. My architectural education has trained me to gather and synthesize bits of information from many sources and then whittle and shape my response into physical form. And then there has been living in the culturally sophisticated Bay Area for years where one can get swept up in every kind of diversity imaginable. Yet I can see now that my enjoyment and participation in those view points have been largely mental, an intellectual process, maybe an amusing trifle, and thereby always a little removed.

The recent dramatic changes in my life have altered my landscape as I have moved from one coast to another but more importantly lost a significant amount of my physical ability to move independently. I am suddenly more sensitive about deviating from the norm, sometimes feeling like a stranger in my own skin. Holding a different perspective incorporates much more than expressing a surface idea or opinion. Rather it plums the depth of emotions, wandering through socio-economic borders, it includes the totality of a lifetime of experience.

At moments I feel the edges of my new life bear down on me from all sides. Unwittingly my change in form and various other displacements which have occurred rise up in locations becoming an obstruction, blurring the way that I experience myself. This has been the true impetus for writing and drawing within this blog: to see deeper and connect with myself and other, unencumbered. And this is what I think of as I learn about the bankruptcy and criminal trouble which have befallen Your Black Muslim Bakery. I cannot help grieving in some small way remembering the distance of these men, feeling the knot and pain which comes from being marginalized, exiled and living on the fringe. But with this sadness also comes a hint of relief with the hope that walls and barriers attended by the desire for change can become conciliatory conduits and ultimately arms for embracing our shared humanity.

*** My attendant remarked that the cake had the same color as people have just before they die. I was dreaming along the lines of pale lavender and was somewhat startled to hear her response. I exaggerate when I suggested that this was “oppositional”. I was exploring the idea of divergent view points.

Adzuki Pandan Tea Cake makes 8” round- Inspired by Korean dduk, mochi and that bean pie. I seem to be putting disclaimers on everything posted lately. Around here three people thought this was fabulous. Two thought it was exotic but a little disorienting. Two other people thought it was different and disgusting (they were too repulsed to even try). For some, beans and desserts do not go together with the exception of jellybeans. If you are at all inclined towards Thai food, give this a go. If not, follow the link to the bean pie. That is very good too but I believe the vanilla has a typo and should be 2 teaspoons.

Ingredients:
1 can 14 oz. adzuki beans drained
¾ C coconut milk
3 eggs
½ C melted butter
1 ½ tsp. pandan extract
3 Tblsp. Rice flour
½ C plus 2 Tblsp. Sugar
2 oz. grated dark chocolate

Directions: This is a busy cook's dream come true. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Drain your can of adzuki beans and dump into a blender with the coconut milk. Puree until smooth, add the other ingredients minus the chocolate and blend some more. I used ½ C sugar and very dark (74%) chocolate, this was nice but thought that a bit more sugar might enhance the flavor. Next time I would add a few tablespoons more and use a lighter chocolate. Pour into a buttered pie plate or cake pan and sprinkle the chocolate on top. Bake for about 45 minutes more or less until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. I’d suggest letting it cool before eating and serving it with green tea.

Gingerly Handling Ladybugs and Leeks

2007-10-26T18:52:00.001-04:00

Within a few days of inhabiting my pad almost three years ago I began to suspect that I had accidentally stumbled into a parallel universe otherwise dubbed the Ladybug Lounge. Forget the insinuating adolescent perk and cheer, I was witnessing unabashed jittery jots pulsating energy to the thrumming bass of invisible subwoofers. I even detected the faint clink of martini glasses. Relatively harmless and a touch surreal this madness carried on for a short time only to be quickly forgotten and resumed again late the following October.

I puzzle over what they might want from me coming year after year, as aphids are their main source of food and I’ve never knowingly entertained any. The first day they appeared in mass numbers, I was amused in dreamy speculation as they gaily freckled the exterior side of my windows before liberally seeping through the cracks. One is delightful, two charming, three a small party…. But when does too much of a welcomed thing tip the scale and become quite another? When man and nature touch what happens in the overlap and why do they huddle about in dark corners?

By the time the bag full of spry leeks arrived I should have been ready, if but a little preoccupied. After all I have waited my entire life to cook with leeks, held off until I cultivated enough refinement to appreciate the pale green delicacy, this relative to the rowdy onion. Seen as little more than an overgrown scallion and with greater than half of it unchewable, steep prices paid seemed more the actions of a fool than a foodie. But with the unexpected gift of Allium porrum, my development in gentility was cut short turning my efforts instead towards highlighting this eternal fresh flavor. But for what special dish, a mere cock-a-leekie soup?

After all look at them! leeks stand proud and stately, bundled tight in weather resistant sheaths of vigorous up shooting greenery. A handsome figure to be sure, they emanate quiet reserved strength. But this tough guy act is rather superficial, roughly one layer deep; which is best wrastled with deftly before tossing it in with the heap of misfits traveling down the cavernous depths of a full and ready stockpot. But never mind that for now, for further on in-- coming closer to the inside a different story is told. Thin cross section slices of a newly vulnerable de-gritted and truncated leek reveal a mesmerizing world of symmetry and grace, a mirror if you will of our many layered selves. And while the chartreuse almost transparent discs have some of the character of fine pristine jewelry, these juicy growth rings also incite feelings of expanding succulent life, of new beginnings.

Rather than treat these leeks to a heavy handed swat of potatoes and cream or a long decadent braise in olive oil, it seemed a different approach might harmonize with leek’s concealed nascent wildness. Influenced by environmental educator and “wild man” Steven Brill, as well as those cheering ladies in red, a turn in tactics also meant leaving well groomed taste behind. For the flavor profile I was looking for emerged from tromping about in brisk weather, smelling damp fallen leaves, and inhaling sharp pungent air. It is the encapsulation of daily life in the fall weeks when everything is sketched in precise thin lines, intentional and wildly alive. Sure things around may be rattling, dying off, and moving out, but there is still seasoned bite and brass to autumn that reminds us of how dynamic each passage of life truly is. Now- what to do about the voles?

Sesame Leek Sauce: Adapted from a recipe by Steven Brill. 5 cups.

His ingredient list matched perfectly the flavor I was going for in my head. However this recipe was intended for wild leeks or ramps which possess a more assertive flavor. To rectify the situation, I radically changed the tahini amounts and in the future will diddle some more with it. I did use 2 Tablespoons of chopped ginger which resulted in such a surprise; I was taken aback- since then the pungency has grown on me. I adjusted the recipe somewhat below to reflect what I would do next time. I will say that this is the perfect thing to sling onto just about anything. I was dipping blue chips into it, as well as toasted walnuts. It was just right on a chunk of salmon and terrific on top of buckwheat soba. Also true, while this was cooking up the Asiatic ladybugs were flying about in enthusiastic frenzy. I think they approved.

Ingredients:
2 Tblsp toasted sesame oil
3 C cleaned and sliced leeks/ramps/scallion/onion
1 ½ Tblsp chopped ginger root
8 cloves chopped garlic
1 ½ C stock
¼ C white wine
5 Tblsp tahini
2 Tblsp barley miso

Directions: Sauté the leeks, ginger, and garlic in the sesame oil for about 5 minutes until light golden brown and fragrant. Pour the stock and wine in and continue simmering while scraping the pan of its browned bits. Pour into a blender with the tahini and miso and puree until smooth. Serve over grains, fish, tofu, or vegetables.

In a Muddle

2007-10-18T20:23:00.000-04:00

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven…” Ecclesiastes 3:1

For my entire life I have been solidly sitting smack dab in the middle of here and there, this and that- but most especially between younger and older, the second class citizen of a nebulous region uneasily perched upon the hump of my family’s backseat Buick. Besides hand me downs and occasional hand me ups, enfolded into this forked over position has been implicit understanding of what it is to straddle and join two separate worlds. And even with aplomb going so far as to shift and compromise when necessary to gain small favor in the attempt to stake my own piece of ground. Queen over no true territory I have always been able to flux fluid in the face of change, composed in the in between.

So it comes as sobering surprise when for the last many weeks I have struggled to roll with the dramatic changes underfoot, silently pulling the reins of time back to no avail. I’ve watched under exacting autumn light as the surrounding greenery has grown up and thinned out desiccated bone dry bare while plump jumpy critters on overdrive scuttle about, monarch caterpillars turn inside out and upside down asking the great questions of life, and school buses snake their circuitous routes. Stretched thin at the intersection where divergent demands exist I find myself stuck between the anticipatory surge to survive another winter and the overwhelming drag to slow. Wistful is my name, I miss the relaxed ease of late summer soothe.

After a lifetime of scampering to connect, flex and flow with the go, I find a new desire emerging, the compelling need to finally drop my bags and stop working to reconcile left and right or up with down, to simply be in the middle of a muddle. In a moment such as this, I only need to look down at my feet, savor the hard earth below and- drop anchor. What better chaperone in the art of attachment than the famously bull headed thistle, inspired muse in the creation of steadfast Velcro, the beloved and perhaps bedeviled Burdock?

This recalcitrant character Arctium lappa is a study in headstrong behavior. It happens to be wild food favorite of herbalists and diners of macrobiotic cooking. Surprisingly this sought after plant can be found skulking about derelict lots, crooked road sides, and lumpy open fields, the direct result of indiscriminant spiny burrs willing to hitchhike upon anything that’ll move. Possessing a monstrous leaf span up to 2 feet long and one wide with a wooly rough undercoat, any thought that this could be an ordinary plant is hurriedly cast aside. Inside certain well stocked stores, burdock roots might be found grouped outside their element in prim rectangular baskets by the Asian produce. These dime-in-diameter grubby looking sticks approximately ten inches long look perfect for stirring a witch’s stew or spading a two headed poisonous frog, but exude a far too earthy appearance to be included in literal feasting. Self possessed, unshaken they stand the test of time and are revered by foragers and eaters who can gaze beyond the repugnant or at least the unglamorous. While burdock can be harvested for its seeds, leaves, stalk, and roots, it is best left for knowledgeable enthusiasts with a keen eye and a sturdy shovel.

Their taproots dive unstoppable into the tarry depths unfettered by the good opinion of others or the empty wants of an unwanted neighbor, pausing only long enough to shoot out a lateral hold here and there. This willful focus, this “I am root hear me roar”, this testimony to place is captured in a sweet dense core which is prized for building strength and stamina from the inside out. Burdock’s support is far reaching, from nourishing the lymph and immune system, the liver, kidneys, lungs, and nerves, before finally touching the outmost peripheral skin. In spite of looking like no more than an unwelcome weed, occasional consumption of this dock will have one feeling and perhaps even looking a little pretty.

When it comes to preparation, the food is best taken from a first year plus plant (midway through the second year the vital energy gets transferred to the seeds) when the brown black skinned roots are still tender and needs a little good natured scrubbing. It unexpectedly tastes somewhere between a potato and a Jerusalem artichoke, mildly sweet and earthy with a crisp yet mucilaginous edge. While unappealing sounding, this sticky tooth actually binds to toxins and contaminants in the digestive track and assists in pushing it through. Clearly this is not your ordinary garden variety vegetable to be routinely counted as part of your daily five. Rather burdock is iconoclastic mentor and friend to body and being. It reminds us to blossom where planted, dig deep and feed our inner most secret regions. Arctium calls on us to stand our ground, fully embracing the far reaching parts of ourselves, even when one happens to muddle in a puddle.

Clay Pot Miso Chicken: Serves 4, adapted from Epicurious. The original recipe called for an enormous amount of miso, soy sauce, and mirin. More than my sodium levels could bear, so I scaled back big time. I still found the reduced mirin a bit too sweet for my taste, so I made further changes down below. It is best after you mix the liquids to sample a spoonful knowing that the flavors will intensify in the oven and in the ensuing days. Adjust accordingly. The bitter greens are perfect counterpart to the sweetness of the dish.

Ingredients:
2 chicken breast on bone with skin
2 chicken thighs on bone with skin
2 burdock stalks, scrubbed and sliced thin diagonally
Splash of apple cider vinegar
1 large onion chopped
1 bunch green onion chopped in 1” pieces
½ lb shitake mushrooms, stemmed and quartered
½ jalapeno seeded and chopped
2 Tbsp. grape seed oil
1 ½ Tbsp garlic chopped
1 ½ Tbsp ginger finely chopped
2 ½ C stock
¼ C white wine
¼ C mirin
¼ C barley miso
¼ C soy sauce

Cooked mustard greens/ bok choy/ kale/ broccoli rabe
Steamed rice

Directions: Preheat oven to 500 degrees and place chicken skin side up on a tray. Roast chicken for about 35 minutes and then put aside. Reduce oven to 300. Place burdock in a bowl covered in water and a splash of vinegar. Sauté onion, green onion, mushrooms, jalapeno, garlic and ginger for several minutes on a medium high flame until fragrant and lightly browned. Add drained burdock. Mix liquids into a slurry and then pour over cooked vegetables to deglaze the pan. Place chicken inside a Dutch oven and pour the vegetables and liquid on top. Braise for an hour and serve hot with rice and greens.

2007-10-06T14:34:00.000-04:00

Fall Song

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries- roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay- how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

Mary Oliver

Metamorphosis

2007-10-05T19:34:00.000-04:00

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

T. S. Eliot excerpt from The Four Quartets, Burnt Norton, II

Plum Good

2007-09-19T20:10:00.000-04:00

Everyone loves a good peach. This simple pronouncement may be the sole thing over which all of humanity can agree upon and find some small consolation. Even bitter rivals deep in peach contemplation might hold truce long enough to escape into shared collective reverie, remembrances of sitting upon a beloved’s lap in the heat and safety of summer slurping sweet nectar from a quickly disappearing orb…

Personally and crushingly true, more often than not peaches have let me down and none too gently either. In drastic self defense I now reserve my indulgences to canned and cling or rarer still, times when experts with access to the choicest specimens hand select their wares for gun shy diners like me. Burned one too many times, I have paid and taken home more than my share of false blushing beauties only to discover a charade too late in the game to recover from. The time worn recipe of emotional let down marred by deception skirted in financial loss have made peach selection and enjoyment a high risk venture- which is partially why I primarily now eat plums.

You see taste and proclivity have strange and secret labors which sometimes travel through the mind and heart more than the tongue. In spite of appearing to be fair weather friend, my loyalties actually run deep through the grounds of time and once along time ago I fell in love with the Laura Ingalls Wilder book, On the Banks of Plum Creek. Given by a friend as a gift, this was preferred and cherished to all others in the well read series. I believe Laura’s affection for the prolific bite sized fruit, warmed and split ripe in the sun sealed my own affections for this oft overlooked pick. And so the commingling of friendship and devotion for another thrust an unknown frontier girl’s life upon my own which henceforth had me inwardly and unconditionally regarding plums as my favorite fruit. Though Little Jack Horner sat in his corner plumbing the depths of his Christmas pie and the very name of this stone fruit happens to be synonymous with excellence and desirability, I still rarely hear folks clamor for this drupaceous fruit. Blending into a crowd, these reserved beauties patiently recede from the foreground while precious jewel like berries and cherries are clucked and cooed over as if newborn babies. On the other side voluptuous peaches, melons, and mangoes are hotly handled and sniffed making internal temperatures rise. Plums fall safely in the middle. Comfortably medium sized receiving no extra attention for being cute or monstrous; their colored coating neither is ostentatious plumage which bewitches.

Rather this gently grooved stone fruit is quietly dignified solidly resting upon the virtues of its own good nature rather than external flash and drama. They are the dependable ones of the fruit world. Abundant, economical and none too fragile, they don’t require eternity to ripen nor do they rot too quickly. Unlike almost every other variety of fruit, I have yet to taste an unpleasant plum. They deliver.

Thin easy-to-eat skin provides just a veneer of spicy sour to counterbalance pleasing juicy flesh. Cooked, heavily pigmented skin lends a rich lustrous purple to jams, compotes and crisps. Terrifically efficient there is also virtually no waste of labor in the eating and preparation with small slim pit which usually cleaves away. I like that plums fit comfortably within my palm intimate friend, its soft skin readily picking up gentle heat from a hand.

Plums remind me that the truest things cannot be hastily judged but rather closely observed. Up close, medium toned fruits illuminate a subtle modulated world of purples, yellows and greens. Amethyst, magenta, goldenrod, violet, and wine these are colors which hint at silk ribbon and crushed velvet. Seeped in nostalgia they are from a yester time, old fashioned with a faint bloom of frost. Paired to the hour they hide in the shadow of dusk where famously they coexist with the decadence of foie gras, the smolder of Armagnac, and the homey comfort of toasted walnuts. And on the shoulders of fall especially in the form of the misunderstood prune, they promise the richness of life as it ages, mellows, sweetens and condenses. If one thinks about it, that really is no ordinary or middling or average thing but rather, something good- plum good indeed.

Spiced Italian Prunes: These are the favorites of my favorites. Small, ovoid and available for a short time, these plums are enjoyable eaten one after another. To jazz them up a little, this compote can be spooned over Greek yogurt or some chocolate ice cream. Fiber-icious too!

Ingredients:
Split and pitted Italian Prunes
Cinnamon stick
Knob of ginger root grated
Water enhanced with a little lemon juice/ wine/ other spirits
Honey

Directions: Put all ingredients in a medium pot being careful not to add too much water. You can always add more as needed. Heat the mixture to a gentle simmer allowing the water to reduce and thicken. Cook until desired softness, when the color relaxes and spreads, but while the fruit still holds its shape. Serve warm over ice cream or cooled as is.

Feed Her Fiber Fodder

2007-09-13T19:30:00.000-04:00

In the gay world of food where colors dazzle, spices seduce and flavors wow, fiber is fuddy-duddy bespectacled friend wearing turtleneck and tweed. A humble character to my way of thinking, cellulose resides in an austere category cloistered and shunned yet deserving of at least a soupcon of recognition. To contribute towards this undervalued end I will eschew an otherwise mouthwatering meal option in favor of something with a bit more tooth even when it foretells far from perfect polish. Peculiar but true, my food choice decisions are in deference to the essential inelegant, sometimes stern body friendly fiber.

In a society which trims bread crusts off of children’s sandwiches, strips the hulls off of wheat kernels and unthinkingly trashes edible peels off of fruits and vegetables, we’ve become a people whose palates have gone mute and pasty unable to discern the vital from the not necessary. The far reaching cultural attitudes of our forefathers had people prizing delicacy and equating this with impressive virtues such as beauty and goodness. In the resulting efforts to banish the coarse and crude from the culinary world, denatured grains became triumphant golden staff of refined civil diets leaving base whole foods to the poor few, a down spiraling trend which has continued to pervade tender minds as well. Consider the blemished and indigestible skin, pod, peel, rind, and husk which have been hulled, peeled, popped, and skinned to reveal pristine interior landscapes, the incidental reluctantly bearing way to the elemental. Like a richly textured fabric which offers marching grooves of warp against weft, fiber is the thread which binds and strengthens, interlaces and joins. Not only does it connect this to that, but it is a grain of interest, contrast providing doorway into another world. Imagine a vista or a viewpoint with no differentiation in sight, plastic ho-hum drudge barely worth the effort of engagement. It seems to me that our fiber-thin world has us wanting to be filled, saturated and touched and that the insanity of same has us under siege from an explosion of variations of the truly non-essential kind. Within or without, upon our naked backs in the form of a scruffy nubby fishermen’s sweater or sating our appetites full, the organic dross of plant matter with its unpretentious tooth and cuff, satisfies our most primitive need to enter unerringly into life.

Surprise Morning Glory Muffins:makes 12 muffins Adapted from Whole Foods Recipes

To lead a truly fiber rich life, I often reach for cooked vegetables first thing in the morning. But lest you think I wear a hair shirt while pontificating upon the virtues of flax, I present Whole Grain Morning Glory Muffins which updates the exceedingly dull and puckish bran muffin of day’s yore to tantalizing new heights. While muffins, scones and the such generally leave me cold (too much fluffy bread matter), these nutritious, jeweled and textured treats are kind of like a merry fruitcake without the booze or bother. And with a name like Morning Glory, even grumps must yield a little.

Ingredients:
1 1/3 C whole wheat flour (can do parts of oat flour/ ground flax seed/ spelt flour)
¼ C evaporated cane sugar
¼ C packed brown sugar
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp Chinese five spice
¼ tsp sea salt
2 eggs
½ C grape seed oil
3 Tblsp of lowfat plain yogurt
1 tsp vanilla
½ C drained crushed pineapple
½ C dried cranberry (fruit of your choice)
½ C shredded carrots
¼ C unsweetened flaked coconut
½ C chopped walnuts

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl mix all of the dry ingredients together breaking up any lumps. In a separate bowl mix the eggs, oil, yogurt, and vanilla together. Add to the flour mixture and mix until just incorporated. Blend in the pineapple, cranberry, carrots, coconut, and walnuts gently. Line a muffin tin with paper cups and fill them ¾ full. Add a dollop of jam (I used apricot/pineapple) in the middle of each muffin top and slightly push it in. Bake for about 30 minutes or until toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Be sure to avoid the jam center when testing.

To Carob or Not to Carob...

2007-08-31T18:07:00.000-04:00

It seems to me that there are at least two kinds of substitutions which regularly occur in the kitchen. The first one is born from spontaneity and is rather unexpected. Envision that a rising need for chocolate mousse holds you hostage at about 10:45 pm whilst comfortably lounging about in faded flannel pajamas. Laziness, urgency and the logistics of an echoing barren cupboard result in instant sharp culinary creativity that borders on brilliance and insanity. The absent requisite 6 oz. of unsweetened chocolate is the sole hurdle standing between you and a sinkhole of bliss. Only a few moments are spared to glum spirits before head strong determination and hare-brained strategy take over. Hershey’s syrup, a handful of chocolate chips, rogue M&Ms and a half eaten chocolate bar floating at the bottom of a purse all find their true nature in the cauldron of improvisation and lucky success. Happy accidents such as these are characterized by humor and élan, a definitive willingness to go with what is given.

The other substitution is the down trodden child of a mother whose name is Discipline and an equally dour father named Deprivation. Sad offspring such as these are flung onto the world in the misguided attempts to transform decadence into doable, vice for nice. This is where applesauce and prune puree are exchanged for butter, nutritional yeast for cheese and low fat yogurt stands in for sour cream. With grandiose intentions to rectify recipes with poor nutritional profiles and whip slack bodies into shape- one, two, and up to three offending items are replaced with more virtuous back ups. Of course there are times when these substitutions are heartily embraced due to strong personal convictions and no harmful side effects are endured. But woe to the home cook not fully committed to the swap and inclined like Lot’s wife to wistfully look back, for only disappointment, dejection, and arrested satisfaction sadly awaits.

Why do we tend to look at the substitute as shoddy shoe-in, second fiddle or the next best thing? In a world where contingency plans are the name of the game, where Plan A’s turn to Plan B’s, C’s, and D’s in a scant second and daily artifacts are quickly becoming obsolete; we are forced to sink or swim, flex and grow. Perhaps our reluctance to wholly embrace the substitute comes from a growing resistance to constant change marked by too many options. Couldn’t we be more relaxed and pliant after all this is the age old struggle between sleek nouveau and staunch tradition in new disguise? It seems to me that life doesn’t move in overarching straight lines but in spastic bobbles, dips and occasional glides for which the humble stopgap is right at home. To carob or not to carob, that is the question.

Carob is to chocolate what Postum is to coffee or Tofurkey is to turkey: substitution, madness or both? First, to truly appreciate carob it must be eaten in the spirit of discovery, not stingy reluctance. It is a toasted ground pod with its own virtues apart from chocolate. Ceratonia siliqua or alternately St. John’s Bread is an evergreen tree hailing from the Mediterranean region. The pods of the tree stretch from four to twelve inches, looking like green broad beans which turn dark tobacco brown as they age. The locust seeds within are used as a thickener in many foods and also as cattle feed. The surrounding pods ground into flour have been eaten since ancient times and is high in calcium, potassium, protein, and sugar. Unlike chocolate, it is low in fat and has no caffeine or theobromines which are offensive alkaloids to some people.

Carob appears to fall into that category of healthy non guilt laden foods which are decidedly inferior to their counterparts. The powder itself looks much like cocoa. When mixed with some sort of fat solid, carob deceptively looks a lot like chocolate. But beyond being brown, sweet and slightly earthy there are few remaining similarities between the two. If hasty and closed to the possibilities, carob will be written off immediately upon consumption for it so resembles the other that unconsciously one expects the same and crushing disappointment is sure to follow.

In recent explorations I made a batch of carob brownies (even the name perpetuates this confusion) recalling distantly some fondness for the stuff. Out of the oven I was seduced with how decadent and chocolate-y the brownies appeared, until I ate my first mouthful which seemed a bit heavy and cloying. I recognized that I kept expecting to taste chocolate and was met with another taste altogether. Carob is sweet and slightly honeyed flavored, which is why the two are often paired together. The taste doesn’t have the down to your toes depth that dark chocolate does, nor does it ignite the entire palate, perhaps because it is so low in fat. As said before it is earthy yet light, existing in the strata upon the soil, slightly vegetal, not within it. Homey carob is reminiscent of the mood, taste, and smell of golden graham crackers. And as I think of this it might be more suitable to use carob in recipes where its qualities can shine freely unfettered by the yoke of the incomparable incorrigible cocoa bean. After all in the end don’t we all just want to be seen clearly distinguished from another, for who we truly are? So next time when faced with the opportunity to employ a proxy, take heart and charge full steam ahead, for who knows what places the new trajectory will take you.

Hot Spiced Carob makes 4- Adapted from Whole Foods on-line recipe box.

Ingredients:
2 C water
1 inch chunk of ginger sliced
½ cinnamon stick
3 crushed cardamom pods
4 Tblsp carob powder
2 C low fat milk
Honey to taste
Whipped cream for garnish

Directions: Bring water to a low simmer in a pot with the ginger, cinnamon and cardamom pods for about 5 minutes. Retrieve and discard spices. Add carob powder mixing thoroughly and stir in milk cooking until mixture is hot, but not boiling. Lastly add honey to desired sweetness. Pour into mugs and garnish with whipped cream.

Skol

2007-08-21T20:28:00.000-04:00

The bad news is that they are disturbingly visceral, the pale pink taupe of a moist nether world exposed and unapologetic. With an appearance contrary to their dainty demure description, maiden herrings which have yet-to-spawn or matjes fillets still manage to seize their share of attention at the smorgasbord, and not just because of the liberal sloshing of aquavit. In an oceanic drift of multi flavored herring bits, these bold beauties stop traffic and breath, even in the full power of summer.

Now, where behind every leaf is a zucchini elongating by the minute, where green beans diddle and dangle in lazy baroque curlicues and tiny cherry tomatoes mischievously pop out from behind an odd neighbor’s ear; I am filled to my core, human cornucopia with the fruits of this enthusiastic season. For weeks I’ve piled my dinner plate high a veritable still life of raw, barely steamed, plain and unadorned vegetables, homage to local farmers and good old Cézanne too. If I were a tree, this chlorophyll rich sustenance would feed my leaves; palms stretched open to the sun. I’ve been buzzing along buoyant and nimble, content with the offerings of this green earth. But I am more beast than shrub and in the final count I paw for food that provides ballast to muscle and bone, counterbalance to air and froth.

It occurred to me that fruits and vegetables infused with the sun are not only stuffed plump with vitamins and minerals, but with the lingering traits of recent past months. Summer produce simply cannot help but be associated with picnics and glad affairs, long day hours, levity and pleasure. They hail from the land of the living, diurnal terrestrial creatures. While I willingly hoot and holler, juggle summer squash and eat salad three times a day, in the end I, a quiet citizen of the dark, naturally seek a shade of shadow when exposed too long to the glare of bright.

In self preservation I dipped below the earth this mid month of August to ferret out some wine soaked fish from the forgotten recesses of my icebox. Herring or Clupea harengus are small silvery fish which travel about in large schools throughout the Atlantic. Raw, smoked, pickled, and fermented, the oily Omega-3 Fatty Acid rich flesh has been teasing palates and fueling the economies of Northern European countries for thousands of years. Nutritious and super charged they ignite soulful passion amongst those that like it rich, over-the-top, and just a little crude. In Scandinavian countries where in particular these fish are favored, there are over a dozen of pickled preparations. Affectionately singled out as “sill” rather than “fisk”, herring are the foundation for any smorgasbord, Christmas time or midsummer festivity where they are accompanied by crisp bread (knäckebröd), butter and cheese (vasterbotten), boiled potatoes, hard boiled egg, sour cream, and fresh chives or onions. Interesting note, there is nary a vegetable in sight.

On the plate visually, this bold repast reminds me of a painter’s palette. Instead of a typical show stopping entrée with an equally partnered side dish, there are little piles of neutral colored, similarly textured food. Its absolute homely appearance is well made up for in taste. Herring eating is an individualized call and response experience. First, one must answer the call which is highly personal and emerges from some amorphous space between gut and tongue. Curry, Dill, Sour cream and onion or perhaps Matjes? Matjes- excellent choice! Dense and rich it is silky like lox but more substantial. The first salty hit is immediately joined by a sweet almost sandalwood flavor. That taste is slightly confusing, a tad strange but enjoyable. It is succulent incense infused fish. Maybe it would be best to temper the next bite with a cloud of chive speckled sour cream alongside a slice of egg. While this calms down the bite, it only amps up the richness for which the only reasonable solution is to imbibe a shot of sinus clearing, scalp tingling caraway flavored spirit. This obliterates everything before so that one can start anew with more mixing and sampling, layering and deepening.

Matjes fillets are my antidote to too much lettuce, birthday cakes festooned with fluffy frosting, and overly polite social behavior. They are serious, heavy hitting and feed the belly of the beast. While veggies bring me closer to the earth, maiden herring take me to the abyss, to that vast unknowable place where desire springs from. After these summer months of so much up and out, a little brined intensity is needed to send me back home.

Nordic House: Source for jarred and tinned matjes fillet, as well as all things Nordic. They also make an excellent homemade version. Though I do not know if they send these across country. Surprisingly I found mine by the pickled herring in the supermarket. New Hampshire, who knew?

Jansson’s Temptation: This has been on my “must-make” list for some time now for practically the name alone. But take a look- potatoes, cream, butter and anchovies? It is important to note, that Swedish anchovies are not similar to what Americans think of as anchovies. They can also be purchased at Nordic House.

Sillgratin: Essentially this is a spin-off on Jansson’s Temptation but uses matjes. Every recipe I’ve looked at has a slightly different potato to cream ratio. I have yet to try this because for now I’m hooked on eating them straight out of the jar. Must do in the next few weeks.

Sill Lover: What more can be said?

The Rod of Asclepius

2007-08-13T17:23:00.000-04:00

“He is not worthy of the honeycomb, that shuns the hive because the bees have stings.” William Shakespeare

I had almost nothing in common with G_ except for the smallest of shared loves, the taste of spun honey and sharp cheddar cheese sandwiches. As far as I was concerned this was enough for a brief moment in time. And it so happens, this tenuous connection, a faulty hinge barely worth mentioning also characterized my relationship to honey. With a birth name which coincidentally rhythmically rhymed with Sue Bee, my adoration for sweet amber flower nectar should have been fated. Missing the mark, I deviated ever so slightly to the left with the barely audible hum of an allergy which sent me fleeing rather than flying. Honey tickled my throat, not my fancy and I avoided the stuff just like I dodged the bounding bumbles feasting on azalea buds outside my door- in scared strategic scuttles.

Henceforth I made tentative forays into the Promised Land: delightfully benign Luden’s Honey Cough Drops, Honey Vanilla Häagen-Dazs (senselessly retired in 1985), syrup laden layers of baklava, and occasional swipes of honey with cheese or crisp apple slices with little laryngeal distress. Over the years singular samples of monofloral honey managed to hit my palate unveiling a previously unknown story of time, mood and place. What I had experienced before as achingly sweet sticky goo became a dazzling symphony of flower, landscape, and molten sun ripened heat. Rather than a midline thin non-descript note squeezed out of an 8 oz. plastic bear, exceptional honey is thrilling, lustrous, multilayered and royally substantial. Sardinian Corbezzolo, Hawaiian Christmas Berry, and New Zealand Manuka: these lingering drops of ambrosia traveling from afar have seeped in forging a nascent tender loyalty.

Consider the fact that an individual honeybee produces about 1/12 of a teaspoon in its short lifetime (40 days). Yet an average hive can produce about 60 lbs. of honey in a year, of which 25 lbs. are needed to survive winter. Known for being diligent and orderly, job assignments are allocated based upon age beginning with tidying up the cell from which they were born out of. While each bee has an individual story and place within the hive, every isolated movement has within it an intention that serves the survival of the whole. A bee is even willing to self immolate to protect its colony. Collectively it takes 2 million visits to flower sources and 55,000 air miles to make about a pound of honey. The tiniest effort matters. Face to face with bewitching color and fragrance, bees not only drink carbohydrate rich flower nectar which becomes honey when mixed with enzymes and aged, but they collect pollen on their legs to feed the brood back home. Subsequent visits to other flowers provide pollen exchange and fertilization from which fruits and vegetables blossom into being. Our very own food sources are dependent upon the life affirming actions of the tiny mighty bee.

I am beginning to sweep broad beyond what my two small eyes ordinarily see, past a world of black and white, mine and yours- to try and see what the honeybees see. I live in a myopic insulated dream saturated with the unimportant drama of the individual me, busy acquiring and managing fragments of information about the gross and the obvious. The life of the industrious bee is about the inconsequentially small invisible which becomes essential with the weight and shaping of the collective in touch with the mysterious. Their divine food has wakened me out of my lonely reverie as I unknowingly follow the faint ecstatic footprints of earliest man.

A drop of honey is a collection from the souls of flowers. It is complex photographic impression translated into taste of a specific moment in time and place, each element of the equation bearing consequence upon the other. This magical recipe has been enchanting cultures for ages because the formidable efforts required to create such an elixir are shielded by the unseen and ineffable. Honey has been prized by ancients as money, medicine, preservative, offering to the gods, and as a symbol of love and fertility. It perfectly embodies the constant diligence needed to sustain life as well as being a sensuous balm that makes those efforts worthwhile.

Now as we face a time when Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD) is making headlines, I suggest we take a cue from our friends and exchange the “I” for “we”. Part of our cultural alienation comes from the inability to hold two pictures at once, viewing disparate events as separate, pushing us further away from our natural mind. We are the bees; and as they are dying off from exhaustion and weakened immune systems whether from pesticides, miticides, changed weather patterns, or overwork- we are suffering a little each day too. Just as honey cakes were offered to the snakes (symbol of transformation) vital to the healings performed at the Temple of Asclepius, I extend a dab of honey to our collective soul in the hopes for renewal and abundance. Long live the Bees!

A few links:

Honey Mousse recipe by TastingMenu- voluptuous and delightful, I froze some to make a very quick and easy ice cream.

Maksim playing Flight of the Bumblebee

Zambezi Organic Forest Honey- after reading about CCD and recognizing that 80% of our fruit and vegetable crops are pollinated by honeybees, it is pertinent to keep the health of our bees strong.

The Old Stand By

2007-08-05T16:39:00.000-04:00

I am sure that somewhere in time there existed a talented hostess reclining in the perfectly coiffed confines of her salon dispensing advice to admiring guests eager to learn grace, poise and the fine art of entertaining. How could she have guessed that this delicate moment in time, a late afternoon of easy conversation would be the birth place of domicile recommendations that would be passed and later shared by her attentive visitors and that in spite of the years and distance which would elapse, her sagacious words would still carry weight and purpose in the minds of future aspiring hosts yet to know a fry pan?

Through some blend of providence and destiny her instructions found me, compelling me to seek out simple recipes to master and rely upon as steady friend in an opening world of dinner parties and glad festivities. Armed initially with only a few Gourmet recipes illegibly scribbled into a notebook, every dinner out was open game for investigation and if need be, appropriation. I was in my early twenties, learning to cook and desirous of authoring my own brand of hospitality for which I had little clue and even less guidance. My ideas for entertaining were disjointed and outdated, the sophisticated independence of Mary Tyler Moore fused with the exotic glam of Charo meets Joy of Cooking with a pinch of Bon Appetit. Dimly I envisioned myself wearing flowing kaftan with turban while holding a silver platter checkered with rumaki. Fortunately for every future guest to be, fate intervened to whisk me away from dreaded gaucherie whilst nudging me towards something both accessible and real.

The evening was a tense one for me, an invitation to dine with my boyfriend’s parents, loquacious intelligent people interested in everything. I suffered tremendously from a fear of being dimwitted and losing the ability to eat and speak at the same time. The warm complex smell of chicken and garlic basting in wine headed me off, wrapping me immediately in a blanket of acceptance and cordiality. I recall such genuineness, a desire to welcome and create a memorable meal in the form of a rustic dish with a glamorous name. I was disarmed. Plump chicken, unctuous wine soaked prunes, herbs at every turn with a wink of caper- I may have looked every part the sensible dinner guest on the exterior, but inside not only was I luxuriating in sensual pleasure but I learned that a good host can create an atmosphere where the perceived differences between people dissolve. Gone were my petty insecurities, feasting on fowl moved the focus from head to heart and allowed a space for friendship to unfold.

Quickly I ascertained that Chicken Marbella had the hallmark of a keeper recipe. The flavors pique the taste buds in lively debate, sweet, bracing, pungent, and herbaceous. The dish escapes easy definition. It is sophisticated enough to be eaten by candlelight in gown or tux, but would be just at home plucked out of a picnic basket. Bold interesting flavors let the guest know this will be no prosaic affair yet its polish belies the ease in preparation. Low effort with high impact, I rely upon this poultry dish time and time again especially when I find myself overly concerned about crafting the perfect meal. Ultimately the job of the consummate host is to receive-- to enfold another into the family. The food and accompanying accoutrements are holy offering signifying that embrace. In the end it is less about the fuss of food, self conscious repasts which require too much sweat and toil, and more directly about the people who eat.

Chicken Marbella serves 6 adapted from the Silver Palate Cookbook
When I first had this dish over 15 years ago, it was one of the most exotic things I had ever tasted. I had the recipe for a short time before it was recklessly tossed into my memory bank to be interpreted anew each subsequent time. I can say that ever iteration has been fabulous. Very recently I found the recipe again only to realize that I had been calling it the wrong name (Chicken Mirabelle) all of these years. It seems that I was also taking certain liberties with the directions. If you want to have a go at directions closer to the original, look here.

Ingredients:
3 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts
8 garlic cloves finely chopped
¼ C Balsamic Wine
¼ C olive oil
1 C pitted prunes
½ C pitted green olives
¼ C capers
3 bay leaves
¼ C packed brown sugar
½ C white wine
2 Tbsp. dried oregano
Pinch red pepper flakes
Few grates orange zest
Salt and pepper
Finely chopped parsley or cilantro for garnish

Directions: Throw everything into a bag to marinate overnight. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place chicken and all other marinated bits into an ample Dutch oven and cover. Bake for about 45 minutes checking until chicken is done. Garnish with fresh chopped herbs. While this dish improves with age, the aroma out of the oven is terrific and is highly recommended for the benefit of dinner guests.

Where's the Beef?

2007-07-16T21:20:00.000-04:00

L_ walked into one of those new fangled gourmet delis, the kind which catered to the citified folk down South. Surveying her prospects, a tantalizing display of handsome specimens perched behind the meat counter, she decided upon a singular two by three inch heft of prime filet mignon, paid and walked out. And in the secluded den of her workplace moments later, our heroine slunk down to the ground sweet relief close at hand. She unthinkingly threw open the papered package and devoured the uncooked form in whole wolfish gulps. Sated and miraculously restored, she turned to resume her life.

As she reported the story to me later alternating between cracks of laughter and the hushed tones of thoughtful revelation, I confess to feeling my own blend of awe and repulsion. In an instant, my own meat eating ways were grilled and sliced open as I considered my restrained “don’ts” next to her lusty “I do’s”. It seems that I have misplaced my meat and hardly even noticed. Rarely do I sink my teeth into a side of beef instead favoring thigh of poultry, the swine-y embrace of the other white meat, even a chomp on occasional tinned fish. I unapologetically lunch on lentils and dine on tofu. But privy to one primal moment, one orgiastic how do y’do to the animal within and my placid little world has been torn asunder unleashing forgotten memories with an abandoned lost friend: the charred sweet garlicky blossoms of bulgogi tucked into lettuce leaf, the butter suede slubs of carpaccio anointed with fragrant olive oil, lemon and pungent capers, and most primal of all, the seared heart of a gushing rib eye steak freckled with a crush of black peppers. Making up for lo these last years—indubitably I have meat on my mind.

I am starting to think that red meat is the nexus of it all, the building block of bones, muscle, and nerve. Iron rich, blooming sanguine red, it must increase one’s mettle, shore up inner might. Ruby rose, brick-- flaming, crimson, rust, and vermilion wine. These are the shades of life which build, rise and powerfully ignite. And they have been the antipode to my slowing movements, the needs of a body abating, disintegrating, and for a moment stilled. For the unbearably long span of a few years my diet ebbed and shadowed the dictates of an ingenious invisible whole. In silent communication, movements reined into a micro world within while calories, flavors, and textures dulled mute to a slow. I seemed to shed my earthly palace becoming only breath or light as feather thought. And in this long night both the coarse and bestial untamed remained respectful, staying far- way beyond sight.

Gradual moment to moment till now as stagnant repose recedes, my vegetal self falters giving way to gangly limbs, fangs, and accompanying small snout. The interiority of my corporeal territory stuffed with beans, rice and other such light-weight fluff growls for ballast against gravity, food for fight or flight. The beef of my body is building. My shanks are strengthening but still tender, my bottom round roast marbled, medium rare, at least a mouthful. Far from sated but restored, I turn to resume my life-- allowing a trail of beef patties found, to lead the way.

Rickshaw’s Thai Beef Salad serves 4: adapted from Chef Andreas Heaphy’s creation.
Essentially I wanted something light to break my meat-fast. Not only is the meat flavorful but it is grilled quickly leaving it tender. The medley of cool crunchy vegetables pairs delightfully with the spice and zing of the dressing.

Beef Marinade:
1 Tblsp grapeseed oil
1 Tblsp garlic minced
3 Tblsp fish sauce
2 Tblsp brown sugar
3 chili de arbol crumbled
1 pound flank steak

Salad:
¼ Cup mint minced
¼ Cup cilantro minced
¼ Cup Thai basil minced
¼ Cup shallots minced
½ Cup carrots grated
½ Cup sugar snap peas slivered
½ Cup green peppers sliced
½ Cup cherry tomatoes halved
½ Cup English cucumber diced
1 head butter lettuce

Dressing:
½ Cup lime juice
½ Cup fish sauce
1 ½ Tblsp sugar

Garnish:
½ Cup chopped roasted salted peanuts
Cilantro and Mint sprigs

Directions: Combine ingredients for the dressing and set aside. Combine ingredients for marinade and pour over meat allowing flavors to develop about 2-4 hours. When ready grill meat until desired doneness, slice thin. Arrange lettuce leaves on a plate. Toss dressing over the rest of the salad ingredients and heap over the lettuce. Arrange meat on top garnishing with chopped peanuts, cilantro and mint.

2007-07-09T19:16:00.000-04:00

“Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back.” Unknown

I am generally not one for following fads, at least not that I am aware of. Woefully I lurch out of sync drawn to fashion items long after they have slinked off of the hip-ness radar. And on occasion when something calls my name, like that ridiculously expensive faux ocelot custom made bolero jacket which winked at me in earnest coy flirtation, I should have known better and simply walked away. After all I have a history of seeking out unflattering thereby unfortunate haircuts, drawn to myself a stash of regrettable music impulses and corralled a trail of trash worthy fashion accessories reeking of my futile attempts to enmesh with that in vogue. The last time my inner driven whims favorably aligned with a fad, I was no doubt playing with Mexican jumping beans while listening to the tinny teen pop groove of my battered 8 track tapes.

But when it comes to the business of food or art, I more graciously observe these social whims with a light step lenient if not curious attitude. In some cases I have the feeling that capricious desire might lead to a surprising and novel destination. In these circumstances I boldly move ahead, hungry for unfolding development and grand adventure. Of course it will be no surprise that Ferran Adrià, the father of deconstructivist cooking piques my process loving, abstract idolizing self. Fickle fad or entrenched tradition remains to be seen, but for now this Spaniard’s whimsical collage of freeze dried poufs, heavenly foams, gossamer scents, and strange pliant emulsifications cast a spell upon my roving eyes and heart. I would gladly follow the strains of this piper’s music down the rolling mountain road to his El Bulli by the sea.

For now I am reeled in and satisfied to experiment with a down to earth recipe designed by Adrià himself for the humble home cook. Deceptively simple olive oil, potatoes, onion and egg bind and transform to create Tortilla Espanola, a savory cake that is the heart and soul of Spanish cooking. With clever sleigh-of-hand, snack bag addictive potato chips are a modern interpretation not to mention time saving substitution for thinly sliced potatoes cooked up slick in olive oil. For a brief moment I cannot help wondering how close the divide is between high and low brow art before gliding on mindlessly to the palate pleasing pleasure of chips. Crisp, salty, explosive shards of pomme de terre- there is something deliciously attractive about eating food “ought not to” as breakfast fare. Whether it is too much dulse on the brain or the hypnotic lure of Ferran, this culinary curiosity has me revved and ready and just a little giddy for my ensuing meal.

You see several times before I have watched with the agitated nervousness of a new mother while various friends struggled to cook, flip and slide an unruly potato cake into neat and stacked submission. As I recall, these scenes involved disturbing amounts of oil, smoky pans and increasingly perspiring brows, not to mention stodgy recalcitrant potato pieces with no desire to join the fun. After all that angst and trouble with barely mediocre results I simply accepted that tortilla was one of those foods best left for the competent hands of a Galician cook. Yet hearing that 4 eggs swished around with some stock and a handful of chips, later united with a verdant pool of olive oil just beginning to shimmer promises a tapas capable of conjuring warm Spanish hospitality with a hint of wit and a twist of flair, my curiosity was stoked and my pre-prepared potatoes purchased.

In the end I ate a beautiful tortilla golden crisp at certain edges, streaming like a high noon sun. My plate’s appearance showed the same spirited exuberance that went into the dream and execution of my food: lusty dollops of aioli amidst heavy handed swatches of ketchup and wild hacks of egg. It appeared as though a young child had been at play, let loose and abandoned. But to admit another truth, the potatoes were strangely dry and desperate like the dehydrated ones found in a boxed gratin mix. While I enjoyed the process and reveled in mounting anticipation, I inwardly slumped dejected at my first disappointing bite. I thought about the various sundry things that tickle our passions and rouse our rise pulling us out of sleepy familiarity. I considered that dreaded question set forth by an old professor which still reverberates within my head this many years later, "In the end, does it pass the so-what test?" Indeed, it was worth it- one sees something on every journey long or short. While I didn’t quite make it to the coast of Spain this time around, I rediscovered my love of aioli and felt the delicious thrill of wonder rise and capture me again.

Tortilla De Patates according to Ferran Adrià: In The New Spanish Table where I found this recipe, Anya von Bremzen says to use a good quality supermarket chip (Ferran suggests ones cooked in olive oil), even Lay’s works. This might have been my fatal flaw since I used Kettle baked chips. I was not fully committed to the process. I think I may have soaked the chips too long as well. Too long, you lose the crunch, not long enough and they are too dry?

Ingredients:
Olive oil
1 small onion, quartered and sliced thin
3 oz. of potato chips cooked in olive oil, lightly crushed
6 eggs
2 Tblsp chicken stock
Coarse salt

Directions: Fry up the onion in a bit of olive oil over a medium high non stick 8” skillet. Cook until soft. In a bowl mix eggs, stock, and salt until well combined and then stir in potato chips and onions. Set for about 5 to 10 minutes. Heat up skillet again on medium high and put 5 teaspoons of olive oil in. When the oil is hot pour the egg mixture in. Use a spatula to push all of the potatoes flat. Reduce the heat to medium low and run the spatula around the rim of the pan while shaking the pan to prevent sticking. After about 6 minutes or when the eggs at the surface look moist but not too runny, place a plate larger than the skillet right side down, atop the pan. Quickly invert the tortilla onto the plate. If the pan is too dry add more olive oil before quickly sliding the egg back in wet side down. Use your spatula to push all bits back in place and lower the heat. Cook the tortilla a few minutes more or until toothpick inserted comes out clean. Invert again onto a plate and blot off excess oil. Cool and cut tortilla in wedges serving aioli on the side.

Wicked...

2007-07-03T17:53:00.000-04:00

My introduction was far from pleasant. I was in bed defenseless the first time I tasted whoopie pie, pieces shoved into my unsuspecting mouth. Strange to recall now, yet disturbingly true. I was too thin and in need of fattening up, she was going through a bad time and needed an excuse to buy decadent treats. J_ my irrepressibly loud attendant, the one with the gravelly smoker’s voice and Boston accent, the woman who wore leopard print velour leggings and entered my quiet home and tranquil mornings with the cacophonic slam and crash of bags, purses, and every possible moving thing held me captive with a sweet tooth she kept foisting onto me to share.

Key lime mousse torte, ricotta filled cannoli, pumpkin cheesecake, quick breads made from too much zucchini and an overload of nervous energy, all this and more kept filing past my kitchen counter at a mind numbing insulin raising clip. In spite of being near buried by an avalanche of sugar, I could not help noticing her propensity for whoopie pies: mom and pop corner store ones, puffy commercially produced synthetically filled ones; softball shaped and sized ones, even holiday themed ones. In instinctual defense I turned inside myself like a hermit crab shutting off to any possibility for full-on whoopie appreciation. Until recently-- from gentler hands, upright and in the mood, a re-introduction to this hand held confection had me swooning and righting myself round again.

Whoopie pies simply are the stuff of kids’ dreams. Two fetchingly soft and sloped chocolate cookies good naturedly cradle a satiny white cream filling to produce something ‘tween a cookie and a cake. While these quintessential New England treats somewhat resemble the Hostess Suzy –Q’s of lunchbox fame, its over-the-top size, taste and texture wins discerning fans respectably mature and youthful alike.

Though relatively new to this down home comfort food, it clearly answers a call put forth long ago when I was young, unbridled and hungry. Then it seemed as if I was always scanning the horizon for something immeasurably sweet to make up for the boredom of everyday food consumption and the exhaustive efforts of constant play. As well, I wanted more- and lots of it. I was calculating and angling eternally for the bigger piece of pie, stretching my fingers broad to grab a heftier handful of cookies. I willed myself to enjoy adult bitter chocolate since it would increase the consumable yield of my Halloween stash by some small fraction. Loyal only to quenching my hunger, even taste occasionally needed to take a backseat to quantity.

And then there was cake. Better than saltines and Ritz crackers. Better than Millbrook bread, staple of my youth. Serving to serving, loftier than cookies, fatter than brownies, more filling than pie, I preferred cake. This was my food of deliverance. While the holy host, dry and stale wafer is the living body of Christ wedding one to eternal life, soft moist cake embraces the here and now and celebrates every day life on humbler ground. It is warm inviting hug, the promise and hope of lazy summer days. It is the sigh and fulfillment of things wanted, besides leaving a sweet lingering taste behind.

So whoopie pies are the wild uncompromising love children between wholesome if not moderate cake and irresponsibly sweet, drunk-on-vanilla filling. If eaten correctly, hands and cheeks will be dappled and smudged with chocolate crumb stained cream and euphoric feelings will gradually take over rendering one useless for serious matters. These chocolate gobs should not be eaten alone (unless fatally depressed, then it may be advisable to eat two) but amidst jovial company and with chasers of milk. They should never be miniaturized into degrading versions of their jolly ample self. They are the epitome of sweet generosity, innocence and delicious fun. And here in these parts, that translates into being wicked… wicked good that is.

Whoopie Pies makes 4 pies which feeds 16 average eaters and 8 hungry ones: I went straight to the “best of” source, Mr. Christopher Kimball himself. This recipe comes directly from a Kitchen Detective article. His strategy was to produce two very distinct components. The cake-ish cookie was to be moist, yet substantial enough to withstand firm hand pressure without crumbling apart. He also didn’t use vanilla or too much sugar, so that the cake would stand in contrast to the filling which generously uses both. The filling needed to be fluffy yet have enough body so that bites would not send the insides oozing dangerously out the sides. All in all the pies were pretty wonderful. The filling is the best I have ever had. The whoopie pies were worth eating for this alone. Next time I would add 2 oz. of melted unsweetened chocolate to the batter, to intensify the flavor. Note: I did subsequently make these with the additional chocolate and it was better. I ended up altering the butter/confectionery sugar slightly from the original posting as well.

Ingredients for the cookie:
½ C whole milk
½ C Dutch process cocoa
2 oz. unsweetened chocolate
1 C sugar
1 stick unsalted butter
2 large eggs
1 ¾ C all-purpose flour
¾ tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt

Filling:
1 1/4 stick unsalted butter at room temperature
1 3/4 confectioners’ sugar
2 C Marshmallow Fluff
¼ tsp. salt
1 ½ tsp. vanilla

Directions: For the cakes, preheat oven to 350. Place parchment on 2 cookie sheets and set aside. Make a slurry with the milk and cocoa in a small pan. Turn heat onto medium, add sugar, unsweetened chocolate and butter mixing until melted. Turn off heat and let the mixture sit for ten minutes. Add both eggs to the cooled chocolate and blend until mixture is shiny. Sift dry ingredients in an electric mixer bowl and add the chocolate. Blend on low until just mixed. Scrape down sides and increase speed to medium for about 90 seconds. Spoon about 4 tablespoons of mixture into a mound on the parchment. Leave 2 inches of space around the cookie. 4 similar size cookies per sheet. Repeat on the next cookie sheet. Bake in oven for approximately 8 -10 minutes until toothpick comes out clean. Do not overbake! Cool.

Meanwhile make the filling. Whip butter at medium speed for about 1 minute. Add sugar on low until incorporated. Increase speed to medium high and whip until light and fluffy for about 3 minutes. Add the Fluff, salt, and vanilla and whip an additional minute or so. Refrigerate. To assemble the whoopie pies, flip over 4 discs so that the flat sides are up. Slather the filling equally between the 4 discs and top with the remaining cookies. Cover loosely and refrigerate to help hold shape. After an hour serve or wrap them individually in saran wrap. Enjoy with a big glass of milk.

Destination Dulse

2007-06-25T19:47:00.000-04:00

“Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.” – Loren Eiseley

Who would guess that in spite of sitting in the middle of an almost land locked state relieved by a mere 18 miles of coastal water; I am nevertheless, hopelessly out to sea? Imagine this beautiful surreal image, a glinting semi- translucent Neptunian palm enticing me with seductive twirls and waves of magenta. Palmaria palmata, sea parsley, or to-the-point Dulse has a hypnotic hold on me and I am not sure if I have ever walked about on firm ground. For the last few weeks I have been frolicking with the inhabitants of the intertidal zone in an aquatic Pas de Deux. I have been eating straggles of dried dulse straight and uninterrupted, out of the bag.

The seaweed in this form is a rather forgettable version of its former supple self. It is dulled down raisin brown and crumpled like wads of tobacco. Perhaps this dried sea vegetable could be unfavorably compared to forgotten snatches of tissue found in the remote corner of one’s pant pocket. The odor is strong to be sure- salty, deep and resonant. The smell matches its old and musty appearance. And while at first experience this sensory assault can be off putting, there is a deeper story within.

Seaweeds are majestic plant like organisms of the sea which help sustain life on earth. These macro-algae located more or less in the region where the water hits the land along with microscopic free floating phytoplankton (micro-algae) convert sunlight into cellular growth, which in turn feed zooplankton and other marine animals higher up the food chain. Seaweeds are highly adapted to sustain themselves in the aqua environment in which they live. Possessing neither roots nor stems nor leaves, these weeds-of-the-sea choose strongholds, stipes, and blades. In order to keep up with the pulse of tide and the pound of surf and wave, these algae are hearty enough to withstand a wild ride yet exceedingly flexible so that they can thrash about without endangering themselves. Even their slippery mucilaginous surfaces assist to reduce friction caused by the non stop rollick of the sea. On top of being adaptive and nutritionally supportive to life, seaweeds provide mesmerizing beauty and much needed shelter. Dancing underwater sea leaves are the physical embodiment of rolling liquid ripples, prismatic swells, and cyclonic twists. In large formations this seemingly delicate vegetation creates impressive feathery nests and shadowy forested canopies to protect tiny crustaceans, invertebrates, fish and marine mammals big and small.

Therefore it is no surprise that upon land, seaweed is physically and emotionally supportive to human life as coastal communities around the world have long known. It has been used as food, medicine and fertilizer since the earliest of times. Sea vegetables contain high amounts of fiber, protein, minerals, vitamins and enzymes. And given that they nourish the heart, improve immune function, assist digestion, repair tissue, remove toxins, build bones, feed the endocrine system, sooth the nervous system, encourage luxurious hair and skin growth, and increase stamina, it is a wonder that we don’t eat this healthful life giving food 24-7.

Decidedly dark, briny, and “of the sea”, seaweed has a distant familiar taste. Iron tinged like blood, tangentially vegetal- I dare assert the flavor is primordial and this may be the root of some aversion. There is wildness to it; a power, a stripped to the marrow quality that pulsates too nakedly for some. And this is precisely the reason why it is so nourishing. The food is born of the fertile union between ocean and sun. The taste contains the tang of salt, verve and resolute will. It also hauntingly reminds us of the comfort, buoyant rocking and nurturance of our first amniotic homes.

In the end, seaweed is good for much more than sushi. While it may start out seeming exotic, strange and slimy, the rotting detritus of an ebbing tide; in little time seductive sea leaf will call out in gradually larger shouts. It will first appear in soups and chowders before sneaking into grains, beans and salads. Egad, in time you may discover your cheeks suspiciously bulging with an indiscreet mouthful of sea jerky. Wind in your hair, sand between your toes, another lost refugee has at last come home.

DL(A)T, makes one sandwich: This is standard back of the seaweed package recipe. Dulse is an umami rich food and is entertainingly reminiscent of bacon when roasted. While I find this to be true I am also well aware that in certain veggie loving, health conscious groups there is a lot of substituting/reframing going around. Brewer’s yeast, flax seeds, cashews, tofu, miso etc. can be blitzed and doctored to act like eggs and cheese. Nevertheless, I find this sandwich to be so good that I must exclaim its virtue just about every other bite. It is better with avocado too.

Ingredients:
Handful of Dulse
Lettuce leaf
Sliced Tomato
Sliced Avocado (optional)
Mayonnaise
Sprouted or Whole grain bread

Directions: Take a small skillet on medium and place your dulse on the hot pan. Out of the bag dulse is dark purplish brown, leathery with a touch of moistness to it. With a bit of roasting the seaweed turns crisp and somewhat brown. Be careful because an inattentive eye will lead to burned dulse quickly. Lightly spread mayo on both slices of bread. Press roasted dulse into one side, the sliced tomatoes, lettuce, and avocado if desired. Then top with the other bread and cut in half since this tends to get messy.

A Fungi in the Kitchen

2007-06-17T16:11:00.000-04:00

“Mushrooms are like men- the bad most closely counterfeit the good.” Gavarni

Jaunty cap rakishly off center, pungent otherworldly odor, single minded stalk rising from the depths of Hades- mushrooms captivate. Whether conjuring up childhood fantasies tucked within the bewitching illustrations of Arthur Rackham’s dreamscape, stumbling upon a few sleeping beauties cozy against the forest floor, or dining on buttery Beef Wellington swaddled in a Duxelles blanket of luxury, mushrooms offer winsome charm as well as dark humor*, elegant rusticity, and knowing wisdom gained through mutuality.

My appreciation for fleshy spore-producing fungi stemmed from my yonder years combing through a thin stand of trees which ribboned past my backyard demarcating home and allegiance, propriety and things feral, suburbia saddled against the great unknown. This forested strip provided nutritive fodder for another education and wandering imagination. Polypores, puff balls, and clustered honey hued specimens proliferated from shadowy dank corners, proof of a well maintained ecosystem, invisible handshakes deep into the night.

Yet like pictures of partially unraveled mummies in Britannica or the unexpected discovery of a writhing silk bag of tent worms, fungi both fascinated and repelled me. No small part due to the company they kept: pill bug infested logs, rotting leaves, nefarious trolls and poison tongued frogs. Hesitantly I poked at live spongy flesh which exuded the natural damp glow of perspiration. They looked rather like disembodied parts, cherubic cheeks and bottoms or perhaps cartilaginous ears dead and partially buried. Earthy, rank, feeding off the dead, mushrooms-of-the-forest looked nothing like the pristine white buttons slivered upon my Gino & Joe’s pizza and at the end of the day I was divided.

But this strip was a liminal space where the natural world amplified and sang its marvelous tune. In the end, that which was remarkable, extraordinary and beautiful began to show itself in every face, angle and turn. The concentric rings of shelf fungus mimicked the strong interiority of a slow growing tree. Razor thin gills, soft as down feathers radiated its graceful symmetry, under carriage to an umbrella perfect for tiny woodland characters. Perhaps most importantly, fungus helped me to look more unflinchingly at death, as another phase in the cycle of life to be transformed and ritualistically fed to the next in line.

The forest was my first playground and the fungi world reigned supreme with its diminutive but powerful stature. All that was hinted at only became more evident as an adult ready to appreciate its many uses. Otzi the Iceman (circa 3300 B.C.) was discovered with two species of polypores on his body presumably to use medicinally and to make fire. Scientists are now confirming what ancient cultures knew about the health benefits of mushrooms like Reishi, Cordycep, and Maitake. Certain mushrooms have also been used in religious and ecstatic rites because of their abilities to induce a hallucinogenic state. Think of the potently cheery Amanita muscaria which has been burned into our consciousness through fairy tales and legends. Yet again we can also turn to the transformative magic of yeast and mold mixed in with foods to create breads, brews, cheeses and pickles. Not to mention the sensuous enjoyment of truffles, chantrelles, shitakes and even the common button mushroom. More recently with the help of visionaries like mycologist Paul Stamets we can learn from our fungi friends about their impact upon our ecosystems in the relatively new fields of mycofiltration or mycoforestry.

These handsome fellows are symbiotic creatures whose survival skills depend upon exchange and communication with the environment. Like good boy scouts they leave the place better than they came- which is something that is becoming more urgent for us to learn. Not just fun or exquisite to look at, these guys have depth and diversity (mycelium spread far and wide) and embody an earthy sensuality. For me eating mushrooms is a bit like a sacrament, food for the gods but one still bound to the ground. Like the persimmon which Persephone ate upon entering the underworld which kept her tethered for all of eternity, fungi keep us intimately wedded to all of the cycles and spheres of life. And that is good enough reason to appreciate a fungi in the kitchen from time to time.

Seven Generation Salad: This is my submission to Lis and Kelly's Salad-Stravaganza. I heartily stand behind anyone’s desire to improve their health, win back vitality and gain some killer legs to boot. Good foods are both healing and soulful at the same time. Appropriately this salad includes shitake mushrooms which are anti-viral, anti-bacterial, and help to improve cholesterol, blood sugar, and stress levels. On the macrocosm, fungi can assist in creating good health in the body and blood of our planet.

Ingredients:
Baby watercress, butter lettuce, torn radicchio cleaned and dried
Paul & Dusty’s Killer Shitake Recipe (below)
Roasted Poblano Chili, cut into strips
Corn
Crumbles of goat cheese
Toasted Hazlenuts
Virginia's Dressing (below)

Directions: Place a full pile of greens in a pretty bowl. Lightly toss a few tablespoons of Virginia's Dressing onto the greens to dress. Use a delicate hand; do not over saturate the lettuce as there are plenty of flavors in the salad. Assemble the remaining ingredients on top and enjoy.

Paul & Dusty’s Killer Shiitake Recipe:This is an adaptation of a recipe off of Paul Stamet’s website. I have fussed and played around with this recipe and have determined it is unbelievably good with almost any variation in proportion. Just make sure to use shitakes.

Ingredients:
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. toasted sesame oil
4 Tbsp. tamari/ Braggs Liquid Aminos
2 Tbsp apple cider or 1 tsp. mirin
1 clove of crushed garlic
Pinch of fresh black pepper
Big handful of shitake, cleaned and de-stemmed

Directions: Shake all ingredients in a jar and pour over whole Shitake mushroom caps, gill side up. Mushrooms should look well oiled. Mix around and put on a baking sheet to bake at 350 degrees for about 30-45 minutes or until roasted with lightly charred edges. Alternately you can grill these. Set aside a few to throw into the Seven Generations Salad above.

Virginia’s Dressing: This is a light basic dressing, as lovely as the lady who shared it with me.
Ingredients:
½ C neutral oil like grapeseed
¼ C rice vinegar
Tablespoon tamari
Tablespoon of maple syrup (or more to taste)
1-3 clove crushed garlic (to taste)

Directions: Shake all ingredients in a jar. Use a few tablespoons for the salad above. Refrigerate the rest for another time.

*Please be careful if foraging for wild mushrooms, be sure to go with someone knowledgable!

Cook 'Em Before They Leap

2007-05-30T19:52:00.000-04:00

There is quiet teeming life close to the ground which almost remained a lost secret. I had been otherwise engaged, bounding towards the sky eating bales of arugula and kale, filling a sudden burgeoning appetite for tender spicy greens. Summer is here in a hustle and every day, all of life pops, springs and bounds. My vision, my experience is located about two feet and up, and is expansive and soft- the result of hot slow sun penetrating fractals of leaves.

So I can be excused for momentarily forgetting fiddleheads, those odd froggy curls of emerald. I neglected those majestic Paleozoic ammonites, living breathing fossils crowning their unearthly heads through dense stream side moss mat. My eyes were busy surveying the trees and bushes aflame with swaying movement. I have been lost in the damp pink furl of azalea blossoms, drunk on lilacs, out of my mind.

Just as simple, the arrival of plucked and bagged fern fronds brought me down and in. In my hand these handsome unicursal whorls are alphabet from another world. To decode these glyphs, I start with a sniff that brings scent and sense from earth under. Crawling on all fours, shimmying over root and rot brings small understanding to this ancient plant. Muck, decaying leaves, the sweet acrid smell of dampness, and the cush of moss draw intimate tucked-in environment for the emerging tender scrolls of the venerable stately Ostrich fern.

For short moment in time, just a sigh in Matteuccia struthiopteris’s life cycle and somewhere ‘tween April and May, tight coils of green poke through the fecund soil as gift from another realm. These one inch spirals are potent symbolic and nutritive DNA. They are coveted jewels to foragers, cooks and curious eaters alike. Similar to the charged moment when an archer draws back his arrow with increasing measured purpose, fiddleheads contain pure potentiality- the entire spectrum of spiral’s curl, unfurl and release. And you can imagine it. Early in the season these croziers are wound up tight, shiny and verdant green. As the days move on the captured curls loosen and laze out, even get a bit flabby upon an elongated woody stem. However, free in their natural habitat, the ferns become leggy adolescents before striking a dramatic pose in full formed glory.

The consumption of these beautiful gems is a greatly anticipated late spring time ritual and treat in New England. Beyond being visually stunning, the fiddlehead’s labyrinthine form is deeply embedded in nature’s playground and reminder of secrets which may always remain so. Potent, playful and wild they encourage me to wrangle around in the mud and express exuberant behavior. Delicate and asparagus-like, crisp and “of wood and stream”, unique yet archetypal; there is no good excuse not to fiddle around with Fiddleheads.

Weekend Fiddle Part I approx. 3 servings: I was looking for a simple way to showcase these sprouts. Asparagus made an obvious partner. I happen to keep slices of bacon on hand in my freezer which makes it easy to saw off chunks as needed. The fat from the bacon seemed like perfect seasoning to compliment fiddle’s wildness. Butter, salt and pepper? Of course.

Ingredients:
1 ½ C fiddleheads, ends trimmed and papery chaff removed
1 bunch of asparagus, ends trimmed and cut into 1 ½” pieces
1 clove of garlic, minced
A few chunks of bacon
A pat of butter
Egg
Coarse Sea Salt and Black Pepper
Chopped chives with or without blossoms

Directions: Get a heavy pan, medium hot and ready. Throw the bacon in and when it gets browned and crisp, introduce the garlic. Add the fiddleheads and asparagus and sauté until medium crisp. I covered mine with a lid, and gave things a good stir every now and then. Add a bit of water to steam sauté if things are getting too dry. When the vegetables are done to your liking, stir in some butter and add a few grinds of salt and pepper. Cook an egg over easy separately. Place veggies in a shallow bowl and slide egg on top, garnish with chives.

Leftovers were thrown into a simple frittata to make Weekend Fiddle Part II. This frittata/omelet looked like a fossil with the fiddlehead spirals captured in egg, but it tasted simply delightful and fresh, as well as being pleasing to look at.

Salad Sundae or Medusa on a Plate

2007-05-22T20:35:00.001-04:00

This week I casually glanced down at my dinner plate in flavor sensation rapture turned amusement. Part of me cleaved off from my pleasure to stand neutral at the feast set before me. I spied an ugly unapologetic pile of stuff, indiscernible muddy bits which when stared at too long became vaguely off putting. I’ve seen the effect of this sort of meal before on those around me, the confounded distraction, the unsubtle glances upon my plate, all while attempting to maintain level eye contact. I try to put an end to the mounting curiosity and unconscious suffering by brightly announcing, “I am eating salad.”

Oh sure there was a time when I ate reasonable polite salads, a moment when I crunched upon watery iceberg chunks and pale wedges of cellophane tasting tomato in a fogged Wishbone slumber. But everything changed when unrefined twelve year old me outfitted in white ruffled peasant dress, Dorothy Hamill-Farrah haircut hybrid, and cork wedges hopped onto a plane headed for the bright lights and electricity of Los Angeles. Amidst 14K jewelry, the importance of a good sun tan, newly pierced ears and incessant talk about weight loss, I learned about Californian cuisine. A special midnight feast of salad which boasted among other things, black tinned olives and slivers of carrot, sweet corn and cheese thrilled me with obvious sophistication. My world widened upon noticing this subtle siren call and turning point- salads became alluring and positively chic.

And garden greens took over the American diet with an enthusiastic roar of Ranch dressing and halleluiah of pink-pork bacon bits, the buttery richness of avocado seduced while the convenience of chunked up rotisserie chicken practically created a new eating phenomenon. I followed along with each trend, all too happy to endorse healthy, fresh and more. But somewhere along the way I took a serious detour. I became unrestrained, unbridled and over-the-top, giving new interpretation to this meal on a plate. Initially it was due to giving my vegetal ventures romantic names like: The Rites of Spring salad or Midsummer Night’s Fool. Partly it was a demand to make my meals “nutritiously dense”. No simple cuke-n-shoot toss up was going to make the grade in my house. Maybe it was because I was too crude to deal with the delicacy of lamb’s quarters or that I liked the complex, rag tag freedom of crazy quilts. I also felt deprived and peevish at the thought of small portions and rallied against unloved and discarded foodstuff. For these reasons and more my salads began to spread and grow from side plate to center stage, at times even demanding to be placed into giant bowl. My salad morphed into a shaggy unkempt topiary of leftovers- a sundae of Monday’s, Tuesday’s, and Thursday’s.

It started innocently enough. Chop up that funny side of ham, throw in the stir-fry and noodle! I justified that scrambled eggs on top of lettuce made sense, wasn’t it just protein after all? All previous unwritten rules about good taste, appearance and decency were cast out in favor of emptying out a cache of barely filled Tupperware to create something fresh, improvisational and new. Indian chickpeas parked next to cubes of Italian frittata, mouthfuls of lasagna lazed by a sop of sauerkraut, roasted sweet potatoes bantered with feisty pickle chips. Intoxicating and thrilling, the layers of flavor, ethnicity, attitude and disposition mark and make themselves known.

And while the results are never pretty, they also never fail to charm me. This world set before me is singing adventure. What I think I know about meatloaf changes when set against the still life of another day’s composition and a mad flurry of other ingredients. Overlaps and intersections are the name of the game and without jest I assert that my salad sundaes are generous exercise in being with and ultimately seeing-- not to mention great excuse to eat more greens.

Carrie’s Kumari Curry Dressing makes about 1-1/2 C: Adapted from The Ancient Cookfire by Carrie L’Esperance

This is a potent salad dressing which announces its presence. I find it quite unusual and not easy to pin down. Because of this, it is perfect libation to pour over a medley of related or unrelated things. While years of eating these strange concoctions have built up my stomach, I encourage you to explore the possibilities. This week’s sundae looked like this: arugula, sour chickpeas, chopped garden burger, tiny mozzarella balls, cubed frittata with sundried tomatoes, olives and broccoli rabe, pickles, avocado, cucumber, tomatoes and this dressing. Pure Heaven! Another time I swapped out the legumes and burger and put in cubed lasagna, smoked tofu and turkey loaf. Strange and delectable.

Ingredients:
1/3 C olive oil
1/3 C flaxseed/ hempseed oil
1 large garlic clove peeled
1 ½ tsp curry powder
1 tsp dried dill
7 chopped fresh mint leaves
3 Tblsp chopped fresh parsley
1 Tblsp capers
¼ C aloe vera juice/gel (lemon juice, apple cider vinegar)
3 Tblsp plain yogurt
1 Tblsp Braggs Liquid Aminos or Tamari
1 tsp maple syrup

Directions: Blitz in a blender, adjust for any seasonings, and set aside an hour to allow the flavors to improve. Refrigerate after spooning onto your salad sundae.

Impeccable Potatoes

2007-05-14T18:25:00.000-04:00

Biting into a hot crusty chunk of potato tattooed with cumin seeds, I had a clear moment of seeing. There was something tight, precise about the relationship between the two that heightened the understanding of each other. The seared heat and baiting earthy fragrance in tandem, allowed the potato to reveal itself: modestly alluring, moist yet remotely dusty, sweet humble sister of the earth. By the time the remaining ingredients were added and intermittent samples taken, a single thought became clear. These potatoes made me want to be a better person.

Now I am not the sort of person who tucks shirts into pants, nor do I embrace the perfection of white which in any gradation displays tell tale tumbles and misadventures with food. Persnickety details and lofty goals which dogged me in my youth have almost all slid off of me, now ignoring me completely. This odd thought, this declaration which I sounded out first in my head in astonishment and then aloud as if to break the vacuum of a dream, held me under loose spell all week. In truth, the idea of my food counseling me towards higher levels of enlightenment had me a bit unsettled. Was this simply a dramatic flourish, an example of culinary hyperbole?

Inextricable from this dish, heart and center is dear friend J_ who lovingly and laboriously prepared Bhutta aur aloo ki mazedar tarkari alongside lamb with onions, sweet and sour okra, spicy green beans, fried aubergine slices, coriander chutney, Gujerati carrot salad and raita for my first authentic Indian feast. This extraordinary potato side dish was so eye-batting, jaw dropping good it sent me running to the store anxious to buy Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking so that I could relive the ecstasy ad infinitum in the privacy of my lair. But these decorated spuds were really just the crowning star of a whole unseen universe which her friendship richly opened to me. A world traveler, dancer and seeker, Hawaiian born and raised, and lover of inordinately small purses, J_ moved about in poised grace yet relaxed naturalness. Her broad accessible humor, gentle probing intelligence and insight, as well as curiosity always seemed to bring her to new shores whether traversing chocolate drenched fruitcake, conjuring Mexican mole or sharing Cuban black beans. Unwittingly at the table I became travel mate beside her exploring unknown and colorful territories. This week a bubble of time opened up to me revealing a buffet of moments and meals woven together in the delicious span of our friendship. Deeper beyond the contentment of a belly long sated, is the value of opening to new worlds and wearing a rainbow of different perspectives. J_ showed me how to love the world more, through first loving its food.

Further out from this bubble, I consider this extended moment of time, this blink of at least eight years- as a gift, enduring in thought and memory yet ultimately not materially permanent. And this realization which I’ve examined before, only takes on more weight with each revisit. There is something beautiful and poignant, terrifying and potent about the transience of life and its moving inner workings. And it is easy to be struck with this simple truth in the slow amorphous end of a friendship. Long ago as a student this awareness nudged my sleepy corners and pierced me with insight. I needed to open up to the moment: to newness, strangeness, bigness, badness and weirdness. I needed to dissolve my periphery, any vestige of shell holding me back from experience and become one giant eye, thumping heart, hungry tongue, and reciprocal touch; simply whatever is needed. I remember and I forget all over again. And those lustrous pearls of events, people and place glide silently past the strand of time. That is what those potatoes make me think of.

And undeniably, those potatoes stop me dead in my tracks while I hold my breath in feeble attempt to hold onto live ecstatic sensation. They rattle my small world; shake up everything I think I know about starchy stubby tubers. In their own quiet way, they electrify me. It may be the double layered pow of heat achieved by up front, top-note, fruity cayenne pepper blended with the grassy tones of jalapeno. Or perhaps it is the swing of lemon or the curvaceous sway of coconut. Maybe it is the way that mustard seeds and cumin mingle, deepen and ground those potato bits low before the medley of corn, mint and cilantro brighten and take this dish to flight. These potatoes are simply- impeccable. And for these few reasons and probably half a dozen more, make me want to show up completely, for this meal and for thousands more.

Sweetcorn and Potatoes with Mustard Seeds and Mint/ Bhutta aur aloo ki mazedar tarkari serves 4- adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cooking

Ingredients:
3 Tblsp vegetable oil
½ tsp mustard seeds
¼ tsp cumin seeds
1 clove garlic, chopped
1 large potato approx 5 oz. parboiled and cut into 1/3” dice
3 plum tomatoes diced and seeded
4 Tblsp finely chopped cilantro
3 Tblsp finely chopped mint
½ jalapeno, seeded and chopped
1 ½ C fresh/frozen corn
1/3 C coconut milk
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
1 Tblsp lemon juice
Fresh ground black pepper
2 tsp ground roasted cumin seeds

Directions: Put the oil into a non stick frying pan over medium high heat. When hot, put mustard and cumin seeds in and then the garlic and potato at the point the seeds pop. Fry until the potatoes turn golden and crisp. Put tomatoes, cilantro, mint, and jalapeno in next and fry for about 2 additional minutes. Next put in the corn, coconut milk, salt, cayenne pepper, and lemon juice. Stir and bring to a simmer, covered for about 3 minutes. Uncover and add black pepper and the ground cumin seeds. Taste and tweak until desired balance is achieved.

Rebel and Revel

2007-05-06T16:03:00.000-04:00

The rhubarb has been quietly imploring me to pick it up for the past two weeks, but I haven’t been ready. I shrug my shoulders in mock indifference, but really I am still climbing out of winter. While it is true that we have left the vernal equinox shore a month plus out, in this northern most part of the country the weather has been strange and stodgy and I still prefer to keep my toes toasty, buffered from the imagined elements under a blanket of down. Outside the harbingers of warm weather have been steadily flaunting their arrival: the first red breasted robin is now heavily ensconced within throngs of song, brave tulip heads have surfaced, blossomed and beaming, and the night time peepers chirp their raucous tunes—it may be high time to finally let go of the braises, the gruels and stomach warming stews.

Slow to start and unused to the light I’ve veered towards muted tastes and tones. I’ve nibbled on baby lettuce, groped cauliflower and fumbled towards fennel all the while staying clear away from anything signaling assertion and verve. Unassuming they lay in oblong wicker baskets, strangers in a foreign land uneasy between the endive and the lemongrass: the striated strumpet, be wary- the alone and self possessed rhubarb.

Even the pronunciation of its very name suggests drama and a hint of irony. An ever-so-slight pucker, a full mouthed enthusiastic and canine, “Rooo!” followed by immediate slam and reprimand, a pinch and jab- “barb”. Stabs of scarlet color invade my vision, tear through my quieted world and demand to be reckoned with. One might think of gingham checkered dresses, blue ribbon pies and fields of golden sunflowers but think again, the tart vegetable “pie plant” with the monstrously huge poisonous leaves started out as both laxative and liver purge and originally hailed from Asia. The conversion from medicine to dessert, revulsion to revel has been relatively recent and probably hinged one small part upon our human need for instigation and a little contradiction.

Saliva inducing and sour, rhubarb reminds me of what it is like to be a kid and dip my tongue into unflavored strawberry Kool-aid. The allure is similar to the addictive sweet and sour draw of sour patch candies. This vegetable that poses as fruit whets our appetites and cleanses the palate for something new. And like all good things, is a little contrary. Firm stringy stalks are relatively substantial yet cook down into a saucy puddle. And its vibrant racy color whimpers down into a hush. Rhubarb is purgative all the while whispering sweet seduction in the language of pies, compotes, and crumbles.

Finally I’m ready to shake up and move out of my uncomfortable quarters, open and explore. This week I’m taking the lead from this saucy gal in honor of May Day, the first days of summer. May you rebel and revel in rhubarb and Roo the Day.

“I’ve-Seen-the-Light” Breakfast of Champions, serves 4: The concept started with the cooked stalks. I couldn’t decide what dessert to put it into and before long was staring at a rather runny sauce. The sauce demanded to be put upon a cloud of cream complete with lofty throne. I was thinking of clafoutis, cream puffs, popovers, waffles and then settled upon a puffy pancake á la Betty Crocker. The golden pedestal was easy and beautiful. In truth I have tasted better Dutch babies but was too delighted to really care.

INGREDIENTS:
Puffy Oven Pancake “Base”
2 Tblsp butter
2 large eggs
½ C all-purpose flour
½ C milk
¼ tsp salt
½ tsp vanilla

Rhubarb and Rose Compote
1 ½ C rhubarb diced
½ C sugar, might do a scant less next time
5 crushed cardamom pods
Water
Rose water to taste

Vanilla Ice cream/ whipped cream

Directions: Throw the rhubarb, sugar, cardamom pods together into a medium container. Fill just enough water to cover the stalks a bit less than half and cook at a gentle rumble. When the sauce reaches your desired consistency, take off the heat and fish out the spent pods. I left a few cardamom seeds in. Stir in rose water to taste and reserve. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Melt butter in a pie plate, making sure to thoroughly coat the sides. Beat eggs slightly in a medium bowl and then incorporate remaining pancake ingredients until just mixed. Do not over beat! Bake approximately 30 minutes until puffy and golden brown. Serve immediately with a decadent amount of vanilla ice cream/whipped cream and just warmed rhubarb and rose compote over top.

Sempre ubi sub ubi

2007-05-01T20:36:00.000-04:00

I couldn’t be more surprised and touched to read that Lis of La Mia Cucina nominated me for a Thinking Blogger Award. Coming from her this is a huge compliment. Lis is a generous food blogger who opened up her arms to me when I was fairly new on the block. She embodies unabashed celebration and enthusiasm for life and dishes it all up with a sly dose of humor. This honor happens to fall a little after my one year anniversary and is cause for reflection. Like a lot of food bloggers, I jumped in without much forethought. I accidentally stumbled upon my first blog in the desperate search for a lost peanut butter cookie recipe published in Saveur Magazine (99-01?) years before. I knew that I had to participate in spite of the fact that I had stopped literally cooking at least two years prior. For me, the blogosphere was “the new frontier”, a way to meet friends close and afar. Having recently left the west coast and being newly non-ambulatory, traditional meet and greet was an obstacle for me but the internet required neither passport nor particularly strong legs to cross borders.

My second intention for blogging was a bit more abstract. Simply put it was to be able to feed my own life and paint a poem of beauty. Callipygia is the pen name I chose to embody that spirit. It roughly translates to she-who-possesses-beautifully-shaped-buttocks. I do not-- but aspire to daily both literally and figuratively. Cooking has always been a metaphor about nourishment and desire and the appetite that leads the way to both. And the loss of mobility? What I have learned most from this ongoing lesson is that -Life is alive down to the smallest particle. That unassuming bit is always finding a way to express itself and magnify. This is what I hope the blog to be, a way to discover and join these various expressions together: a myriad of waving parts, micro-movement and joy into one digestible delight, we all need to eat!

Without further ado I express thanks and nominate a few fellow bloggers who add shimmering dimension to my world:

Gattina of Kitchen Unplugged- Imagination: She thinks and tastes with color and completely blows me away with her creations that pair unlikely ingredients. The world is her palette and I’ve always wondered if she has a legion of hungry eaters hiding within her apron pockets. Open minded with a hungry eye for detail, Gattina is a true artist.

Lydia of The Perfect Pantry- Catalyst: Her ingenious pantry item showcasings are like culinary flashcards. These building blocks become etched upon my mind serving as inspiration and reminder. Unwittingly she shows me that we each have our own “perfect pantry” and vast ability to share it with others. She makes learning natural and fun...and have you seen her kitchen?

Sher of What did you Eat?- Grace: Sher exudes an ease that comes from relaxation, balance and enjoyment (not to mention good ole’ Californian living). Her food seems to be an extension of that unspoken philosophy. While reading her blog I truly feel I am sitting within her garden/kitchen. Her blog is unspoken invitation to find the grace within my own life.

D-man of Sourdough Monkey Wrangler- Resourcefulness and creativity: I am a fan of whimsy and free spiritedness and D-man’s blog is loaded with it. Making salt…muffin money? Quick make a monkey line to SMW!

Freya and Paul of Writing at the Kitchen Table- Discovery: These two write a lively dialogue of their cooking adventures. They capture the joy and challenge of eating well all while maintaining humor, interest and a relationship. Process is the keystone to living and they remind me to keep on looking and learning.

Now that you've been nominated, get thinking...what five blogs make you think? Write about them with links and proudly display your award front center on your blog shelf.

Koo-Koo for Koosala

2007-04-30T17:50:00.000-04:00

The undercooked prawns
Quickly cause gastric distress,
But you get the blame.

-Disheartened diner

I had a cabbage epiphany, a slaw about-face standing in my kitchen mindlessly flipping through a cookbook one early summer afternoon. Like most conversion stories I was ready, soft beam of light focused upon me--underneath the surface, changes gently mounting for months before. I had wastefully spent years of my youth snubbing befuddled and undignified sops of cruciferous matter benched on the side of my plate segregated within its own shallow saucer. I hardly felt bad about it, while its presence seemed required at every barbeque, picnic or party centered on a buffet table, I have never seen anyone fawn or fuss over koolsala.

But Vegetarian Planet by Didi Emmons had me rethink this salad which I spent years avoiding. Super sized tubs of macaroni salad, coleslaw, and potato salad, the holy trinity of deli sides daubed with a yellowish film greasy and aged, never did much to excite me. Nor did the milky pool of humiliation which surrounded and suffused shreds of wilted cabbage and carrot arouse much more than sympathy. Can anyone eat something looking so pitiful and forlorn? Shall we burden the dish further with the factual reality that cabbage is both relatively inexpensive and durable and a quick rumble with a pair of uncouth hands translates into crude cheap chew?

A pickle slice draped
Across its curvaceous peak
Fails to seduce me

-Loveless and lonely

Emmons explains that coleslaw liberated from its cloying mayonnaise base is a wholly different and exciting breed. Her suggestion is to lighten up the dressing and think outside of the Brassica oleracea box. Consider-- a heavy handed dose of mayonnaise is about as becoming as showing up on a date with a face thickly covered in cold cream. Interesting initially perhaps, but quickly the mask obscures and finally detracts, leaving the other party uninterested and more than a little indifferent. Yet a romp with a light brisk dressing, a splashy shimmer of oil, lime juice and herbs conveys a more liberal and carefree tone. It might be equivalent to wearing a thin sheer bodysuit, inviting and revealing the shape and taste underneath.

In this Dionysian spirit, the color, taste and texture of ingredients is celebrated and glorified: radiant ribbons of radicchio bewitch a glad celebration of carrot confetti infectious with the charismatic crunch of jicama dancing the lively tango with ruddy red cabbage. Plucks of caper, jots of parsley, mint and chive, and a slow pucker whine of lime, festive little party favors entangled within this veritable vegetal jubilee.

And the enjoyment is contagious. First the making of slaw is artful improvisation at its best. A food processor fitted with a shredding blade literally makes the process almost too quick to digest. I would actually recommend saving it for at least your third time, so that you can properly sink into the hypnotic ribbon making rhythm. Select your most beautiful bowl preferably low, wide, and broad like a pair of generous welcoming arms. Equip yourself with a heavy sharp knife, steady cutting board and all the colorful crisp vegetables that strike your fancy. Remember a little goes a long way, particularly when it comes to hacking something solid into a bunch of bits.

Size matters. This absolutely translates into texture, mouth feel and how the dressing distributes over the ingredients. The difference between a cabbage strip one-quarter of an inch thick, an eighth, or a sixteenth is considerable. Hair thin cuts gives an admirable crunch but with a delicacy that enables the diner to work less for their meal. All focus can then be applied towards taste and appreciation, effort to a minimum. I pay attention to length- too long and pieces dangle distractedly out of one’s mouth, too short and the vegetable becomes a stub which is decidedly too inelegant to be considered. I also shy away from cubes which is better suited for a toy box rather than this salad.

After all of this fancy knife work is completed and a small colorful mountain remains, it is time to consider the dressing. I have found that this is a time to amplify the intensity; the hard vegetables can handle it. In fact they need it. Of course you can fall back upon a simple mustardy balsamic dressing, but I encourage you to explore and own your slaw. I actually like to whirl mine up in a blender, taste and tweak style. I am particularly fond of blurring up jalapeno, cilantro, mint, shallot, fish sauce, lime juice, brown sugar, apple juice and oil. After the dressing passes the taste test, drizzle all over the slaw, toss and wait.

By now you might be breathless from excitement: the relaxed but concentrated chopping, the artful dressing composition, the slivers luxuriating, steeping and in fact beautifying within its marinade. This salad is irrepressible joy and shiny health- I have yet to serve it to a friend without at least a mini slaw conversion occurring. To boot, it is addictive. I end up sneaking it into omelets, sandwiches, and on top of soups and salads, even colorful hanks as a snack. Don’t be surprised if it steals the show from your main course. It is a magnificently easy way to eat your vegetables and beautify your world at the same time. Who knows you just might become a little koo-koo for Koolsala too.

Make-Your-Own-Coleslaw: I hope this doesn’t provide too much grief to just produce a list. I guess when it came down to it, I had a hard time deciding which type to write down, so I let you decide. I tend not to use much more than 4 ingredients for the slaw. The dressing I tweak a bit, depending on the mood, a little sweet one day, more savory the next. It is all unscientific, adding a bit more of what is needed. Just dress little by little like a regular salad (no big puddles) and let it rest for at least two hours. The list is meant to broaden the scope beyond the typical cabbage, apple, carrot, mayonnaise, vinegar and mustard. Just cut as thin as possible and dream up the possibilities. Fennel, pear, red cabbage and golden raisin? Celery, radicchio, jicama and blue cheese? Green cabbage, apple, snap peas with a curry dressing?

Possible Slaw Fixings:
Green cabbage
Red cabbage
Radicchio
Fennel
Celery
Celery Root
Carrot
Apple
Pear
Sugar snap peas
Asparagus
Jicama
Water Chestnut
Bean Sprout (avoid alfalfa which tends to get soggy)
Scallions
Basil, mint, parsley, cilantro

Dressing:
Olive, flax, grapeseed, walnut oil
Balsamic, apple cider, champagne vinegar
Dijon, honey mustard, wasabi
Shallots
Garlic
Apple juice
Honey, maple syrup
Tamari, fish sauce
Lime juice, lemon juice, pomegranate molasses
Peanut butter, avocado, coconut milk, yogurt, mayonnaise (a spoonful can give the right body sometimes)
Jalapeno
Curry powder

Toppings:
Capers, chopped olives, toasted coconut, sesame seeds, currants, blue cheese

Cloisons Etanches

2007-04-22T17:27:00.000-04:00

It isn’t often that I wave the white flag and hang my head in submission to an overwhelmed system brought down by surfeit. It was the beans- circus colored pectin pumped sugar coated chews in vibrant flavors of a tropical fruit bowl. Had I stepped away from the jellies like good sense counseled, I would have been brought to a completely different turn in the road and I might now be discussing the virtues of oat bran. But with caution and reason thrown to the wind, I am now buried in the sugary residue of Easter past: glittery Peeps, Cadbury Cream Eggs, speckled mini eggs, foiled chocolates, jellybeans and bunny pops- a glut of goodies all crammed into my ever widening maw these past ten days. Trying to regain composure whilst ignoring the mounting jeers from the confectionary rabbits who have escaped a rapacious demise, I am working towards absolution. If the body is a temple, mine is a sugar shack.

Noticing the ebb and flow of appetite has been my way to stay in close contact with my animal self. While I trust my appetite to point me towards that which nourishes me, this information can occasionally still send me off kilter. For example this Easter with my basket aflutter with merriment, I completely gave in to the bright mirth filled colors and sweet innocence of the season. Over and over I was delighted by the gritty crunch of sugar against teeth as I bit into more jellybeans that I thought possible to eat. But the mounting jittery peak and crash of sugar levels, the high expectations and dashed hopes of mediocre meals, and various other trials and tribulations culinary and otherwise finally had me searching for my reboot button. Filled with crapulous insult and energetic fatigue from over stimulation brought on by mindless consumption, I found myself wanting to dissolve into the quiet of things and settle back into myself.

“We are entering a new era. The old categories are dead and gone, for we have passed over into a different world- a world in which I suggest we sensitize ourselves to what Levi-Strauss calls ‘entropology’ (as opposed to anthropology)- the notion of a people recognizing and exploring its own disorientation, its own disintegration, its own running down, and then finally, perhaps, its own possibilities.” T.C. McLuhan from The Way of the Earth

In spite of my internally frenzied state I was able to ferret out a thin appetite for something bland, smooth and voluminously nourishing. Jook, congee or rice porridge is a food which has grounded, nurtured and restored me in times of imbalance. Valued in Chinese medicine as being a simple healing food, the recipe can be tailored to suit the individual’s needs. Essentially rice and water are cooked for hours until most of the grain’s structural integrity dissolves into a starchy puddle. The nurture and nutrition of rice warms and fills the empty places within. With the help of a Chinese herbalist or mother, the medicinal value can be fortified with the addition of varied ingredients such as dried scallops, ginger, scallion, astragalus root, and jujube dates. For me, this expert was my acupuncturist who first helped orient me inward with the heightened awareness of a tracker. Slowly I began to pay attention to my body, discover the continuum and play of balance and even locate my own sources of nourishment and healing. Jook was one of those fundamental recipes ever bubbling within my pressure cooker in those early years. Today thankfully I can recognize this barren land of depletion and finally let go of the candy bowl, chocolate bunnies aside. It is time to re-establish connections neglected and lost- which includes the memory of this old recipe. The making and eating of jook is a ritual for me, a time honored intention to listen and participate with the quiet-loud world within.

Just Jook makes about 7 servings: This is a time to leave the MSG bouillons aside. We are including only the “cleanest” ingredients for this soothing porridge. The long cooking time makes for a food which when eaten allows the nutrition to be absorbed easily without requiring the body to work hard to digest it. I read on Rebecca Wood’s website that a minimum of three hours is needed to balance out the yin and yang energies of the ingredients. Consult a Chinese herbalist (I found this site to have interesting information about jook) if more information about the body’s energetic system is needed.

Ingredients:
Turkey carcass
Cold water
1 ½ C long grain brown rice
2 dried Shitake Mushroom
4 slices of ginger root
5 dried shrimp
3 garlic cloves coarsely chopped
1 large daikon radish grated
Salt
3 scallions finely chopped
Toasted sesame oil
Braggs Liquid Amino/ tamari
A grate of ginger root
Pickled turnip

Directions: Place turkey carcass/ bones and cover over with cold water. Cook over medium-high heat to get a soft rolling boil and lower the temperature to medium-low. Skim off scum and cook for at least an hour (depending on time constraints and/or richness desired). Strain bones and impurities out and put the stock back into an ample sized heavy stock pot. The stock should equal at least 9 cups. Rinse the rice in cold water and pick through for stones and floating grains. Add the rice, mushrooms, ginger, shrimp, garlic, daikon, and salt in the stockpot and cook over low heat covered for at least 3 hours, but as long as 6-8. Alternately one can use a pressure cooker for about an hour. Add water as needed to maintain a medium thin gruel consistency. In this case, forget that gruel can be cruel. Pull out mushroom caps, remove and discard stems (they can be reserved for a future stock) and slice thin. When the grain is practically dissolved, serve in bowls with the garnishes as desired: reserved scallions, toasted sesame oil, Braggs/tamari, a grate of ginger root, pickled turnip. It is easy to go overboard by adding more condiments to pump up the flavor, but for me this is one time to hold back and allow the interior to reset. Good appetite.