Un-tethered

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…

Scooby Snacks

This past week and a half I have been shapeshifting between grounded reality and elusive fantastical dream. Some moments I am in peaceful repose nestled in both worlds adjusted to the normalacy within the the odd, the strange and the poignant. O_'s presence shadows mine, her reality weaving and bobbing with my own. I imagine that her fantasic dream now spans both her waking and dreaming hours- and now she invades mine too. The other night I awoke to find her lost in my room confused, as I was-- thinking she was a nurse on nightly rounds. Another night I rose to discover a darkened huddled figure fumbling by my cabinets, I dreamed it was O_ only to have her transform into the aide on duty. Adjusting to this new existence has been a bit like putting on a new pair of prescription glasses, there is gentle pressure on both the eyes and brain as the new lenses coerce the old ways of seeing to let go. With this focus there is a deepening and a sinking and unlike a pair of eyeglasses which mainly sharpens the view, this way of being seems to simultaneously rouse and relax the whole of me.

When I used to go camping on a sort of yearly retreat I would go with minimal accoutrement. Being that the intent was to empty out to fill up, I would bring the bare essentials when it came to food. My stand by was water, a few hard boiled eggs, apples, celery and an avocado. In the spacious silence and rest my modest refreshments would come alive with a new attention to details. My stay reminds me of that time, first because there is a general absence of what the majority think of as creature comforts and second because of this special zoomed in attention. While I am excited to be here to rebuild muscle strength, most of the other inhabitants are not as thrilled. The majority are elderly and feeble and their stay is the result of an accident or illness that most likely forecasts admittance into a nursing home. For some the loss of independence has been fast and harsh. For others like myself, the change has been somewhat kinder. While the staff work tirelessly and with admirable amounts of cheer there is seemingly little left for all that needs to come together to make home. Yet we are all scrapping together what we can to create it.

Past the peas and carrots, behind the lack of privacy and indulgence, through the powerfully compelling stories of heartbreak and loss is the wonder and magnificence of Scooby snacks. I was introduced to a few without even knowing it, delighted nonetheless. But now that I have a name, I juggle the words about in my head and taste the syllables upon my tongue to play and muse. My first came to me in the form of three orange foiled Lindt truffles. B_ explained to me earlier that a friend would come by later that week with "cannonballs", giant chocolate globes filled with warm gooey centers. A few days later he triumphantly produced a small red goodie bag filled with these cacao delights. He offered me three, a good portion of the booty. Suffice to say that B_ has lived a hard life and lived without much for the majority of it. The fact that he can be so generous within the weight of deprivation speaks volumes. Humbled, I treasured each morsel and thrilled every time for those few moments when my insides and outsides would touch and merge awash in a chocolate velvet dream. Scooby two occured when I was treated to my choice at the vending machine. After a few indecisive moments I selected sodium rich cheetos and within short seconds I honed in and devoured the crunch, color and salt off of each making up for past repasts. Lastly we come to J_, tall wiry nurse who reminds me of one of two kinds of grade school cafeteria worker. Though of a certain age she sports long hair with a thick fringe of bang and I just know she is kooky fun and wears purple in her off hours. Comrades in the way of food, the love of desserts and treats--she invites me to partake in snacks, scooby snacks as named by her grandchildren, to be precise. First it was individual carrot cakes with cream cheese frosting baked in aluminum heart molds, then it was a wonderful wedge of Carvel ice cream cake frosted in cobalt blue and red piped cream and last night was dense rich coconut cream pie smattered with a generous helping of toasted flakes of sun. While it has been a long time since watching that psychedelic mystery solving cartoon of the 70's, I like connecting the colorful treats that have been appearing with the whimsy and play and innocence of the show. In this new surreal landscape of in-between, there is no distraction from the bigness and shine of the outer world. Everything is closer in, tucked to the heart like a beautiful secret, full of treat and surprise.

Betwixt Me and You

I go in dutifully every 3-4 months to the local hospital to get my blood drawn. It is always a surprise in contrast from the bustling antiseptic vinyl tiled health institutions that I was used to in SF. Upon entering this 20 bed hospital, one is immediately embraced by the waiting room flanked with plaid overstuffed chairs, sofas and rocking chairs replete with afghans and well used pillows. Memorial’s hominess practically begs a visitor to kick back and stay awhile, so I do. Visits have now become ready excuse to wind my way into the cozy slip of a gift shop stuffed to the gill with various sundries. It is where Gloria stands her post all radiance in platinum silver curls, Kelly green smock, broad fuchsia smile behind a narrow counter bejeweled with candy bars, chewing gums and breath mints. She means business; she is there to sell what needs to be bought. Gloria catcalls out to passersby, peddling her wares with the open friendliness of the grandmother-next-door mixed with the no nonsense gusto of a ballpark vendor. Lured in by her charm, she now has become a special point of brightness in my world. And I am a bull- one possessing a modicum of grace. My wheelchair is some 350 odd lbs. of high tech balletic ingenuity. While I perch ever so lightly upon my pleather pedestal, my part woman-part machine self totals an approximate whopping 460 lbs. This is considerable mass to maneuver within a space that is little more than a 7 by 3 foot aisle booby trapped with every conceivable breakable object available. I am one of those deep sea submersibles, thinking-sensing proboscis, at once nimble yet lumbering probing the canyon floors. Similarly every inch of these shelves I take in tasting and examining pushing further past: pastel knit newborn caps, handmade wooden puzzles, Raku tea sets upon bamboo trays, beaded eyeglass holders and sunflower windsocks. Intermixed with this slow perusal is light conversation with Gloria over the new porcelain ornaments, talk about the weather, rounds of golf to be learned and of course anticipated visits from grandchildren. The whole dance of delight and every day takes about 10 minutes and though time is short and our talk at the surface, I plumb her depths through the look in her smiling eyes. We are sequestered from the world by the immediate intimacy formed from close quarters and the delicate negotiation of the space betwixt. Now that I have learned that 100% of every sale goes directly to support the patients in the hospital and adjacent nursing home, it has become my civic duty to buy a Twix bar or two. Coupled with the refreshment of a few shared moments with one delightful lady, I get the synergistic cookie crunch-caramel chew of my decade favorite candy bar to double my pleasure. While I used to indiscriminately purchase this chocolate sweet whenever I got the craving, no longer. Now it is inexplicably tied to this ritualistic outing, homage to a special kind of ordinary- a very special treat.

Hummels, Japanese Beetles and Salami Sandwiches

From time to time the past throws me a line which I maw on casually to unravel a hybrid story-half truth memory that brings me current to now. I recall that I used her for her food. More accurately I extended the friendship to get closer to her mother’s food, which seems infinitely worse. Marisa was one of my playmates from about the third grade to the seventh. Later and inevitably, our paths parted as we moved away from our carefree childhood and headed towards adolescence, a time when social allegiances can appear at best tenuous. In the early years however, we were a funny pair and inseparable, a sort of suburban Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. We had a huge appetite for swashbuckling adventure which unfolded in the deep unknown forest behind my house and the thin stand of trees in the park which became our source for ready made weapons. We brandished swords, bows and arrows whittled from tree branches. We chiseled authentic arrow heads, unearthed buried treasures, collected acorns to pulverize into flour, jumped out of trees, built forts, made concrete (Elmer’s glue and sand) and pilfered orange juice to ferment into moonshine. It was a great relationship until we started to get older and our differences became sharply pronounced. While we were too young to really be considered geeks, we were both of the persuasion that read encyclopedias. We were consumed with experimental frenzy when I received Science Service’s Things of Science as a birthday gift. But her penchant for books and study became all-encompassing and quickly outweighed mine, her imagination driven hard inward and solitary. And my desire towards expression and high adventure encroached upon this stalwart private world. She became less enthusiastic about exploring the outside surroundings and inside, I was a caged animal itching and nagging her to quit her ivory tower.

But I needed her- and in hanging about, I became fair target for chores and reluctantly became enlisted to pick and destroy the hundreds of Japanese beetles which flocked in voracious droves to her father’s rose bushes and grape vines. This was a horrid task that appalled me to no end. But perform I did, for the rewards were great. I clasped my fingers around their emerald jeweled chitinous shells and spiny legs and left Popillia japonica to asphyxiate in hordes in kerosene filled Folger’s cans. It was a brutal chore that allowed me eventual access to the calm even space and tempo of her mother’s garden and kitchen. Helga was a tall kind woman who took her domestic duties seriously. Every detail of her home had a clean simple practicality to it: smooth teak furniture, beige carpet, woven linens and that solitary display case full of rosy cheeked Hümmels. This was the place that welcomed me in- odd ragtag child to temper my restless edges. It was a time that swelled to allow me to observe and explore a new domestic territory other than my own. Helga’s domicile was contrast; a safe edge that allowed me to push and discern and ultimately refine my taste buds, and me.

In this unfolding reverie one might be inclined to imagine a more impressive setting; picturesque meals on Dresden china, a bucolic cottage in the heart of Bavaria, maybe even a mother in braids and apron. But this is far from how it really was. Rather this place was so ordinary, so unassuming it became a blank canvas for the events, the elements and in this case, the food to come alive against. Outside in a huge bin- I helped to turn piles of vegetal refuse over into sweet smelling Gardener’s Gold which would in turn feed and support the garden. I would walk between crowded rows of purple headed alliums, bulbous kohlrabi, stubby fringed carrots, beets and sprawling vines trailing gourds and pumpkins. I would pause to admire the beans, tomatoes and cucumbers, touch the blue-green crinkle of kale and of course thump the monstrous zucchini. It was an ambitious productive plot that seemed to endlessly pump out vegetables of all colors and size. And it was here up close and personal, contained within my hand, warmed and nourished by the sun that I learned to adore the beauty and vitality of the jewels that sprung from the earth. At a time when many mothers opted for convenience food out of a box or can, Helga still did things the Old World way and I was ready at the dinner table with extended plate in hand.

I know she must have thought me a strange child following her about asking detailed questions about cooking process and content. But I couldn’t help it; I was ravenous for her food and hungry to understand what was at the heart of her kitchen. What I remember most was the way that the entire process of eating seemed to have a space about it, an obvious importance. The collective nature of this family seemed to be quite reserved and understated; naturally the intrinsic value of nourishment was understood without words. The fresh picked goods from the garden would find themselves generously assembled into an old wooden bowl. In a floral teacup, pebbles of veiny blue cheese would dissolve into thickened vinaigrette to be later, lightly tossed onto the delicate greens. Trips to specialty German delicatessens yielded numerous white packages of beautiful rounds of thin cut bologna, salami, and liverwurst. Other wrappings held assortments of Swiss cheese, dark breads, pickles and fresh horseradish. Back at home all of these gifts would ceremoniously be un-papered and plated. The entire tabletop spread with full bowls, lined baskets and plates. While we eaters would endlessly, almost silently and politely pass containers of our personal favorites back and forth to each other. Shy to speak, somehow I managed to knock back a few liverwurst and Swiss cheese on dark Pumpernickel bread sandwiches with lots of thin sliced onion and head clearing amounts of horseradish. Sometimes I even introduced salami to the mix. After all, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity for that much fatty opulence at once. I hadn’t learned restraint at that time.

Let’s just say I consumed a lot. I drank the most refreshing lemon aid made in a glass pitcher with 2 to 3 lemons, a scant amount of sugar and ice water. I ate the best tuna fish salad that I had ever tasted on countless picnics. I always volunteered to eat what remained after the sandwiches were made. I studied the size of the dice of Helga’s celery, onion and pickles, the proportion of each and the amount of mayo. Frustrated, I could never recreate the taste when I went back home. Time and time again I would come back to her kitchen to re-taste and re-analyze etching even deeper food idolatry that couldn’t easily be attained by anyone else. I came to understand that the difference was the quality of ingredients and care. Tuna equals tuna equals tuna, just isn’t so. One cannot slap together sub par ingredients without the love and expect it to sing. (Btw, in this moment I realized that she used fancy white albacore tuna and mine was the cat food looking kind.) And this was the problem I had with attempting to duplicate her chocolate chip cookies. Though I brought home a neatly written recipe on an index card, I didn’t have the proper items. Funky margarine, the kind that has been exposed too long in the fridge and absorbed odors like kimchee, was substituted for butter. Generic chocolate chips with chocolate flavoring were used instead of Toll House. We didn’t possess vanilla or walnuts. My cookies were a disappointing greasy mess. Understandably, I ran back for hers. And then I ate plates of brownies, oatmeal cookies, bear claws, homemade soft pretzels, German pancakes rolled and filled with strawberry jam…

While the actual end is a little hazy, I suspect that “Man cannot live on Bread alone” bears some truth in the matter. The food wasn’t enough to ultimately keep the friendship alive, but it still taught me beauty and comfort, generosity and care, respect, appreciation and lots of love. I am so grateful to have been part of Marisa’s world and wow, do I still miss those cookies.

Canele de Bordeaux, Living on the Edge

It is fun to open up an unexpected Fed Ex package, but it is entirely delicious when the large box is temporary housing for un petit cadeau: a tasteful yellow rectangular box cocooned within 5 feet of scrunched paper. Without further pause, this pretty parcel is ripped open to reveal a surprising sight, the coppery burnished crumb of a caramelized canelé profile. For some reason, the size and shape of the container seemed to indicate to me, something weightier perhaps a fancy olive oil bottle within. I couldn’t be more wrong or more pleased. These smallish cakes (about 1-3/4” tall) are wonderful and might easily be overlooked in a pastry case because they are so unapologetically brown and look as though they have been left in the oven too long, slightly wizened and glassy. They look like some sort of elongated miniature bundt cake or even worse they remind me of strange scented waxy candles with scalloped edges found in the back of a Hallmark card store (though not orange). While crude and slightly off putting, these physical descriptions are still meant to assist in honing in on these treats in case you haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced.

I myself have eaten these cakes only a half dozen or so times and each event as an after-lunch dessert. It was probably back in 2002 when I first met the infamous Canelé de Bordeaux. They arrived- a pair, in a non-descript wax paper bag along with a salmon tartine (a French open faced sandwich) in the educated hands of my brother. Knowing how much I love to eat good food and limited by my waning energy and mobility, he began to come by weekly after foraging the streets of San Francisco for our special feast. In spite of how alarming that time was for me personally, it was greatly assuaged by the gentle care and witty banter of my dear sweet brother. He would appear with mysterious bags and containers in tow, opening each one with excited earnestness all the while studying my expression. The first time he produced that nub of a glazed cake, I stared blankly unable to rouse appropriate excitement. I had no idea what it was. He did not roll his eyes visibly, he didn’t need to. The incredulous tone in his voice said it all,“You don’t know what a canelé is?” Slightly embarrassed, I listened to a description of this prized custardy cake from Bordeaux that is slowly baked to a deep mahogany patina within fluted copper molds coated with beeswax. I nodded attentively while thinking, “When on earth had he become a foodie and isn’t that tartine just a sandwich?” Unable to blow my cover, I hastily bit into one of the burnt pair and discovered a taste-texture sensation. First, one meets the thinnest veneer of bitter crackled sugar adhered to a chewy crust about 1/8” thick. Upon taking that first bite one is next able to note the eggy interior and inhale a strong sweet perfume of vanilla and honey, it is a little pineapple-y as well. The insides are somewhat similar to a popover or a cream puff in that there is a cavity, but it is much moister and almost collapsed looking. In fact, the bottom interior portion of the cake is thickened custard holding on for its life, a taste somewhat reminiscent of the round full confectionary taste of dulce de leche. This makes sense in that milk, sugar, vanilla bean, egg, flour and rum steep and age at least a day or two and then are slowly baked up to 2 hours, further enriching and condensing their flavors. This is custard on the edge- reduced so long it finally produces a chewy crispy crust on the outside while managing to retain a fetchingly creamy interior. This edginess is then further explored and exaggerated with those hard to find, specially made copper molds with the crenulated crevices, a necessity for producing a multiplicity of crunchy corners and teeth jamming satisfaction. “Incroyable!”

Back in New Hampshire as four become two, I contemplate taking on this time consuming treat. While the ingredients and the actual making of the batter seem to require elementary cooking skills, like a bad fortune cookie- I see trouble ahead. The texture is a complex combination that hardly seems easily reproducible; no matter how fool hardy I tend to be. The few recipes that I have perused indicate that a muffin tin can be used in lieu of the real thing. For once, even I scoff after a short consideration. I decide to go the way of the canelé, “Live on the Edge” and buy instead of bake, after all Pascal Rigo of Bay Breads seems to know what he is doing. And besides, they ship here.

Spontaneous Celebration

In my last post I admitted to mulling over food schemes for years, even decades. A seed image or concept sticks in my grey matter to gestate and once in, takes on a life of its own ever at the ready to make a grand show. Considering this behavior and others I decidedly concluded that I am born to celebrate. Before you start off with images of a person who frequently squeals in high pitched tones and wears sequins and lots of purple, let me assure you I do not. I view myself as perpetually riding a tight line between restraint and abandon, more often with measured temperance being my top note. Underneath how loose or tightly I hold the reins however, is the indistinguishable awareness of a moment that will pass all-too-soon. As long as I can remember, I have felt an almost urgent sense of time’s movement. While it was obvious that living in the world meant ordering one’s days around the clock and calendar as physical markers. I was also responding emotionally to the invisible reality of each moment dying and then arising into the next one. As a kid I felt pulled between the solemnity for the one left behind and the excitement and distraction of the full alive present. Moving towards adulthood this literal tension gradually translated into a quiet kind of honoring or private reverie that naturally seems to develop in the presence of something special. And then included or extended from that awe, the people and activities held within this ever transient container.

As I await the arrival of my friend J-bird so soon after bidding adieu to my parents and- that Smorgastorta, I find myself in a contemplative place. If there ever were a time to pull out all the stops and bring my inner flights of fancy to form, it would be now. For any opportunity to meet up with a loved one is precious especially given my recent cross country trek. And J-bird is not just any loved one. She is my oldest friend going back 21 years. We survived architecture school together (which was bad) and she has seen me through the initial shock and horror of my diagnosis not to mention the subsequent ups and downs of living with disease (which was worse). She has been the fair witness to my life: staunchly loyal and empathetic to the highest degree; she is a delightful blend of intelligence, wit, observation and bite. J-bird also happens to be an incredibly finessed cook and one that would spare no expense in orchestrating every detail to lavish her guests. For her, I consider how to bring together a meal that remotely matches how much she means to me-- and I flounder. My food fantasies might do the trick if I had a team of ten working around the clock for a month and had access to hens laying golden eggs and a couple of Chinese acrobats. But, I do not. Hunkering down “in the best seat of the house” I allow the hypnotic rhythm of shelling edamame beans to patter out a simple truth. In turning over the various sumptuous scenarios in my head, I recognize that the forms and movement of celebration can steer away from the original clear intent of love, instead becoming an overblown confection. Back to earth, I remember that generosity and hospitality first find home in the heart. Tonight I will savor time with a dear friend, feast with my eyes and soul- and let the food follow.
(But in case you want to know…we ate:

Tomato tart with olives and caramelized onions
Haddock with Edamame puree and French feta salsa verde on watercress
Passion-fruit Gelee with Basil Cream and it was good).