Hufflepuff and Blondies

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

(... 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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

“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

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.