remedial eating

as it should be

Well, first let me just say that you guys are swell.

Here I was, thinking I had made a Guinness-worthy effort of procrastinating, only to find I'm not the only one with picture paralysis. Talk about buoying. I feel fortified, understood, ready to conquer those walls!!

Thank you, truly.

Also, I've made pretty much no progress since we last spoke.

Because what was I thinking?

There was the small matter of that birthday, see.  And in one of my more exuberant examples of compartmentalizing (and there are so very, very many from which to choose), I had it all figured out that I'd tackle a three-year-running project AND celebrate my birthday boy, all at once. 

I am really very good at this sort of planning on paper. I make lists, set goals, give pep talks, go go go! The hitch in the giddy-up being the timing (sound familiar?): ...and between Tuesday's 32nd and 35th hours, scrape frames and trim down prints and measure and ...  The logic of which has all the watertight integrity of mosquito netting.

Needless to say, I made a few executive decisions, most of which involved ditching framing for fêting.  Which, in my book, is entirely as it should be.  After all, seven year old boys don't come along every week.  Particularly seven year old boys who want a snow party.  Whee! 

Decorations were made.

Favor bags were painted. " 'Smore fun for later" kits assembled.  Then run through rigorous feasibility testing. 

Snowflakes were cut. 

Pencil sharpeners and Storm Fighters wrapped. 

Gifts started, and shelved, due to the aforementioned hours-per-day ratio imbalance.

 

Treats were baked.

 

Again.

 

 

And again.

 

(School, home, party.  Lemon bars, ice cream sandwiches, Nikole Herriott's buttermilk cake.  Butter doesn't get much of a break after Christmas, around here.)

Whew.

 

Respite was taken, which of late often means the watercolors were pulled out.

Again.

 

 

And again.

 

 

And which for me, when I realized, mid-clean-up, that I had four children in the house all playing happily, meant seven gorgeous, quiet minutes with fresh coffee and the new Canal House.  Talk about respite.

 

And then yesterday, post-party, post- week of preparation and celebration, the question of Downtown Abbey was floated.  We're talking Season 1, Episode 1, I'm-behind-on-way-more-than-my-walls here, folks.  To which the only reasonable answer was oh HECK, yes.  

There was a wee bit of framing.  But it was a mighty scant wee.  So I've officially granted myself an extension.  Putting my feet to the fire is useful.  Staying up until three a.m. is not.  End of February it is, then, which this year just so happens to be the 29th.  Not that I'm planning on cutting it that close...

But we still need to eat.  Again and again.  And for obvious reasons—see above, treats in triplicate—salads are my sanity right now.

Salads are also, apparently, my minor in life.  I do love a good salad, you know that already, and I'm ordinarily loathe to pick favorites.  But this, my friends, this is a favorite.  What this is is your basic citrus-avocado salad, tweaked over the years to my particular tastes.  Tart, drippy grapefruit and creamy, suave avocado are, all by their lonesome, Fred and Ginger and then some.  There's a giant squeeze of fresh lime, which works counter-intuitive wonders on grapefruit.  Instead of OD'ing the fruit's storied sour side, the lime somehow plays up its secret sweetness.  Clever fellow.   Add to that a good throw of cilantro, another guac alum, and a less-familiar friend to grapefruit.  But a friend it is, bright, verdant, cheeky.  And, to top it all, a scatter of squeaky cheese, queso fresco or ricotta salata, fresh and white, for chew and salt.

It is not your mother's grapefruit salad, one cherry-topped spartan half, the stuff of diets and denial.  It is grapefruit gone decadent, a knife-and-fork affair, grapefruit as it should be. 

Grapefruit + Avocado Salad with Lime, Cilantro + Queso Fresco
Serves 1 as a meal, 2 as a side

I love the tidiness of this salad: one avocado + one grapefruit = one grand meal.  That said, it can obviously be scaled up as needed, to serve a crowd. Squeeze the lime over the avocado just after slicing, and the salad will hold for an hour or two, refrigerated.

Segmenting (or supreming) is what takes grapefruit from good to grand, in a salad such as this where the citrus plays a starring role.  Removing the pith, leaving only juicy meat behind, is so worth the five minutes' time it takes.  In a nutshell: slice off the top and bottom (for stability), then take a paring knife and, following the fruit's contour, slide it between peel and flesh, top to bottom.  Repeat.  Once the fruit is exposed, hold it firmly in your palm, and slice a "V" in each segment with your paring knife, removing flesh from pith.  This work is best done over a bowl, to catch the abundant juice, and takes about twice as long to describe as to do.  Tea has a wonderful, illustrated write up here.

1 grapefruit, peeled and segmented (supremed)
1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and sliced
1/2 fresh, juicy lime, + more to taste
several tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
several tablespoons ricotta salata, queso fresco, or feta
salt

Arrange grapefruit and avocado in alternating layers. Squeeze the juice of half a lime over all, sprinkle with a few pinches' salt, scatter cilantro and cheese, and dig in.

 

 

quick 'n dirty

I do not have a problem.  I just want to make that clear.

Because a problem, as I told my children the other morning, as they melted down over the merits of standard versus mini-chocolate chips in their pancakes, is something of consequence.  A problem has weight, import, gravity, impact.  That is not what I have.

What I have is a pile of frames.  And a pile of prints.  And a series of walls in various shades of blank.  Seems simple enough, doesn't it? 

And it would be, should be, were I the sort of person who could pop out to Target and buy three botanicals plus some posters and—*bang* *bang*—call it done.  Who could pull off a room between breakfast and dinner, the way I pull off laundry, quick 'n dirty, done!, next?  Part of me rather wishes I were that person.  Part of me downright longs for it.

I am not.

Or were I like practiced movers, who completely settle, art and all, within a month of getting keys.  I deeply admire these people.  I aspire to be these people.

I am not these people.  Not yet, anyway.

Or, better yet, were I a person who enjoys the blank slate.  Rejoices in the expansiveness.  Welcomes the peace.

Oy.  I'm not that, either. 

What I am is a person with a large and motley assortment of prints and pictures, bits and bobs, ephemera and artifacts, of no value except to me.  Things I like, whose lines bring me cheer.  Whose colors make me smile.  Whose memories give me pause.  Which, since we moved, have been living in basement exile.

We moved on Valentine's Day.  Of 2009. 

Honestly, Molly. 

I am also an art history major.  Daughter of an exquisite, on-a-budget aesthete.  Granddaughter of a woman whose home still gives me goosebumps, comprised though it was of thrifted furniture and shag carpet. 

I eat with my eyes, not just lunch, but life.  My surroundings matter, and their "just-moved-in" look irks me.  (As does the endless clutter, but that's a separate conversation...)  But apparently not as much as getting it wrong.   

Because it seems I've a little trouble committing.  Never mind that we're celebrating our seventeenth anniversary this June.  Small potatoes.  Should the maps go here or should they go there?  Is the Keep Calm, Carry On better upstairs or down?  Would the old shoe forms look fetching hung up on the wall?   Or just strange?  (And how does one affix old shoe forms to a wall, anyway?)  And although I know exactly where I'd like this print here, it doesn't seem to fit that frame there...

Oh, that. There's also the Old Frame Situation.  I've thrifted a few over the years, admiring their small bones, beveled edges, faded charm.  I inherited several others from my grandparents, old beat plaster lovelies, gilded and chipped; ebonied ovals fitted with curved glass and stern black-and-white ancestors; big ugly wood ones I re-painted when Henry was four. 

Henry turns seven next Wednesday.  

Good grief.

Turns out old frames take new work to make them go.  Like, how does a person remove those old, rusty diagonal nails?  And how, then, exactly do you keep the fresh contents in?  And what if the glass is gone, or the backing crumbles, or all manner of trivial, inconsequential roadblocks?  [Answers:  A) Pliers.  And in re-assembly, this tool rocks.  B) Find an independent neighborhood frame store, and move in.  They'll cut new glass and mattes from scrap for a few dollars, per.  C) Use cardboard, stupid.  Oops.  I mean, Silly.]

Anyhoo, I resolved last month to do something about it, figuring what worked for cookies might also work for pictures.  I think my exact wording might have run something like, "Hang pictures by January.  Or they get the heave-ho."  Because while it might not be a problem, it's a high holy mess.  And an aggravation.  And a lost opportunity.  I'm ready to free up that corner of the basement for better things.  So I'm giving it my all, doing absolutely nothing else until I finish.

Well, nothing save joining in drawing sessions with Henry.  And replenishing the chili stores, and making more granola.  And popping up paper cities from Play All Day.  And attending tea parties with Zoë and her 37 closest friends.  (And uncovering the sweet silk carrot Mamo hid: we found it!)  And planning birthday parties.  And minding deadlines.  And organizing a chess night.  And sweeping.  Dusting.  Mopping.  Anything but. 

Yes, that wild rumble's the sound of my feet dragging.  At least I can bang out a salad, lickety-split.  

The salad of which I speak is less recipe than formula, one I come back to, time and again.  The basic equation boils down to this: greens + tart fruit + toasty nuts + salty cheese.  The slightly-less basic version goes:  vary everything.  That's where the fun begins. 

The greens might be arugula, or garden mesculun, or romaine.  The fruit, juicy pears, crisp apples, strawberries.  The cheese, blue, feta, ricotta salata, queso fresco, miso.  (Right, so miso's not cheese, but it's got the same suave umami, which is part of what gives this salad spine.)  The nuts, toasted walnuts, candied pecans, macadamias, bacon.  (Okay, so bacon's not technically a nut.  But a local pizza joint serves a knock-out harvest salad with slivered figs [fruit], pumpkin seeds [nuts], and crumbled bacon for, well, the same thing bacon's always for.  Unabashed yum.  I thought you ought to know it has a place at this table).  Right now, in mid-winter, my go-to position is sweet citrus, spinach, salted almonds and fresh cheese. 

The details differ, based on the season, but the end result is always earthy, soft, crisp, creamy and rich, sweet and salty, tart and light, fresh and bright.  Not a bad ROI for formula food.  

I'm also fond of the fact that it's quick 'n dirty as a salad gets.  I just word-counted the instructions, and if I'd left out the "adjust seasoning" bit, it would qualify as a habit entry.  That's fast.  (I didn't, though.  That last minute tweak is often what takes a salad from ho-hum to more, please.  Also, I've never been good with thirty words or less.)  And if we're being honest here—and if we're looking at rusty nails and old, unfinished business, we're being nothing if not honest—I often don't even dirty a jar for the dressing.  For company, sure, I'll grab a jam jar and shake, to get that lovely, creamy emulsification.  But for me?  For lunch?  I sprinkle salt, vinegar, olive oil on directly, and mix it all with my hands, *toss* *toss*, done.

I think I framed three pictures, last week.  At this rate, it might be March before I'm through.  Things might be a bit spare around here, until then.  But with all the salads you could spin off of this one, here?  You won't go hungry.

A Winter Salad of Spinach, Satsumas, Almonds + Feta
Yield: 4 servings

I buy almost all my nuts raw and whole, toasting and chopping them as needed, because their flavor is so very much better.  There are a few exceptions: marcona almonds, which are typically oil-roasted and salted, and these flaked almonds, which I buy by the large bag, at Costco.  I bought them on a whim once, and regretted it immediately, thinking they would have the stale flavor of most pre-toasted nuts.  But they're lovely, crunchy and crisp and perfectly salted, something I toss into salads all the time.  Except when I run out, as I did last week.  See variations below. 

I go back and forth on the radishes, here.  Nice with, nice without.

8 cups baby spinach
3 satsumas or clementines, peeled and segmented
generous 1/2 cup toasted, salted almond slices (such as these), or chopped marcona almonds, or butter-fried almonds* (see below)
generous 1/2 cup feta, ricotta salata, or queso fresco, crumbled
4-6 radishes, sliced thin as you can manage (optional)

for dressing:
1/2 teaspoon salt
2-3 teaspoons mild vinegar (sherry, cider, white wine)
2-3 tablespoons olive oil

In a large bowl, place all salad ingredients.  Sprinkle lesser amounts of salt, then vinegar, then olive oil over all.  Toss well, with clean hands, until leaves are glossy.  Taste for seasoning, add additional vinegar/oil/salt as desired, and toss again.  Eat.  

*Butter-Fried Almonds:  Plain almonds are nice here, but amped-up almonds are better.  When I'm out of those nibbly little toasted almond slices and marconas, both of which are toasted, roasted and salted, I make up a quick batch of butter-fried almonds, as follows:  Roughly chop 1/2 cup whole, unblanched almonds.  In a small skillet, melt 1 tablespoon butter over medium heat.  Tip in chopped almonds, and sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon salt over all.  Cook almonds in butter, stirring regularly, around 5 minutes, until almonds are golden.  Let cool 15 minutes, to crisp up.  Almonds can be fried hours or even days ahead.  Though you may munch them all before they reach the salad bowl.  

 

all good

As her visits wind down, my mom is fond of saying, "you'll be soooo glad to have your regular routine back." And she's right.

We are step-by-stepping our way back into the saddle, (re-)acquainting ourselves with school and work and 2012 and the vacuum cleaner. The differentiation of days, five and two, week and -end. That old familiar rhythm, that always takes new getting used to. Up by seven, out by eight, three hours' hustle wedged into one. The 9 a.m. Wednesday kitchen that's a stunt-double for the December 25 living room. (I know this is tornado country, but why are they forever landing down only within the walls of my home?)

Kids are back in their very own beds (though they linger longer, together, memories of bunking up still fresh.) The dinner plate count has returned to five. The tea consumption, after an extraordinary December spike, has dropped off precipitously at this coffee-chugging address. Afternoons are purposefully quiet, watercolors and word hunts and small soft bowls of soup.

The dust bunnies, threatening revolt in the border zones, were mollified between play bouts with a hasty broom. I was able to write my name on the bookcase shelves, yesterday morning. By evening, the dust was 72% gone. (I'm fairly certain that's about the upper limit. The definition of "dusting", I'm convinced, is not "eradicating small particles", but "shifting them about, diligently, then turning on one's heel and studiously ignoring the evidence.")

We are indeed approaching regular routine, and it's nice. Almost as nice as the weeks that went before.

The weeks when we had Mamo to ourselves, 24x7. When it snowed just enough to build a snowman. (What you see is what we had. Wonders can be worked with half an inch.) When we ate leftover cheese soufflé for breakfast, and made museum road trips, and spent one entire Saturday traipsing through old stuff. 114,000 square feet of old stuff. Springfield, it seems, it quite full of it.

When Henry had his very own sewing lessons from the master. When Winkie-Blinkie watched her much-wished-for winter coat materialize, before her eyes, complete with red tassel and secret monogram and jolly berries everywhere. I'm pretty sure she's the only baby doll in town with a hand-embroidered cashmere coat. Jack Frost: bring it on.

The weeks of long p.j. mornings spent finishing puzzles, and past-bedtime Mario Kart, and past-past-bedtime rounds of Bananagrams. Because while I can turn down potato chips, I can never say no to just one more round. Of extra stories and extra hugs and extra hands to help wind yarn. Of patient souls who sit for hours, aiding certain six-year-olds in their single-minded determination to build paper zoos and robots and fill-in-the-blank, T-O-D-A-Y. Of the voice of experience who recruits one young helper to quietly take down the tree, the first day of January. Can I tell you how magnificent, how remarkable it is, when that glorious tree gets out the door before it becomes one huge stinkin' old eyesore?

Half right, then. I am glad of the regular routine, largely because we've been elsewhere so long. The ordinary's welcome for having just vacated the extraordinary, two weeks of Mamo time, an exception from the rule. It's the brilliant orange pendant in a room of palest blue; a Saarinen tulip in a Brooklyn brownstone; crown moulding, re-christened chartreuse: POP! We need that contrast, that bas relief, to keep it all interesting, life and whatnot. Were it not for these whimsical visits, ordinary might soon be spelled d-u-l-l. The routine, and the breaking of it: it is all good.

Which is how I tend to think about holidays, and the eating around them, and the days and weeks that follow. After weeks of feasting, I am ready for a change. Which isn't to say I'd change what just was. Not at all.

We're a funny bunch, we Americans, all dichotomy over food, even on an ordinary June Sunday. We're Manicheans in the kitchen, segregating our ingredients, good and bad, healthy and un-, permissible and taboo. We hear "chocolate" and think sin, not pleasure, for Pete's sake. But come January, well, it's a national sport, righteously denouncing December's ghastly eats. Never mind the grease-fest Superbowl Sunday soon brings...

But, hello? The sticky-burnished-salty-sweet Christmas ham? The still-warm, soft white (slightly burned) dinner roles, juicy with butter? That soufflé? Those blini? Granny's pies? Bad? Please. Wonderful, definitely. Special, certainly. A suitable feast for the year's darkest days.

And now, feed me vegetables. Ad infinitum.

I can't see my way to condemning celebration, any more than I can keeping it up, the year round. January's no rebuttal, merely re-alignment, a welcome return to the elemental ordinary. I'm with Tara and Sarah here: "Go overboard with the fruits and vegetables". Not out of regret, but of outright craving. Chopped into soupy medleys, tossed in big blousy salads, roasted, baked, stir-fried, ... oh, let's pause there. Because one thing I can't get enough of, of late, has been platters of stir-fried ginger-garlic bok choy.

If you've been around awhile, you know I have a deep and abiding love for these jade and ivory clusters. Their broad stems offer up a gorgeous, sweet crunch, their emerald leaves, just enough silky green richness. They require almost no cooking (indeed, demand it), and take to all sorts of flavor arrangements. They're lovely with mushrooms, and unctuous with oyster sauce, and downright addictive with garlic and ginger. I've stir-fried five pounds in the past fourteen days. And I'm fairly certain I'm not done, yet.

There's nothing especially revolutionary about this stir fry, though like anything good, it's the sum of several small, mindful parts. I start with a cold wok (or frying pan), as I find it easier to keep an eye on the aromatics. Of which I like a showing—a full tablespoon of garlic, up to two of ginger. Which may sound like a lot. Okay, it is a lot. But the garlic mellows and softens to sweetness, and the ginger provides all these heady, bright spots of bling. I happen to love a little bling in my veg, though I understand entirely if you'd prefer yours more, em, nuanced. Either way, a smidge of cornstarch and a splash of oyster sauce build this clever velvety backdrop of sweet-salty umami.

Two helpings are my minumum. Three, not uncommon. I've been known to call it lunch, and a fine one, at that. And as I eat, I remember our December feasts fondly, and anticipate those that will, with luck and grace, follow. Almost as much as I anticipate these January feasts. Entirely different, all good.

Bok Choy with Garlic + Ginger
Serves 2-4

In the summer, I buy bok choy at the farmer's market, but come winter, I depend on my little neighborhood Asian grocer. There, I can always find a half-dozen varieties of giant, exuberantly fresh, inexpensive pillows of greens. Last week, I happened upon some lovely Choy Sum, a particular favorite, and what I used here. It's a close relative of baby bok choy, my ordinary go-to for this stir fry. Even gai lan is wonderful, here, with a few extra minutes under cover, to tenderize the stems. Anything, save the over-sized (1-foot +) giant supermarket bok choy. Or! Of late, our local Costco has been stocking quite decent two-pound plastic packs of baby bok. What luxury.

Oyster sauce can be found at most well-stocked supermarkets, as well as at any Asian grocer, for half the price.

Please note you will need a large skillet (or wok) with a lid.

1 1/2 pounds baby bok choy or choy sum
1 tablespoon peanut or other neutral oil
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1-2 tablespoons minced ginger
1/4 salt
1 teaspoon cornstarch mixed with 1 tablespoon water
2 tablespoons oyster sauce

Slice ends from bok choy, and rinse well under cold running water, slicing heads in half and/or separating leaves, if needed, to reach base of leaves, where dirt often hides. Set aside, with water still clinging.

In a small bowl, stir cornstarch into water until dissolved, then add salt and oyster sauce, and stir to combine. Set aside.

Place oil, garlic and ginger in a wok or large, heavy skillet with a lid, then turn heat to high. When oil begins to shimmer and the ginger and garlic start to "hop", 30 seconds, stir constantly until fragrant, another 30 seconds. Immediately add bok choy, and toss to coat in hot oil and aromatics. Stir frequently, for 1 minute, until leaves settle slightly. Add cornstarch-oyster sauce mixture, toss to combine, and cover, still on high. Cook covered, 2 minutes, then remove lid. Toss and test for doneness: bok choy is done when the leaves are deep emerald green and just-wilted (not soggy), stems are slightly softened (but still have ample crunch), and sauce has reduced to a velvety glaze. Depending on quantity and pan size, bok choy may need an additional 1-2 minutes, but no more; it is best when it still has life, vigor and crunch.

Feast immediately.