remedial eating

on the off

And then it was summer.

 

Technically, summer began weeks ago, on Thursday, June 7 at 2:50 p.m.  (Not that anyone was counting, weeks, days, minutes, nanoseconds...)  But for me, summer doesn't really begin until we nail our routine.  Finalize a schedule.  Establish ground rules.  File every last shred of school year schrapnel.

We are there.

 

Here.

 

 

Greetings from Week Two.

 

The backpacks have been moth-balled.  The paper mountains, scaled.  The lunchboxes, deep-sixed.  (Two years of spilled crumbs and cock-eyed thermoses and who-knows-what-wedged-everywhere takes its toll on even the finest of boxes.) 

But more to the point, we have pinned down our days.

The routine, it turns out, is a rigid one, an unbending adherence to rolling with it.  "It" being the weather.  "It" being impromptu playdates.  "It" being the what-shall-we-do-today's?  "It" is the ultimate variable, come summer, as fickle and free-spirited as pronouns get.  

It is eating breakfast illuminated, because it's solstice season, and the light has gone all glow-y again.  It is forts strung up, and hidden under for days.  It is Mario, because Mario is family, around here.  And because I placed second for the first (fist pump!) time.  (Diddy Kong.  He's my monkey.)

Some days, it's a short walk to our much-loved little library.  Some days, geo-caching in the company of friends.  Some days, it is pool jaunts (and the shampoos and empty bellies and wet towels that follow). 

It is eating something from the garden, nearly every day.  Snow peas, snap peas, herbs, salads, the last of the service berries.  Broccoli.  Our first broccoli!  A modest head.  Completely organic.  Absolutely alive with cabbage worms.  A-L-I-V-E.  We're talking cabbage worm condo, rent control: zero.  (I love broccoli.  Loved broccoli.  Hope to love broccoli again.  After a few years.  And lots of therapy.)

It is correctly identifying a beetle, directly from Peterson.  A seemingly simple task, complicated by their bizarre typology.  Something about body shape and antennae length and leg shape, rather than the clearly superior and obvious schema: colors of the rainbow, polka dots versus stripes, cute versus almost unbearably ugly.  I persisted, in any case, and discovered that our darling yellow ladybugs are in fact spotted cucumber beetles.  Spotted cucumber beetles with their sights set on my cukes and zukes.  

Henry's piggy bank is now edging toward porker status, since I placed a five-cent bounty on their darling little yellow heads. 

Some days, it is me, taking a big long deep breath, in order to answer "yes" to their paper mâché pleas.  We do due diligence, draw up plans, talk options, until it becomes not just mess but problem solving exercise.  Oxen, it seems, are more difficult to build out of newspaper, flour and water than, say, giant eggs.    

Foil, for the record, makes a nice armiture, with many more limb, head and horn options than ye olde balloon.  Should you happen to have barnyard paper mâché ambitions. 

It is games, whenever we can manage.  There has been epic Uno, and enchanted Yahtzee, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar Game, which is surprisingly all-ages. At least when proper drama accompanies the playing of the cheese. Mister X has been a bit slow getting off the ground.  I have high hopes of tracking him down, this next week.   

(Finding games suitable for 4, 7, 11 and almost-40 is always interesting, but interesting, in my experience, is always better than easy.  Also, it leads to novel new rules, like sprinkling magic dust on the Yahtzee dice, and other creative recipes for inclusion.)

It is getting out into the garden, in pajamas, before eight, because the garden is something else in June.  Lush, intense, brand new every day, a tiny jungle we can call our own.  

It is avoiding the garden, all day, like the plague, for exactly the same reasons. 

Those beans right up there?  The ones halfway up the teepee?  Those were last Friday's beans.  These are this Friday's.  Over the top.  Literally.  And flexing their muscles, if I'm not mistaken.  This is an excellent thing in a bean.  Not so much in the weeds, just outside the frame.    

It is building, because there is always building.  It is excavating rocks, from a kit or our dirt pile.  It is library reading programs begun, and inked up.  It's our first summer read, picked by guess-who, but eagerly being followed by all.  It's re-reading, and re-loving, The Walrus and The Carpenter.  Not all Victorian lit (I'm looking at you, Heidi) holds up to contemporary kids.    

Lewis Carroll, Congratulations.  And thank you.  Fondly, us.     

(Will we make it through this stack?  Good heavens, no.  But options are good, and a mother can dream.  Because what, praytell, is parenting, if not boundless optimism, calibrated by crumbs?)

It is a bit of writing, lest the pencils get dusty.  (In comic books, for starters, lest the natives get restless.)  Some science, which pops up pretty much everywhere.  Some numbers, to keep our math muscles strong.  And if the day's problem is x = 3 kids + 2 friends, where x = 1 full afternoon of fun, then I consider my work done.  Algebra doesn't get much better.  

It doesn't, in other words, look much like what I'd planned.

And I don't mind a bit.

And I like it very much. 

The thing is, I enter every summer armed, with ideas and lists and notions, pre-conceived.  Since we schedule nothing save the occasional swim lesson, it always seems wise to have a few Plans.  Schemes.  Lessons.  Diversions.  Distractions.  Shared goals.  Just, you know, to be prepared. 

This year, we planned a butterfly study.  And got in one good session in before genuine summer kicked in.  And shelved the rest, without a second thought, because mastering underwater nose bubbles is so the priority.  Besides, the very idea of it was enough to see us through the raising of two black swallowtails, caterpillar through chrysalis.  (Did you know they turn to soup while inside?  Digest themselves and re-build as butterflies?  Why oh why didn't Eric Carle include that page?)  The pessimist might say it was all for naught. Me, I rather like having a plan B, on the off chance the "B" word comes up. 

From where I stand now, the "B" word seems unlikely, about as unlikely as the timing of this next dish.  But I put it out there, on the off chance you have asparagus, still.  We do not, though that hasn't stopped me from buying more. I can't seem to bring a close to this asparagus season.  Even if "this season" now stretches into Northern Canada.  

This is why.  

This is stir-fried asparagus and ginger, and this, I realize, doesn't look like much.  That's okay.  I didn't get into it for the looks department.  I got into it because I grew a little weary of asparagus' unwieldy ways.  Because asparagus arrives on the same train as open windows, first freckles, and still-pleasant sun, I tend to cook it quick and whole.  Roasting is a given, on repeat all spring.  Grilling, if I get up the gumption.  Steaming, if we want to dip and swipe.  I love whole spears, finger food, the whole harbinger thing.  For the first twenty, thirty pounds, anyway.

But this spring, which stretched unusually long in these parts, I found myself craving bite-sized bits.  Something I could spear with a fork.  Something less awkward,  less napkin-needy, less floppy-foldy-bendy-drippy.  Something with better table manners.  Something that would still honor all that is lovely in asparagus.  

In the past, I've found few better shows of vegetable respect than a searing-hot, lightning-quick turn in my wok.  The past did not fail me, this spring.  

Asparagus is a wok natural, fairly uniform in width and fairly high in water content.  The first time I stir-fried some spears, I didn't bother to blanch them, just cut the bunch cross-wise into bite-sized bits.  They got a good sear, right off the bat, before releasing just enough of liquid to flash-steam their insides. By the five minute mark, they'd begun to re-claim their juices, which had taken up flavor and funk from the pan. This release-and-catch system that happens with vegetables is one of my favorite wok features.  Things cooked this way go exponential, their inner selves being extracted, augmented, re-absorbed.  At one level, it's all a little Doc Ock/Spiderman.  At another, it's mind-numbingly good.

Caramelized and faintly smoky at the edges, just-tender and nutty within, they had that fresh, lively, still-flopping-about quality that all good stir-fried vegetables do.  I thought them tasty.  I ate the whole pound.  And then I kept tinkering. 

I remembered a stir-fried broccoli I once loved, with a full quarter(!) cup(!) of julienned ginger.  It fell by the wayside, because it required blanching first.  And it will stay by the wayside, because I'm still blanching over broccoli.  But asparagus waved its long, lanky hand, volunteering to understudy the part.  And now broccoli has no role to return to.

Have you ever stir-fried tablespoons of aromatics?  It is a surprisingly elegant thing.  The asparagus goes in first, to take the heat and cushion the blow, and pick up a good whiff of that storied wok hay.  The aromatics—in this case, a tablespoon of garlic, and two of ginger—follow, and mellow, and metamorphose.  They trade in their signature fresh bark and bite for something deeper, richer, more well-rounded.  The garlic goes nutty and rich, with twinges of that muscular sweet you get from roasting.  The ginger exchanges its heat for warmth, a fragrant, heady, bright warmth that lights up each bite.  

Each bite which still, somehow, enunciates asparagus.  For despite the aromatic windfall, here, there's no soy sauce nor oyster sauce nor corn starch to interfere.  Absent glop, the asparagus speaks sweet grassy green clearly, overjoyed, not overwhelmed, by garlic and ginger.  It is unexpected, and surprising, and wonderful.  Rather like summer itself, actually. 

Stir-Fried Asparagus with Ginger and Garlic

In my well-seasoned steel wok, one tablespoon of oil is plenty.  If you don't own a wok, cast iron makes a good substitute.  (Also, a basic carbon steel wok will be the best $20 you ever spend.)  As with any stir fry, have all your ingredients cut and ready before beginning.  This moves on and off the stove in under ten minutes.  To double, simply prepare each pound separately, with a quick wipe of the wok between batches.  

Honestly, I can eat a platter, straight.  But this also goes swimmingly with brown rice and bento pork, or pan-fried tofu, or eggs, softly scrambled or fried.    

1 pound asparagus
1-2 tablespoons peanut or canola oil
1 tablespoon fresh garlic, minced
2 tablespoons fresh ginger, minced
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
seasame seeds to garnish (optional) 

Wash asparagus, shake off excess water, and remove tough ends.  Slice medium spears into 1/2" lengths.  (Alternatively, adjust cut size to spear size.  For pencil-thin spears, slice into 1" lengths.  For thick, stout spears, cut 1/4" lengths.  The important thing is consistency, to ensure even cooking.)

In a wok or heavy skillet, heat 1 tablespoon oil over high heat, until shimmering.  Tip asparagus into hot oil, being careful of splatters.  Let sit 30 seconds without stirring, then shake or stir well to re-distribute.  Let sit another 30 seconds, undisturbed, then add garlic, ginger, salt and sugar, and toss.  Turn heat down a nudge, to a still-hot high medium, and continue to stir-fry, stirring often, 5-8 minutes total, depending on spear size.  (If garlic starts to brown significantly, add a bit more oil, and turn heat down a nudge.)  Asparagus will be done when it is still mostly bright green, but beginning to caramelize in spots, and when ginger and garlic are golden.  

Taste for seasoning, adjusting salt if needed.  Serve immediately, with sesame seeds on top, if desired.   

you would be wrong

We had house guests this past week. This means that I hosted. What that means, I'm only just beginning to figure out.

This isn't our first go-round with hosting, not even close.  We've been bowled over, these past two years, by family and friends' willingness to make the trek.  But up until Ohio I never had need to host, since everyone I knew lived within an hour's drive.  Terribly convenient, this.  But a little ignorant-making, also, at least when it comes to knowing how to welcome travelers.

I am vaguely aware that there's an entire art to this whole hosting business, although I only have two firm ideas about what exactly this entails. I know, after years of IKEA catalog perusing, that I'm duty-bound to offer up a heap of fresh $2.49 slippers. I know also, based on some 2004 Marth Stewart spread, that I ought to rise with the chickens and squeeze 17 grapefruits into submission. I didn't do either. But at least I know where and how I erred.

I'm too new at this house-guest-having business to nail the details, so I think about basics and do what I can. Mostly, that means I supply the necessities—clean towels, abundant Jeni's, a complimentary 7 a.m. buffalo stampede child-led wake-up call—figuring if I can't quite manage gracious, I can at least hope for memorable. And meet guest requests, as they arise.

As for that first box, I have it easy, since the company in question checks it themselves.  I know from past trips that Annette and Joanne typically arrive with more memorable than jeans, t-shirts and toiletries, combined.  Before they even crossed our threshold this time, they unpacked incredible tales of travel gone awry.  Of late departures and missed connections and projected 9 p.m. arrivals, that wound up ending in a.m., in Cleveland.

We don't live in Cleveland.

Tack on a three hour middle-of-the-night drive through split pea fog and, I quote, "waterfalls", and, at long last, a 4 a.m. arrival. I'm inclined to believe they missed their plane on purpose. They are good that way, going all out for a story, appreciating the power of a grand entrance.  I guess I'll never know, but I wouldn't put it past them.  (You better believe I was up and waiting.)

And that was only just the beginning.

I won't bore you with the details, but I will pass on a few house-guest-vetting suggestions I've gleaned from this most recent experience.  First, anyone who arrives bearing excellent micro-roasted coffee is automatically admitted, no questions asked.  Second, throw your doors open wide for anyone with a bottomless Bananagrams appetite.  Bonus pillows to those who share 2-letter word lists. (You, too, can use qi, aa, and za!)  Always screen guests for flexibility in case you must abandon them on day one to repair a broken phone, say, or re-neg on much-ballyhooed squirt gun battles and barbecues. (I maintain weather management is beyond the hostess' job description. Who knew it would go from mid-eighties to mid-forties?  Mid-forties and raining?  The peonies and iris pretty much tell all.)  Also, give special preference to people who leave your kidlets in stitches (in their sides, not their heads) and can dispatch them to bed with giggles and speed.

And while I cetainly don't require it, I will confirm that a carry-on full of kitsch is a wonderful thing. Temporary tattoos and lunch bugs and ABC magnets (the Already Been Chewed gum variety, not the Spell DOG, sweetie! classics).  Foamy things, growing things, flying things with wings. Hysterical, awful zombies with pop-out brains.  Plants vs. Zombies, a new hit around here. Tours of the world's first zombie-proof house.  A heart to accompany our zombie brain jello mold.  (We added worms this time, a rousing success.  Not so gracious.  Definitely memorable.)  It wasn't until Henry chose Zombunny as his next monster that I realized Zombies had been quite the theme. This is what you stand to gain from great house guests: expanded horizons, in the most dubious of directions.

You would think, under the circumstances, all those guts busted, all those miles traveled, that I could at least answer a simple recipe request.  You would be wrong.

I don't cook much when we have company, as I rather prefer to chit-chat and play.  We did, however, manage breakfast that first bleary-eyed morning, an ad hoc affair that included ricotta pancakes.  We were out of the buttermilk that our go-to calls for, so we defaulted to our runner-up, a rather misleading rank for a food I call 'cloud cakes'.  Not that any of this matters, since we're talking asparagus.  

I'll get around to those pancakes, Annette, really, someday.  But, see, ricotta's good the year-round.  Asparagus, on the other hand, is here, now, briefly, as fleeting as that construction sign, below.  It popped up across the street the morning after you left town, and I'm hoping it will tide you over until pancake season returns.  For what it's worth, I had to act fast and log a tardy; the text reverted to road closure blather within the hour.  Timing is everything, with zombie zones and asparagus.  Not so much with hollandaise, but I'm jumping ahead. 

We've been eating asparagus every way imaginable, since the season started a few weeks back. I've diced it into soups, minestrone, avgolomeno, and tucked it into woks full of fried rice and gingered pork.  I've braised handfuls in miso-butter and grilled inch-thick spears alongside bratwursts and roasted more pounds than I care to count. (I wasn't kidding when I said I intended to eat it daily.) But of all the ways that I love asparagus, the one that skips my heart a beat is simply steamed, with hollandaise.

Hollandaise, of course, is that voluptuous French sauce of lemon and butter, emboldened by egg yolks.  It belongs to that futzy, storied family of emulsions, which also counts mayonnaise among its members. Traditional recipes are peppered with warnings, like careful, and curdle, and if it breaks...  This has always been a sore spot for me, and for years my results were what euphimists might call "mixed".  Pessimists would pick "dismal", without passing go.  I can't be relied upon to be careful with a sauce when there are siblings to referee.  And, just as a matter of principle, I'm not a fan of food that breaks.

I am, however, a wild fan of hollandaise.  So when I stumbled upon the blender method a few years back, I was more than a little intrigued.  After all, the blender had turned that other cliff-hanger, lemon curd, into a non-chalant, no-sweat affair.  Also, in an attempt to love mayonnaise last summer, I'd made a blender batch, which was just as easy as Luisa says.  And since hollandaise and mayonnaise are kissing cousins—the key distinctions being that hollandaise replaces a whiff of dijon with a jigger of lemon juice, and swaps out all that oil for 2 cubes (!) of melted butter—I figured it was worth a go.  Five minutes later, I was sold.  Also a little astonished, and a lot lemon-breathed.  If you think hollandaise hard, you'd be wrong about that, also. 

I set out to confirm this fact twice in recent weeks.  Qualtiy control, you understand.  The first night, I set a pan of asparagus to simmer briefly, in well-salted water just until knife-tender.  In the seven minutes it took those stalks to brighten, I melted butter, squeezed a lemon, and in sixty whizzing seconds, so disoriented those egg yolks they didn't even think to mutiny.  Then, last Thursday, faced with twenty minutes and a fierce hunger, Henry and I whipped up eggs benedict for lunch.  To be clear, here, we usually have fruit, cheese and crackers.  Maybe scrambled eggs, if we're feeling fancy.  But I was tickled by the notion that with pantry staples plus a blender, this banquet brunch star could be a busy afternoon's lunch. 

And this, my friends, is the dark underbelly of blender hollandaise: nothing so good should be so easy.  You start scanning the kitchen for vehicles, excuses:  Fish!  Broccoli!  Tablespoons!  Index Fingers!  So in the interest of modesty and mild restraint, I've decided to limit it to asparagus, for now.  Because, while you can't really go wrong with hollandaise plus anything, you can't get more right than dunk spear, eat, repeat.  

Hollandaise Sauce + Steamed Asparagus
adapted from Gourmet Today

Any size of asparagus (pencil-thin, pinky-thick, and thumb-giant) works here, but do stick with roughly (any) one width, for even cooking. I "trim" asparagus by holding the stalk at the center and, with the other hand, snapping off the wide end; it will snap at the point where tough turns to tender.

I prefer my hollandaise on the zippy side, so replaced some of the original recipe's water with additional lemon juice.  Start with 1 tablespoon, and adjust to taste.  I've included the original recipe's range in liquid, which allows for a range in the end consistency, but frankly, I cannot imagine needing more than 3 tablespoons total. Two (all lemon) yields a thick, plush, billowy sauce for dipping (think artichokes, asparagus, fingers). Three tablespoons (two lemon juice, one water) produces a velvety, pourable sauce suitable for fish, crèpes or eggs benedict.  Lastly, I find my stick blender invaluable here, though an ordinary stand blender ought to do the job nicely.

Please note: eggs may not be entirely cooked.  We use local, organic farmer's market eggs here.  Pasteurized eggs, available at most groceries, will eliminate any risk of salmonella.

1 1/2 pounds asparagus, washed, ends snapped

2 sticks (1 cup) salted butter
3 large egg yolks
1-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1-3 tablespoons warm water
1/8 tsp. salt

Prepare asparagus: In a wide, deep skillet, bring 1" of water to a boil, then add 2 teaspoons of salt. Turn down to a steady simmer, lay asparagus in bubbling water, and leave to steam-simmer until just knife-tender: 3-5 minutes for thin, 5-7 minutes for medium, 7-9 minutes for thick. Check by poking at thickest point with a knife; knife should insert with little resistance. Alternatively, lift one spear from the water. When held by its thick end, spear should just begin to droop.  Drain well. 

Prepare hollandaise: Melt butter. Remove from heat, let stand 3 minutes, then skim off most of foam with a table spoon.

In a tall measuring cup (if using a stick blender) or in the blender jar (if using a stand blender), combine egg yolks, lemon juice, salt and 1 tablespoon lemon juice. Blend briefly, 2 seconds. With motor running at a moderate speed, add hot melted butter in a slow, steady stream, leaving milk solids on bottom of pan behind.  Mid-way through, add a second tablespoon of liquid, lemon juice or warm water, to taste.  When all butter has been added, blend an additional ten seconds, then sample for consistency and seasoning.  Add additional lemon juice/water and salt/pepper to taste, and enjoy.

Note: Although hollandaise is best eaten shortly after making, this recipe makes a lot, and we held some for later.  Reheat by warming gently over simmering water, and whisking in an additional 1-2 tablespoons warm water to loosen.

 

 

all the familiar

I think I could make a habit of this.

Not Seattle (I made a habit of that, long ago, and could again, any old time).  Of this home away from home business.  It's pretty much the cat's pajamas.

For much of my life, travel lodging has meant tent stakes and Coleman stoves, which is right in line with the way I roll.  Hotels have had their place, particularly as we've found ourselves in places known less for their quiet wide open and more for their sheer spectacle.  (It's not that people don't camp out on the Mall.  I'm just not so sure s'mores are allowed.)

But as we're learning to navigate this new cross-country existence, I'm coming to treasure the gift of lent homes.  There is something exquisitely ordinary about the whole thing. 

Take, for example, the laundry factor.  If you've traveled with kids, you'll understand me when I say, Four Seasons has nothing on a washer and dryer, en suite.  Mints on the pillow?  Momofuku by phone?  Nice, but no thanks.  Give me a Kenmore side-by-side, any day.  

As it happens, there is normally a sweet babe in residence, which has meant the luxury of a full-size crib for my youngest.  There are brand-new-to-us toys and books to adore, and a walk down memory lane in a little high chair revival. 

There's a neighborhood to walk, when the mood strikes, plus a P-patch in full bloom, just down the road.  There's a yard out back, with grass and a hammock and one very-well-pruned rhubarb patch.  This means right-there space to run and jump and play, plus a door to fling open for late evening breezes.  Seriously better than a car park and dumpsters.

There's the freedom to nap at ten, two, or never, as no one's coming knocking to tidy up the room.  There are no neighbors sharing walls to worry over.  There are keys instead of key cards, stunning photos instead of schlock art, flowers to bring in instead of fluorescent lights to keep out.  Personality.  Privacy.  All the familiar comforts of home. 

One of which, of course, is a full-blown kitchen, though we haven't been doing a whole lot of cooking.  Between picnics in parks and dinners with friends and quick-and-dirty breakfasts that get us out the door early eventually, there's been little need, and less desire.  

Besides, we landed smack-dab in high berry season, which, in Seattle, is downright spectacular.  We've downed four half-flats of raspberries and strawberries in two weeks.  Four of each, and we don't fly out until Wednesday.  (We did chocolate-coat several of the latter for dessert.  And breakfast.  And the occasional Elevenses.)  That doesn't leave a lot of room for much else. 

But it's nice to wile away a wicked case of insomnia by rolling out a double crust at half past two.  It can't be any less effective than counting sheep.  And the surprise of it buys time enough to inhale your second cup. 

Our only real effort has been aimed squarely at seafood, which we've been feasting on as often as time and pant-size allow.  We pulled every last shred from a Dungeness crab, then did it again just a few short days later.  We poached shrimp for tacos, and steamed four pounds of fresh local clams.  (I'm fairly certain Motel 6 doesn't encourage this.)  And two sides of wild sockeye fed us for days.  The first night, I seared two salt-and-peppered slices.  The next night, I slow-roasted all the rest, a gloss of oil and a wide skillet and a half hour at 275°.  I ate all I could, then tucked the rest away for these.   

These being the salmon cakes I've been ad hoc'ing for a while, a fact you'll see in the 'this or that' ingredients.  As long as you've got a good knob of ginger and a surfeit of salmon, you've got what you need for tender fragrant crisp cakes.  Barely sweet with melted leeks, sparkling with ginger, the salmon's bound with just enough egg and crumb to hold together.  Both make an encore once the cakes are shaped, that standby one-two dunk that guarantees a grand crunch.  Do try this at home, wherever yours may be.

Gingered Salmon Cakes
Yield: 12-16 small (2") salmon cakes

Were it just me, I would add a good handful of chopped cilantro, one finely minced stalk of lemongrass, and a half dozen slivered kaffir lime leaves to this.  However, my one junior seafood fan loathes green bits for now, and I'm loathe to put him off a good thing.

Panko is that wonderfully light, crisp bread crumb that hails from Japan.  Most major groceries stock it in the Asian food section.  Most Asian groceries stock bags twice the size for half the price.  Worth it, either way.

For Salmon Mixture:
1 Tbs. olive oil
1 leek, white and light green thinly sliced (or 1 small onion or 2 shallots, minced)
1 1/2 Tablespoons grated or finely chopped ginger
4 scallions, whites and light greens sliced
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup panko, bread crumbs, or crushed saltines
2 tsp. salt
4 loose cups leftover cooked salmon (lightly flaked, major bones and skin removed)

For breading:
3 eggs, beaten with a fork, in a wide, shallow soup plate or bowl
2 cups panko seasoned with 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, in a wide, shallow soup plate or bowl
olive oil, for pan-frying

In a medium skillet over medium heat, warm 1 Tbs. olive oil until shimmery.  Add leeks (or onions), and soften, stirring occasionally, ten minutes.  Add ginger, stir, and continue to cook until fragrant, another 2-3 minutes.  Scrape from pan into a large, wide bowl, and allow to cool slightly.

Line 2 large plates or baking sheets with waxed paper or foil.  Have your bowl of beaten egg and bowl of panko ready. 

Add remaining ingredients (scallions, panko, beaten eggs, salt, and salmon) to leek-ginger mixture.  With two clean hands, moosh all together until well combined.  Rinse hands, but don't dry.  With damp hands, pick up around 2 Tablespoons of salmon mixture, and roll/pat it into a hockey puck sized disc.  I keep these smallish, around 1 1/2 - 2" across and 1/2" thick, as this size holds together well and cooks evenly.  (The high crust:salmon ratio doesn't hurt, either).  Place finished pucks on lined sheet, and continue, until you've used up your salmon.

To bread your pucks: take one patty in your left hand, and set it in the egg bowl, making sure both sides are glossed with egg (I use fingers to help a little egg along the top; these don't flip successfully).  Take egg-coated patty in your other hand, set it in the panko bowl, and coat well with the crumbs, using fingers to apply generously and press lightly.  Set on second lined sheet, and repeat, until finished.  It goes quickly, once you get the hang of it.

Slick a large skillet with olive oil, aiming for a quarter-inch across the entire pan bottom.  Heat over medium, until oil shimmers.  Using a spatula, lay 4 - 5 patties in the hot oil, taking care as the oil may splatter.  Don't crowd the pan; you want 1 - 2" between each patty, minimum, so as to keep the heat up.  Cook 3-5 minutes on one side, pressing down gently with your spatula, until bottom is golden brown and crisp.  Flip gently with a spatula, and continue to cook on reverse, 3-5 minutes, until bottom is golden.  Hold finished patties in a low oven (200°), or serve immediately, in stages.  Top off oil between batches, and allow 1-2 minutes to heat before laying in another round.  Allow also one premium specimen to land in your hand for munching as you flip.  Cook's prerogative.  

things we managed

Well, that was good fun.

I'm still getting the hang of this long-distance family thing, having grown up with my entire gene pool pretty much within spitting distance.  There's an all-or-nothing quality to being so far-flung.  It's rather light on the spontaneous hey, let's do lunch.  But it's pretty rich on the hey, let's hang, big-time!  Two weeks is some seriously awesome big time.   

It's funny business, figuring out what to do with that sudden extravagance.  I suspect there's a sweet spot between sightseeing and lolly-gagging, or at least I like to imagine there is.  I'm not sure we struck the perfect balance, exactly, but I'm positive we got in a whole lot of great.  

There was travel, kids in tow, two days here, three days there, criss-crossing the state from Kent to Kentucky.  We set eyes on the lush Cuyahoga river valley and saw everywhere tiny two-fingered corn poking through.  We left footprints on the Erie Canal Towpath and nose prints on museum glass.  We collected rocks and kicked up dust.  We saw a mummy.  And a Sargent and a Miró, a Picasso and a Calder, a  gorgeous viola done up as a galleon and a ten-foot-tall robot built of old televisions.  (Cincinnati Art Museum, I think I love you).  

We spent forty-eight hours surrounded by pegs, plus gamboling lambs and hysterical turkeys and a three-week-old chestnut-brown kid named Vivian.  Not to mention exquisite craftsmanship around every bend, the sort that catches your breath and slows your step and sets your mind all abuzz over everyday artistry.  Someday, I'll get over the fact my camera battery died eight hours in.  And I packed no charger.  And no one had a clue how to convert oxen-power to Nikon-juice.  In the meantime, you'll just have to trust me on this: if life ever lands you within 500 miles of Lexington, detour yourself right on over to Shaker Village.  Splendid. 

(Oh, and hey, you Kentucky folk?  Man, you keep a mean secret!  If word ever got out about your endless fences and black tobacco barns and twenty-nine never-before-seen shades of green?  Well.  I-75 would never be the same.)

We wore flip-flops and trench coats, shirt-sleeves and umbrellas.  We waded into the Olentangy and drenched boots in deep puddles.  We cursed the cold wind near Cleveland and the complete lack of it down South.  The weather was all over the map, but so were we, and adventure, I find, makes mere storm clouds seem trivial.  (Humidity's another matter, but let's not go there.)

We didn't see it all, but we covered some ground.

And through it all, serendipity.  We caught the rise and fall of the first peonies.  We made time for knitting lessons galore.  We lucked out, found ourselves in a hotel holding Mother's Day Brunch, on just the right day, in just the right company.  We lucked out again, when a friend mentioned 'Springfield', which happened to be held on the trip's final days.  They were both lovely, unexpected little surprises.  Though if I had to choose (and I think I speak for both of us, here), I'd pick orphaned buttons and discarded dishes over all-you-can-eat shrimp, any day. 

We may plan future visits around this event. 

And between all that gallivanting, a whole lot of nothing.  We spent plenty a dull morning wiping jam and sweeping crumbs, reading tiny Golden Books and building K'nex gizmos.  Not to mention many an ordinary afternoon, playdates and school pick-ups and pushing swings at the park.  Not headliner material, exactly.  But it sure smacked of privilege, under the circumstances. 

Because in the end, that was the main thing, soaking up Mamo, this way and that.  There is something tremendous about whole days together, opportunities and moments that just wouldn't come otherwise.  Pointing out to Henry the how of erosion.  Pointing out to me the fine points of old pillowcases.  Getting one's very own stockinette mustache (!!).  Racing each other on Mario Kart.  She beat me, three for four.  If I had to choose (and I think I'm speaking just for myself, here), we two on the Wii might have been the trip's highlight.   

The asparagus, though, was a close runner-up.  The first local specimens arrived while my mom was here, and we roasted it into finger-licking submission.  Caramelized at the edges, crazy sweet everywhere else, roast asparagus is so simple it's not even a recipe.  Though if you've never tried it, it is a revelation.  Instructions below, for the uninitiated (lucky ducks!).  

Also below, lemon rosemary risotto, because I can't make it past asparagus season without a round.  Twinkling with lemon, fragrant with rosemary, this is to boiled rice what silk velvet is to burlap.  I know, I know, risotto's got Baggage.  But seriously, people, it doesn't get any easier.  Steak terrifies me, and I've made hamburgers all of once, knees shaking, nerves shot.  But risotto?  It's just stirring, and only every now and then, at that.  Zoë'd do a fine job, if I'd let her pull her chair up to the stove.  

It's exquisitely rich, a small mound is plenty, which is just how I like it, ample room for green spears.  Together, I think, they're practically perfect, the last indulgence of winter, the first abundance of spring.  We didn't manage risotto last week.  It wasn't too tricky, only redundant, what with the crêpes we'd queued up for dinner.  But next year, mom, same date, same time?  I'm penciling it in now... "Springfield + Risotto with Mamo in May".

Lemon Rosemary Risotto
adapted from Nigella Lawson, Nigella Bites

I don't subscribe to the Must Stir Constantly school of risotto cookery.  I'm fairly certain, in fact, a mother of twelve first invented risotto, realizing cheap rice plus haphazard stirring yielded one heckuva feast.  Just give a good stir after each addition of broth, and you can busy yourself with other tasks (may I suggest roasting asparagus?) in between.

Really, my only caveat is not to make the whole thing in advance (re-heated risotto doubles as glue; I speak from experience).  You can, however, get it halfway along, fifteen minutes in, then set it aside and finish it off before supper.  (And leftover risotto does make gang-buster fried cakes, bound with egg and cheese and covered in panko.  But that's another story...)

2 shallots or 1/2 yellow onion, diced
4 Tablespoons butter, divided
1 Tablespoon olive oil
2 large sprigs fresh rosemary, needles stripped and finely minced (approx. 2 Tablespoons)
1 1/3 cups arborio rice
approx. 1 quart stock (vegetable or chicken), or hot water
1 large organic lemon, zested and juiced
1 egg yolk
1 cup freshly grated parmigiana reggiano, plus more to top
4 Tablespoons heavy cream
salt and pepper, to taste

In a small saucepan or in the microwave, heat stock or water.  Keep simmering on side burner (or set aside). 

In a small bowl, combine the egg yolk, cream, grated parmesan, lemon zest and juice, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and several grinds of fresh pepper.  Stir briskly with fork to combine. 

For risotto, heat 2 Tablespoons butter, olive oil, diced shallot/onion, and rosemary in a wide saucepan, over medium heat, around five minutes, until onion is soft and translucent.  Add rice to butter/onion mixture, stirring to coat, and continue to cook 3-5 minutes, until steady sizzle changes to an occasional crackle.

Turn heat to low-medium.  Add a ladleful of hot stock to the rice, and stir slowly, until stock is absorbed (1-2 minutes).  Add another ladleful of stock, stir to combine, and move on to tidying up.  Check back in a few minutes, give a stir, and when stock is absorbed, add another ladleful. 

Repeat, for twenty minutes or so, stirring after each addition, then returning to play dough snakes or multiplication tables.  Each addition will take a little longer to absorb, though usually no more than 4-5 minutes.  After twenty minutes, start to sample your risotto.  You're after a creamy, dreamy rice, with a faint bite at the center (al dente), but certainly no crunch.  At twenty minutes, it won't be quite there; at thirty minutes, you'll be setting the table.

When the texture is right, add the cream/lemon mixture, and stir well to combine.  Finally, beat in the remaining two Tablespoons of butter, stirring well with a wooden spoon (this changes everything; don't skip it).  Taste for seasoning, adjust salt and pepper if needed, and dig in. 

*******

Roast Asparagus

Move rack to bottom of oven, and preheat to 450°.  For each pound of medium-thick asparagus: wash, snap ends, and lay out on a rimmed baking sheet (jelly roll pan).  Drizzle with 2 Tablespoons olive oil, sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, and shake pan well and/or rustle with fingers to coat spears evenly with oil and salt.  Slide tray onto bottom rack, and leave undisturbed, 10 minutes.  Open oven door, standing back to let steam escape, then give the pan a good shake.  Return to oven for another 2-8 minutes, depending on size of spears.  You're after some nicely browned bits and a lovely tender bite. 

Jerry Traunfeld once demonstrated done-ness to me this way: pick up a spear, and hold it by the thick end, and if it bends ever so gently, it's perfect.  Pencil-straight?  Give it another few minutes.  Hopelessly droopy?  Pull it a little sooner, next time!  Devour.