remedial eating

hem and haw

March, March. 

What do we think of March?

I'm lukewarm on the month, myself.  February, I realize, is for many the dregs, rock bottom of the winter blech barrel.  I get that.  I feel the same way about July. 

But by March, it gets a little funny.

For one thing, March is when winter divides us, North from South, inland from edgeland.  By March, in Seattle, there are daffodils to speak of, and yolk yellow forsythia, already come and gone, and the possibility, if not the reality, of peas.  Rain boots and bumbershoots replace cold weather gear, and the (often unrequited) hope for the white stuff.

We landed four inches, yesterday.  School was cancelled.  We won't be planting peas, anytime soon. 

You know I'm all over inches and igloos, and you probably hear my happy dance from there.  But by now, such splendor's the exception, not the rule, and more than a little melancholy for it.  Winter has entered its epilogue, the thrill of those early chapters behind us.  

Any snow that falls now inevitably brings thoughts not of firsts, but of lasts. Lasts are wistful.  

Mostly, March snow's a half-hearted thing.  Yesterday's was damp, heavy, and by today, halfway to gone.  It snowed all last week.  Accumulation: Zero.  It vanishes, on the way down.  It's a different snow species going forward, flyaway stuff, with no plans to stick around.  

The season itself seems spent.  But the finish line's a long way off, yet.   

By March, in Ohio, Winter starts to wane.  It does not follow that Spring kicks in.  Sun happens, March through May, in small, non-contiguous, biggering bursts.  But it will be two months, anyway, before Spring is here to stay.  

April is, after all, no stranger to snow. 

And so, dressers bulge with three seasons of clothing.  Shoes multiply, snow boots, rain boots, flip flops.  The coat closet teeters between clutter and chaos. Our first week in school, our first year here, it was 7° Monday morning, 70° Friday afternoon. 

A spread of sixty-one degrees.  Five days.  Same week.  First week of March. 

It's as if March, and its doppelgänger, April, can't decide which way to go. Winter, Spring?  Spring, Winter?  Eenie meenie miney mo...  

(We discussed how best to address this, the other day, and decided these next months deserve their own season.  A fifth, transitional, in-between season. Wing?  Wring?  Maybe Sprinter...  To, you know, get us through quicker.)

And I think that's the thing that gets me about March.  I'll mourn Winter when it goes, welcome Spring when it lands, but where we are now is a no-man's land. March waffles, equivocates, hems and haws.  It's ambiguous at best.  I am not. At my best, around ambiguous, that is.

So it's hard to explain why it is that I've dodged this minestrone for months.  

Partly, I point to the fact that it's one of those fluid recipes, wide open to interpretation and the contents of your crisper.  But we've covered that, now. Improvise.  Innovate.  Check.

Also, it's a dog.  Relentlessly unattractive.  Even in person.  I still ate thirty quarts.  (I know.  I couldn't believe it, either.  I just double-checked my pots. I've made more like forty.  But I did relent, and share a few bowls, so let's go with thirty-plus, and call it conservative.) 

Mostly, though, I'm still blinking in disbelief that minestrone could be considered edible, much less greed-inducing.  Prior to this fall, my minestrone encounters all came from crowd-friendly faux-talian restaurants.  The sort where you order not entrées but "dinners".  The sort where you get free bread/salad/soup/coffee/ice cream/refills.  Laugh if you will, but I've a soft spot for this sort.  For everything, that is, save the strident red sludge with tinned potatoes, khaki green beans, and that rarified terroir that comes only from three days on a steam table.  

Apparently, that was not minestrone.   

Apparently, if the fine women of River Cafe are to believed, minestrone is actually an exaltation of vegetables.  It's a careful building up of flavors, layer upon well-considered layer.  It requires a bit of work, and a bit of time, as ten pounds of vegetables don't chop themselves.  But it is good, deeply pleasing work, as the chopping and stirring and layering dovetail like an anonymous 19th century oak desk.  Perfectly.  Which translates pretty much directly to the spoon.  

But I'm getting ahead of myself...  

This soup is Judy Rogers' and Rose Gray's Winter Minestrone, and it is a first-class keeper.  Maybe that's redundant, since pretty much anything Rogers-Gray is, in my experience, a first-class keeper.  Still, there are several small, brilliant steps in this recipe that do a real number on ordinary old veg.  It is based on soffritto, that dense, intense, slow-cooked slurry of aromatics that go just shy of caramelized, anything but shy in flavor.  This slow dance is key, and totally unhip, when tinned broth, beans, and greens equal soup in ten.  I do that soup.  I like that soup.  This isn't that soup.  And it shows.  Save this one for a weekend morning, because thirty minutes is almost a cheater's soffritto, and forty-five minutes, not a moment too long.  

To this heady sludge, you add things in quantities that may raise eyebrows, and will demand seconds.  A full bunch of parsley, stems and leaves, both.  Heads of garlic.  Heads.  Plural.  Swiss chard ribs, tinned tomatoes.  And then, again, chop, stir, chop, stir, let the magic unfold in slo-mo.  Because caramelized tomatoes?  So, so not strident.   

Almost there.  In go your six pounds of slivered greens (you read that right), your mountain of diced roots, a few quarts of water.  I add parmesan rinds, as I love their umami, and a small throw of kielbasa, for my small sausage fiends. Both add something.  Both are unecessary.  That soffritto brings flavor to spare.  

Then, simmer.  Half an hour, give or take.  Add tender veg at the end, if you wish.  Beans—I like chickpeas—no matter what.  Season well, with the same slow attention you've given all along.  Because an undersalted soup is a television on mute, but add just enough, and in that moment, each vegetable becomes eloquent, articulate, witty.      

One last note about those vegetables: they're all my addition, and I adore them. Gray and Rogers call this one Winter Minestrone, and theirs is a soup of beans and greens.  But I made my first batch late last fall, as we were readying for two days in the hills, and my fridge and garden were both bursting.  These pictures all date to that time; this minestrone's carried me through every month, since.  From fall's last zucchini to late winter's storage veg, it has flattered every thing I've thrown at it.  Indeed, while peeling roots for last week's pot, I went a little panicky over their impending loss.  Hold up, I scolded the turnips and parsnips, I'm not done with your soft pepper, with your sweet cream.  

Whereupon I resolved to quit hemming and hawing, and get you a bowl of this soup.  Because what could possibly possess a person to pine for turnips in March?  See below.   

Three Season Minestrone
adapted from Italian Country Cook Book, by Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray 

Vary the veg to suit your taste and crisper drawer.  Bok choy can stand in for swiss chard.  Double the spuds.  Skip the green beans.  Follow the general guidelines for timing—stems in step two, roots in step three, and tender veg just before the end—and you can substitute at will.  

Rogers and Gray add half the cavolo nero at the beginning and half at the end, for a splash of bright, resilient green.  I prefer mine added entirely at the beginning, where it goes army beige but turns silky and rich.  Your choice. Either way, six pounds disappear.  Seriously.  Theirs is also a thick, standing-room-only soup, which contains only enough water to cover, and has half the beans mashed before adding.  I leave my beans whole, and often increase the water, as I love the warming effects of hot broth.  Also your call.  Half-inch dice.  I know.  But it makes for the most pleasing spoonfuls, each a small party of sweet, tender veg.  Truly.    

This makes vats, gallons and gallons.  I freeze a tall stack of portions, for later lunches, and get nervous when the pile runs low.  Halves easily, if you want less.   

4 tablespoons olive oil
6 medium carrots, chopped
3 medium onions, chopped
6 celery stalks, chopped
2 teaspoons' salt
2 heads of garlic, cloves peeled and minced
2 pounds swiss chard, leaves and stems separated, leaves slivered, stems chopped
1 28-ounce can plum tomatoes, roughly chopped
1 bunch parsley, leaves and stems, chopped
4 1/2 pounds cavolo nero (Tuscan kale) or other hearty green, stripped of tough stems, leaves slivered
3-5 quarts water, vegetable stock, or chicken stock
8-16 ounces parmesan rinds
6-8 cups root vegetables (parsnips, potatoes, turnips, sweet potatoes, more carrots), peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
6 cups tender vegetables (green beans, zucchini, corn), prepped and cut into 1/2" dice
8-16 ounces kielbasa, cut into 1/2" dice (optional)
2 cups chickpeas, cooked
salt and freshly ground pepper
freshly grated parmesan, to top 

Peel and roughly chop your carrots, onions and celery.  In your biggest, heaviest pot, preferably a dutch oven, warm the olive oil until shimmery.  Set flame to low, tip in your carrots, celery and onions, add two teaspoons' salt, and stir well to coat.  Cook slowly, stirring occasionally, until soft and amber, 30-45 minutes.  While this is happening, go about the rest of your prepping and chopping, working your way through the roots, leaves and such.

When your soffritto is one third its' former volume, slumped, and smelling wonderful, add the two heads' minced garlic, half the chopped parsley (stems and leaves), and the chopped chard stems.  Stir well, let settle, then add tomatoes.  Cook, stirring occasionally, until reduced, 15-30 minutes.

Add half (or all, see note above) of swiss chard and cavolo nero leaves, the diced root vegetables, enough water or stock to cover, parmesan rinds, and diced kielbasa, if using.  (At this point, I usually divide the soup over two large pots, so as not to crowd, and to allow for the vegetables still to come.)  Bring to a boil, and let simmer, 30-45 minutes, or until the biggest root yields easily to knife point.  Taste for salt—it will need plenty more, anywhere from 1-2 tablespoons.  Add and taste, add and taste, until you are happy.  

Now, finish off the soup with the final line-up:  add the remaining greens, if you reserved any; cooked beans; plus any tender vegetables (green beans, zucchini, corn), and let simmer another 5-10 minutes, until tender.  Taste for seasoning again—all the vegetables should be flavorful, each tasting distinctly of itself, and the broth bright and deeply savory.  Adjust salt and pepper until this tastes true.

Serve immediately, topped with freshly grated parmesan and/or olive oil.  And stash some away in the freezer for later.  There are few things better to find in the deep freeze.  

if we're to talk soup

I hesitate to talk soup, here.  This is misleading.  And odd.  

After all, I make soup often, once a week, sometimes twice.  I eat it more often, once a day, sometimes twice.  Three bowls are not unheard of, nor are four, but since frice is apparently not considered proper English, we'll leave it at thrice.  And that I eat a lot of soup.

 

 

Thing is, there are two types of soups in this world.  There are discrete soups, the sort you set out to make, with fixed ingredients and brief instructions and some semblance of structure.  Potato leek, say, or Tom Kha Gai, or in summer, cucumber or gingered beet.  Even our beloved go-to chili, which takes a short morning, but nothing more, and always the same eleven items.  Neat, tidy, turn-key soups. 

I make these.  I love these.  I rely on these, often.

 

 

Then there are the other ones, the rambling unwieldy ones.  Soups with no obvious beginnings, no perky, trim, tied-up-in-a-bow endings.  That take other meals as starting points.  That can only exist in ellipses (...soups...).   Soups peppered with hyphens and ranges and words like "leftover", "optional", "to taste".  Soups which may seem ambiguous at best (two carrots or four?), utterly presumptuous at worst (what 4 cups leftover roast?!).  Slippery, shifty, imprecise soups.  

These are the soups that evolve in the making, pinch of this, smidge of that.  So many good soups, so much good cooking—maybe so much good, period—plays out this way, from the hip.  Improvising.  In the moment.  In spite of Dora.  (Best thing I've read all week.  Arguably best post title, ever.  Shipoopi!)

 

 

They're the sorts of soups wherein when you hear "leeks", you know onions, shallots, scallions will do.  All in the allium family.  Wherein carrots can be doubled, or sweet potatoes omitted, or both replaced by butternut.  Parsnips welcome.  Turnips might be nice.  Bag the spuds.  Add rutabagas.  Pantry as guide, über alles.    

They're the sorts of soups more easily explained in person than in type.  That instantly makes sense when you're in the same room, rubbing shoulders, side by side.  Screens seem to be our new side by side.  They're amazing at that, in many ways.  I don't know yet if they're amazing at this.    

 

 

The trouble has always seemed to me that these soups don't belong to words. Trying to stuff them into ingredients and instructions, man, it's awkward. Elephant into tutu territory.  Print, in all its emphatic black and white, does a disservice to such soups, implying sharp edges and crisp corners where in fact there are only curves, soft and yielding.  They don't conform well to cups, quarts, and teaspoons, because they are, by nature, open-ended.  Democratic, flexible, generous.  

Which, if you ask me, makes them worthy of discussion, right there.   

 

 

For ill-suited though they may be to recipes, they fit exquisitely days, bellies, crisper drawers.  Because these soups are the seams between meals, the stitches that fasten yesterday's supper to tomorrow's lunch.  They bind Sunday's roast to Tuesday's Beef Barley, connect the dots between disparate dinners. They call on the orphans and odd-lots in our fridge, the half-head of parsley, the lonely celery, the forgotten carrots, left for limp. They honor our drippings, and trimmings, and bones, which turn water into stock, better even than wine.

And what's more?  Along the way, they take this hodgepodge, and make sense of it all.

 

 

(Not unlike the hodgepodge of a week, making sense of itself in retrospect.  I had little notion what I'd find, when I looked at the week's outtakes.  A week that has felt rather scattershot, as we leave behind winter break, breaks and colds, and creakily, gratefully, find our groove.  Turns out it's the same old January delights.  Scrubbing [preferably with pink-kerchiefed pirates].  Sorting [old art, older spices, new gifts].  Feasting [rice, tofu, shiitakes and bok].  Rushing headlong into resolutions.  I didn't always love resolutions, but boy oh boy, I adore them now.  Maybe because mine include "bake more cakes".  [Week One: Two down.  Not bad, 2013.]

And making.  And snow.  Always making and snow.)     

 

 

Delectable sense, and dinner, besides.  Just not prim and proper copy.

Oh well.

It is January, and cold, and time for deep comfort, and we can't let silly old language get between us and some very good soup.  We'll muddle through.   

 

 

All of which is to say: can we talk split pea soup?   Light, thin, rich, meaty, savory split pea, which was good, very good, and one such soup.  I ad hoc'd it from the Christmas ham bone, building and tweaking as I went, only to find, as I ate the first bowl, it's the split pea I've hankered after for years.  I ate bowl after bowl after bowl after bowl, alternately amazed and overjoyed to have finally found it.  I'm putting it here, in all its ellipses, so as to be able to find it again.  

Here is why I want to remember:

 

 

I have always loved the idea of split pea soup; rarely, the reality.  And I've cooked my way through many realities.  None were truly bad, mind you; just all pretty good, none genuinely great.  They all, to me, tasted too stodgy, too stiff, a little too Pease porridge hot.  A little, for lack of a better word, beige. Add to that their monotony—beyond a few carrots, and the odd bit of ham, most pea soups are all pea, all the time—and I knew just exactly how it wound up nine days old and cold.  

I felt like throwing up my hands in defeat.  I felt a little like Frosty, down there.    

 

 

Still.  I believed in split pea, knew it could do it, kept whispering Little Engine encouragements into pots.  I kept at it, trying out different takes, taking away what I liked from each.  From Moosewood, way back in my college kitchen, I learned the beauty of caramelizing carrots, celery and onions, low and slow. Also, the spunking-up effect of a good slosh of vinegar at the end.  From my friend Martine, I learned to love the Dutch angle, with plenty of pork and soft tender potatoes.  From Emily Franklin, I learned to finish a bowl with "fresh" (frozen) peas, plus parmesan.  And from there, I improvised, madly.

I pumped up the veg, extra carrots, sweet potatoes, because I wanted more interesting bits.  I discarded advice to add veg near the end, twenty minutes before done, for al dente tender.  Instead, I added them all early, not just a mirepoix but a mountain, because I've realized I like the results.  That roots and stock both benefit twice, first from that extra early caramelization, finally from all that time spent rubbing elbows.  Roots cooked an hour or more in broth go velvet-edged, a little bit plush, and entirely drunk on the stock they swim in.

 

 

About that stock.  It's nothing more than water, amplified by a few flavor bombs.  I used our ham bone, as I always do, but earlier and meatier than is my custom.  From my reading up on Ertesoupe, I realized I'd been a Scrooge, that I needed not only the bone but a good heap of ham, besides.  To pump things up further, the meat went in with the veg, to render its fat and crisp up its edges and generally perfume the whole pot.  Knowing how well parmesan played with the finished soup, and how beautifully rinds flavor a bland broth, I figured it couldn't hurt to toss in a few crusts.  So I did.  Have mercy.  Anything but beige.  Here—well, a simmery hour or two from here—was that savory, deep, lip-smacking umami every other split pea I'd met was missing.  

The bratwurst probably helped.  A pound was added near end.  The two porks worked in tandem, one smoky, one spiced, to fill the pot with pomp, circumstance, substance.  Vegetarian this split pea is not (though I think with a doubling of parmesan rinds, it well could be).  But it is meat the way I most like it, honored to the end, made the most of.  Diced small, it's everywhere, abundant, and yet wildly outnumbered by broth and veg, two pounds of pork to eight-plus quarts of soup.  Yum.

 

 

And soup it is, strange as that sounds.  One last note about that water.  There's a lot of water.  Six quarts of water.  Which translates to twenty four cups of water.  More, to taste.  (I used thirty two.  I know; I measured twice.  Also, two pots, to accomodate overflow.)  I realized, finally, this time around, that what I wanted was soup.  Split peas, like all legumes, expand tremendously in the cooking.  The ratio of peas:water in most recipes yields something far closer to stew, thick, stiff, nursery rhyme stuff.  So, I just kept adding water.  

And adding.  And adding.  And, lo!  I had soup!  And something wonderful, besides.  It turns out that when you add enough water to dried peas, they relax into themselves, dissolve, melt.  The end result is not only soup-ish and slurpable, but downright creamy.  Double yum. 

 

 

It looks dull.  Possibly dreadful.  It isn't either, not even close.  But I left it ungarnished, unvarnished, humble, both in the interest of honesty, and because that's how I often eat it.  The peas and parmesan at the end are fantastic, the one delivering bright pops of sweet, the other an unexpected, excellent bling.  They're also unnecessary.  This split pea stands alone.  And if we're to talk soup, we must talk straight.  And sometimes, I want a piping hot bowl yester-minute, no time to grate cheese and no thanks to peas andpleasepassanapkin,thanks!  Slurp.   

 

A Deeply Savory Split Pea Soup
inspired by Martine's exquisite split pea soup, with guidance from The Moosewood Cookbook, The Meat Cookbook, and Too Many Cooks

Good soup depends on good ham.  I'm fond of Niman Ranch hams, for their tremendous flavor, texture, and farming practices.  They also have a lovely "little ham", around two pounds, that would work well here.  Just leave out the bone (or beg one off your butcher, who often has oodles, for pocket change).  I add peas straight from the freezer; the heat of the soup perfectly warms the peas, and the cold of the peas cools the burn off the soup.

3 tablespoons olive oil
3 chubby leeks, well rinsed, quartered, white and pale green parts thinly sliced
1 very meaty ham bone, meat removed, diced 1/2" OR 4 cups good ham, diced 1/2"
5 large carrots, quartered lengthwise, diced 1/2"
3 stalks celery, minced
6 small yukon gold potatoes, scrubbed, diced 1/2"
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled, diced 1/2"
6-8 quarts water
2 cups (around 1 pound) dried split peas
4-8 ounces parmesan rinds (optional)
3 bay leaves
1 teaspoon plus 1 Tablespoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1 pound bratwurst or kielbasa, diced 1/2"
1 teaspoon dried marjoram
1 teaspoon dried thyme
freshly ground pepper
2-3 tablespoons cider vinegar, + more to taste
petite frozen peas (optional)
freshly grated parmesan (optional)

Pull out your largest, heaviest soup pot, set it on your biggest burner, and slick the bottom in olive oil.  Set over medium heat, slice your leeks, and add them to the shimmery oil with a teaspoon of kosher salt.  Give them a lazy stir, now and again, as you go about the business of ham.  If using a ham bone, carve the meat from the bone, then chop the meat into a rough 1/2" dice, removing any great veins of gristle, but leaving on the sweet fat cap along the top.  (This fat will render in the heat, adding flavor, and helping to caramelize the upcoming mountain of vegetables.  If using boneless ham, simply dice, knowing extra olive oil may be needed if the ham has no fat to speak of.)  

After ten minutes, when leeks are limp and translucent, add your chopped ham, and give all a good stir.  Go about preparing the next 4 veg (carrots, celery, potatoes, sweet potatoes), in turn, peeling, chopping and adding, as you go.  Stir with each addition and keep heat at a low-ish medium; this allows each new vegetable to give off its moisture and caramelize gently, building flavor and sweetness along the way.  After adding and stirring sweet potatoes, give them a final ten minutes to caramelize, then add your water, 6 quarts (24 cups) for a thicker, porridge-style soup, 8 (32 cups) quarts for a thinner, cream-style soup consistency.  This is a lot of water.  If need be, pull out a second, small pot at this point, to accomodate overflow.  I do this all the time.  Bear in mind, also, you can always this the soup further, later.

Add dried split peas and bay leaves, as well as the ham bone and/or parmesan rinds, if using.  Turn heat to high, bring soup to a gentle boil, then reduce heat to maintain a gentle burble.  Simmer soup, 1-2 hours, stirring occasionally, until split peas are tender to the point of dissolve.  At the 1 hour mark, irrespective of the integrity of the peas, add the pound of minced kielbasa, and Tablespoon of salt.  Stir, and continue to cook if needed, or simmer another 15 minutes, if peas are ready.  (Total cooking time will depend on the age of your peas.  My most recent peas dissolved within the hour; I've had other batches take upwards of three.)  

Once split peas have collapsed completely into the broth, and sausage has simmered for at least 15 minutes, add the dried marjoram and thyme, crushing them between your fingers as you do, and 2 Tablespoons of vinegar, stirring well to combine.  Let meld a few minutes, then taste your soup.  Are the flavors forward, and bold, and bright?  Probably not quite yet.  Gauge consistency first, adding more water if you wish it thinner.  Then, taste and adjust seasoning.  You will almost surely need more salt (ham and sausage vary greatly in salt content), upwards of 1 Tablespoon.  Add in half-teaspoons, giving a stir and a minute between additions, and tasting as you go.  You may wish for another Tablespoon of vinegar, which doesn't add sour so much as brightness and depth.  I've been known to add sherry, to good effect.  More herbs may be wanted.  Taste, taste, taste.  Continue along these lines, until everything sings.

Eat piping hot, topped by curls of parmesan, a spoonful of frozen peas, or nothing at all.  This soup keeps very well for 5 days, freezes like a dream, and reheats beautifully.  

this won't do

It appears I have neglected fall. 

Obviously, this won't do.

After all, fall is my favorite season, October my favorite month.  Or maybe it's my almost-favorite month; I may pull a switcheroo in a few weeks, re-cast my vote on behalf of November.  I can't possibly commit, this early on.  Better to go with the season itself.  

Either way?  I can't help but bear witness. 

Because fall is when the weather turns lovely, becomes what I think a summer should be.  The nasties—heat, humidity, mosquitoes—leave town, with plenty of rain taking their place.  The nights are cool, the days, sometimes sunny, punctuated by plenty of gray.  Temperatures swing between fifties and seventies, sweaters and shirt-sleeves, hot oats and cold cider.  Absolutely perfect, in other words.  The summer of my dreams, slightly delayed.

(Did I mention I'm from Seattle?  Where summer as often means fleece as one-piece?)      

There are puddles for jumping, and breezes for bicycling, and just-sunny-enough days for fairy-house building.  

(Apparently, in Ohio, fairies need more than the standard issue leaf-and-twig hut.  I didn't ask Zoe for details, but she seemed certain they needed four walls and a roof.  It does get nippy.  I can't blame them.)

Fall is when every clearing of the table for homework winds up looking like some trite still life.  Like the colors can't help themselves.  Like sunset and harvest are the only hues allowed.

Fall is when coat zippers need waxing, after their long summer hibernation.  And while we're at it, satchel zippers, also, and bird feeders, filling, and the last of the garden tomatoes, gathering.

And the very last.  

And the very very last.

And the very very very last.  

We've harvested our last at least six times, now.  Ditto the zucchini, which by rights should be toast, two tinies of which were spotted, just yesterday.  Ditto also the green beans, transitioning toward shelly, still putting out, despite a few frosts.  

Apart from the chard and kale, both champs, the harvest is nothing to write home about.  The tomatoes are on the sour side; the bean yield, miniscule.  But the thrill, for some reason, is inversely proportional.  And the amounts allow beans to become a math moment.  Which leads to groan-worthy bean counting jokes.  All of which makes me feel endlessly better about putting off "rip out vegetables" for three weeks.  Maybe four...

The flowers have proven no less generous, soldiering on despite several nighttime freezes.  As everything around them goes withery brown, the stalwarts carry on, all the more stunning for it.  There are mums, of course, which never fail to tickle, so boisterous and raring, all "Winter?  What winter?"

But it is the others, the true blooms and elegants, that dazzle and astound in equal measure.  Mums, I don't know, they just look hardy.  Like the Land's End of flowers, ubiquitous, sturdy.  But windflowers, toad lilies, pink-petalled roses? They seem fragile things, wispy, frail.  To the eye, anyway.  Underneath?  Abs of steel.    

(And with all due respect to Mademoiselle Dickinson?  

Hope is the thing not only with feathers, but with petals and buds at the end of October.) 

The foliage isn't too shabby, either.  Our morning school walks are a russety shuffle, as the oaks finally begin to let loose.  Afternoons, when our route takes us under maples, we might as well be Sigourney, so crimson's the carpet.  

Driving into the country, yesterday, it felt for all the world like blizzard conditions.  Only blizzard conditions brought to you by Ted Turner, all brilliant color, no black and white. 

For all that, we've a few weeks of splendor ahead yet, as we stand on this cusp between full and empty.  Our hawthorne and honey locust are almost bare.  Our crabapple's so bald, it might as well be February.

But our dogwood and hyacinth are just now turning color.  The oak delivers leaf piles right up through Thanksgiving.  Their days are numbered, and they well know it, and they seem intent on going out in a blaze of glory.  Amen.  

Most days, fall follows us right indoors.  My hand slips into my pocket for keys, comes up instead with acorns galore.  Pinecones and tissues go through the wash.  Walnuts and small nuts we can't quite identify accumulate everywhere. After last year's hiatus, due to the crud, we were doubly happy to get in a batch of leaf-dipping.  

Fall may, to you, smell of apples and spice, the leaves' funk and ferment, the thrill of fresh air.  Yes, those.  But to me, I think it will always, also, be tinted with beeswax's honeyed sweet. 

Fall, to my kids, means unearthing The Fall Box, which to them might as well be The Halloween Box.  Or, more properly, "THE HALLOWEEN BOX!!!!!!"  Yes, it contains our acorn and bat stamps.  And indeed, there are the odd wool felt leaves.  

But the immediate excitement is directed toward all things All Hallow's Eve: the old outgrown costume bits, and artifacts from Octobers past, and especially the excellent loot from what we have come to realize are Mamo's annual Halloween box.  

Thus begins weeks of glow-in-the-dark necklaces, and goofy glasses, and appropriately-themed duct tape bracelets.  (You didn't think we were all beeswax and dried leaves, did you?  When there is outrageous duct tape to be had?  Oh, c'mon.)  

And, since this year's haul included twenty tiny spiders, we hung two bags of fake webbing, out front.  I do not, as a rule, decorate for Halloween, but can I tell you, four dollars have rarely delivered such fun?  

Of course, there are bad jokes.  Halloween begs bad jokes.  

Q: "Why are witch twins so confusing?"  
A:  "You can never tell which witch is which."  

(Told you.)

Fall is when we riffle through the construction paper for orange, black, yellow and green.  When jack-o-lantern patterns are trialled in 2-D.  When ghosts appear everywhere, on paper, in meringue.  

It is first (double) batches of everyday cocoa mix.  And ruling one mini-marshmallow per year, reasonable.  Then re-considering.  Twelve marshmallows?  Really?  Yeah, no.  Because, come middle school, that makes for a lot of marshmallows.  Revision to Parenting Code 139.00179:  one mini- per year, up to age 10.       

In fall, pumpkins come home from farm field trips, an easier "yes" than the alternative, newborn piglets.  This necessitates the cooking of a pumpkin, which all but requires the baking of a pumpkin pie.  I highly recommend the baking of a pumpkin pie, several weeks prior to Thanksgiving.  (Actually, I highly recommend the baking of a pumpkin pie, several weeks prior to anything.)  But right now, absent turkey and trimmings, pumpkin pie has the spotlight all to itself.  Few things are as worthy.  

Does it sound like I'm here to talk pies today?  I am not.  I am no baker of pies. I love them, pumpkin particularly, and can muddle my way through, inelegantly. But all I can tell you by way of wisdom is that homemade pumpkin makes for an especially delicate filling, and to tip in a heaping teaspoon of cardamom, and to otherwise follow Libby's label to a T.  (Yes, I'm suggesting you follow the canned pumpkin recipe.  Without, you know, ever opening the can.)    

No, I'm here today to talk up another orange lovely, specifically the sweet potato.  Specifically, the sweet potato and fellow fall veg, aswim in a warm, fragrant coconut milk curry.  Specifically, and delightfully.  

I wrote this up first for the fall Edible Columbus, and nearly forgot to mention it, here.  It's easy to do, the forgetting, magazine deadlines being what they are.  There are those among you for whom this is standard, and I'm finally beginning to bend my mind around it.  But it still seems awfully peculiar to me to be hunting down sweet potatoes in high July.

No excuse, mind you, for missing this korma.  Missing this korma won't do at all.    

A korma—and I'm generalizing wildly here—is a catch-all for an Indian braised curry.  Eloquently spiced, often creamy, deeply flavored, always balanced, a korma is a treat and a half.  There are chicken kormas, and lamb and beef also, and all manner of vegetable-based kormas, my favorite.  Today's korma fits into that last category, and eats like a love letter to fall.   

Like all good kormas, this one is built on aromatics—onions, garlic, a pile of minced of ginger—softened and mellowed and sincerely browned.  Mustard seeds fry in the oil alongside, adding their nutty addictive crunch. Warm spices bloom briefly, coriander, turmeric, plus just enough chili for background blush. Firm vegetables follow, white potatoes, cubed sweets, plus, if you wish, cauliflower and/or kale.  These are joined by tomatoes and coconut milk, the former a foil to the latter's rich lush.  As the tubers and crucifers braise away in the sauce, the sauce thickens and intensifies.  Meanwhile, the aromatic gunge built at the outset infiltrates both, a rather excellent incursion.  

Toward the end, I like adding some sweet green thing, green beans in season, frozen peas, any time.  I also like a tin of chickpeas tipped in.  The buff velvet nubs blend in like old friends.  Once everything's in, there's the matter of seasoning, a final, brief, critical step.  First bites may be dull, as the real seasoning must wait until the braising and reducing is done.  Never fear.  Salt, and sugar, and lime juice, in turn, are added and sampled and tweaked until grand.  Don't be shy.  When the quantities are right—and your buds will know—sauce and vegetable will suddenly sing.    

We ate it tonight with a mound of basmati, which soaks up the mellow, rich sauce brilliantly.  Naan is nice, also, and I'm already anticipating leftovers wrapped in tomorrow's crêpes.  

This sounds strange, I realize, like leftovers without borders, like tupperware run amok.  But it comes off like a cheat's curried sweet potato dhosa.  A well-fed, albeit inauthentic, cheat.  I'm not normally keen on shortcuts and cheating, no more in cooking than anywhere else.  But when cheating involves a scoop of sweet potato korma?  This will do, very nicely indeed.        

Fall Vegetable Korma
adapted from Plenty, by Diana Henry

This is a mild, ecumenical curry, which travels well throughout the season. Add the last zucchini, or the first cauliflower, or ribbons of kale, as summer’s green beans give way to fall’s greens.  As with all curries, leftovers are wonderful.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 teaspoons brown mustard seeds
4 garlic cloves, minced (2 teaspoons)
1 ½ inch fresh ginger, peeled, finely chopped (2 tablespoons)
1 fresh red chile, seeded and chopped, or 1 whole dried arbol chile
½ teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon salt, plus 1 teaspoon, or to taste
2 small sweet potatoes, peeled, cut into 1” chunks (3 cups)
6 ounces waxy white potatoes, peeled, cut into 1” chunks (1 cup)
12 ounces fresh tomatoes, chopped (or 15 oz. tin diced tomatoes, drained of juices)
1 cup regular coconut milk, well-shaken
1-3 teaspoons sugar, to taste
8 ounces green beans, cut into 2” lengths (optional)
1 15-ounce tin chickpeas (optional)
1 cup frozen green peas
juice of ½-1 plump lime
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped

In a large, heavy saucepan, heat oil until shimmering. Add onion and fry, over medium-high heat, stirring regularly, until browning, 5 minutes. Add mustard seeds, and continue to cook until onions are bronzed and sticky, lowering heat as needed to prevent burning, 2-3 minutes. Add garlic, ginger and chili, reduce heat to medium, and cook 3 minutes. Add turmeric and coriander and cook another minute, to meld.

Add tomatoes, sweet potatoes, white potatoes and 1 teaspoon salt, then stir to coat with aromatics.  Cook 4 minutes to relax tomatoes, then add coconut milk, plus enough water to just cover vegetables, ½-1 cup.  Bring to a steady simmer and hold, cooking until potatoes are tender, 10-15 minutes. The sauce will thicken, and should generously coat the vegetables. 

Add beans, and simmer until just tender, 4-5 minutes.  Add frozen peas, and simmer 1 minute.  Remove from heat, add juice of half a lime, and begin the final seasoning.  The first bite will be underseasoned, intentionally, to allow for all the recent reducing.  In this final step, you'll add salt, and likely sugar, and pepper, and possibly more lime juice, in turn.  Add pinches, stir, taste, and adjust, until everything is bright and in balance.  You will want more salt, and likely sugar, possibly pepper, probably more lime, until everything is bright and balanced and round.  Pinch and stir and taste and repeat, until dull is a distant memory.  Stir in chopped cilantro, and serve.   

chock-a-block

Don't believe a pixel of it.

Those masts have approximately nothing to do with our lives, at present.

 

 

Nor does the Virginia V.  Nor the salmon fry.  Nor Gasworks at sunset.  

Ditto the next however many.

 

 

Our actual days are buzzing with all that back to school brings.  Did I mention that classes have begun?  That we've already completed Week One? Will soon begin Week Three?  These August start dates still catch me off guard, raised as I was on a post-Labor Day academic year.  

Still, it feels good, on this holiday weekend, to have a foothold in the new year.  

 

We've spent these past weeks re-orienting ourselves to the weekday/weekend division.  Re-acquainting ourselves with our alarm clocks.  Adjusting to new schools, schedules, routines, rigamarole.  Re-learning how to make and gobble pancakes before eight.  And ideally, acquire lunches, clothes, tied tennies, along the way.  Remembering to brush what needs brushing.  

(Extra credit for keeping hair and tooth brushes straight.)  

Our evenings are thick with meetings.  Our afternoons, field studies in de-compression.  The calendar is suddenly as dense with graffiti as a Seattle NO PARKING sign.  Though what it shares in over-crowding, it lacks in character. I'm considering switching up my chicken scratches to pictograms.      

Homework is still mostly on the horizon, but it won't be long now.  Wish us all luck.  

We have gone through the annual fall shoe Q&A, which always seems more like a comedy routine:

"How do your shoes feel?"

"Fine, fine.  Just great.  Fine."

"But you've had them a year.  Shall we measure, just for kicks?" ... "Would you look at that!  Two sizes too small!  Are these (elevens-twos-eights) any better?"

"Yup.  Fine.  Just great.  Fine."

I'm grateful, to be sure, to have dodged those skipped sizes.  Still and all, I think I'd be feeling somewhat pinched in the toes.  Then again, maybe I'm just overly sensitive.

Cubbies have been cleared.  Dressers, exhumed.  Counters buried in paperwork, more times than I can count.  Entire Saturday evenings have been given over to excavation.  Another one (or three) evenings are still owed. The piles remain fierce.  And deeply unkempt.  And so it is that these last Seattle snaps will have to do.

For while I haven't seen a seaplane in weeks, haven't walked Lake Union since mid-August, haven't had a kayak invade my frame in recent memory, they're all more appealing than untamed forms and folders.  Besides, Suzzallo got me off on the right school foot more than once.  I see no reason not to let it work its magic, once more, settling a little calm over our chock-a-block days.

They'll settle down, soon enough.  This salad will not.  It's full-to-bursting by design, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

This is what we, here, call Chop Chop Salad, a name I almost hesitate to drop. Does "chop" preceding "salad" make your spine shudder, instinctively, severely, the way it does mine?  Chopped salads sort of swept the restaurant scene, ca. 1988, and settled in for the long, lackluster haul.  As a rule, I avoid them all.  (The restaurants and the salads, alike.)  But once upon a time, before kids, before degrees, we would on occasion patronize a hip new Italian eatery.  It was a wildly edgy, progressive affair, the sort of place that prefixed pizza with "goat cheese", mushrooms with "wild", and garlic bread with "whole roasted".  

Remember when Wolfgang Puck was a California chef?  

Remember when Justin Bieber was, like, not even born?

Anyhoo.  Said spot made one knock-out chopped salad, a bright, vivid number I could eat by the vat.  It was equal parts greens and "bits", a knife-and-fork affair if ever there was one.  It was salad as meal, and meal as salad, every flavor and texture wrapped up in one bowl.  It was the first chopped salad I'd ever encountered, and the last one I ever enjoyed.  Within months, we began making it at home*.  We've never stopped.  It's some salad.  

The bits themselves are a jolly assortment of sweet red veg—soft ripe tomatoes, crisp peppers—and protein in all its many guises.  There is diced provolone, sharp and beguiling, plus tender chickpeas, nutty, earthy, toothsome.  Sometimes, there's leftover roast chicken; sometimes, honey-roasted turkey; sometimes neither, pictured here.  The white meat is nice, but optional; I never miss it when it's gone.  The salami is otherwise, excellent, essential, a rich deep confetti, threaded throughout.  

You might imagine all these bits are the best part, an antipasto party in a bowl. You would be close.  Also, wrong.  Because the greens are something special, here.  Half the roughage is ordinary lettuce, albeit uncompromisingly crisp. Romaine hearts are nice.  Iceberg will do.  Right now, a fresh local fall [fill-in-the-blank] head is grand.  It just must be crisp, crisper than crisp, in order to stand up to those bits and that basil.   

About that basil.  Basil comprises the rest of said greens, a full 3-4 cups of loose, fresh leaves.  Like the lettuce, the basil's chopped into fork-worthy slivers, and tossed willy-nilly right into the bowl.  Imagine.  Basil as salad green.  Rubbing shoulders with tomatoes, chickpeas, salami, peppers, cheese. It's a little like a caprese, gone berserk. Berserk in the very best possible way. And finally, sensibly, tamed to the fork.  

The whole mess is tossed with a straight-up vinaigrette of red wine vinegar, olive oil, plenty of S and P.  The end result is a salad of stunning contrasts, sweet, tender, piquant, winy, crisp, fragrant, bright.  Every bite has a bit of the party about it, merry veg, vivid greens, some fantastic tidbit.  It gives chock-a-block a very good name.  Must remember that as I sort through the stacks ...   

Our Chop Chop Salad
inspired by Cucina! Cucina!, ca. 1990

*Not until tonight did I ever think to look up the recipe for this salad's ancestor. It seems my version, evolved over years, veers sharply from the original, in everything from greens to dressing.  Who knew?  More to the point, who cares? These proportions, these ingredients, listed below, will forever be to me Chop Chop Salad.  Heretofore amended, "Our..."   

No one does tinned chickpeas better than Goya.  As to cheese, I love provolone, here, but any sharp white number (manchego, romano, smoked mozzarella) works well.  

3-4 cups crisp salad greens (romaine, iceberg, local fresh crisp lettuce), washed, well-dried, and chopped into 1" bits
3-4 cups fresh basil, washed, well dried, and chopped into 1" bits
1 cup red bell pepper, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup firm, ripe tomato, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup chickpeas, tinned or homemade
1 cup salami, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup roasted turkey or chicken, chopped into 1/4" bits (optional)
1 cup provolone, grated, or chopped into 1/4" bits
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
25 turns of freshly ground pepper
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Place all solids in your biggest salad bowl, then drizzle with oil and vinegar, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Toss well, preferably with clean hands, until every bit has met the dressing.  Taste a few bites: you want bright, sweet, crisp, salted, peppered.  Vivid.  Jolly.  A balance between them all.  Add a bit more salt, pepper and/or vinegar, to taste, toss again, and serve right away.     

digging out

Not out of fresh powder, sad to say. I realized, as I typed it, that that title may've been misleading. The only outdoorsy digging we've done of late is of the pre-spring clean-up variety. What I meant, actually, was that we spent yesterday digging out of life.

Zoë said to me, on our early back-home walk yesterday morning, the one where her little legs have half-run the boys to school by the bell and are finally walking at a proper four-year-old pace, "Do you remember those days when we do nothing? When we both stay at home, because I'm just tired? I think today should be one of those."

And so it was.

We made a whopping mess of the kitchen table, painting and coloring and knocking out thank you notes. I sifted through the black hole lovely basket that receives our school paperwork.  It was downright prehistoric, eras deep, Pre-Valentine's Day, Pre-Zoë's Birthday, Pre-Henry's Birthday.  Two hours, start to finish.  Pre-tty crazy.  In December, I always anticipate the quiet that will come, post-holiday. I always forget that our holidays wind down February 14 (those winter birthdays...).   My photos still upload to a 2011 folder.  November 2011.

Hello, 2012.

Anyway, it all reminded me that I've got this running list of things I've meant to mention.  Case in point:

:: I meant to tell you Annette was coming.  Annette was coming!  She came, she saw Cincinnati with us, she completely cleaned my Bananagrams clock. Tic-toc, I kid you not, it is *s-p-a-r-k-l-i-n-g*. Note to file: cunning may be an adjective, and con a verb, but no amount of wishful thinking will make cun mean to deceive.  Game point or no.  Dang OED.

:: Valentine's Day = Glitter.  I think we can fairly call it tradition.

:: Being wait-listed for ballet is an exercise in pint-sized patience.  Being green-lighted twelve hours before the first class is an opportunity to exercise one's deepest dimples.

:: If you are asked to read Harry Potter, aloud, again, for the third time, jump.  High.  Because you only laugh harder, and louder, and oftener, with each better-and-better re-telling.  Also, because you may finally have the good sense to pull an Albus and declare yourself Supreme Mugwump.  Not bad, as titles go...

 

:: My Nana, who lived on a very very (very) fixed income until the age of eighty-seven, told me once, "There is always room in one's budget for fresh flowers."  I don't always remember to follow her advice.  But I do absolutely believe it to be true.

 

 

:: Recipe for Young Boys (and Their Grown-Ups): Take one hollow-core, standard-issue door, one quartered 2 x 4, and four L-brackets.  Add one Sunday afternoon.  Apply the grease of six elbows, sized small, medium and large.  Cost: $29.  Yield: One vast and magnificent 80" Legoscape.  An idea lifted wholesale from friends.  Obviously, good ones. 

 

 

:: Make chocolate bread, and your kiddos will smile. Make enough chocolate bread, and the bread will smile back.

 

:: They're not joking when they say, of circular needles, "make sure your stitches are not twisted".  Adding rows doesn't improve the situation.  Nor does The-Wait-And-See Approach.  Eye-crossing does, but only very temporarily.  Do not cun yourself.  Unravel, and now.

:: Homemade sourdough, sigh. We were gifted some starter out of the blue, last year, something I'd never even thought to want. We enjoyed a dozen eye-poppingly good loaves, then starved the poor thing. So when Tara launched her sourdough challenge, we rolled up our sleeves, dove in, and succeeded wildly. Until Day 4. Turns out those little napkins were in fact shrouds. We're still grieving, a little. But not for long; we'll try again.

:: If you do wind up playing preschool hooky, climbing trees, bashing peanuts, and making bird muffins fill up a day handily.

:: Extra Yarn.

:: Anything by Oliver Jeffers. 

 

:: And this book.  I've just finished it, and I have this to say: "I was fairly certain it was the best book I had ever read.  It was funny in strange ways.  It was filled with words.  And while all books are filled with words, this one was different: it was filled with magical, wonderful, tasty words.  It slipped into poetry and out of it again in a way that made you want to read it aloud, just to see how it sounded."  These are not my words, nor are they about Tamar Adler's extraordinary new volume, but they are closer than I'll ever come to capturing my thoughts on it. 

(These words were penned by Neil Gaiman, introducing James Thurber's The 13 Clocks.  I'm only three chapters into that one, but if they're any indication, I agree with Gaiman, entirely.)

(Yes, of course one can have two best books.  Or twenty-two.  Or twelve-hundred-ninety-seven.)

(And yes, I do use books as bookmarks in other books.)

:: Always answer "Yes!" to the query, "Can I do that?", when it arises on cleaning day.  Even when you want to decline, because the "that" will then take ten times as long.  Especially then, as a matter of fact.  Because vacuuming and sweeping and wiping down stickies are eminently better when played as team sports.

:: Campanelle with Chickpeas, Sausage, Pecorino, Kale, and a Secret.  

I meant to mention this, back in September.  Actually, I meant to mention the whole fall Edible Columbus, and the greens article with which this went.  (There's a link snafu to this particular piece, but if you're feeling intrepid, you can get there this way: from home, drop down Magazine: Fall 2011: Digital Edition, pages 58-9.)  Ditto my deep dive into local fiber, which I lost in the cookie crumbs, in December. These Edibles—there are 60+ throughout the country, and counting—are remarkable things, boisterous intersections of food, farms, community, people, place.  Maybe there is one where you live?  Pick one up.  They're free.  And they're something else.  Rather like this rollicking pasta.

I don't do pasta much.  You may have noticed.  I mean, I cook it all the time, for my peeps, but when it comes to eating it myself, meh.  Not usually enough flavor for all that starch.  Not usually what I want to eat, when dinner rolls around.  So not the case, in this case, here. 

This pasta begins with a crumble of Italian sausage, well-browned, fat-rendered, plus garlic and chili for punch.  Into this, slide a half-dozen oil-packed—shhhh, don't tell—anchovies, which entirely disappear but which completely make the meal.  (No one will notice.  Unless you omit them.  Trust me.)  There are sweet, nutty chickpeas, and a pound of blanched kale, which transforms the thing from stodgy to sublime.  The al dente pasta is finished off in the skillet, which, along with a bit of pasta water and a good throw of pecorino, gets completely punch-drunk on the rumbling, savory sauce.  I typically eat leftovers for breakfast the next morning.  Often lunch, also.  It’s that good.

One last thing: flexibility is this pasta's middle name.  Sometimes, I'll swap in broccoli raab for the kale, or mustard greens, or even spinach.  Sometimes, I'll double the sausage.  Other times, I'll omit it entirely.  (The beans-and-greens-only version makes one grand vegetarian main, so long as you're down with the little fishies.)  I double the greens to two pounds when I've got them, and always, always I prefer it this way.  For the kids, who aren't yet on speaking terms with greens, I'll set aside a simple batch of sausage, chickpeas and cheese.  No matter which path you pick, it comes together in the time that it takes the water to roil and boil the noodles.  A cozy thing for winter, a handy trick for weeknights, a mighty happy ending to any day spent digging out. 

Campanelle with Kale, Chickpeas, and Sausage
Serves 6

Switch up the greens, based on what's good and plenty, adapting the blanching time to suit the type.  Broccoli raab will need 2-3 minutes, until just tender.  Spinach needs no blanching at all.  If you do double the greens, you'll want to up the seasonings accordingly.   

Any short pasta will work, here, but I especially love campanelle, for the way the chickpeas nestle into the trumpet tips.  Barilla is widely available.     

If you're children eat greens and chilis, give yourself a raise.  And a bonus.  If not, change up the order a little: after browning the sausage, add the chickpeas, and let the two chit-chat a few minutes.  Set aside in a medium bowl enough to satisfy your littles, and when the pasta finishes, toss the hot noodles into the bowl, along with a good throw of pecorino.  Proceed with the remaining sauce, where you left off, adding spices and anchovies and greens to your porky beans.

½ pound Italian sweet sausage
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 plump cloves garlic, minced
4-6 oil-packed anchovies
¼ teaspoon aleppo (or red) pepper flakes
½ teaspoon fennel seeds (optional)
1 pound lacinato (dinosaur or tuscan) kale, washed, ribs removed, slivered
1 15-ounce tin chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1 cup grated pecorino romano, plus additional to finish
8 ounces campanelle pasta (1 cup pasta cooking water reserved)

In a large stock pot, blanch kale in well-salted boiling water, 1 minute (begin counting when the water returns to the boil). Drain with slotted spoon, reserving water at a strong simmer for pasta, and set kale aside.

In a large, deep, heavy skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add sausage, breaking apart with the back of a spoon, and cook 5-7 minutes, stirring and crumbling occasionally. When sausage is no longer pink inside, and well-browned outside, reduce heat to low-medium, and add garlic, red pepper, anchovies, and fennel (if using). Cook 2-3 minutes, crushing anchovies with spoon back and stirring, until garlic is fragrant and anchovies have melted into the background. Add drained kale, and stir well to combine, breaking apart leaves to incorporate seasonings well. Reduce heat to low, add drained chickpeas, stir gently and well, and let sit on lowest heat 10 minutes, while pasta cooks.

Return water to vigorous boil, then cook pasta per package instructions, stopping just shy of tender (al dente). Reserve 1 cup pasta cooking water, then drain pasta. Add pasta to beans and greens, then add grated pecorino and ½ cup pasta water (you will have water leftover, to loosen further, if desired). Return heat to low-medium, and cook 2-3 minutes, tossing steadily, until pasta is tender and punch-drunk on the sauce. Taste for seasonings, adjust if needed, and serve hot, with additional pecorino and chili flakes, as desired.