remedial eating

keeping cozy

Hasn't been hard this year, actually.

This has been The Winter That Wasn't.  Not for lack of wishing, hoping, finger-crossing, and snow dancing on our parts.  We are not alone, I understand, but we're still coming to terms.    

I began, last year, to realize that our first full winter here may've been a bit unusual.  I remember, when it snowed, and snowed again (and again) in 2010, hearing phrases like "historic levels!" and "not since Grover Cleveland!!"  I smiled, and ignored them, and grabbed our soggy mittens.  Then spent last winter, waiting for an encore.  We never did get those foot-high drifts in 2011, just a few inches, here and there.  

This year, that plural would've left us giddy.  This year makes last year look like Snowmageddon.

We've had a half-inch here, an almost-inch there, enough to check the box, I guess.  Most importantly, it snowed the night before Henry's snow party, which in retrospect was no minor miracle.  (We had a bin of fake snow on hand, just in case, not being ones to rely on such things.)  Still, the flakes inside outnumbered the flakes outside. 

That snow elf, back in December?  Biggest snowman we managed.  Our one snowball fight topped out at five balls.  We've not had a single snow day.  Not even a delay.  In winter.  In Ohio.  Remarkable, in my book.  Heresy, in my childrens'.  

Fact is, it's been unseasonably warm, with days in the forties, fifties, and beyond.  

The bulbs began peeking through four weeks ago.  The first crocus blushed purple while the calendar still read February.  We've spent afternoons in our shirtsleeves, drawing rainbows in sidewalk chalk.  Clipped thyme in our t-shirts. Wore our spring coats.  In January.  We made bird muffins, more out of orneriness than necessity.  Because birds in winter need food, you know?  Even if we didn't need so much as second layers to hang them.  

(I meant to mention: Suet, oats, seeds and bashed peanuts, in whatever quantities we had around.  Inspired by this wild birds web site here.)

I used the kids' snow shovels for leaves, last Friday, feeling badly they'd not yet been pressed into service.  The Valentine's roses made it to the compost, a first for me, but see that sunshine?  Usually our composting goes on hiatus in winter, or until the walk from the back door turns from *CRUNCH* to s-q-u-i-s-h.  We're so there.  So in they went.

Wednesday clocked in at 69°, and no, neither 6 nor 9 were a typo.  Zoë begged to bring up the spring box.  I was tempted to take down winter.  Seemed like tempting fate, though, after last year's spring snow, so we compromised on a bit of both.  

We're not yet compromising on the cocoa.  

Snow or no, there's always a chill, even if it's intermittent and unreliable.  We still have our single-digit mornings, our whippy winds that make thirty-five feel like twelve.  Sometimes, that sunshine and those "unseasonably warm" forties lure us out longer than we would ordinarily stay.  And we've had plenty of days in the wet, gusty upper thirties, for which I think the technical weather term is ICKY.  Such weather demands soft warming things, and hot cocoa has been high on this year's list.

Because this is the year we finally got hot chocolate right. 

I began fiddling with homemade cocoa last winter when I accidentally noticed the Swiss Miss ingredient list, our go-to since, well, my childhood.  I grew up on Swiss Miss, and have fond memories of the way it would chase away the damp chill after swimming in the Pacific.  We brought it on all of our camping trips to the coast, and always had a giant blue and white tub around for the drinking. The sweet dusty *plouf* of powder, the tiny white crunchy "marshmallows", the satisfying muddying of boiling water, sigh.  I loved Swiss Miss.  I still do.  I think it makes for a nice, pleasant cup.

Here's what I didn't love: the powdery mess, the thousand bits of Swiss detritus that filled up our grout.  (Tiled counters, GAH!!!!!  Oh gosh, did I groan that out loud?)  And while looking for an excuse to solve that pesky dust problem, I actually read the ingredient list:  "sugar, modified whey, nonfat dry milk, cocoa, corn syrup, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, salt, carrageenan, dipotassium phosphate and artificial flavor."

Corn syrup?  Partially hydrogenated soybean oil?  Seriously?  It's hot cocoa, people.  Milk, chocolate, sugar.  Not that hard.

Pride goeth before the bad cocoa.

We weren't looking for fancy, or decadent, or even anything halfway exquisite. All I wanted was good everyday hot cocoa, the sort we could slurp in a frost-fingered heartbeat.  Dead-simple, delicious, chocolate-y, instant, creamy (but not too), nutritious (yes), and warmmmmm.

I did a little research, tried out a lot of options, all of them varying degrees of so-so.  There were dry mixes made of cocoa powder and sugar, which were quick and easy but didn't pass the kid test.  "Too gritty," they cried.  My fault, I'm sure.  Too-tepid milk, not-intrepid-enough mixing, "heat and stir well" being apparently too tricky for me.  Three tries and fails and we moved on.

We added chocolate syrup to warm milk, which was just plain awful.  We stirred chopped chocolate bars into steaming mugs, which sounded simple and good but was neither.  (Chocolate shards all over everywhere, too much mainlining of the hard stuff, and lumpy-bumpy mottled milk as the end result).  We tried the Dorie Greenspan method, with water and blender, which indeed made a very nice, frothy quaff, but with too much to-do, and too much noise.  

(Am I the only mother acutely aware of kitchen noise pullution?  I grind beans every morning, blend smoothies some evenings, and each time feel the ways those ear-blasts interrupt everything.  I do it still, because I love me my coffee, and smoothies are some times the only way to smooth out a rough dinner.  But I am reluctant to introduct any more blitzing in our days.  Cocoa should soothe, not alarm.)

Then, right around this time, last year, the lovely Ashley at Not Without Salt dropped the G-bomb: "I keep a jar of ganache on hand always, for frosting cupcakes, filling cookies, and stirring into hot milk, for cocoa."  I'm paraphrasing wildly here, as I can't find the original mention, as the post wasn't even about Revolution.  By which I mean, she wasn't even talking hot chocolate.  The ganache thing was just an aside.  But did you catch that game-changer?  Ganache + hot milk = hot chocolate? 

Ganache. 

Ganache?

GANACHE. 

Gadzooks!!

Ganache, of course, is the fancypants French name for hot cream and chopped chocolate. 

That's it. 

Once upon a time, The end. 

Shortest dessert story ever told.  Not to mention the most ridiculously useful.  Drizzle it while warm, and it becomes one swank glaze.  Cool, scoop, roll, and behold: truffles.  Whip it, watch it triple, and you've got devastatingly great frosting.  All this I knew, and applied, often.  What I didn't know was that ganache was my hot cocoa holy grail.  

It seemed almost too good to be true.  Actually, it seemed absolutely too good to be true.  Seriously?? 

But with little to lose, we whipped up some ganache, snapping semisweet Ghiradelli bars (no chopping, no shards!) into a pool of hot, heavy cream. While the chocolate softened, we heated some milk, until wispy with steam and edged with guppy bubbles.  A few whisks brought the ganache together, several spoonfuls of which were deployed into the hot milk.  At which point, a feather would have laid me out flat: the ganache melted almost on impact, a few stirs—a few lazy stirs, very important detail, that—into this wildly promising, fragrant, intoxicating brew.  It smelled fantastic.  It tasted leagues better.  My children lapped it up.  I happy-danced.

That was last spring.  This is now.  Some hundred-plus cups of hot chocolate later.  Every few weeks, we whip up fresh ganache, a task any four year old can manage with aplomb.  When cocoa time comes, I warm milk, scoop and stir.  And shake my head again over its no-duh elegant simplicity.  It's easier, faster, and less dusty than "instant", and so far above and beyond, I still can't stand it.  It doesn't hurt that, nutritionally, it's not at all bad, besides.  One good dollop of ganache in eight ounces of milk is, in my book, pretty darn respectable.  Particularly when it doubles as a cure for frosty fingers, a balm for cold noses, a ballast against winter.  Because even in the mild ones, one must keep cozy.   

Everyday Hot Chocolate
inspired by Ashley at www.notwithoutsalt.com

Hot Chocolate Base (Ganache)
Yield: 2 generous cups ganache (enough for 2 dozen+ mugs of hot cocoa)

This makes a light ganache (1:1), scoop-able straight from the fridge.  For firm truffles and heartier frostings, a 2:1 chocolate:cream ratio gives greater body and intensity.  FYI.     

1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream (not ultra-pasteurized, if possible)
12 ounces semisweet chocolate (3 - 4 oz. bars)

Snap chocolate bars into a large, heat-proof bowl.  Heat cream over medium, until the first bubble breaks, then remove from heat and pour over chocolate shards.  Let sit 5 minutes, then whisk gently to combine, 1-2 minutes.  Pour into jar, and refrigerate, up to 1 month. 

To Make Hot Cocoa:

Heat milk (2% or whole), as much as you want, over medium heat, until steaming.  (Alternatively, for one mug, microwave).  Add ganache to hot milk: I use 1 heaping tablespoon per 8 ounces of milk, though there are those under my roof who argue 2 tablespoons are far superior.  And no, I don't measure.  Eyeball it.  Stir ganache into hot milk until dissolved, 10-15 seconds, taste, and add more, if desired.  Pour into mugs, top as desired (whipped cream, marshmallows), wrap fingers 'round, and give thanks for winter.

 

strengthening things

What do you do when a child catches cold?  I don't mean rhetorically.  I mean practically, on the ground. What are your fall-backs?  Best comforts?  Rituals? 

'Tis the season for sniffles.  Shall we compare notes?

We are, today, all very well, thank you.  But one week ago Sunday, around 2 a.m., I awoke to the sound of a seal barking in Zoë's bedroom.  Except of course when I checked, there was no seal, only our fate for the next eight days. 

It is one of the jobs of small children, I've decided, this periodic downtime, this building up of immune systems.  And for all the ways it sets a week back, delaying errands, quashing deadlines, demoting to-do lists to the bottom of the list, there are parts of these sick days I genuinely treasure.  They have a bit of the cocooon about them, quiet, hushed, emphatically slow.  The rush is off, the hustle elsewhere, the household temporarily exempt of expectations.

I like this pace.  My girl, not so much.  She is, of my three, the one raring to go.  The one who, every morning, never fails to ask, "Where are we going today?" 

"To the couch" is not her idea of an answer. 

So we worked it last week, this angle and that, trying to find calm, quiet, tiny excitements.  Do I contradict myself?  Very well then I contradict myself.  I do not contain anywhere near Whitman's multitudes, but I do believe such activities exist.  I just need a little help.  Cue you, smart cookies.  You are all such a clever, crafty, wise bunch, I've no doubt you've got sleeves just stuffed with ideas.

As for us, we drew pictures and made fingerprint doodles, and sent up our umpteenth silent thanks to Ed Emberley.  We traced circles and cut them and arranged them in collages.  We made paper chains, which was rhythmic (snip, snip), simple (loop, loop), and productive.  Essential, that, since productive equals project, and project, for Zoë, anyway, equals happy.

We inhaled more steam than is probably legal, and drank more water than an elephant.  We spent hours buried deep in the gussied-up couch, which we re-brand "the nest" when it's serving as sick bed.  We read 493 books.  I may have inflated that number slightly.  Then again, I may well have underestimated it.  We watched our first- and second-ever Sesame Streets.  We kept good company with Amos McGee.

We concocted itty-bitty outdoor adventures: Let's go for a walk!  Around the backyard!!  Pajamas and shoes were de rigeur for days.  

We collected green tomatoes, in advance of a frost.  We noticed the sun setting earlier each day.  We spent one entire morning cutting flowers, stripping stems, carefully arranging blooms by color, kind and whimsy.  I am certain the combination of fresh air and satisfaction contributed to a serious improvement the next day.  Even if it did leave our table looking rather funeral parlor-esque.  

We got dressed. 

By day five, this was terribly exciting.  And while we were at it, taking a page from Amanda's book, we dressed up our water bottle in Henry's old flannel.  There were no upset tummies, this particular time around, but who here else has forgotten the universal comforts of a water bottle?

And we ate, of course, all the usual (at least in our home) suspects: chicken broth with tiny stars, bits of chicken and soft carrots.  Warm rice pudding, a.k.a. calm in a bowl.  De-constructed onigiri (because I am rice ball-challenged).  Lemon ginger tea, by the steaming hot pot.  Chocolate chip cookies.  You know, traditional healing foods. 

And new to us last week, a soothing balm for sore small throats.

Book number 311 in our last week's reading line-up was a sweet volume called The Pooh Get-Well Book.  It was published about six months before I was, in March of 1973, and is a lovely example of a spin-off before spin-offs were what they are today. 

It's a gentle thing, a collection of quiet pleasures for sick kiddos, full of pen-and-ink Pooh's and choice A.A. Milne snippets.  I am probably hopelessly biased in my opinion of it, as it launches with Milne's mischievious Sneezles poem.  I was raised on my mom's beautiful 1947 copy of The King's Breakfast, which began with the same silly, wonderfully sly verse.  My own children know I can't check for warm foreheads without muttering "...they gave him what goes with a cold in the nose and some more for a cold in the head..." 

Disclaimers aside, we so enjoyed it.  There are quiet things to make and do while getting well (Pleazles), and little bits of poetry and word play (Teazles), and a particular passage between Eeyore and Piglet that had us in hysterics (page 27) every time we read it.  Just try pronouncing "grrrr-oppp-ptschschschz" to a three-year-old without tears.  (See what I mean?  Good stuff, indeed.)  And then there's chapter three, Strengthening Things to Drink and Eat, which is where we discovered some sweet relief.

After coughing all week, Zoë's throat was ragged, but she's no fan of throat drops, and I'm no fan of cough syrup.  So when we tripped over page 23's Honey-Thyme Cough Syrup, we paused, sized up, and got to work.  (Project!  Score!!).  This elixir—we came to calling it an elixir, because words with x's and z's are just better—is nothing more than honey, mixed with equal quantities of boiling water, and steeped with thyme.  The original calls for dried, but our fall garden's overflowing with fresh, so we went outside and gathered.  (Outing!  Double score!!) 

Our elixir took all of five minutes to assemble, fifteen to sit on hands, and ten seconds more to doctor.  The water cut the honey's cloying thickness, making it sippable like light cream.  The thyme lent a gentle perfume, fragrant without being forcefully Herbal.  And the squeeze of fresh lemon, which we added at the end, offset the sweetness with a gentle, bright zip. 

We went through one entire batch, and half another, sipping a tablespoon every hour or three.  It was sweet treat and succor and sustenance, all rolled into one.  It propped us up when we were down, which I think is the very definition of strengthening.  And in case you need the same in coming months (and of course I very much hope you don't), I thought I would make note of it here. 

Honey-Lemon-Thyme Cough Elixir
adapted from The Pooh Get-Well Book, by Virginia H. Ellison

I am no expert on natural remedies, and no stranger to modern medicine.  Still, it was more than a little satisfying to read yesterday that honey outperformed DM cough syrup in every trial.  Apparently, dark chocolate did, also (don't stop reading at the honey bit).  Just so you know.  Cookies, I tell you.  According to Virginia Ellison, the book's author, thyme is the basic ingredient in many commercial cough syrups.  I've no idea if this is true, but I can confirm that thyme and honey are excellent bedfellows on the tastebuds. 

Please note that honey should never be given to babies under the age of 1. 

1/4 cup dried or fresh thyme (washed and leaves stripped from stems, if fresh)
1/4 cup boiling water
1/4 cup honey
1-3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

Place thyme in a small pitcher, and add boiling water, then honey.  Stir well to combine, then let steep, 10-15 minutes.  Strain into a screw-top jar, and add lemon juice to taste, adding more or less to suit your sweet/tart preferences.  We used half a large lemon, about two tablespoons. 

Sip one or two tablespoonsful, several times a day, or as needed.  Fancy cups optional, but highly recommended in some circles.

Store any remainder in the refrigerator.

happy accidents

Athletic Stance.

Does that ring anyone's bell?  Maybe if you roll back the clock a little?  A little further?  No, more.  I mean decades...  Well, anyway.  How about middle school P.E.?  Bueller? 

When I was in the seventh grade, and first enrolled in gym class, our teacher introduced the Athletic Stance.  The way I remember, it went something like this:  You stand, feet apart, shoulders loose, arms down, knees bent slightly, head up, eyes out, alert.  The idea was that if you arranged yourself just so, you'd be ideally positioned to respond to just about anything.  Volleyball liner?  Pivot, bump, set, spike.  Birdie barely clears the net?  Lunge forward for the save.  You could never predict what your opponent might do, but you could always be ready for the unexpected.

I can't recall taking up the Athletic Stance again after, say, 1984.  (Probably because I never took up athletic anything, but that is neither here nor there.)  Still, the idea has always stayed with me, mostly because it seemed so useful, at least as it relates to life, and lists.

These days, my Athletic Stance looks rather more like my to-do list.  Which, you might argue, looks rather more like the recycle, seeing how rumpled and graffiti'd it is by week's end.  Not that it's much to look at in the beginning, given my penchant for margin notes and truly awful handwriting.  Never mind all that.  My list lets me pivot. 

My list, all two columns, all twenty seven lines, is a week's worth of ambition, marshalled into 8 1/2 x 11 inches.  (Yes, all eleven.  Header's just another way of saying margin.)  

I keep it to one page by design, partly because I know my limits, partly because I know my life.  Some days, life hums along neatly as planned.  Schedules unfold, vacuums come out, baths happen before bedtime and you don't run out of milk.  These are the days I feel wildly accomplished, high on clean rugs and the thrill of four strike-throughs.  And then I breathe deep, and dig in for tomorrow.  Because it's bound to be a doozy.  

Call it Karma or Murphy's Law or motherhood, take your pick, but the pendulum usually swings back in short order.  The unexpected occurs.  Good, bad, neutral, other.  And productivity, at least the sort spelled out on Sunday, flies out the window, return TBD. 

A sweater, almost done, comes up twenty yards short of yarn.  Spring colds take out your youngest for a week.  Tornado sirens blare at two in the morning.  (False alarm, again.  Thank heavens.)  Outings that by all rights should go awry, don't.  Outings that should be absolutely textbook, aren't.  Silly putty stows away in a three-year-old's sleepy hand.  Then re-appears, post-nap, in said three-year-old's hair. 

Airfares home, out of reach for weeks on end, finally dip just enough to snag (hoo-ah!) tickets.  Your neighbor appears with a flat of just-picked basil.  Kids forget how to sleep, umbrellas need outings, you discover your family room's front row to a bird's nest.  Things come up.  Good, bad, other.  Stuff.  Life.  (Pesto.)  My list keeps my knees bent, my eyes up.  

As I write this, I realize it sounds entirely backwards.  Lists, after all, look rather like plans, which to hear Woody Allen tell it, are divine code for 'up-end everything!'.  My lists are plump with plans.  I swallow my hubris, often. 

But mostly's not all, and that distinction is everything.  Scattered between Pay Bills and Boys' Haircuts there's, well, some weird random junk.  Like Read.  (How did this come to require list real estate?  There were years I inhaled three books a week.  Right now, I'd be tickled with one each month.)  And Banjo.  (Because my 2-chord rendition of 'Bile Dem Cabbage Down' is still full of hiccups and "interesting" variations.)  Or the incomplete run-on, Dominoes, Checkers, Birdhouses, Bicycle.  (Because when we hit the witching hour, my brain goes off-line.  I need good ideas, stat.  Ideally in black and white.  My weekday lists aren't anything as long as my summer opus, but a half-dozen tags can make or break and afternoon.)   

I know, right?  Who needs written reminders to play?  What can I say?  I'm a grind.  When the view from Thursday looks nothing like Monday, my instinct is to get a tiny bit apopleptic.  I'm always mindful of bamboo's proverbial bend, precisely because I'm so totally an oak tree.  Flex is not in my nature.  So it's in my notebook. 

Sun finally shining?  Pivot left: go swing.  Week wiped clean of school?  Pivot right: arts and crafts.  Surprise pocket of silence, right after dinner?  Lunge for the door, on pussycat feet. 

Because Walk Around the Block's been on the list all week.  Actually, the past three weeks.  And spring doesn't dawdle like I do.  Let cherry-blossom gawking roll over one more time, and they'll all be gone, confetti underfoot.  The Pasque flowers arrived right on time for plastic eggs, but their lease expires around Mother's Day.  The daffodils are gone, and every other early bulb, also, and were it not for Zoë spotting cheap ranunculas at the market, our table would be looking a little lonely between blooms.  At least our compost pail is benefiting from the downturn. 

I'm apt as ever to lose all track of time, to look up and wonder where April ran off to.  One minute, we're surrounded by tiny, tight buds; the next, every sidewalk is littered in pink.  I need the unexpected to keep me on my toes, ready to react, agile, aware.  That, and some silly, essential reminders wedged between the ordinary must-do's and ought-to's. 

I'm inclined to think cooking works out the same way. 

Serendipity strikes in the kitchen, I find, at least as often as in life.  Maybe more so.  This past week, I made deeply mediocre peanut butter cookies.  I gave over a Saturday afternoon and a full pound of sharp cheddar to crackers that proved seriously inferior to Cheez-It's.  I tried (again), and failed (again), to find our perfect madeleine.  I made split pea soup from Easter's ham bone, with peas that flat-out refused to relax.  Just-purchased split peas, from the bulk bins, at Whole Foods.  Impeccable pedigree, inexplicable density.  Three hours of simmering delivered warm crunch.  Two more hours, and they softened around the edges.  Seven hours later, I threw in the towel and rang the bell and served up rich, if rather toothsome, helpings.  

But, by way of counter-balance, we also baked our first loaf of sourdough.  The process was a bit dizzying, and I thought I'd killed it (twice), and was certain it wouldn't ever rise.  But I didn't, and it did, and it was amazing.  We churned out old faithfuls, pancakes, biscotti, meringues, and they performed admirably, just as always.  And in some cosmic legume-level justice, I produced my first-ever great homemade chickpeas.  (A tablespoon of baking soda in the soaking water!  Thank you, Yotam Ottolenghi!) 

Then I biffed our very first batch of rhubarb. 

Monday, Henry declared the time right for rhubarb soda.  (Off-list, but absolutely.)  Tuesday, we snipped a parsimonious six stalks.  We didn't dare take more; it's early, yet.  None were any wider than my index finger.  We admired their shimmer, anticipated our first sips, cleaned them and sliced them and tossed them with orange peel, juice and sugar.  We put them on the stove, brought them to a boil, dialed down the heat, and promptly forgot them. 

So much for ceremony.   

When we came back to the kitchen a good half hour later, our rosy nibs were nowhere to be found.  Rhubarb is fickle, if it's form you're after.  On the one hand, you must cook it long enough to soften its crunch and sweeten its tart.  On the other, should you cook your slices too long, they'll disintegrate into a stringy heap.  And while I've never had much trouble keeping aubergines intact, rhubarb always puts me in the mind of Frances Lam's Let-My-Eggplant-Go-Free!.  You've a five minute window between nubbins and sludge.  

By the time we returned to our pot of "poached" rhubarb,the window wasn't even visible, receding into the distance.

Fortunately, what we were after that day was ruby red syrup; total rhubarb collapse was no great tragedy.  We strained the syrup, stirred in seltzer, and clinked our tiny glasses to spring.  Then emptied them out in ten seconds flat (six stalks does not much soda make).  It wasn't until then that I noticed the rest, the great heap of pink mash, still in the strainer.  Had I followed my own directions, I'd have plump tender slices, just right for pavlovas or cakes or fools.  But rhubarb is rhubarb, grand by definition, and seeing as this slump was all that remained, I figured we might as well give it a go.  Pivot: spoon into bowls and serve. 

We scraped our bowls clean.  Oh, happy accidents!

What we dipped into was the apple sauce of my dreams, or, rather, what I always dream apple sauce could be, but isn't.  Tart, sweet, vivid, intense, almost creamy, but minus the cream.  It was also what I always imagined rhubarb might become, a stand-alone ode to spring's finest non-fruit.  It's not that I won't eat a plain bowl of poached rhubarb, but those slices, that sauce, seem to beg for more.  I happily oblige, adding crunch, cream, or both (and happily had two servings of crisp, just last night).  But in the interest of packing more rhubarb into my days, I've always wished for a way without crust or crumb.  Because rhubarb freed from the dessert cart is rhubarb I can eat at any (and every) meal.    

We ate those first helpings warm alongside lunch, sandwiches of salty ham between fresh sourdough.  That was fine.  I polished off a second bowl standing at the fridge.  (Bad, I know, but could you resist that pink?)  I liked it best warm.  I ate every last drop cold.  I imagine it would sidle up nicely to roast pork, and can confirm it is lovely on warm crèpes.  But mostly I intend to eat it as is, rhubarb straight-up, spring on a spoon. 

 

RHUBARB SPLODGE (+ soda)
yield: generous 1 cup; 2-3 servings

It's worth noting that that cup up there represents this recipe's entire yield.  That said, it fed three people, and well.  It is vivid, and bright, and a small heap satisfies.  And I'll certainly be doubling and tripling this as the season progresses. 

Also, a few notes:  If you use wide, inch-thick stalks, give the splodge a good fork-stir, after straining.  Larger stalks are more fibrous, and benefit from a good tousle. 

1 pound rhubarb
1 large, juicy navel orange, washed well
1/4 cup sugar + additional, to taste

Cut rhubarb into 1/4" slices, and place in small, heavy pan with lid.  With a peeler, remove several thin, large curls of the orange peel's outermost layer, and add to pan.  Slice orange in two, and add the juice of both halves.  Add 1/4 cup of sugar, and place all on the stove.  Over medium-high heat, bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat to low and cover.  Simmer 20-30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until rhubarb has completely collapsed. 

Fish out orange peels (and eat them as chef's treat if, like me, you're so inclined), and give several good stirs to bring everything together.  Taste for sugar, and add more while still warm, if you prefer your splodge a bit sweeter.  We wound up adding an additional tablespoon; sweeter-leaning sorts might up that to two, even three. 

For a traditional, pourable sauce, suitable for meringues or pound cakes, the end. 

For a thick, spoonable splodge, the sort pictured above, set a strainer over a wide, shallow bowl, and pour everything in.  Give a few half-hearted stirs, then let sit 10-15 minutes.  Remove contents of strainer to a serving bowl, and enjoy, warm or at room temp. 

Bonus: A Blushing Pink Soda...
I've mentioned this before, as a footnote, here, but bring it up again because you'll have rhubarb syrup left over.  Also, because it's wonderful. 

Set aside your ruby liquid, sweeten a bit further if you prefer (it will be diluted), and add seltzer, starting with 1 Tablespoon of rhubarb syrup to 4 ounces of water, and adjusting to taste.  Sip as is, or enhance with a squeeze of fresh lime, and/or your favorite tipple. 

short, sweet and spicy

We'll keep it short and sweet this week, because we've been felled.  What did it, I can't say for sure.  The snowball fights, maybe.  The snow-shoveling, possibly.  Snow-eating, whole roly-poly fists full, well yeah, probably didn't help.  (Not that I wouldn't do it all over, in a heartbeat.  No sane Northwesterner squanders fifteen white fluffy inches, right out the front door.)  Whatever, fact remains, we've been tumbling like dominoes to the great winter crud.  

Henry fell first, fast and hard, and for a good week I thought he'd keep it to himself, very kindly.  But then, this week, came the moment.  You know the moment.  The one where that scritch-scratchy throat loitering for days in the undecided camp suddenly goes all partisan on you?  The one where you wake up one morning with your head out to here, so full of wool you could pluck a Fair Isle out of each ear?  The one where no amount of sleep or vitamin C or pointing out your Parenting Contract lacks so much as a single sick day will change your fate?  The one where you realize you are In For It, period?  Right, that one.  

I'm sure we all have coping mechanisms in moments like these, and for me, said mechanisms look a lot like my favorite striped socks and several wool sweaters and heavy, heavy drinking, pretty much non-stop.  Truth be told, the tippling often begins when the cold's still a tickle, a negotiation with wiggle room still to be had.  But once we've arrived at the take-no-prisoners point, I chug mug after mug of this hot golden brew.  

What it is is, well, I'm not sure, exactly.  Lemon ginger tea is what I've always called it.  But it's not really tea, as it lacks any leaves.  Tisane, I suppose, is technically better, though those always strike me as gauzy and thin, whereas this comes across like Geronimo in a glass.  You wouldn't know it to look at it, all transparent yellow, like faded sunlight.  But beware.  Or rejoice.  The stuff goes down like fresh neon, vivid spicy and bright.

Were this alcohol, it would be 80 proof, easy.  Espresso, a double.  A race car, Corvette.  But it's only lemon and ginger in four-alarm quantities, plus just enough honey to soften the edges and coat the throat.  It's sort of like those honey-lemon teas and lozenges, I guess.  Sort of like Velveeta and Double Gloucester are both orange cheese, anyway. 

It doesn't sound like much, but it seems almost magic, somehow soothing and feisty and fortifying at once.  The sweet heat of ginger clears the fog, quick.  The shot-glass of lemon calms a voice, raw and ragged.  And even a honey-phobe like me can see it's the perfect third leg, sweetener and salve, all in one go.  Without fail, it puts a spring in my step, at a time when all I want is to collapse in a heap.  It sounds strange to say, but I hope you don't try this one, any time soon.  Though if you do, if you must, may it keep you truckin' the way it does me.  

Lemon Ginger Tea
A Good Brew for a Bad Cold

Yields: 1 generous serving

I like this brew stiff as starch, though you may prefer it half-strength, or somewhere in between.  Try it this way, a sip anyway, then adjust to your taste — more water to weaken, more honey to sweeten.  It's endlessly flexible.  Note that I make this in quite a large mug, one which holds a generous cup and a quarter of boiling water (on top of the lemon and ginger). 

I'll often triple the recipe below to fill a teapot, which I pour from all day,re-heating as needed (there's no bitterness here, as in a true tea).  With the ginger left in, it gains heat and bite as the day progresses, until by 3 p.m. it's positively sinus-searing.  This calibrates pretty well to my day and needs, but if you prefer less spice, take a slotted spoon to the ginger early on.  Also, I don't peel the ginger here, as it's only the essence I'm after.  Just give it a good scrub and slice. 

1 lemon
1 piece fresh ginger — width of a quarter, length of a thumb (or rough equivalent)
2-3 tsp honey (a 2-second squeeze)

Put kettle on to boil, with enough water for one generous mug.

Roll lemon on counter to loosen the juice, then squeeze directly into a large mug.  Add 2-3 teaspoons honey (a 2-second squeeze).  Cut ginger into 8 slices, each the width of a quarter (save any remaining for another cup), and add to mug. 

Pour boiling water over all.  Stir to melt honey and loosen ginger slices, then let sit to infuse for 10 minutes.  Stir again, and taste.  If you'd like more bite, or are too cranky and crabby and desperate for comfort, leave in the ginger and drink up as is, dodging the little discs as you sip.  It's what I often do.  If have oomph enough for niceties, or find it plenty strong, strain into a second cup for a lovely clear, jolly yellow brew.