remedial eating

eating summer

Monday evening, I realized the fireflies had gone.

I'm not sure when.  Three weeks ago, they were still around, twinkling up the grass like so many unstrung Christmas lights.  And then, at some point, they weren't.  Days ago, anyway.  Maybe two weeks.  I can't pinpoint it.  This is the thing about change in the ordinary.  So many givens exit stage left, without warning.  They just fade away, without fanfare, without hoopla.  Just, out the back door, with finger-shushed lips.  Never-mind-me on cat-padded feet.  Errors of ommission in our everyday.

We dissected owl pellets, also on Monday.  Unwrapped foil bundles, the size of small potatoes.  Broke apart the contents, fur, feathers and bones.  Gently poked and prodded, nudged and wrangled, until jaws and wishbones and femurs came free. 

We expected three mice, found instead only one (me).  Plus two birds (Henry) and one rat (Zoë).  We talked about gizzards, and how it would be to be an owl. We marvelled over mouse and rat similarities and differences (skeleton, size). We discovered birds have two miniscule perfectly circular bones, the breadth of a lentil, the width of a hair.  We discovered rodents have two giant (yellow) front teeth, that become downright enormous when pulled free of their jaw.  Like fishhooks.  Like upholstery needles. Like nothing I ever really want to see again.  

If this all sounds a little detached, it is because the un-detached version would read instead something like this:

"What shall we look at first?  

(Oh good grief, oh, ew really?  Oh, EWWW [hold breath; repeat].  Aw jeepers EWWW seriously?  Okay. [Deep breath; repeat]  Eeoww oh wow, oh heck.  [Swallow hard; breathe; breeeeaaathe; BREATHE.])

Yes, amazing!  I completely agree."   

And it was, and I did, and I'd do it again.  (And that was my transcript only; they were a-okay.)  Because when a little American girl, surrounded by Barbies and glitter and pink (and make no mistake, loving them all), asks day after day, "can we do owl pellets today?", well.  The only viable answer is yes.  Yes, because it is ballast against all that.  Yes, because as Blair so aptly said, summer is for trying new things.  Yes, because that longing to dig through bones and fur may extinguish itself without so much as a goodbye.

(If you've been fielding similar requests, sympathies, whoops!, I mean, details: we used pellets from here and this fantastic site as our guide.) 

And if you come here for the food, apologies.  What came before may not be the best lead-in to what follows.  Thing is, food, family, family, food, it's all a piece.  It all goes down at our kitchen table.  (Our kitchen table that was duly wiped and scrubbed and bleached.)  Maybe we'd best clean up the images, also.

Pretty pictures!  

Pretty pictures!

(We also play with nice things, like flowers and fuzzy bears and bright colorful crayons.)

And if the link between fireflies and old owl dinners and new human ones seems tenuous, know that for me the connection is this: bugs, children, corn, they all tiptoe quietly by, moving right along with nary a headline.  The lawn lights up nightly, the clamor's constant (can we? now??), the tomatoes and corn are everywhere, everywhere.  We are in the thick.  

And then we are not.  

Last week, we brought dinner to a friend, who had just welcomed her fourth babe.  Included was a salad, because I always include salads, because of all the glorious bounty we received when we had newborns, it is the vegetables I remember most.  Vegetables are hard with a new babe in arms (I can only imagine they're harder still with four).  And yet, I craved vegetables more than sleep.  

It wasn't, isn't, an elegant salad.  To be honest, I'd never have shared it with another, if I didn't so vividly remember that vegetable hunger.  But it is, to my taste anyway, a very good one, one I make over and over, every year.  It is, at its heart, just tomatoes and corn, roughly equal quantities of both.  The tomatoes are chopped into bite-sized bits, the corn, cut raw, right off the cob. There is a simple vinaigrette, zipped up with minced shallot, which I don't like with lettuce but like very much with tomato.  There is also feta, creamy and sharp, not as garnish but full-on ingredient.  And fresh marjoram, or sweet oregano, or if you have neither, tiny leaves of fresh thyme.  

It is these last two twists that make me smile, the reason I return, time and again.  I tend, as I've mentioned, to turn Italian in summer, so good and vast are the tomato-basil-mozzarella variations.  It is a good turn.  I like it very much.  I also like leaving it entirely in the dust.  Because something wonderful happens when pitch-perfect tomatoes meet up with not-mozzarella and not-basil.  Feta's a real character compared to mozarella, sassy, flip, salty as an old sailor.  It was, in my opinion, made for corn, whose sweet crunch is littered all over the plate.  And the marjoram/oregano/thyme (all are different, all are good) bring little bursts of herbal bling that delight in a language entirely un-Italian, entirely more-ish.  It is like watching Miyazaki, after a steady diet of Disney.  Or like taking a sibling out, all by their lonesome.  A reminder of hidden talents, and rich possibilities, and loveliness, latent, there for the asking. 

I don't remember making it to the computer often in those early days, but somehow, said friend managed to tap out a sweet thanks.  Included were the words in the title of this post.  The genius wasn't mine, but I'm happy to pass it on.  Let's eat summer while we can.  

Tomato + Corn Salad with Feta + Marjoram
Serves as many as you'd like

This salad is eminently scalable, like this one, one of the things I love about it. As written, I consider it lunch for one.  Simply double, triple, etc. to serve a crowd.  

I like marjoram and sweet oregano equally here; if your oregano is the spicy sort, go with the marjoram.  None of either?  Try fresh thyme, ordinary or lemon.  Different, lovely.  Needless to say, this is no salad for December.  Pin this one under High Summer Happiness.

1 large-ish tomato
1 plump ear of corn
1/4 cup crumbled feta
1 tablespoon shallot, minced
1 tablespoon lime juice or 2 teaspoons sherry vinegar
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 packed teaspoons fresh marjoram or sweet oregano, roughly chopped if leaves are large

Mince shallot, and setle into the vinegar (or lime juice) to mellow, 10-15 minutes.

Stand an ear of corn in a medium shallow bowl, stem end down, and run knife from top to bottom, allowing kernels to spill into bowl, until ear is clean.  Chop tomato into small-ish (1/2") pieces, and add to corn.  Add olive oil, crumbled feta, oregano (or marjoram), and vinegared shallots, plus a few good pinches of salt and several grinds of pepper.  Gently, with two clean hands, toss ingredients.  You want to combine and keep intact.  Pile onto a plate, with a few more feta crumbles and herbs, if desired, and adjust seasoning, as necessary.  Eat summer immediately.  Second helpings, when possible.

with much to recommend it

The cicadas have started falling from the trees. Composition books and glue sticks are stacked high by the door. The calendar, long blank, is freshly graffitied. Summer break's final hours are somehow behind us.

There are a dozen things I'd like to lay down here, but my mind's not on speaking terms with order. Order of the subject-predicate kind, anyway. I suspect I'm not the only one.

We are neck-deep in the late summer jumble, winding down one routine, gearing up for another. I could wait a week for the dust to settle, but where's the fun in that? And the dinner?

A wise soul once told me, some fifteen years back, that good information today is better than perfect information tomorrow. As a person entirely uninclined to such thinking, I've always considered this a radical statement. A radical statement with much to recommend it. So let's get on with the good today, shall we?

:: Certain sandwiches have no business on brown bread, previous allegiances notwithstanding. We are entering high BLT season, which is pretty much a mandate to bake this loaf with all white. Add slabs of tomato, good bacon, a sheaf of leaves, and sidle up to a stack of napkins and happiness.

:: Speaking of leaves, jeepers-creepers, basil. Claudine tipped me off, and I'm pretty well smitten. Our lettuce is always long-gone by tomato time, but the basil's (still) strong, and not only delicious, possibly better.

:: Dear Clay, Paint, Blocks, plus Every Building Material Under the Sun: You've made our summer shine on a regular basis. Consider this your thank you note. Sincerely, Us.

:: Reason #38 to invest in a KitchenAid: the dough hook pulls double-duty as a pirate prosthetic.

:: I've never understood uncooked tomato sauce. Are you not already turning on the stove to boil water? Could I possibly have missed the point more entirely? If you're anywhere near as naïve as I was, dear Luisa will set you straight. I dare you not to get raw-tomato sauce religion.

:: Always say yes to outings. Even if you're inclined to say no. Especially if you're inclined to say no.

:: People of the Book. Beg, buy, borrow a copy. I draw the line at stealing. But only just barely.

:: Odd lots of vegetables are a fact of summer life. Farmer's market leftovers, CSA tidbits, weird garden yields that conform to no recipe. Beginning about now, I routinely open my refrigerator to an optimist's miscellany, a pessimist's produce mess. Two extra ears of corn, a few tired zucchini, plus not quite enough green beans for anything meaningful. Add a pepper whose purpose has long been forgotten, a few carrots rattling around the bottom, and you've the makings for recrimination. Or a one-pot, one-bowl, lite-brite coconut curry. I choose the latter. And recommend it, highly.

A few words about this favorite standby. First, this is no true Thai curry. I've bruised lemongrass, minced galangal, pulverized shrimp paste and brick-red chilis, all in the name of heady, aromatic pastes. It is not so difficult, and so very worth it. It is also, many weeks, beyond my reach. On weeks such as those, weeks such as these, I reach for this lickety-split lovely.

What this is is a tip of the Thai hat, a skittering across, a selective pull. There's the sweet, creamy lush of coconut milk, the salty funk of fish sauce, the mellow glow of red curry, swiped, conveniently, from a jar. Supermarket staples, the lot of them, and so pantry citizens under our roof.  A dash of brown sugar, a good hit of lime, and oh, so pleased to meet you, hot-sour-salty-sweet. And this, my friends, is just the bathwater.

What you add to the drink is up to you; what I add has been different, each of two dozen times. There's always protein of some sort or another, seared at the outset in a shimmer of oil. It may come as no surprise that tofu's my preference, soft little pillows against the fresh crunch. That said, I extend this dish's reach in my home by adding tender bite-sized bits of chicken.  In practice, I use what I've got on hand; on this particular night, that meant both.  The curry paste gets added to the hot oil, to deepen in color and in flavor, followed shortly thereafter by the big white splash. The whole mess then sits stoveside, simmering and tendering, while the real fun begins: the plundering of the vegetable bin.

The list of vegetables below is merely last week's version; yours might bear no resemblance, and that's the beauty. This is one of those wide-open, welcoming dishes that invites whatever vegetables you have on hand. Substitute green beans for the zucchini, leave out the pepper if you haven't got it, swap out squash for the carrots, you get the idea. Just add the firmer veg at the beginning, tip in the tenders toward the end, and keep your cut size consistent to ensure even cooking.  It is ecumenical enough to make the year-round, delicious in spring with asparagus and peas, soothing in winter with cubed sweet potatoes plus those tiny canned corn ears my children adore.  Also, it's one heckuva fridge-cleaning workhorse. 

Oh!  The basil.  I nearly forgot the basil.  What takes this dish right over the top is a generous throw of aromatic thai basil.  We have a few plants in the backyard, because I love its intense fragrance so.  It's a little exotic, but not terribly: you'll find it at many farmers' markets during late summer, and any Asian grocery, the year round.  If you can, scoop some up; if you can't, make it still.  It's what I do half the time, anyway.  Authentic or no, basil-flecked or otherwise, this is one of those bowls I settle into with a sigh.  Spooned over a mound of brown rice, fragrant and soothing and hearty and light, it is very, very good.  Which, if not perfect, has much to recommend it. 

A Vegetable-Filled Coconut Curry
adapted from Deborah Madison, Local Flavors and Vegetarian Suppers from Deborah Madison's Kitchen

This dish is a mash-up of two Deborah Madison recipes, a summer squash and corn simmer in coconut milk, and a Bare-Bones Tofu Curry.  Both are wonderful, on their own merits.  Together, they make me grin, ear to ear.  If you don't know her work, do make her acquaintance; you cannot go wrong with any of her books.  The spirit of this dish is signature Madison, great economy of technique, grand delivery of flavor. Did I mention the entire thing comes together more quickly than a mediocre pizza will come to your door?

Fish sauce, coconut milk, and red curry paste are widely available in the ethnic section of most major grocers. Thai basil (a.k.a. holy basil) is a gorgeous, aromatic purple-tinged basil, distinct in flavor from the Italian variety. Look for it at late summer farmers' markets or any Asian market, year-round.  Curry paste varies widely in zip. I add a mild two teaspoons, to accomodate tender palates. Start small, taste at the end, and increase as desired, for additional heat.

1 tablespoon peanut or canola oil
1 tub extra-firm tofu, cut into 1" cubes,
1 boneless, skinless chicken breast (approx. 1 pound), cut into 1" bits, optional
1 teaspoon salt
1 15-oz can coconut milk, well-shaken
2-3 tablespoons fish sauce
2 teaspoons - 2 tablespoons thai red curry paste
2-3 teaspoons dark brown sugar
1 red pepper, cored, seeded, and chopped into 1/2" bits
2 carrots, peeled, halved, and cut into 1/4" moons3 small zucchini, halved, then sliced into 1/4" half-moons
1 large handful green beans, tipped and tailed, and cut into 1/2" lengths
3 corn on the cob, kernels removed
1 bunch scallions sliced, white and pale green only
1 lime, juiced
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1/2 cup thai basil, chopped
additional water, as needed
additional salt/fish sauce and pepper/curry paste, to taste

warm brown or jasmine rice, for serving

In your wok or your largest non-stick skillet, heat oil to a shimmer over high heat. Tip in tofu and/or chicken, season with 1 teaspoon salt, and let sit, undisturbed, several minutes, until your protein of choice is browned on the bottom and releases with little effort. Shake and stir, and let brown on reverse, another several minutes. Add 2 teaspoons red curry paste, and stir gently into protein, allowing it to fry and darken slightly, until fragrant, 30-60 seconds.

Add well-shaken coconut milk, stirring gently to release and incorporate curry paste. Add fish sauce, brown sugar, scallions, and firmer vegetables (carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, peppers, green beans), lower heat to low-medium, and simmer, 5 minutes. Add tender veg (zucchini, corn, tomatoes), stir gently, and simmer another 5 minutes. If, after adding the second batch of veg, the pan seems to crowded (i.e. if the liquid seems insufficient to the produce), add 1/4-1/2 cup water, to compensate.  After 5 minutes, check vegetables for doneness: you want carrots without any crunch in them, but your veg still vibrant and just-done.  Simmer a few minutes further, if needed, but don't walk away; the joy of this dish is in its brightness. 

Add juice of one lime, stir, and taste a spoonful, for seasoning. You want a bold, forward balance of hot, sour, salty and sweet. Add additional fish sauce (or salt), brown sugar, lime and/or curry paste, to taste. (The more vegetables and bits you add, the greater the likelihood you'll need additional seasonings, across the board.)

Stir two-thirds of the chopped cilantro and holy basil into the hot curry. Serve hot, over rice, with additional cilantro and basil atop.

casting about

When in doubt, do projects. Or so Zoë calls them. Math is good. Art is grand. Science is a slam-dunk, in these parts, anyway. Well, or add ice cream. But that goes without saying.

So much of parenting is, I find, rhythm. Rhythm's one of those things, like good health or great dark roast, that you often don't notice until it is gone. But oh man, when it goes? All the world seems off-kilter.

For the most part, our days hum along, a mish-mash of legos and sheet forts and Bulldog Restaurant. Plus all the usual ups and downs of four independent souls, making their way through a day. But in every week, there's a moment—a dozen moments—when the hum slows, stalls and clatters, ominously.

Disintegration. Or so I've come to think of it.

I don't mean disintegration in the falling apart sense, everyone a misery of tantrums and tears. (That happens, on occasion, but not often, thank goodness.) No, what I mean is dis-integration, the loss of cohesion, the fading of unity.

It's a subtle thing, more process than event, the centrifugal force of free spirits and individuals. It is often a fine thing, a pause, some time alone, a chance for each to do their own thing. But when it manifests itself as frayed nerves and raised voices, I like to be ready. Have a few projects up my sleeve.

I was never a boy scout, but I do think they're on to something. When I'm the slightest bit prepared, my days roll infinitely more smoothly.

Prepared, mind you, in a stealthy-ish sense. (If you can verb a noun, I can -ish an adjective.) It has taken me years of parenting to figure out that any project I float directly, they will veto, vigorously. "Hey kids! Do you want to [insert great idea here]?!" will be met with all the enthusiasm of Harry Reid's deficit proposal.  Humph.

However...

Pulling out celery and food color almost guarantees draws a crowd.  Dropping mention of cheerios' string-ability leads to snack-laces. Leaving all-ages science books lying about invites Can we? Can we?! Taking over a friend's fantastically curated stack of Egyptian library books works if you point out they're tied in to a certain scarab. Just *happening* to have a weirdly wonderful drawing book (in triplicate) rocks. Non-chalantly starting something "just for me" fails, brilliantly.

(That old reverse psychology gambit of pretend-hoarding your zucchini, in order to get picky littles to beg a taste? Doesn't work worth beans. Not at dinner, not at my house. Works like a charm, though, when the subject is projects. I shopped around rubber eggs for days. Zilch.  Until I set out to make one myself. Suddenly, we were three, all big eyes and curious minds. From the wonderful Nancy Blakey, or here.)

When we cannot so much as see the same page, much less pedal ourselves onto it, I don't wish to be casting about for ideas. I'm no better at extemperaneous parenting than speaking. I still stock note cards, for goodness sake, 3x5's, blank and lined. I want back-up positions. Plans B, C and D. Experiments, games, projects we can turn to in a trice.

Not because I'm keen on micro-managing (plan A is their plan, ever and always, and ordinarily, it rules the day.) No, I want a few notions filed away in my brain because disintegration is, in fact, part of the rhythm. But when we undertake a project, and the mess has been cleared, and the table wiped (and the floor, hands and faces, also), the disintegration's in the rearview mirror. We've made something—a mummy, zappy zoomer, blue celery—and that was fun, and that was the least of it. We've come together. We've changed the pronoun. We are we, again.

(Also? Watching them make a project their own is a stitch. Zoë wrapped her mummy like a champ, but sarcophagus embellishment was a bit over her pay grade. No matter. Her mummy's heading to the after life in style. She trotted off, without a word, only to return ten minutes later with provisions for the pharoah. He should be enjoying his eternity in comfort, what with his dog, chairs, food, books, and two bottles of laundry detergent. Accessorize she does, but by golly, she's practical.)

This preparation bit's been on my mind, recently, as it's come into play in my kitchen of late. I am not, as I've mentioned, much one for menu planning, preferring ad hoc over the strictures of set meals. But summer's its own creature, all onslaught and urgency, the glorious crush of corn-beans-peppers-peaches-eggplant-blackberries-broccoli-scallions-potatoes-tomatoes. Makes me plum giddy, the endless possibilities. And then, it makes my mind go pitch black, as I cast about wildly for some way through the glut. 

Last week, it was basil. That micro-basil I mentioned? Yup. Huge. And everywhere. And all going to flower, RIGHT THIS MINUTE. And my most thoughtful, intelligent menu ideas could be roundly summed up as "Basil ... huh?"

I mean, pesto, obviously; our freezer's full of it. Caprese, of course, but the big tomatoes are still pending. I knew, I know, basil is chock full of talent, but blimey if I could think up one good use. Enter Jerry Traunfeld, basil whisperer.

Riffling through The Herbal Kitchen last week, I landed on Corn, Orzo and Basil Salad. It sounded serviceable, if innocuous, a good way to use up an excess of herbs. I think I might even have whispered the word bland.

It tasted awful, the first bite, anyway, seeing as I had to eat crow, and every last one of my scandalous presumptions. Every bite after was another story, altogether.

This salad is everything I love about salads, and supper, and August, and eating, in general. It reminds me of this one, an autumn beloved, one giant perfect platter of texture and flavor. There is sweetness and crunch from fresh corn and red pepper, plus the soft savory slip of those tiny orzo. There are bites of just-tender summer squash and green beans, plus those nutty chickpea polka-dots. Did I mention the occasional twang of feta? The zip of a dressing punch-drunk on fresh lime? Perfectly salted, discreetly peppered, both by the ground black stuff and, oh yes, the basil! One and a half cups (cups!), one generous farmer's bunch, slivered and tossed in like so many salad leaves. Have you ever had so much basil in one place, fresh and intense and sweet-peppery-bright? It is outrageous, in the best sort of way. Not overwhelming, just deliciously addictive. I polished off three plate-fuls. Possibly four.

For the pragmatically-minded, I ought to mention, this is one of those clever, hard-working recipes. You chop while the water boils, cook the veg with the pasta, and have dinner on the table in twenty minutes, flat. Unless you prefer to eat two hours hence; it sits beautifully, and tastes best at room temp.  Also, the entire platter costs upwards of five bucks. Also, it begs to be brought to a barbecue, being mayo-free and durable and vegetarian and grand.  Or just whip up a mess for you and yours, and feast off the plenty, your own scrumptious party.

Corn, Basil and Orzo Salad with Chickpeas, Feta, Zucchini et al.
adapted from Jerry Traunfeld, The Herbal Kitchen

Traunfeld deserves all the credit for oomph, with his pitch-perfect seasoning, genius quantities of basil, and the irresistable pairing of corn kernels and orzo. I confess, I adapted wildly from there. The chickpeas are mine, as is the feta, as are the zucchini and haricots. I love it like this, a one-platter meal, but thought you should know that it can be pared down.  Or adapted, or expanded, based on what's on hand.  It's generous that way. 

Lemon basil is fantastic here, if you've got it, but sweet basil is equally, differently wonderful.

2 teaspoons salt
3/4 teaspoons freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice (from one plump lime)
1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
5 ears fresh corn
3 small zucchini, cut into 1/4" coins (optional)
2 cups greens beans, topped, tailed, and cut into 1/2" bits (optional)
1 sweet red pepper, cored, seeded, and cut into 1/4" dice
8 oz. orzo pasta
1 bunch (six) scallions, white and pale green ends sliced
1 15 ounce tin chickpeas (garbanzo beans)
1 1/2 packed cups sweet or lemon basil, washed, well dried, and slivered
1 cup feta, cotija or ricotta salata, crumbled

Set a large stockpot of well-salted water to boil.

In a lidded jar, combine vinegar, lime juice, salt and pepper. Swirl to dissolve salt. Add olive oil, replace lid, and shake vigorously to combine. Set aside.

Stand shucked ears of corn upright in a wide, shallow bowl, and cut off kernels with a sharp knife, just to the cob. Set aside. Slice zucchini and green beans if using, and set aside together, separately from the corn. (These veg will be added to the pasta water in two stages, first the zucchini and green beans, then the corn.)

In a large serving bowl, combine diced red pepper, sliced scallions, slivered basil, and 2/3 of feta, and set aside.

When pasta water comes to the boil, add orzo, and set timer to five minutes fewer than final cooking time (mine took ten; I set the timer to five). When orzo is five minutes from done, add the zucchini and green beans, if using. Stir, and return to the boil for four minutes. One minute from orzo's final cooking time (test one; orzo should be al dente), add corn, return just to the boil, then drain orzo and veg into a colander.

Return hot pasta and cooked veg to the stockpot, and toss with all the dressing, plus the chickpeas, while still warm.  Let sit 10 minutes, to cool slightly, then toss gently with the red pepper, scallions, basil and 2/3 feta.  Top with remaining feta, and eat immediately, or over the next four hours.  Salad is best served at room temperature.  Leftovers are marvelous the next day.

unmistakably

And just like that, the signs are everywhere.

 

The geese have been reverse-commuting for weeks, now.  I haven't spied frost on the grass since last Friday.  Zoë spotted (and squashed) her first ant, Thursday.  We've moved from ice skating to puddle-jumping, en route to school.  

With the time change, we've resumed our evening walks.  I had forgotten how much I loved last year's strolls, hunting bats, ogling blossoms, gulping sweet air.  Although this year, our walks look rather more like spring runs.     

The air is not warm, but it is less cold.  We've gone outside without coats, without shoes, even.  Though at not-quite-sixty, we maybe might've jumped the gun.  We've played at the park.  On the equipment.  One can go to a park in mid-winter, here, but the climbing structure is strictly off-limits, pre-thaw.  (You remember that old story: tongue, monkey bars, forever after... ) 

Rain coats are co-habiting with winter jackets in our closet.  I returned the snow boots to storage, this week.  The wellies have promised they'll pick up the slack.

I know spring's first blooms have come and gone in many parts; we've no such arc, so early, around these parts.  But what we lack in first dibs, we make up on momentum.  Every last growing thing's on the move, a mile a minute 

The snowdrops came up, and then were snowed under, and already, somehow, are on their way out.  The pear that looked so foreboding last month, is now decorated to the hilt in gray fuzzy buds.   

 

I spied a purple tip in the crocus on Monday; by Tuesday, it was smiling wide.  And by Friday?  Well, we might as well have had a tiny troop of Huskies, rooting madly in the lawn border bleachers.  

The honeysuckle's leafing out, the hellebore are opening, virginia bluebells are adding an inch a day.  Dozens of plump, closed-up daffodil buds are taunting us, daily, mercilessly. There are even, already, small green clusters of lush.  Tulips, I think.  Time will tell.

Chives are leading the herbal brigade, with oregano, tarragon and parsley pulling up the rear.  I was ready to report we'd no rhubarb yet, having checked nearly daily these past two weeks.  But lo and behold, Thursday afternoon, five tiny red tips were found poking through.  We've been talking up rhubarb soda all winter.  I am very much looking forward to that.

The garden gloves are out, and the small rakes, and there are little middens left from outdoor play.  We've been re-acquainting ourselves with soft dirt (and with black half-moons beneath fingernails).  My front porch has been re-decorated for spring, my front entry's now smudged not with salt but sidewalk chalk.  We were even able to dig in our teaspoon of a sandbox while the corned beef burbled on St. Patrick's Day. 

The books coming home from kindergarten have more syllables, longer sentences.  I catch him reading all the time, now, signs, newspapers, book spines ("H-om-e Ch-ee-se M-a-k-ing ??")  He just can't help himself. 

Watching plants grow is neat.  Watching readers grow is crazy-fantastic.

We hung a mesh bag of yarn scraps from the crabapple.  We're hoping the birds will partake, for their nests.  The bag appears to be emptying, though we're not sure if it's the wind, or regular visits from discreet customers.  We'll be scanning the trees for fancy nests, now through June.     

Indoors, we are back to soft, lemony light.  When we're there, anyway.  We came home from school before noon, last week.  We forgot to go in until nearly three.  I'm glad I said my farewells when I did, since it's all of a sudden unmistakably spring.

Our school is on spring holiday these next ten days, and I intend to spend the time with my kiddos.  But before I go, I wanted to leave you with a little something, our beloved rich skillet corn bread.

In the interest of full disclosure, I feel I must mention I'm no more qualified to talk about true cornbread than to speak of real biscuits.  I was born about as far from the South as a person can be and still call oneself a citizen.  I do know enough to know that this loaf is nowhere near authentic.  I also know it is unmistakably delicious.

Cornbread, as a genre, has a lot going for it.  It belongs to that lovely 'quick breads' category, meaning baking soda and/or powder, not yeast, do all the heavy lifting. If that bread was all about long, lazy waiting, this one is pure instant gratification.  Thirty minutes, start to finish, sudden whim to dripping honey.  Though speed is really the least of its virtues. 

The thing that separates this cornbread from tradition is a nice hefty throw of sour cream in the batter.  Add to this a slug of melted butter, and you'll see why it's prefaced 'Rich'.  The original recipe hails from A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen, a fantastic book that proves again that vegetarians eat better.  (You know this, right?)  It is humbly tucked away at the very back, and were it not for my chronic flipping (and cooking) through the Bishop's excellent recipes, I might never have found it at all.  Shudder.

But find it I did, some six years ago, and it's been a mainstay at our table, ever since. 

Where ingredients are concerned, I barely sway from Bishop's original, though I'd note that if you have access to local cornmeal, oh please do use it.  Fresh cornmeal is bright, sweet, alive, with a spunk that somehow survives the heat.  That said, I've often made it with good grocery store cornmeal (I love Bob's Red Mill Coarse Ground), and it's still fantastic; don't be held back

My main departure—and to my mind, a landmark one—involves one simple technique and one whopper of a pan.  Bishop calls for a standard-issue square glass pan, and having used one myself, I can tell you it's fine.  I call for a standard-issue cast iron skillet, preheated with the oven, generously buttered just before the batter goes in.  Having compared the two, I can tell you the cast iron version is outrageous.

Can you see, on that first picture, there, the deep golden edges, that slightly sunken interior rim?  See, what happens is this: when you heat cast iron to 400°, then slip in a knob of butter just before you pour, the batter begins to cook instantly when it hits.  You hear it.  You see it.  It sizzles, climbs the side, seals on impact, forms a gangbuster crisp golden crunchity crust.  Oh, and that valley, an inch in from the edge?  A bit of melted butter spills over the instant-crust, leaving a faint, extra-rich circumference behind.  I kid you not.

If you are used to a light, cakey cornbread (think boxed mix), know that this hails from different stock.  There is a toothsomeness from the coarse grind of the cornmeal, and a grand tenderness from the generosity of fat.  It has personality and substance and heft and yet is still totally ethereal, somehow.  It is light in that unlikely way that croissants and whipped cream and pie crusts are light.  And, at the risk of stating the obvious, it tastes profoundly of corn.  Not all cornbreads do.  I appreciate this simple truth about it.  Also that it tastes like sunshine, buttered up and baked.  Which, as we stand with our feet between seasons, is exactly what I want to be eating right now.  

Happy March to you, friends.  I'll return to this space in two weeks' time.  Until then, enjoy your spring, however it's sproinging.   

Sunshine in a Skillet (i.e. Rich Corn Bread)
adapted from Jack Bishop, A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen

I've adjusted Bishop's excellent original only slightly, using salted butter and a range of sugar, in case you like an extra touch of sweet.  Also, I have been known to substitute Greek Yogurt when I've come up short on sour cream (2% or higher only; non-fat greek or ordinary yogurt don't work).  Sour cream is better, but desperation happens.

Preheating the skillet with the oven is fine, though if you happen to think of it twenty minutes early, by all means, get it smoking; your crust will thank you for it.  My skillet is 10" across at the flared top.  If yours is larger or smaller, simply adjust baking time accordingly.  Leftovers remain excellent three days out: slice wedges in two, and heat in a 350° oven for 10 minutes, until edges crisp and center is warm. 

1 1/3 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
2/3 cup coarsely ground, whole-grain cornmeal (anything local, or Bob's Red Mill, are great)
2-3 tablespoons sugar, to taste
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick butter, divided (6 melted tablespoons for the batter, 2 solid tablespoons for the pan)
1 large egg
2/3 cup sour cream
1 cup milk

Place rack in middle of oven, place cast iron skillet on rack, and set oven to 400°, to preheat.  (Alternatively, butter an 8-inch square glass pan, and set aside until batter and oven are ready.)

In a medium bowl, combine flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  In a 4-cup liquid measure, add milk and sour cream (measuring directly into the cup), then eggs, then whisk with a fork to combine.  Add 6 tablespoons melted butter (reserving remaining 2 for skillet), and stir briefly to combine.  Add liquids to dry ingredients, and with a rubber spatula, stir just to combine, until no lumps remain.

Prepare skillet: add remaining two tablespoons' butter to hot skillet, and return to oven for 1 minute, to melt and heat.  Pour batter into hot, buttered skillet, and return to oven.  (If using glass pan, pour batter into cold, greased pan, place in oven, then proceed as follows.)  Bake until edges are golden and pulling away, and center is domed slightly and just cooked through, about 25 minutes.  Cornbread is finished when a knife inserted at the center returns moist crumbs. 

Serve wedges directly from the skillet (handle covered, trivet under), with butter, honey, and napkins aplenty. 

 

corn and everything

Everything changed last week.

Not in a bad way.  Not even in a big way, I guess, at least on the scale of global warming or contested elections or my hair on one of our more humid days.  But everything in our little daily lives, the warp and weft of our every waking hour (and a few of our sleeping ones), changed. 

Zoë, you see, decided to speak. 

 
Actually, that's a slight exaggeration: she's been quite verbal for months now.  Since May, anyway, Zoë's been a master of "ba".  Also, "bo".  With this dandy little set of phonemes, she's pretty much had her way with baths and balls, bottles and brothers, bowls and butter.  Which, when you think about it, is really all a girl needs.

Well, and shoes.  "Shoose" made the short list, too.  But that's not really a word; that's a life force. 

And that was fairly well it, three little word-lets and not a baby sign in sight.  Which isn't to say Zoë wasn't communicating.  She's understood most everything we've said for ages, trotting napkins to the trash, fetching hats, separating goats from coats in her corner-bitten copy of My First Words.  Also, she's been wearing a single pointed index finger with the devotion Chanel felt for her little black dress, and for all the same reasons.  It's endlessly versatile, always appropriate, Everywoman's one essential.  Just add one knock-out accessory, an urgent string of "eh eh ehhh!", say, and you'll have the world at your little pink fingertips.  Wretched excess, really, all those other sounds and syllables.   

Never mind that I've known many babies who have words by nine months; sentences by twelve; crazy wonderful toddler paragraphs by fifteen.  Heck, I've raised one.  These are the kids who learn language on the installment plan. Who mosey along, pointing to anything and demanding a label for everything and devouring sound effects like Cheerios until, with an Oink-Moo here and a Beep-Honk there, they're talking.  This is a very nice path, with lots of positive reinforcement for parent and child both, save only the part where you must fib a bit in the baby book since you really can't pinpoint when the babbling stopped and the articulate position piece on why it's a bad idea to put the blocks away before bed time began. 

Other kids, they wait.  And wait.  And wait some more, for a full vocabulary or a better handle on grammar or the PediPed Fall 2009 Footwear Collection.  Whatever.  As our third and last, there's been no worry and little hurry.  We knew Zoë would take to talking, eventually.  

 
Besides, she's had other skills to master.  Patiently tutoring herself in the art of little legos, for example.  Not the big toddler bricks, though we have a crate-full.  Not the mid-size mega blocks, either, though she can manage those just fine.  The itty bitty, Ages 5 and up, stifle-a-yelp-when-you-step-on-them legos.  Wouldn't want the big boys having all the fun, now would we? 

Also, perfecting her charm. 

 

Fine-tuning her independence.  

 

Generally lunging after life with arms wide open. 

So the whole talking thing didn't phase us much.  Still, we all looked forward to the day she'd graduate from fluent Caveman.

And then, last week, Click!  She took one of those giant steps that only babies of a certain age and the occasional astronaut can manage.  (I still experience those clicks! now and again, but it's usually my back giving out, or my patience, or both.)  Not suddenly, exactly; seventeen months is hardly suddenly.  But overnight, absolutely.  Wednesday was Zoë as usual, rolling her "ba", yogurt in her "bo", and a sweet slow rock at twilight with a "ba-bo" full of warm milk.  By breakfast Thursday, she'd welcomed each of us to table with "Morning!".  It was like she'd snuck out for a late-night cameo on Wheel of Fortune, and scored a sweet deal from Mr. Sajack himself on the Complete Consonant and Vowel Collector's Set.  Recession sale, probably.  Or maybe she's just been paying attention.  All day, words spilled out: library, cow, man, chicken, cup, trash, eyeball.  Phrases, too: up please, more please, up please, all done, up please, up please, up PLEASE!  Emphasis she's had down for some time now. 

Child psychologists call it "hitting a developmental milestone", but I've always preferred HOOOO-boy.  Because, well, you know.  Surely I'm not the only parent who's stuffed that darling, too-tight romper back in the drawer, hoping it will be just a little less snug next week?  Kids are a one-way road: no backtracking, no U-Turns, no exceptions.  And whether they get there over months or overnight, speech is pretty well the last exit on that great stretch known as babyhood.  Pass this mile post, and you're squarely in Toddler territory.  I would be sobbing right now, if I weren't so dang excited for her.  Imagine!  Tasting words for the first time, separately, together, not even knowing yet to thrill over bus stop chit chat and Mary Oliver's quiet splendor and the simple exquisite fact of the Sunday New York Times.  

By the time we harvested our first broccoli for dinner that night, it was almost familiar already, that tiny scratched soundtrack by my side, stuck on "ba-koli! ba-koli! ba-koli!".  I was a little disappointed that she wasn't as enthusiastic about eating it as saying it.  But I wasn't at all surprised when she asked, arms wide open, after more corn.  I wanted "more please", too.

Not just because it was fresh and from around here, the way corn should be.  We've eaten a lot of Ohio corn already this year.  We've fried it into golden fritters; tossed it raw into salsa, for its sweet crunch; stripped kernels into Tom Ka Gai in place of the usual miniature canned cobs.  Those were good.  This was great.  Bathed in caramelized butter, blistered ever so slightly by high heat, kicked up another notch with the tang of feta and the bright cool of mint, this was everything corn had always dreamed of becoming when it grew up.  And then some.  It took Zoë and I several servings, but eventually, with the platter nearly bare, we got to "all done". 

Brown-Buttered Corn with Feta and Mint
Serves 4 as side dish
Adapted from Gourmet, July 2009

The original version left the corn on the cob, and turned the toppings into a compound butter.  I find corn much easier to eat off the cob, and butter endlessly better browned.  Mint was wonderful here, and a little unexpected, but basil would be equally, differently lovely.  Be sure to use a good, whole feta (not pre-crumbled; it has none of feta's toothsome texture or tangy flavor), preferably sheep's milk.  Costco's water-packed, 20 ounce block of Valbrese is my go-to feta. 

We served this as a side, but I would happily call a big bowl dinner.  

4 ears corn
3 Tbs. butter
4 oz. feta, crumbled
1 small bunch mint, slivered
salt and pepper to taste

In a large saute pan, set butter to brown over medium-high heat, 4-8 minutes.  Butter will melt and then bubble for several minutes, before the milk solids finally begin to turn color.  Keep an eye on the butter as you prepare the other ingredients, watching for little flecks of gold, noticing a nutty rich scent.  Once the milk solids (flecks) are amber, remove pan from stove until corn is ready.

While butter's browning, shuck corn, then strip kernels from cob.  Set the cob on end in a shallow bowl, and run a thin, sharp knife (paring or chef's) down the contours of the corn, narrow tip to wide base.  The bowl captures most of the fall-out.

Add kernels to browned butter, and return skillet to heat.  Saute over medium-high heat for 5-8 minutes, until kernels are coated and browning in spots.  Add crumbled feta, and cook another 1-2 minutes, until feta melts.  Taste, and adjust salt and pepper as needed.