remedial eating

funny business

Breakfast is funny business.  There were the days (years, really) when small babes couldn't make it the night.  Would wake up one, two, three times to re-fill tiny bellies.  Breakfast, then, wasn't so much meal as artifact, an alien concept from pre-newborn days.  Those years are behind us, now.

There were the days (years, really) when toddlers would wake up at four, five, six, for a top-off before their final few hours' sleep.  Or not.  Sometimes they were ready to rumble, before daybreak.  We are past those, now, also.  Those were rich, hard, tired, good years.

Then came the days (years, but by now you know that) when preschoolers could actually make it the whole night through.  For some, these days came by age two.  For others, hourly wake-ups were standard operating procedure until four. But finally, eventually, complete nights came.  Those days felt like miracles. They still do.

Small bodies such as these, who've slumbered without pause, always seem to wake up hungry.  The sort of hungry that is spelled f-a-m-i-s-h-e-d.  So we tend to start the day with breakfast, off the bat, nothing fancy, toast and peanut butter, scrambled eggs and toast, cinnamon toast.  Some yogurt, some fruit, so much better, already. For those who are hungry, anyway.

I qualify 'those' because appetite's a fickle thing, like upper arms and arches, subject to change.  I am rarely hungry when I first wake, which, because morning's not my thing, is almost always when they wake.  My singular goal is to grind beans and boil water, and to let the two mingle until my mug can be filled.  I always eat a little something, because coffee begs a little something, biscotti or a biscuit or a square of said peanut butter toast.  But this is all I need, all I want, until later.  

(Age changes appetites.  I see this, plainly.  My eldest little, who just yesterday woke up starving, today coasts to eleven on funnies and fumes.  For all the kerfuffle over breakfast being important—and I'm getting to breakfast, and I underscore the important—the timing and content is up for debate.  Not everyone needs flakes and o.j. before eight.)  

As for me, later does not equal lunch.  Later, for me, usually arrives around 9:47, or three hours after eyes open, whichever comes first.  Whether I've had a stack of flapjacks with a side of sausage and scrambled eggs at seven, or nothing at all, three hours in, I'll be ravenous.  I can't account for this.  I only know it to be true.  So when I can, I wait until the appetite goes off.  And when it does, I listen.

Mostly, it asks for produce and protein.  Sliced apples and almonds, lots of both.  Plain whole yogurt plus banana, crunched up with granola.  Last night's leftover veg, with this morning's scrambled egg.  Yesterday's salad, topped with a fried egg.  A bowl of the week's soup, with a poached egg afloat.  If you're sensing a theme, you found me out.  Put A Bird On It!: The Breakfast Edition.  

Sometimes, it's pretty fine.  Sometimes, worse for the wear.  A little deflated, but the right idea, and quick.  I'm no fan of quick eats for their own sake, but mid-morning's an awkward time to insert breakfast.  Everyone else has eaten, we're in the middle of some big thing (watercoloring, weeding, adding, Farkle-ing, encrypting bananas with top secret messages), and no one's interested in me setting aside 45 minutes to chop and cook a proper, glorious vegetable skillet for one.  Myself least of all.  For the mess alone.  

But the other morning, twenty mintues before swim lessons, I threw together a plate that hit all my high notes.  Yesterday morning, I did it again.  Today, I jumped at the gift of zucchini.  You can see where this is headed.  

It began with something called gilbir, a Turkish dish of yogurt and eggs I stumbled over in Silvena Rowe's latest.  But really, before that, it began with Jess' yogurt and eggs, a combination I'd never thought to make, much less eat. I mean, really.  Yogurt, eggs.  Soft, soft.  Creamy, creamy.  White on white.  I don't know.  It seemed so too too.  Like potato pizza, or spaghetti tacos.   (To read the comments in this piece, apparently I'm not alone.)  

But I've never known Jess to champion anything an inch less than excellent, and yogurt and eggs are no exception.  Read her words to understand why they work, and how.  (Actually, read her words because they're just pure joy to read.)  Maybe, like me, you'll walk away craving the contents of that blue-rimmed plate, a version I intend to try very soon.  As it is, I was waylaid by rusty butter. 

See, Rowe's eggs and yogurt, Turkey's gilbir, are drizzled in paprika-spiked butter.  That's it.  Butter, melted.  Sweet paprika, stirred in.  A spare, simple sauce.  A gorgeous, gutsy thing.  The paprika blooms in the hot butter, which takes up the deep sweet roasted toastiness of the pepper.  A teaspoon or two of this ruddy, intense stuff splits into vivid rivulets, everywhere.  It might overwhelm, were it not for the mint, a tablespoon of fresh leaves, slivered and scattered over all.  Together, the mint and paprika are brilliant, cool and hot, sweet and savory, yogurt and eggs.  (A fine match.)

Toast, I suppose, would be lovely alongside.  Cukes and tomatoes are calling my name.  But for now, I can't get past the zucchini.  I sauté two, sliced, in a splash of olive oil with garlic, quick enough to hold their shape, long enough to bronze (and lose their bite).  They are sweet, and toothsome, and fantastic sauce mops.  I imagine green beans might work the same magic.  

I imagine also it might seem funny business, calling this spiced-yogurt-vegetable-egg thing breakfast.  Not exactly blueberry pancakes, I guess.  Call it lunch, if you wish.  Or dinner.  Or brunch.  Just call it up, sometime, when the appetite strikes.   

Eggs, Paprika Butter, Mint, Yogurt, Zucchini
adapted from Silvena Rowe, Purple Citrus and Sweet Perfume

My first go, I poached my egg, per Rowe's version.  The second time, I fried my egg in olive oil, which I maybe loved even more.  I'd repeat either in a heartbeat; take your pick.  (I am no egg-poaching expert, but the bare bones are outlined below.  Deb's tutorial is clear, concise, and spot-on.)  

For crunch, I sometimes add a smattering of dukkah, the Egyptian blend of crushed nuts and spices.  Heidi has a wonderful, small-batch dukkah recipe.  A handful of toasted pine nuts would also be grand.  

Rowe's original calls for twice as much paprika butter, but the quantities below got me through two separate servings.  FYI.   

2 medium zucchini, cut into 1/4" slices
1 clove garlic, sliced
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 very nice eggs
distilled white vinegar, a splash
plain whole-milk yogurt
1 tablespoon butter
2 teaspoons sweet paprika
1 tablespoon fresh mint, slivered
toasted pine nuts or dukkah to top (optional) 

In a large skillet, over medium-high heat, bring the olive oil to a shimmer.  Tip in the sliced zucchini and garlic, season with 1/2 teaspoon salt, and let sit a few minutes to get a good bit of brown going on the underside.  Your zucchini will cook in 7-9 minutes or so, with the occasional flip and stir, adjusting heat if necessary, to prevent burning.  The end goal is slices with a bit of burnish on both sides, and interiors that still have their wits about them. They can mostly manage themselves, while you go about fixing eggs and melting butter.  

For Poached Eggs: Break your egg into a teacup or low, thin-lipped dish, and set aside.  Fill a small saucepan by half with water, season well with salt, and bring to a low boil.  Add a splash of vinegar.  Turn down heat to maintain a not-quite-simmer, then with a large spoon, create a whirlpool of the water.  Bring your dish to the surface, then slide your egg into the vortex.  All will look lost. Carry on.  Use said spoon to fold egg whites gently over the yolk, to help the whole thing hold together.  Turn off the heat, and let poach to desired doneness.  I like a solid white, and a yolk that is fudgy at the outside and saucy at the center, which is a 4.5-5 minute poach for my jumbo market eggs.

For Fried Eggs, Over Easy:  Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a small heavy skillet until it shimmers.  Crack in your egg, season to your liking, and let fry, covered, over a hottish flame, 2-3 minutes, or until white is completely set, and egg almost done.  Flip egg, if desired, and cook until yolk is done (or undone) to your liking, 1 minute for a runny bit at the center.   

Check your zukes.  Toss, taste and season, and/or turn off the heat, when done.

In a small saucepan, melt the butter.  When bubbling, add the sweet paprika. Let burble gently 30 seconds over medium heat to meld flavors.

Paint half a plate with a generous 1/2 cup of plain, whole milk yogurt.  Tip caramelized zucchini onto the other half.  Set poached (or fried) egg atop both, drizzle spiced butter over all, scatter with slivered mint, and sprinkle with dukkah or pine nuts, if desired.      

the other half

Our refrigerator died Tuesday. 

This had a few drawbacks.  Sour-ish milk at breakfast, Monday morning.  Off coffee, all last week.  A week given over to researching/ordering/draining/disposing/re-filling.  Me, carrying an armful of raw meat to the basement, in my pajamas, before 7 a.m.

 

(It was dying a slow death, as it turns out.  It just didn't become clear it had flat-lined until Tuesday.  It also turns out that if Mr. Meat Day is home sick on a Monday, I should probably postpone my weekly shop.  As it was, we went together, and as a result, wound up with chicken, pork, and beef.  Two kinds of beef.  The day before said fridge kicked the can.  Thank goodness there was enough residual cool to last the night.  Thank goodness for basement chest freezers left behind by former occupants.)

 

However, as with everything, our freezer's demise had its upsides.  A dramatic uptick in coffee quality, by Friday.  Frozen assets, fit for a king.  A detour, while appliance scouting, to fetch bamboo poles and blue spray paint.  (For this year's bean teepee!  T'will be blue, can you imagine?  I couldn't.  Until I interviewed Jennifer Bartley.  Brilliant.) 

An abundance of eggs to use up, ASAP.

Eggs, of course, keep quite alright at room temperature, for a few days, anyway.  Still, I was keen to cook up what we had, after their stay in our oversized faux-Coleman.

There was a triple-batch of crêpes for dinner, Wednesday night.  Scrambled eggs, Thursday.  Fried eggs for lunch.  Two loaves of yolk-rich challah, rising as I type.  And to use up the other half, bittersweet meringues.

I'd considered sharing the other half of Montréal, anyway, the half captured by my trusty old Nikon D70.  Because for all that slim brick's lovely convenience, I'm a detail sort, in heart and mind.  I admire particularity.  The granular outtake.  The narrow wedge of a moment, the defining pinprick.  "[A] corner where the crust shattered", as Tara recently, memorably, said.  As true of life as of pie, I think. 

So when the refrigerator gave notice and the egg whites multiplied, I took it as a sign that we ought to talk meringues.  Besides, we were due something other than salad.

I've written about meringues before.  Everything I said then, still stands: their incessant smack of sweet, my decades-long avoidance, their ridiculous ease, my conversion story.  Their now-permanent place in our cookie jar line-up. 

At the time, I was talking mini-pavlovas, plain meringues plus soft cream plus ripe summer fruit.  I maintain this is meringues' highest and best calling.  I also maintain others beg to differ.

In the eyes of my kiddos, there's little question that meringue means chocolate, like Montréal means chocolatine.  (You may sense a theme here.  You would be spot-on.)  Chocolate meringues, as we colloquially call them, fill our jar fairly regularly, though not for long.  In addition to all the ordinary meringue virtues—fine shattery bite, faint caramelly edge, virtual absence of fat, shelf-life of forever, and, by definition, gluten-free—chocolate meringues bring something else to the table. 

Yup, chocolate.  Smartypants.  But hold up a minute.

What makes these work, to my taste, anyway, is the bittersweet that comes before.  At the palest, I'll put in a dark 70%, a standard 3.5 ounce grocery store Lindt or Ghiradelli.  I've used an 85%, and adored it.  But my favorite?  Unsweetened.  Zero sugar.  Top notch. 

Here's why:  meringues are by nature a single-note sweet, an essay on sugar, in various shades of pale.  This is what makes them so suitable for tart fruit.  And why they need chocolate the color of midnight.  Straight-up, plain meringues hit you over the head like snow tumbling from Montréal rooftops in January.  But chocolate, chopped small, barely sweetened or not at all, mediates the impact, cushions the blow.  Every bite is a blend of sugared crunch and dark shard, the two meeting and melting on the tongue.  Those baritone black flecks are the legs that, in my book, let meringues stand alone, without fruit, with respect.

 

Also, it makes them look like dalmations.  Not the main point.  But not a moot one. 

 

(I realize, looking up, I've implied a connection between dirt and meringues.  Unintentional, that. 

There is an abundance of sandboxes because they're a big part of any trip we take, and one of my greatest learnings as a parent.  When traveling with young children, seek out a city's parks, as assiduosly as you would their fine dining and art.  Dirt-digging.  Balancing.  Scrambling, climbing, running, jumping.  Museums and four-star restaurants tend to frown on these things.  Kids, in my experience, tend to frown without them.

As to the texture of an overnight meringue, it's really rather more like that Montréal sky: impossibly light, like a cloud, like air, and crisp as Spring, when Spring's having a good day.)

Which brings me around to my final point, and my first one:  meringues are harmonizers.  The whole bitter/sweet thing, yes, but beyond that, this: they turn problems into solutions.  I'm speaking of extra egg whites, of course.  This is a small thing, as an egg white's a small thing, and not a particularly appealing one, at that.  Crack an egg, use the yolk, and you find yourself faced with an odd wobbly lump of transluscent glop.  It is not much to look at.  It slips furtively down the drain.  I know.  I've done it.  Maybe you have, too.

But it's been years, and these here are the reason: meringues make good on this otherwise-orphan.  When eggs can be had for a dollar a dozen, it may seem a silly economy.  It is not.  It is pause and rememberance of the egg's entireity, of the odd couple it is, of its bifurcated magic.

It's also so easy, it's embarassing.  Egg whites freeze brilliantly, so there's no rush; a Bonne Maman jar holds a dozen frozen whites, easy.  Accumulate as needed, de-frost as convenient, bearing in mind 1 white equals 2 Tablespoons. 

Bear in mind, also, that meringues are pure ratio, 1 egg white : 1/4 cup sugar.  3 egg whites?  3/4 cup sugar.  4 whites?  1 cup.  Or in my case, last week, 6 whites, 1.5 cups.  (Which, for the record, yielded some 6 dozen cookies).  That is the ratio.  That is the recipe.  You've just memorized it, without even trying.

But all this is process, pragmatics, nonsense.  You don't make a cookie because a fridge curled up its toes, or because its low-fat, or to honor an egg.  Or I don't, anyway.  In the end, only the other half, the "do I want another?" question matters.  You'll have to answer that one for yourself.  As for me, my answer follows.   

 

Overnight Bittersweet Meringues
Adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything 
Yield: 3 dozen meringues 

Much ink has been spilled about the tempermentality of meringues, warnings about vinegar-wiped bowls, wary words about under- and over-whipping.  After dozens and dozens of haphazard, careless batches, my take on these cautions is: Piffle.  Barring a great plonk of yolk in your bowl, meringues are among the most forgiving cookies I know.  Please note: these rest overnight in the oven. 

3 egg whites
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 3.5 oz. bar extra bittersweet chocolate, 70%, 85%, 90% or unsweetened

Preheat oven to 225° degrees. 

Chop chocolate bar with a chef's knife into slender shards, somewhere between slivers and shavings.  This is quick work, as the bars are thin and easy. 

In a stand mixer with whisk attachment, beat egg whites, beginning on low and increasing to medium, until soft peaks form, 2-3 minutes.  Increase speed to medium-high, and gradually add sugar, until roughly tripled in volume, shiny, opaque, and able to hold firm peaks, 2-4 minutes more.  Add slivered chocolate, and beat briefly, just to combine.

Line baking sheet with parchment paper.  Using two teaspoons (the sort for eating, with a shallow bowl, not measuring), scoop small heaps of meringue (a shy 1") onto lined baking tray, a half-inch or so apart.  Meringues don't spread.  This is a great kid job, as meringue makes great abstract shapes, all spikes and peaks.  Eclectic is fine, so long as size is fairly consistent, for even cooking.

Bake 1 1/4 hours, or until meringues are somewhere between dull white and buff, firm to the touch, and crisp throughout.  (Break one in half to check.)  Turn off oven, and leave them there to crisp, all afternoon or overnight, if you like a palest caramel color and flavor (I do).  Or, if you prefer something closer to white, remove after an hour.  Either way, cool completely, then store airtight

fried

 
Oof.  It's been one of those. 

I was planning to talk pleasantries today, fresh pillows and sewing strides and other soft squishy goodness.  I'll get around to it.  But number nineteen derailed my plans, and my mind.  My nineteen—lower left molar, to the uninitiated—has been a bit kvetchy, so I stopped by the dentist for some reassuring words.  And left with two I can only just whisper.  

{Root canal}.  Double oof.

On a tooth with no fillings, no less.  No trouble, no trauma, no history, just ouch.  There oughta be a law.  I'll get around to that, too.  But at the moment, I can't quite string two sentences together.  And I'm sorely in need of some serious distraction.  So can we talk about something else? 

Like the way this glorious fall wouldn't quit, sidewalk chalk and short sleeves right up through last week?  Even if mornings increasingly need mittens.  The rains came down yesterday, the winds howled last night.  It's nearly through, but it's been a humdinger.  I'll not soon forget. 

Or how about the oak leaf hydrangea's final hurrah, six colors, easy, all in one leaf?  Or how the ginkos gave up the ghost last week, green-gold-gone (WHOOMP!) between Monday and Friday.  The hold-out oaks and maples are dropping their last.  We finally have a leaf pile.  Jumping's next week or never. 

(Or how it hasn't escaped my notice, Mother Nature, how the curb-side leaf heaps look surprisingly like drifts.  You and your foreshadowing.  Very witty.)

Or the way this little girl's love of all things little shows no signs of letting up.  This week's love: itty-bitty books.  About anything and everything.  We make a good team: I bind, she writes.  And carries them everywhere. 

Or the way I think I will never tire of watching this boy's hands at work.  They're like magic to me, those ten flashing fingers, able to give solid form to abstract ideas.  Then again, I struggle to assemble flat-pack file boxes.  Maybe magic is 'skill set' spelled backwards.   

Or how sometimes a flower can bloom all the year round, and you never give it the time of day, until it's the only thing around.  (Dear Calendula: Apologies, in arrears).  Or how one single Japanese maple tree holds approximately 3,972 lessons on life's fleeting nature.  I collected that plush saw-edged perfection this morning, found it withered and curled this afternoon.  Or maybe it's doing crunches.  Hmmm... note to self.  

Or the clever way that there crab apple leaf landed and curled up around the twig, like an old forgotten newspaper, or a dollhouse cinnamon stick.  That's a little loopy, isn't it?  Like I said, I'm a little fried.  Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, particularly if we're talking rice.   

I'm not sure there is any other foodstuff that can be absolutely inedible or completely transcendant.  If your only encounter with fried rice is the soggy bland side restaurants use as plate-filler, know that this bears no resemblance to that.  This isn't in the same family.  Or even the same tree.  This rice is the rice Henry drew with Crayolas when his Kindergarten class was asked to illustrate their favorite meal.  There, in a sea of steak and noodles, was a paper plate polka-dotted with Lap Cheong and green peas.  I didn't know until then that it was his Number One.  Though I completely understand his perspective. 

I come from the Ken Hom school of fried rice cookery, which is to say I swear by three simple rules: the rice must be old and cold; the pan and oil, screaming hot; and never, ever, ever add any soy sauce.  I've since realized there are many opinions on this last matter (and suspect China has as many fried rice recipes as people).  I wish I could tell you the pros and cons of sauce.  But after tasting sublime, I never saw reason in straying.

Well, at least as far as technique is concerned.  I messed with Hom's ingredients mercilessly.  We always include a good hit of Lap Cheong, those addictively chewy sweet-salty Chinese sausages.  I begin by stir-frying a tumble of red coins, along with two handfuls of raw, sweet diced carrot.  The sausages render their flavorful fat, which casts its spell over everything that follows.  Once the carrots meet a knife with more firm give than crunch, I crumble in the cold rice (from last night, or last Tuesday).  I break up the clumps with the wooden spoon's back, then use it to mix up each grain with porky goodness.  And then—this is important, pay close attention—I do very nearly nothing at all.  

I let those grains sit, single file in the pan, for minutes on end, before giving a quick stir.  Two or three times, over five or six minutes.  It looks like absolutely nothing is happening, but whatever you do, don't rush the nothing stage.  Because, while you're busy twiddling your thumbs, your rice is becoming its highest and best self.  It absorbs all the flavors from its colleagues, for one thing, the sweetness and savoriness and smokiness of the pan.  And its texture transforms entirely.  Each grain goes slowly, surely translucent, gold at the edges, terrifically toothsome, until around minute five some bits caramelize.  Did you know fried rice could (should [must!]) caramelize?  When you see burnished nubbins, you know happy is near.

But wait.  We're not done.  Though the rice nearly is.  Your last step is to stir in sesame-oil spiked eggs, which cook within moments as they meet the hot rice.  Think spaghetti carbonara, gone East, and outrageous.  Again, our quantities aren't exactly authentic.  I like my rice absolutely riddled with delicious.  Mix-ins, if you must.  (Blizzards probably corrupted me.)  Just as soon as you see tender, feathery threads of egg, pull the whole jumble off the heat and toss through with sweet peas (straight from the freezer petit pois are just dandy).  Fifteen minutes, start to finish, famished to chopsticks.  We made it for lunch last Monday, and today.  Although just as often, we call it dinner in a bowl.   

I know Thanksgiving's right around the corner, and fried rice is not Norman Rockwell material.  If you need some T-day inspiration, you could always caramelize a cauliflower, or roast some sweets (skip the beans), or braise some brussels sprouts with bacon.  (Probably best not to ask after turkey.  I roasted mine upside down, last year.)  Besides, sometimes we just need a break from real life, whether its feast day must-do's or cruel twists of tooth fate.  And fried rice, well, it always makes me smile.  I'm telling you, it's powerful stuff.

Our Fried Rice
Adapted from Ken Hom, Chinese Cooking 

I'm sure this is to classic fried rice what over-sauced pasta is to the Italian original: all out of whack in its starch:protein:veg proportions.  So be it.  It's fantastic.  Know that this is more blueprint than recipe.  Sometimes we have 2 cups of rice, sometimes 4.  I simply dial up or down the add-ins, accordingly.  Also, feel free to swap in what's on hand or in season.  Asparagus is fantastic in the spring.  I love the edamame, but Henry loathes them.  I only somtimes stock pressed tofu in my fridge.  You get the idea. 

Many well-stocked supermarkets in the Northwest stock Lap Cheong; all Asian markets, everywhere, do also.  I always keep several packs in my freezer, so we don't wind up with a fried rice emergency.  Note that unlike many American sausages, it is not pre-cooked, so be sure to add it at the outset (see below).

4 cups cold, cooked rice (leftover)
2 tablespoons peanut oil
4-6 chinese sausages (Lap Cheong), sliced into 1/4" coins
3 carrots, peeled, diced to 1/4"  (cut carrot into quarters lengthwise, then slice across sticks as if cutting coins)
1 1/2 cups frozen peas, unthawed (or substitute shelled edamame for half the peas)
1/2 cup pressed tofu, diced 1/4" (optional)
4 eggs
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
3 scallions, slivered, to garnish

Mix egg and sesame oil in a small bowl, and set aside. 

Chop your carrots and sausages, and set aside.  Have your pile of peas (and tofu and/or edamame, if using) ready.

Heat a wok or large skillet over high until very hot, then add peanut oil and heat until slightly smoking.  Add sausages and carrots, turn heat down just a hair, and cook, stirring often, 4-5 minutes, until sausages are browning and fragrant, and carrots are bronzing and firm-tender.  Return heat to its maximum, crumble in the cold rice, and add salt and pepper (and pressed tofu, if using).  Break up clumps with a wooden spoon, stirring well to incorporate cold rice with hot sausage and veg and to coat each grain with the hot fat.  Cook rice mixture on high for 5-6 minutes largely undisturbed, stirring every 2 minutes or so to allow new surfaces to caramelize.  When the grains have gone from opaque to translucent, and the rice is golden in spots, add the egg/sesame mixture.  Stir-fry 1 minute, until egg is just cooked.  Add peas and scallions (and edamame, if using), and toss a few moments to heat through.  Eat immediately.

 

reality check

I'm a hopeless romantic when it comes to summer.  The suffix, not the weather (oops, there I go again).  You know the suffix, if you have young kids, or if ever you were one.  It wears a few aliases — Break, Vacation, Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah!! — but pick any one and append it to summer and you have yourself ten unschooled, unscheduled, unbroken weeks.  I.e. Heaven. 

We take it pretty easy around here, planning little, dreaming big.  August marks my tenth year at this mama gig, and my first-ever experience with day camp of any kind.  One kid, one week, nine-to-three.  I feel so obligated, already.  

But even empty calendars (especially empty calendars?) have hopes and dreams pencilled in.  And although I'm all for free-range ambitions, I've decided I'm going to crack down this year, manage expectations like I mean business.  The childish ones Certain People bring to summer's table.  The unrealistic, seriously?, plain ol' silly sort.  Expectations that leave you shaking your head and smirking out loud and muttering 'surely you know better' under your breath.  Mine, I mean. 

  

See, one of my Big Ideas about summer is that we'll Get Out, early and often.  To the park or the creek, the river or the hills, to hike and explore and Be In Nature.  I spin Grand Plans in my head all the time, about catching crayfish and studying limestone and identifying leaves and bark and seeds.   Valderi-Valdera optional.  Sort of.  I am fiercely fond of my own childhood summers, which I recall as almost entirely en plein air.  I left the house in the morning and didn't return until dusk, filthy and sun-blind and brimming with adventure.  I want that my kids can share that experience.  I try hard to Make It Happen.  Sometimes, too hard. 

I suppose it all boils down to agendas.  I often have one (see above).  So do they (see below).  And often as not, they look nothing alike.  Case in point:  our excursions this spring. 

We've had several park outings already this spring, not one of them playing out the way I expected.   A month or so back, we hit the road for Highbanks, one of my favorites for all kinds of reasons.  Wide open spaces, long wooded trails, and best of all, to my mind, real running water. 

I had my sights set on the river, that day.  It brings me pleasure and peace and great heaps of warm fuzzies, like a ribbon of ocean, a postcard from home.  But the kids, they only had eyes for the playground.  It's right at the entrance, and it enthralled them for an hour.  And then, there was this whole huge field of dandelions.  Got wholly distracted by those for some time. Too pooped, after that, for the half-mile river hike. 

Not long after, we hit the little pocket park.  Still wishing for water, I suggested the creek, which no one but no one wanted to see.  Swings won the day, with monkey bars a close second, plus some running-scrambling-climbing thrown in for good measure.  And I thought, maybe next time. 

And sure enough, next time, we did see the creek.  Only on a morning I didn't plan on the park at all.  Last Monday, I'd planned on playing catch-up in the office, with the littles playing nicely, quietly, together.  The way they do often.  When I'm not planning on it.  But after an hour of repeated 're-direction', I admitted the boy needed to move, fast and forever.  Or at least for an hour or two without boundaries.  So we ditched everything, walked to the park, and proved once again flying's more fun than filing.  

And that's just the thing:  Their agenda's good, also.  It works.  Rocks, even.  Soars, not infrequently.  That day at Highbanks?  Henry climbed a new ladder, higher than he'd ever climbed before.  Courage, bravery, pride, he had it all going.  And oh my, those dandelions.  Chains, crowns, imaginary prides of raging lions, we did it all, and didn't make a dent.  The river, it'll be there next time.  The sea of gold pom-poms is already long gone. 

And the pocket park?  Turned out to be a turning point in our swinging career.  Zoë set a PR for sitting on the Big Swing without falling.  And Henry, have mercy, finally got pumping.  The idea of it, anyway, the coordination of movements, the in-and-out of the feet, the back-and-forth of the body.  Mastery will take time, and plenty of practice.  We took steps in the right direction again last week.  It might take months.  We have all summer.

And so as we get our summer underway, I'm reminding myself to get over myself.  My reality is just that: mine.  And sometimes I'd best check it right at the door.  Because my Great Outdoors is not their Great Outdoors.  They may well have their own Big Ideas.  They can throw capitals around easy as I can, with completely different end results.  Fine, fun, magnificent results.  The sort with buy-in and blossom-smelling and big smiles bumping right up against dinner. 

Oh, that.  The other reality of summer around here.  We tend to lose track of time completely, playing right up until stomachs and spirits are growling.  These are the days I depend on eggs, which I'd nominate for the role of harried cook's best friend.  Lightning fast, endlessly versatile, eggs are my go-to last-minute meal.  And while I like them every which way, I'm especially fond of this fast and easy green-flecked omelette. 

If you're used to the usual pancake-house standby, thick and fluffy and stuffed to the gills, know right now that this is not that.  It is, in my opinion, endlessly better.  First off, two eggs have eight inches all to themselves, which means they spread thin, flatter than a pancake.  A knob of melted butter licks every last edge, adding outrageous richness to this mild-mannered protein.  Then there's the matter of those spanking fresh herbs, the ones over-running gardens and markets at the moment.  I love chives and mint here, either or both.  A little tarragon's nice, also, as is a bit of marjoram.  Five minutes on the heat and you have delicious, bright and light and filling and grand. 

Eat it as is, or fill it with bits.  Omelettes and leftovers go hand in hand.  Last week, we tucked in our last shreds of ham, and some weary arugula on its way out.  On the evening below, I dabbed on some chèvre, and scattered some mushrooms sautéed alongside.  Henry and Zoë like them perfectly plain, no herbs, no fillings, just a warm tortilla underneath.  Egg roll-ups, they call them, their own Big Idea.  Works for me.  Maybe for you, too.

Dinner in Ten (a.k.a. Omelettes aux Fines Herbes)
Inspired by Richard Olney, Simple French Food
Yield: 1

I've written this for one omelette, as it's a perfect one-person meal.  I'll often pull one together for lunch.  It scales up beautifully — just double or triple quantities accordingly.

The herbs are flexible, both in type and number.  Use just one, or a mix, depending on taste and availability.  Chives are a natural with eggs, and abundant right now.  Mint might seem unlikely, but I love it with eggs, particularly with a smear of goat cheese or feta.  

I know non-stick skillets have a long rap sheet, but I keep one on hand for omelettes and eggs.  A silicone spatula is brilliant here, also.

2 eggs
2 Tbsp. fresh, soft, early summer herbs, chopped (chives, mint, tarragon)
2 tsp. water
fresh pepper
1/4 tsp. salt

1 Tbsp butter, for pan

Crack eggs into a small bowl.  Stir briskly with a fork, to break yolks and incorporate whites.  Add water, salt, pepper and herbs, and mix with fork to combine.

Heat butter in an 8" skillet over medium heat, until foam subsides.  Pour beaten egg mixture into skillet, and let sit, undisturbed, 1-2 minutes, until edges are set.  With a silicone spatula (or spoon or whatever), gently nudge any deep puddles of uncooked egg over to the edge, then lift up the edge and let the runny egg under.  Much like sweeping dirt under the rug.  (You can try the old scrambled egg trick of tilting the pan to get the runny eggs under, but they're spread so thin here, I find this tactic often fails.)  Cook another few minutes — usually about 4-5 total for an empty omelette, 5-6 total for one that's filled — until omelette is nearly set.  Roll both edges toward center (it won't stay; it doesn't matter), slide onto a plate, and eat.

a warm savory something

I wasn't sure it would happen. 

What with rolling cold snowmen outside and pasting soft fuzzy ones inside.  What with sunny, slow gift-making mornings and darn-it-all, last-minute errand running.  What with spreading sweet cheer to friends near and far and dusting Columbus in snow, several times over.  (Somehow, I'd missed the snowflake management part of my job description.  And frankly, I don't remember performing the work, period.  But every morning last week, Zoë surveyed the fresh powder and sing-songed all the way to school, "Mama did it.  MAMA did it!") 

I wasn't sure it should happen.  Between wrapping up school for the year and wrapping up boxes for the post.  (If you find a little extra something in yours?  Just, you know, return to sender.)  Between the pack or wrap? wrap or pack? pack or oh, HANG it all, how about popcorn and Rudolph?, and the hard and fast deadline of a flight home, eight o'clock, Christmas morning.  Between the dependable tedium of day-in, day-out chores and the spectacular seasonal mess that is sprinkles.  

(And the spectacular surprise of this nomination, for Apartment Therapy's Best in Home Cooking Blog.  I'm a distant, dark horse in a deep, crowded field, but what an honor it is for this little upstart to be in such fine company.  Votes are being tallied here, Dec. 30-Jan. 6, if you'd like to chime in.)

But there it was happening, last Saturday, a quick spot of cooking.  Because there comes a point, when my fingers know the precise firm-ish give of shortbread ready for rolling, and my heart beats to the nudge-pat-turn, nudge-pat-turn of a coming-together dough, and my mind thinks only: warm savory something.  NOW.  Woulds and shoulds notwithstanding.  

So I made what I often make when I'm deeply in need of restorative fare, fast as can be: eggs.  Except these are Eggs.  Or, maybe, Eggs!  Technically, the name is Shakshuka, which I'm assuming is Arabic for Eggs Over Wonderful.  They look like a mess, but they taste like the Mediterranean, the South and East edges that lap along North Africa, all the way over to Israel.  These are eggs softly poached in a thick, brick-red sauce of tomatoes, brightly spiced.  It's a universal idea, spiced tomatoes and eggs, like huevos rancheros or Italy's eggs in purgatory or really, come to think of it, the Tabasco-stained scramble my father adored.  Without the tongue scarring.  And with a strong showing of snowy white feta and fresh parsley spunk.  Which you could call a garnish, I guess, but crowning glory is probably more accurate. 

It's the work of half an hour, of chopping one onion and a small pile of garlic, of spooning up thrilling heaps of cumin and sweet paprika, of waiting impatiently for the whole jolly mess to mellow, of sighing, repeatedly, as you scoop bite after bite onto warm buttered flatbread.  It's rich and hearty and fresh and light and the answer to everything.  

Well, it got me through last week, anyway.  And onto that plane.  And back home, where I can plant my eyes on the scrim-filmy mountains and my feet in the soft mossy green. 

I'll return to this space in two weeks, a little damp, a lot happy.  Until then, a very happy New Year to you, friends. 

****

Shakshuka (poached eggs with tomato, feta, parsley)
Adapted from Saveur, November 2009
Serves 4-6

Eight eggs may sound like a lot (and this recipe could easily be halved, if you're cooking for one), but each adult tucked away two eggs easily the morning we made these, and I was tickled pink to heat leftovers for breakfast two days running.  

The original recipe called for fresh chilis, but I had only dried guajillos, which I substituted and found quite lovely.  I imagine even a good squirt of chili sauce -- harissa, say, or sriracha -- would do fine in a pinch. 

1/4 cup olive oil
some chiles:  3 dried guajillos (whole), 5 Anaheims or 3 jalapeños, stemmed,
   seeded, and finely chopped
1 onion, chopped
8 cloves garlic, crushed
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tbsp. sweet paprika
1  28-oz. can whole peeled tomatoes, with juices, roughly chopped (in can, with scissors), or 28-oz can chopped tomatoes
1/2 cup water
3/4 tsp. Kosher salt, plus more to taste
8 eggs
1/2 - 3/4 cup feta cheese, crumbled
3 tbsp. parsley, chopped

warm buttered pita or naan, for serving

Heat oil in large, heavy skillet over medium-high heat.  When shimmering, add chopped onions and chilis.  Cook 6-10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until onions are soft, golden and browning at edges.  Add garlic, cumin and paprika and cook until aromatic, 1-2 minutes more. 

Add chopped tomatoes with their juices and 1/2 cup water, reduce heat to medium, and simmer 20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until flavors have melded and sauce has thickened slightly.  Add salt, check for seasoning, and adjust if needed.

With a large tablespoon, make a few shallow wells in the tomato sauce, knowing you will add 8 eggs in all.  Crack one egg at a time into wells, then make a few more, and repeat, until all 8 eggs are in.  Give each a little elbow room, but know it will be rough and uneven.  Cover skillet, and check after 5 minutes.  Baste whites with some sauce to encourage tops to cook.  The original recipe suggested whites would be firm after 5 minutes, though I found mine took closer to 10.  Just watch and decide after 5 minutes how soft or firm you prefer your eggs, and take off the heat when they are to your liking.

Serve with a stack of warm, buttered pita or naan and a side of snow.