remedial eating

what's missing

As best I can tell, Larry Page and Sergey Brin think I'm playing Chinese tic-tac-toe with ABBA.  Or trying, unsuccessfully, to make fleece-lined pants for a hungry juvenile squid.  Or taking a slug with a toothache out for excellent tonkatsu chicken.  Or removing Flarp from the handlebar moustache of a Go master/Atomic Physicist/Ice Cream Pie Afficionado.  

So close, so close.  And yet...

Last week, I began The Numerati, which details the digital breadcrumbs, the Annapurna of data, that you and I and everyone leave behind, daily.  From frequent shopper cards to internet searches to high-tech HR department analyses, Stephen Baker pulls back the curtain on all the ways in which we're being tracked, monitored, scrutinized, quantified, analyzed.  It's a bit apocolyptic.  I should probably be terrified.  Maybe I will be.  Just as soon as I get past the giggle fits.

(I realize a book about number-crunchers and data-miners is not standard New Year's reading fare.  Whence the jaunty self-improvement, the inspirational memoir, the transportative fiction that airlifts us out of dark January?  What can I say?  Once a data-wonk, always a data-wonk.)

What makes it all okay, what has me in hysterics, is the niggling, yawning divide between our data and ourselves.  Computers excel at the numbers, of course, at gathering, tagging, organizing, cross-tabbing.  Not so much at making connections.  Assembling subtle stories, sniffing out the subjective, understanding the squishy human bits that reside between the bytes?  Mighty tough, for those mighty machines.  Yes, our every move is being tracked.  But what's missing, I think, is more telling than what's there. 

They're like three-year-olds, faced with a dot-to-dot, and no sense of number sequence.  The dots are all there, and beg to be connected, but dots and lines alone won't a proper picture make.   

Because I am amused by such things, I minded my own Google searches this week, curious to learn who I electronically am.  Here, then, is my week in review: "moustache party", "graham cracker crust", "weather.com", "how to remove noise putty from hair", "akai hana", "weather.com", "what to expect after a root canal", " how to play Go", "how to make lined children's pants", "weather.com", "squid digestion", "gutta percha", "why is my sewing machine making loopy stitches", "weather.com", "slugs 4 noses 3000 teeth", "Voulez Vous Abba", "how to play Pong hau k'i", "are all atoms the same size", "weather.com".  And there you have it: mustachioed Go Master, with a pet slug, and an Arctic address, and a love of seventies Swedish disco.  Or maybe not.

Maybe, alternatively, we celebrated an eighth birthday, with blinky bugs and new legos and a 'Stache Bash.  (Best 'Stache Pinboard Award goes to Janet Planet.)  And lunch out at an excellent, new-to-us Japanese restaurant, where our exceptionally gracious hostess made starter chopsticks for the kidlets.  And for the family fête, ice cream pie.  Because what better to eat in January than frozen cake?   

Post-party, we learned that Noise Putty also goes by Flarp, and can cement itself to long red hair, and can be removed, much to everyone's relief, with great fistfuls of conditioner.  (Thank you, Messieurs Brin and Page.)  Also, the ridiculous joys of bizarre facts, packed up in large fonts and bright colors.  Did you know sloths take a month to travel a mile?  Or that a squid's food travels through its brain?  Or that slugs have four noses and three thousand teeth?

I had to confirm that last fact for myself.  Turns out two of the four noses are more like eyes, and the teeth are more like rasps, but still.  Those ubiquitous blobs are vicious.

We played Pong Hau K'i, though only amongst ourselves.  Agnetha and Co. couldn't make it.  (Though I did finally identify the band Zoë's been hearing, and loving, and trying to describe to me, with little luck.  I thought it was maybe Elizabeth Mitchell, or Frances England, or possibly, They Might Be Giants.  Turns out it was ABBA.  I see a mirror ball in our future...)  I also spent time brushing up on my Go, which I haven't played in, oh, thirty years, and which I'm determined to get in a game of, this winter. 

(Be forewarned: If you search on both 'pong hau k'i' and 'how to play go', algorithms will assume you actually want to learn beer pong.  AI's got a long way to go, I'm telling you.) 

We checked the weather.  A lot.  It's been cold.  The thermometer reads like my kids' ages.  Right down to my littlest.  Brrr....  Hence the lined pants query, which I now have answered, but haven't yet done.  This would be because I started with curtains, something bright to live next to that laundry room shelf. And then, cranked out another two curtains, to cover the exposed sewing nook shelves.  And then, three pairs of pajamas for the smallest, who's existing PJ's are two sizes too small.  And then, two bigger pair, for two bigger brothers.  

Because everyone could use a little cozy right now.

This would also be when I googled loopy stitches.  Right after shouting at my machine for the sixteenth time.  Out loud.  Alone.  In a not-polite tone.  I was just trying to stitch curtains, for goodness sake.  Simple seams.  Straight ones. Four!  Not hard!!  All I got was pain and heartache and one constant battle for two inches without knots and loops and disaster.  No dice.

Until I sought electronic advice, removed the new needle, and replaced it.  This time, facing forward.  And, um, turned the bobbin the right direction.  I guess I'd be a little loopy, also, if my shoes were on backwards and my pants, upside down.  (I apologized.) 

Veni, vidi, vici, the root canal.  Yesterday.  So far, so good.  And so totally bemused to know I'm now officially part tree sap.  Pretty awesome, that.  

I'm not sure I'll ever vici chemistry.  Max just began a unit.  He's adored it since age two.  I've been playing catch up, ever since.  I suspected, when I typed in 'atom size', that I should probably know the answer.  Turns out I didn't even know the question.  Atoms, it seems, don't have size so much as mass, which varies greatly between elements.  Which makes perfect sense, if you're the atomic sort.  Which I'm not.  Yet. 

I am, however, the fish soup sort, and have one child who feels the same way. Just after Christmas, Henry settled on a birthday dinner, the cornerstone of which was Norwegian Fish Soup.  He'd never had Norwegian Fish Soup, mind you, but spied Fiskesuppe paging through this (the old, analog, ink-and-paper version), and decided on the spot it would fit the bill.  In the end, he didn't love it (too many celery and onion-y bits; next time, before adding the roots and fish, I'll immersion-blender the broth), but I love that he imagined up such a meal.  It's so him.  Also, I love that he led me to this soup.

I've made many fish soups, over the years, none memorable enough to make again.  There were bouillabases, which took too long to make, and required too much slippery, sloshy shell-picking to eat.  Laksas, which I loved, but which began with a mortar and pestle and eighteen-item spice paste.  (Began.)  And chowders, much simpler, much blander, bandaged together with cups of cream.  This fiskesuppe tilts toward the latter, but is simpler, lighter, deeper, more complex.  Right.  I don't understand it, either.  Luckily, understanding's no pre-req to inhaling.

There's a standard base of aromatics, here, onto which you slosh water, milk and cream.  The original called for stock, but with no fish heads on hand, I used water, which worked like a charm, sponging up ample flavor from every good thing that followed.  It also called for two cups' milk, cut with one cup heavy cream, a blend that was deeply wonderful, without being belly-aching rich.  Cream can be a cheap trick, wool pulled over our taste buds.  Not here.  It is necessary, and excellent, generously but judiciously applied.  Dairy and brine both bring their own sweet, which simmers into something like fate.  If this is surf and turf, I get it.

There are potatoes, cut to fit a spoon's hollow, cooked in the broth to fuzzy-edged tender.  Carrots and parsnips, also, which—who knew?—get along famously with fish, and seriously lively up a bowl of blond soup.  And Worcestershire sauce, which I grew up calling Lea and Perrins, and which I always understood to be beef's alter-ego.  Certainly, I never imagined it in fish soup.  My bad.  It works.  Brilliantly.  (All those anchovies.  Should've known.)  And then, the seafood, the soup's heart and soul, the details of which, you decide.  The original calls for two pounds of cod, which I would endorse in a heartbeat.  By request of the birthday boy, we used a mix of cod, salmon, shrimp and langoustines.  I'd endorse that in half a heartbeat.  

It tastes to me of summer, somehow, of saltwater and saline air and the sunshine that beats down on both.  It tastes, also, exactly of winter, of soft whites and pale pinks and calming comfort, velvet roots and sweet meat and ivory broth.  I've mixed feelings about mid-century modern, but at its best, that's exactly this soup.  It is all clean lines and spare aesthetic, pure and essential and all the better for it.  Like what one might eat, in an egg chair, chez Arne.  No fuss, no frill, just fish, roots, cream.  What's missing—the sass of tomato, ziz of spice, the smoke and bluster of bacon—is as important as what's here.  Just fish, roots, cream are gloriously enough.  Enough, anyway, to know with an ache that the only thing missing is another bowl. 

P.S.  Good luck, Google.  I connected the dots for you, this week.  Next week, you're on your own.

Fiskesuppe (Norwegian Fish Soup)
adapted from Saveur, January/February 2013

I omitted the green pepper and celeriac originally called for, as I had neither, and didn't like the idea of either well enough to aquire them.  I doubled up the carrots and parsnips, instead, and adored the extra hit of both.  It is hard for me to wrap my head around fish in the Midwest, being Northwest born and bread.  We don't eat it often, but when we do, Costco is my go-to: it is flown in daily, and impeccable.  As with anything seafood, what's good and fresh trumps ingredient lists, every time.  Good fish, well-frozen, is an excellent alternative. 

6 tablespoons salted butter
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 large stalks celery, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
1 leek, well-rinsed, sliced thin
4-5 medium carrots, peeled and sliced 1/4"
3-4 medium parsnips, peeled and sliced 1/4" (if large, halve or quarter first, then slice)
4 medium waxy potatoes, peeled and cubed 1/2"
3 cups water or fish stock
2 cups milk (I used 2%)
1 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 Tbs. Worcestershire sauce
2 pounds cod, salmon, shrimp, langoustines (any or all)
salt and pepper, to taste
1/4 cup parsley, to garnish
juice of 1 lemon

In a large, heavy stock pot, heat butter over medium-high heat.  Add chopped celery, garlic, onion and leek, season with salt and pepper, and cook, stirring often, until soft and translucent, 8-10 minutes.  Add carrots, parsnips, potatoes, water (or stock), milk, cream, 2 teaspoons salt, and Worcestershire sauce, and bring to a near-boil, stirring occasionally, until bubbles appear around edges and steam rises from surface.  Turn heat down to maintain a gentle simmer, and cook 20-25 minutes, until roots are tender.  (Test a few.) While vegetables are cooking, cut fish (cod, salmon) into bite-sized bits. When roots are tender, add the fish and/or shellfish to the soup, stir gently to combine, and continue to cook until fish is just cooked through, another 6-8 minutes.  Adjust salt and pepper to taste, stir in lemon juice, and garnish with parsley, if desired.  Eat by the bowl to chase away winter's chill.

Soup keeps beautifully, refrigerated, 3-4 days.  

over and over

Whew.

We've gone, and come back. We're mostly unpacked. Almost through the laundry. Nearly recovered from end-of-the-trip ailments. It was a good trip. It always is.

While they're still fresh, before I forget them, I wanted to remember here two things recently on my mind.  

The first is fresh eyeballs.  Apparently, whenever I do this do-si-do between states, I get all Proustian, noodling over new landscapes and eyes.  It happened last summer, over wooded walks and long hikes.  Happened again last month, in other ways, big and small.  I'm thinking that as long as we summer in Seattle, it's due to become tradition, right in line with raspberry popsicles.  Not a bad fate, if you ask me.   

Anyway, I hope you'll forgive the redundancy.  It's just that, from where I sit, on this July Ohio Monday, everything looks rawther Mary Poppins.  We woke to sticky, blinding 95° skies.  By two, I probably could've feigned bedtime.  The heat hit the fan, the windows went charcoal, little could be heard save wild rumbles and limbs snapping.  One hour, two inches of rain, easy.  (Glad I didn't water.)  Did I mention the twenty-three degree mercury freefall?  I adore thunderstorms.  And I'm reminded of why, when I land at SeaTac, I'm a bit of a Martian, surveying my old stomping grounds. 

It's not that I didn't see the Northwest, those first thirty-five years I knew nothing else. Like everyone, I knew the damp drizzle, the serrated skyline, the perpetual green.  I knew the (sweet, ridiculous) routine of spontaneously shouting, Hey! The Mountain is out!  I knew the weird, trapped contradiction of drinking in the spectacle while idling on I-5.  Of feeling that the entire story of the city was tucked between one discreet, majestic clause.  (Olympics, Cascades.  Paren, end paren.)

I knew all this. Academically, anyway.

But I was also a little looked out.  It was my familiar, my over and over, my everyday ordinary 365.

This didn't breed much in the way of contempt. I adored gray skies, steady rain, jeans in June; I still do. But I was a bit complacent. Maybe a bit blind. My actual eyesight is blessedly 20/20. My interior eyesight's more quarter-inch lens territory. It's to be expected, I suppose.

Not that I'm waxing nostalgic here, pining lost moments. Quite the opposite, actually. What I want to mark, what I wish to remember, is the way I look less, see more, each return. 

Rhodendrons somehow look less like landscape blather, more like kind, gentle, reliable friends.  Sword ferns, dime a dozen in any backyard, catch me off guard with their ancient demeanor.  The dandelions.  I had no idea.  They're downright epic.  Seriously, locals, carp away about weeding.  Those things are Godzillas.  You've got my sympathetic ear. 

Instead of Tall Grass, I spy a half-dozen individual grasses, one wheaty, one green-tipped, one soda pop purple.  I find, accidentally, again, that unnamed grass that pulls thrillingly free from its stem.  It's an unremarkable grass, with unremarkable seeds, otherwise not worth noticing, but for this one trick.  I must have pulled apart two thousand as a child; the firm tug, doubtful pause, decisive whoosh-whoop! release.  Comes back to me like breathing.  I show Zoë, ASAP. 

And, from the time we step off the plane, I inhale with gusto.  I must sound nearly-drowned.

The air.  Holy cow.  It's outrageous stuff, damp, rich, briny, completely addictive.  I'm not sure how I missed this my first three-plus decades, and technically, I guess this is new nose territory, but forget all that.  Just, if you go, you know, inhale.  And notice.  And repeat.  It's pretty impeccable.     
 

I realize that my children might need re-assimilation.  This has been one of my biggest concerns all along, that they'll forget their origins, their ocean, their tidepools.  Mostly, my concerns have been unfounded: they're fine little dual citizens.  But there are a few gaps in their memories and education, which I try to address during each return.  Dick's cheeseburgers are the best, this side of anywhere.  Besalu makes Parisian croissants look like frauds.  This is not actually a roller coaster, just the counterbalance.  Hey! The Mountain is out today!

This trip, I re-acquainted them with the local flora and fauna.  We talked salmon berries, and maple trees, moss and seaweed, the sneaky trick of a second strawberry season.  Max had forgotten sea anemones.  Henry had no recollection of spit bugs.  Zoë had dibs on the biggest jaw-dropper.  We were winding down a trip to our old haunt, St. Edward's, walking through one of the thickly forested trails.  Just ahead, on the path, sat a long, lone, black slug.  I casually asked whether she remembered its name. There was no flicker of name.  No flicker of recognition.  No nothing.  She stared up at me, all blank face and curiosity. 

Dear Reader, my daughter did not know from slugs. 

Not to worry.  We had ample opportunity to brush up.

The other item on my mind of late is poached salmon.  (Surely, the worst segue.  Anywhere.  Ever.)  I poached some, while in town.  I poach some every few months.  I've probably, over the course of the past decade, poached the population of a small tributary.  Occasionally, I'll slow roast, or sear spice-crusted slices over blistering heat.  As should you, if it's looks your after.  Poaching is not the prettiest preparation; there's no burnished crust, no handsome cross-section.  But when it comes to salmon, I find I return to this same addictive method, over and over. 

Method's probably too strong a word for a recipe that runs something like this: dump two tablespoons of salt in a bunch of water, slide in your salmon, and bring to a boil.  Clamp on a lid, set the timer for ten, play a few hands of Uno, *ding ding*, dinner's done.  Actually, that's exactly the recipe.  Well, minus the Uno; that part's optional. 

You can complicate it, if you wish, if you prefer extra work and unnecessary mess.  Plenty of poaching recipes out there call for chardonnay or court bouillion or bouquet garni or all of the above.  Be my guest.  I've tried gussied.  Not one beats this one, in my book, anyway.

Get past the cover, and poached salmon's wild on content, foolproof, versatile, fast, easy, do-ahead and delicious.  The method's so gentle—you don't even hold the simmer—that you cannot wind up with dry if you try.  It's wonderful warm, fresh from the broth, and excellent cold, especially the next day.  I think this is because the texture relaxes, and the salt settles in with a good night's sleep.  I'll allow, though, that it might just be the thrill of throwing open the fridge and finding such splendor.  It's weeknight-quick (or vacation-quick, quicker still), and involves neither splattering oil nor supervision.  It always puts me in the mind of a batch of hard-boiled eggs.  Only when you're done, you've an entire gorgeous platter of salmon.

So yes, it does redeem itself a bit there.  Poached salmon may be pink all over, but an entire poached side—no harder than a slice—necessitates a platter, and platters all but guarantee oohs and ahs.  (Transitive Property of Serving Dishes.  Look it up.)  Throw some hydrangea leaves under, scatter dill over all, and you've suddenly got an awfully nice affair.  I've served this to company (main course done the day prior? oh, hello), brought it to potlucks, whipped up a half-fish just to have on hand for nibbling.  It's like that, high/low, fancy/everyday fare, a neat trick if you can swing it.  Salmon can.  Lucky us.  

What's that?  What does one do with three pounds of poached salmon, if, say, it's just you and yours?  Well, well.  Tender chunks are what I use for these fish cakes, or scatter over green leaves, or sub in for tuna in Niçoise.  But for the first serving, and often the last, what I love it with best is this lemon-dill sauce.  The sauce, like the fish, is classic Mark Bittman, a triumph of his minimalist best.  He tossed off a few words about yogurt and lemon; I fine-tuned it slightly, into what you find below.  It's fantastically creamy from the Greek Yogurt, sharp with fresh lemon, fragrant with dill.  I think it was intended to be a condiment.  I, as you can see, eat it more like a side.  More often than not, I'll intend to spin the bounty into two or three different meals.  More often than not, I can't get past this duo, returning over and over until the whole platter's empty.  Not a bad thing.  Not a bad thing at all.

Poached Salmon
adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

You don't need any specialized pans, here.  Use a large, deep, lidded skillet for a center-cut slice, or a roasting pan (with foil to cover) for a full side.  Alternatively, cut the side to fit a skillet.  If you wish to get fancy, IKEA does (did?) stock a fantastic fish poacher for just $20.  

If your salmon is more than an inch at its thickest point, allow a few additional minutes to cook through. 

***

1 salmon filet, full side or large center-cut slice (2-3 pounds), skinned and cleaned
2 rounded tablespoons kosher salt

Fill your pan half-full with cold water, set on stove, add 2 tablespoons salt, stir, and lay salmon in water.  Add additional cold water to just cover salmon, if needed.  If you have a full side, fold tail end under itself to approximate center thickness.  Turn heat to high, and bring just to the boil, then cover, turn off heat, and set timer for ten minutes.   

Test for doneness by inserting a thin knife into the thickest point.  Salmon should flake easily, and be just barely opaque to the center.  If still translucent, cover and let poach a few minutes longer.

Carefully remove salmon from pan to platter.  Drain excess water by gently tilting plate over sink, while holding firm to the fish.  I'll often take a paper towel or two to the plate after draining, just to soak up the last lingering bits of liquid. 

Eat warm, immediately, or eat cold, straight from the fridge.  Salmon keeps beautifully up to three days.  

Lemon Dill Yogurt Sauce
adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

Neither traditional yogurt nor non-fat Greek is any good here.  I've tried.  This sauce is also shockingly good as a dip for steamed broccoli. 

1 16-ounch tub Greek Yogurt, 2% or whole
1 bunch fresh dill, chopped (1/2-1 cup chopped, to your taste)
1/2 tsp. salt
2 lemons, organic if possible

Wash lemons, zest lemons, then juice lemons.  Tip yogurt into a medium bowl, and stir briefly to loosen.  Add juice of 2 lemons, zest of 1 lemon, 1/2 cup dill, and salt.  Stir well to combine and dissolve salt.  Taste, adjust as desired (more zest, dill, and/or salt), and serve alongside salmon.   

all the familiar

I think I could make a habit of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

file under impossible

At a certain point, you've got to admit that She's just kind of full of it.  Life, I mean, and Her grab bag of outrageous, the one She keeps slung over one shoulder.  I'll bet it's a messenger, and a plain one at that, and I imagine She reaches in every now and again, casting little bits of absurd and incredible, scattershot, Johnny Apple Seed style.  

I got to thinking about this in earliest January, out on the Peninsula.  We'd stopped off in a down-trodden little town dear to my heart, in search of a certain spectacular Ridge.  It was closed, as it happened, so we settled instead for a rainbow.  A whole rainbow.  A sight I'd always filed under the same basic header as unicorns and philosopher's stones and flattering stirrup pants.  I.e., impossible.  And while I guess I was never taught as much outright, I left grade school certain the only full arcs I'd ever encounter would involve markers and Leprechauns and pasted-on pots of gold.  To see one in real life?  Highly unlikely. 

And yet, there it was, one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of unlikely.  So ever since, I've been sort of taking notes, noticing those funny little wrinkles in Life where reality and Ripley's rub shoulders.  And darned if they don't keep cropping up.

Like spying, for example, both of these within the week.  We didn't travel to Alaska for glacier-gawking.  Nope, not Greenland, either.  We just stepped out our back door and stared straight up, and bingo!  Glaciers, global-warming or no.  Technically, they're gutters, full-to-bursting with ice, but I understand your confusion, completely.  Glaciers, gutters, gutters, glaciers, my pretty little head can hardly keep 'em straight.  And not ten yards away?  Dogwood buds, by the hundreds.  Audacity of hope, indeed.

Or consider how improbable it is that those alliums ever stood four feet tall, ten feet deep.  Fireworks posing as flowers, so abundant we tossed off "too many!", maybe a few too many times.  They took us so seriously, just up and vamoosed.  The odd brittle memento mori's all that's left at the mo, plus the promise of dozens, sleeping deep under ground.  I'm trusting that's where my next issue is, also.  Because done's not acceptable, over's not allowed.  Someone, please tell me, you're working on this? 

Or just try to imagine that top one like this.  Or this bottom one, that.  Or being able, even, to make the comparison, having marked, this week, our first year here.  Believe it, or not.

I won't ask you to consider soufflés.  I won't talk about how simple they are, no harder than whipping cream and whisking up white sauce.  We don't know each other well enough, and you wouldn't believe me, and you'd file that under impossible.  And that would be a shame. 

So instead let's talk soup.  Three ingredient soup.  Four if you count the flourish, optional but sensational.  Still, then, less than a handful.  Plus five minutes' work, and an hour of nothing, save the alchemy that turns two dirty roots into downright delicious.  Lame, so lame, believe me, I know.  In this analytic age of Brown and McGee, alchemy's a pretty huge cop out.  But how else to explain how potatoes and leeks bend all the rules here? 

Julia may have filed this under Potage Parmentier, and it's French heritage is hardly in contest.  But the technique reads more like a red and white can than something from the homeland of haute cuisine.  There's no mirepoix, gently stirred and caramelized.  No stock, slowly simmered and strained.  Not even a measly bouquet garni, bobbing along for oomph.  Instead, it's just chop and chuck into plain salted water, and simmer away until all is soft.  Blend until smooth, finish with cream, and pull up a chair for a slurpable feast.  

Still seem impossible?  Did to me, too.  I'm a little handicapped, really, stumping for this soup, since for my first thirty years I considered it a waste of a clean spoon.  I never tasted it, mind you.  Just turned up my nose at the sight.  So pale, so thin, so lacking in anything, well, interesting.  Like something you'd feed sick people.  In a hospital.  Apologizing profusely with every choked sip, promising smuggled brownies, ASAP.  I still think it's ugly.  I also think — and I've tucked into both this week — that potato-leek soup rivals a soufflé, any day. 

It is earthy and sweet with spuds and leeks, which balance each other, beautifully.  But the cream, the cream is everything.  It rounds and embellishes like nobody's business, and transforms this from frugal thin pot to silky lush slurry.  You'd guess there's a cup, but it's only a quarter, and I wouldn't dream of skimping a drop.  Just like that, it's perfect, unless my day's been less so.  And then, when I need just a little bit more, some protein for punch to get me through bedtime, I gild this lily with a small heap of smoked fish.  Wilson's salmon, in Seattle; here, smoked trout.  Either turns this soup into supper, light and hearty and, dare I say, perfecter.  Grammatically speaking, I know that's impossible.  But you know, my taste buds just really don't care. 

Potato Leek Soup
Adapted from Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking
Yields 4-6 supper-sized servings

I prefer this slightly thicker than the original, as I'm usually calling it dinner.  Two medium russets and two generous leeks weighed in at 15 ounces, this time around.  This yields a soup that is surprisingly loose, like light cream, but I love the way this feathery texture plays against the lush flavor.  I've made it with larger veg, verging on 18 ounces, and liked these slightly thicker results equally.  Your choice.  

And a note on the salt:  A full tablespoon of salt sounds like a LOT, but it is pitch perfect with this quantity of water and roots.  That said, I would dial it down just a bit (to a generous 2 1/2 teaspoons) if you're using regular table salt (I use kosher, which is looser).  Ditto, if you plan on adding the fish, which adds it's own salty kick to the mix. 

15-18 oz. russet potatoes (2-3 potatoes; 4-5 cups), peeled and sliced
15-18 oz. leeks (2-3 leeks, 4-5 cups), halved, thoroughly washed, and thinly sliced (whites and tender greens)
2 quarts (8 cups) of water
1 Tbl. kosher salt
4-6 Tbl. heavy cream

optional:

3-4 Tbl. chives or parsley, for garnish
6-8 oz. smoked salmon or trout, flaked, to top

Place sliced potatoes, leeks, water and salt in a medium saucepan, and bring to the boil.  Turn heat down to low-medium, and simmer, partially covered, 40-50 minutes, or until potatoes are very tender. 

Place stick blender in soup pot, and blitz 1-2 minutes, until soup is completely smooth.  Alternatively, process in batches in a standing blender, or pass through a food mill until uniformly smooth.  Stir in cream off the heat, taste, and correct seasoning if needed. 

Ladle into soup bowls, pile a small heap of flaked fish on top if using, and garnish with fresh herbs, if you so wish.