remedial eating

on a roll

Some people fall into a groove.  I fling.  

Then I reach for a spade, really put my back into it, and digdigdig until I can't quite see the light.  I love it there, in the deep underneath, earth dark and cool and fantastically dank.  But it has been pointed out to me, once or twice, that I might maybe sometimes overdo.  

Take Poppy.  In January, I concluded the Poppy (pattern here) I made for Zoë's 3rd birthday was overdue a new wardrobe.  She had just the two dresses she arrived with, and Zoë was coming up on another birthday herself, and, well. Two dresses.  Two years.  Surely you see it, too?

I set to work.   

I cut out one smock, and another, and then another.  Because making things in multiples is so simple, you know?  Same pattern, same seams, autopilot territory.  

And then I cut out some pants, one-two-three.  Because smocks without pants are like chocolate without peanut butter.  

And then, I made the happy discovery that pants cut for five-year-olds from one-yard lengths yield scraps perfectly sized for Poppy pants.  Sweet!

More pants.

And more tunics to go with. 

(To give you a sense of where we're at, were I a mouse, I'd be asking for a straw about now, but would not yet have trimmed my hair, or swept, or fetched crayons, or napped.  Or, asked after another cookie.)

Let's just say Poppy scored.  

She wound up with pants which matched most of Zoë's, pears and polka-dots and paisleys.  She has smocks cut from pajama scraps, and old quilting cottons from my childhood, and tiny 2T dresses once worn by my girl, re-purposed to rag doll proportions.    

There were white pants of thick Irish linen, cut from an old hole-riddled $1 runner.  A Downtown Abbey-era bit of lace I've had since high school, and adored, and admired, and wondered what on earth to do with, raised its hand and suggested itself for a little blue, brass-buttoned smock.  I accepted.  The antique pink tea towel with extraordinary appliqué—and the pox of indelible spots—finally found its purpose in life.  Cut carefully, add buttons strategically, and voilà!  Wee sailboat smock.  

And so it went.  The final count was, well, unknown, as I don't prefer to quantify my excesses.  I do know the new duds handily filled an old Samsonite overnight case.  And that putting scraps to such small, delicious uses evokes a certain thrifty indulgence.  

And that although no stuffing-headed little girl (or for that matter, red-haired real girl) actually needs a suitcase thick with doll clothes, it was great fun for me.  And if we're honest, such projects are really more for the makers than those they're made for.  And if I'm going to get on a roll, fast and furious, with no exits in sight, it had better be an innocent, upstanding roll.  You know where I'm headed with this.  

Salad.  More salad.  Every day a salad.  We went through six bags of greens, last week, and had to buy more, to patch us through.  Half of them went to this salad, here.

This here salad is a relatively new addiction for me, which is why I've only made ten (twelve?) times, over these past three weeks.  It began when the library notified me that I could pick up Lucinda Scala Quinn's new book.  When it will end is anyone's guess.  Although, knowing my track record...

Enough about me.  You.  You'll want some fresh spunky greens on hand, something with crunch and character.  Mizuna's been in regular rotation in our CSA, and I've loved its juicy crisp, here.  Quinn suggests mostly escarole, with a half head of raddichio.  Sounds good, too.  To this, and to Quinn's original, you'll add slivered celery and smashed hazelnuts.  (Yes, that's me, digging deeper, deeper, into the excellent crunchy groove.)

You'll also want some parmigiano reggiano, or pecorino romano, either/or.  I've tried both.  Declared both best.  Then re-negged.  You decide.  Either way, get your hands on a wedge, because you'll want slivers, substantial, toothsome, salty alter-egos to those crisp leaves.  

And, you'll want dates.  Yes, dates.  I know.  I never wanted dates, either.  In all my life, I've never understood the appeal of this sticky cloying gacky brown lump.  I finally understand.  (And by finally, let's be clear: we're talking forty-years of date confusion, people.)  Dates exist for this salad.  

Toss sliced dates with smart greens and toasty filberts and a serious hit of gritty-creamy parmesan schrapnel and oh. my. stars.  They make sense. Against all these other tastes, bitter/salty/umami/sharp, they come to life with all kinds of complexity.  Like bits of brown sugar, the dark stuff, muscovado, maybe, but also caramel's kissing cousin, and a mysterious swarthy something that try as I might, I can't put my finger on.  I sliced some kumquats over this last go around, which added another, wonderful sweet-tart dimension. But don't let lack of kumquats stand in your way.  This salad is stand-alone wonderful, as is.  The dates make it so.  Which is why I, lifelong loather of dates, recently bought a pound of Medjools at Costco.  I'm down to eight ounces, maybe six.  I'm on a roll.  Best step aside.

An Anytime Salad of Greens, Dates, Pecorino + Hazelnuts
inspired by Lucinda Scala Quinn, Mad Hungry Cravings
Costco's Medjool dates are phenomenal, plump, rich, profoundly fresh (yes, there is fresh and stale dried fruit).  Wherever you buy them, make sure they are rich shiny brown and soft, not white or wizened.  Great dates are impossibly sticky to slice.  Work with it.  Their flavor overcomes all.  On hazelnuts, I'm ever and always a Holmquist girl.  

for the salad:
6 ounces (8 cups) mizuna, or one head of escarole + half a head of raddichio
2 ounces pecorino or parmigiana reggiano (from a wedge)
8-10 dried medjool dates, pitted and sliced
generous 1/3 cup toasted* hazelnuts, roughly chopped
3 stalks celery, thinly sliced
15 kumquats (optional), sliced and seeded

for the dressing:
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 1-2 lemons)
1 tablespoon maple syrup or honey
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Prepare Salad:  Roughly tear or slice greens into generous bite-sized pieces. Place in a large, shallow salad bowl.  With a paring knife, shave cheese into thin tiles, slightly thicker than what a peeler would yield.  You want toothsome bites of cheese, thick enough to have presence, thin enough to go around.  An inch across, say, and thick as a dime.  Add to greens, along with sliced dates, chopped hazelnuts, sliced celery, and kumquats, if using. 

Make dressing:  In a jar with a tight-fitting lid, combine lemon juice, syrup and salt.  Swirl to dissolve salt.  Add olive oil, attach lid, and shake vigorously to emulsify.  

Drizzle 3-4 tablespoons dressing over salad, and toss gently and vigorously to combine.  Munch a handful, and add more salt and/or dressing to taste.  (You will have leftover dressing.  You will be happy about this.)  Try to share.

*To Toast Hazelnuts:  Preheat oven to 350°.  Lay hazelnuts on a rimmed baking sheets, and toast 10-12 minutes, until the white nuts turn ivory, the skins begin to curl, and deeply fragrant.  There's much fuss about peeling hazelnuts. Buy good ones (order from Holmquist; you'll never look back), and the skin is as sweet as the meat.  

 

like a kid

In seventh grade, I took algebra with The Warlock.  

The Warlock wasn't her given name, just the one used by my brother, who'd had her years earlier.  There was nothing mean-spirited in his tone, as he read over my first middle school schedule.  No rancor, no malice, just matter-of-factness.  "Mr. Hillyer for Shop, Ms. Levine for Health, The Warlock for Algebra, 4th period Lunch..."  

Being older, wiser, well into high school, his words had the air of fact about them.  Being younger, more stubborn, well accustomed to contradiction, I was duty-bound to disagree.

For the first half of my first middle school year, I maintained there was nothing Warlock-like about her.  So what if her fashions were a bit 1962, black cat eye glasses through beehive 'do.  Who cared if her A-lines and sweater sets only leveraged the fog-dishwater-ash end of the rainbow.  And okay, maybe she was a little troglodyte in aspect.  Severe.  And serious, and solemn, and stern. And didn't tell jokes.  Or laugh.  Or smile.  Ever.  

So what.

She knew algebra, understood its pure piercing brilliance.  She drove home the difference between constants and co-efficients.  Could sniff out every x, y and z in story problems.  Could isolate a variable like nobody's business.  The woman could solve for anything.

She made clear to me, for the first time ever, the raw gritty beauty of mathematics.  Variables equalled mysteries.  Equations, answers.  Constants, powers, co-efficients, the bridge between the two.  Algebra was Agatha Christie, but with far fewer letters, and no surprise endings.  Algebra was useful, and predictable, and orderly.  I liked orderly.  I loved algebra.  And so I defended The Warlock with all my might, singing her praises to my brother for months.

For four months, specifically.  Until mid-January.  When she fell from my grace, fast and hard.

It was early winter, in Seattle, which almost always means forty, precipitating, and green.  Except on this one particular mid-January Monday, it was thirty, precipitating, and green.  As happens in Seattle, snow had been rumoured, working every last schoolkid into a Sunday night frenzy.  As happens in Seattle, Monday broke with no snow, breaking every last frenzied schoolkid's snow-starved heart.  And then—as almost never happens in Seattle—the rumours actually came true.  Right there, in third period Algebra.  Big, fat fluffy flakes. Falling.  Thick.  Glorious.

We sat there, in our orange melamine desk-chairs, mesmerized by the sight. (With one classroom wall made entirely of windows, the sight was pretty spectacular.)  There were murmurs.  Turned heads.  Hushed exclamations.  The odd uncontainable outright squeal.  

All, unrelated to the day's lesson plan.  

 

She stared.  She glared.  She pursed.  She commanded.  She ordered our attention back toward the board.  

We tried.  Honestly.  But those flakes!  They fell faster and fatter and fatter and faster.  Like nothing I'd seen, in all my eleven years.  We knew these were different, special.  She knew no such thing.  So she walked over to the West window—and to this day, I can't fathom it—and closed the vinyl blind—SNAP!—all the way down to the sill.  [Show's over.]  

And then, kept going.  All along the wall.  Every last blind.  

SNAP!  

SNAP!  

SNAP!  

Until the only light left in the room came from the fluorescents, buzzing above our astonished, seventh-grade heads.  She returned to her lesson. 

We didn't.  

We mentally checked out when the blinds went down; physically, two hours later, when school was cancelled for the day.  And, it would turn out, for the week.  School in Seattle is never cancelled for a week.  It was, that week. Math is magic, yes.  But so, dear Warlock, is snow.  

She's still an anonymous "she" to me, because after that, her given name never stuck.  And I'm like a kid to this day when it snows, because I've still not gotten over the stuff.  

We got more snow, Saturday.  And Monday.   And even though I know, at this age, it's not all skipping school and lunchroom-tray sledding, that it's back-breaky shoveling and frigid window scraping and at-best tricky slippery touch-and-go driving, still.  I love it.  I can't help it.  From the first, I considered snow one of Ohio's finer features.  And ever since, with levels low to no-show, I've considered snow extra-special, even here.  

Needless to say, I suited up.

 

There was, because of the snow and other circumstances, a lot that didn't happen this break.  Outings undone.  Walks not taken.  Ice cream uneaten, save one precious cone.  But because of the same, a different lot did. Games were played.  Satsumas eaten.  Letters written.  Pants lengthened.  Puzzles completed, all 750 pieces.  Elephants got capes.  Dolls, monogrammed sheets. Molly's, first-hand lessons in French seams.  Snow bunnies were built.  Igloos, also.  And snow boots, laced and unlaced a-plenty.  And the same salad eaten, several times over.

Squeal!

Squeal for the snow, and for this salad, which I think I served three times, this week alone.  Which I've not gone a week without eating since September. Which I know, because in September, I was withering under an arugula mountain.  Our fall CSA had begun, and each week brought a box overflowing with produce, every week, a different bounty.  Except the arugula.  The arugula was every week.  (For the bounty, see above.  And past the frame, where it continued.  I do love snow.  But I so miss that bounty.)

Now, I love arugula.  At least as much as algebra.  But the arugula bags were big.  And weekly.  And sometimes double, as vacationing friends kindly donated their share.  And sometimes triple, as folks quietly abandoned unwanted arugula on my doorstep, like orphans.  I didn't mind.  Some people take in cats. I take in arugula.  I cannot turn a good green down.  And this was good arugula, bracing, bold, fantastically plucky, with more spring in its leaf than I knew a leaf could muster.  Fresh, I think they call it.  Fabulous.  Abundant.

By mid-September, I needed an arugula intervention.  Scanning my shelves, I knew who to call.  Taking first bites, I shook my head, marveling at yet another Hesser home run.  But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

What went into that bowl, what went into those bites, was a heap of arugula, the salad's one and only green.  To this, you add a dice of firm pear, perfectly ripe, preferably chilled, juicy and dripping and almost buttery.  Also, a smattering of good blue cheese, whose pungent bite is offset by the pear's sweet.  Also, a toss of toasted pine nuts, which I never before thought I much liked.  Three pounds of which I've since eaten thus.  That's a lot of pine nuts, in quarter-cup allotments.  That's a lot of salad, since September.

The whole thing is tossed, ever-so-gently, with oil and vinegar plus a smart pinch of sugar, to gently, invisibly soften rough edges.  What you wind up with is, on the one hand, your textbook g(reens) + f(ruit) + n(uts) + c(heese) = s(alad).  This formula is lovely, and nothing new, and pretty standard, so far as salads are concerned.  

But this particular iteration of the formula, peppery greens against melting sweet pear against toasty waxed nubbins against creamy bite, bound up in a smooth featherweight shawl of a dressing, has me smitten.  Seriously smitten.  As in, I can't get enough of it smitten.  As in, I make an entire bowl of the stuff, and eat every last serving and call it lunch.  I'm reminded of my children and bagels and cream cheese, of which they can't ever seem to get enough.  I'm exactly the same around this salad, just like a kid, could eat it forever.  At least the forever left over after snow.   

Arugula, Pear, Pine Nut + Blue Cheese Salad
adapted from The Essential New York Times Cookbook, by Amanda Hesser

I like this salad with more pear than first called for, and have spelled our the arugula and salt quantities I've settled on.  Also, although the gorgonzola dolce originally called for has lovely flavor, the sort I can get my hands on is a creamy sticky mess, too much a hassle to crumble for salad.  I prefer a balanced, charismatic blue, such as Point Reyes or Maytag.  As to pears, I like a basic Bartlett best, here, for their balance of flavor, firm and juice.  A good red pear (if you can find it; they can be grainy) is beautiful, and the fragrant Comice, delicious, though their copious juices can sog down a salad.  Finally, the boxed "baby" arugula I buy now is a mere shadow of the bright vibrant local leaves of fall.  When growing season gets up and running again, I encourage you to try this with the real arugula deal.    

for salad:
4 ounces arugula
2 ripe pears, diced
1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted
1/4 cup good blue cheese, crumbled

for dressing:
2 tablespoons sherry, white wine or cider vinegar
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt

Set all salad ingredients into a wide, shallow bowl.  For dressing, pour vinegar, sugar and salt into a lidded jam jar.  Shake well to dissolve salt and sugar.  Add olive oil, shake again to emulsify, and drizzle 2/3 of dressing over salad.  Toss salad gently, well, taste for seasoning, and add more salt, pepper, and/or dressing, to suit.  Enjoy.

plain and fancy

When my mom was in town, a few weeks back now, we spent one delicious afternoon strolling the Springfield Antiques Show. We didn't bring home much, no more than we could carry, easily, for hours, under the beating hot sun. (This, I find, is an important rule for such places.)  The joy of such outings is really in the being there, anyway, the chatting, the perusing, the endless unknown backstories.  

Still, we came away with a clutch of jolly striped towels, a few mother of pearl buttons, one small special something for each child.  Old blue bottles, formerly home to Dr. S. Pitcher's Castoria and Sirop d'Anis, currently home to singular stems.  And a phrase, which weighed nothing, and cost the same, and which might have been my favorite takeaway.

At one point, early on, we came around a corner and face to face with a frog. He was two feet tall, maybe three, vivid green and very flat and completely fantastic.  He was the centerpiece of an old, defunct sign company's sign, the name of which was something like Dazzling Frog Signs, the motto of which was exactly, we make signs plain and fancy.    

Plain and fancy.  I love that.

Plain and fancy, I realize, is how we do so much around here.  It is how we host guests, one foot here, one foot there.  We did, for us, a fair bit of sightseeing, those ten days.  We saw the Science Center, had lunch under the rooster, played hooky at the zoo with the goats and polar bears.  We paid visit to the Conservatory, where we hung with the Blue Morphos and Atlas moths and Koi as big as Copper River Salmon.  Passed an afternoon finding frogs and smelling the roses, the only afternoon I bothered to bring a camera.  Went to tea, just us three, and ate as many scones.  Enjoyed multiple applications of ice cream.  

Two words regarding Graeter's: pretzel cone.  

Two words regarding Jeni's: try everything.    

But equally, okay more so, we hung around home. We bailed on a proposed trip to Pittsburgh, after I finally thought to look up.  Given the glorious spring weather over our heads, it seemed criminal to up and leave here for elsewhere. We watered the garden.  We walked to the park.  Searched for fireflies, made mudpies, re-read Many Moons.  (Oh, Thurber...)  Scooped up schoolboys for lunch out, more than once.  Celebrated imaginary birthdays with real lemon cake.  Poked around thrift shops.  Went to the movies.  Played Clue.  (It was Miss Scarlet.  Isn't it always?)   Made fantastic messes of the kitchen table. If that were a hobby, it might be my favorite.  Most especially when Mamo's in town.  

Everyday, ordinary, unremarkable stuff.  Very plain.  Very good. 

This plain/fancy business makes such sense to me.  Not as dichotomy, not as paradox, but as method through the madness.  There are those who can do full-time fancy.  Me, I need big doses of plain, as ballast, as bulwark, as beige to the bling.  But taken together?  By all means, count me in.

It is all about the conjunction, I guess.  The absence of or.  The presence of and.      

It is our everyday dishes, old Limoges plus all manner of orphans.  (There's something about settling chips in a swell old bowl that makes such a snack seem the treat that it is.)

It is my summer uniform, white T's and Tevas, and swishy long skirts for cool and comfort.    

It is how we design our days, at least the ones we enjoy most, an outing, maybe two, and long stretches without structure.

It is how I see the garden, oblique, articulate, as eloquent in decay as in full throttle.  I cannot resist dewdrops, buds, bugs, expired blooms, the sinuous tracks of some stump-loving chomper.  For all my peony appreciation, and this litany of roses (if only I could .mp3 their perfume ... ), I am convinced the common daisy is as elegant, in its way.  Not to mention that snake, and that opal fly, up top.    

(This may be why I so often miss the weeds.  Or, rather, why I stop to admire their shape, form, texture, and sway.  And then walk right on by.)  

And it is how we eat, ever and always, this week, as much as any other. We've grilled flank steak and poached salmon and made hash from spring turnips. Made scratch waffles and gougères and strawberry-stuffed crèpes.  Biffed a double batch of lemon bars, the less said about which, the better. (Actually, scratch that, and know this: they were serious, I was serious, about filling hitting HOT crust. Pour it over a cold crust, and, it turns out, it runs right under, yielding Burnt Lemon Slime Bars. That is a euphemism.  And a generous one, at that.)  Redeemed ourselves with cardamom shortbread.  

Ate apples and popcorn and called it dinner.  

Plain or fancy?  Beats me.  One cook's plain is another's fancy.  Starting waffles in the evening, setting dough to rise in the morning, salting water like the sea for a treasured Copper River side: these are habits, in my hands and in my memory, requiring little time and less thought, and therefore, my plain. Even past little bedtimes, and so past the KitchenAid's curfew, I know I can go off-recipe on shortbread, pinch soft butter into flour with ten silent fingers.  I know I'll find small hands to help in the a.m.  We've rolled cookies together one hundred times.  Easy-peasy.  

Pork chops, on the other hand, terrify me.  I last made a batch in 2003.

But sometimes something comes along that is perfectly plain, by anybody's standards, in anybody's day.

Say hello to chard.  Steamed, buttered chard.  

Chard is a funny, fence-sitting sort of green. It is not one of the lightweights, lettuce, spinach, arugula, the stuff of salad bowls and shimmery vinaigrettes. But neither, really, is it one of the hardies, the kales, collards and mustards, the braise and sauté set. For years, too many years, I let this confuse me, egged on by countless recipes that complicated matters.  Unnecessarily, it turns out.

Can we talk stems?

There is a body of literature that claims, nay, insists, that a chard leaf is in fact two different vegetables. Unlike the ribs on tuscan kale, say, which are too tough to eat and must be stripped away, chard's ribs are entirely edible. Indeed, the charm of chard, at least for my children, lays entirely in the stem, which turns tender and sweet.  I agree entirely; the stems are magnificent.  (I adore the leaves, also; more on those in a minute.)  The problem's not in the eating, then, but in the cooking.

The Two-In-One School separates leaves from stems, then prepares each separately, according to its needs.  The theory of course being that the more-substantial stems need more time on the hob to cook through.  This makes sense.  This also begets fussification.  I recall a recipe which yielded a yin/yen sort of plate, garlicky sautéed greens over here, stock-braised stem batons over there, re-united on the plate after two profoundly different paths. I recall another that tossed seriously blanched stems and barely blanched leaves with a nutmeg-gy béchamel, showered one and all with gruyère, then ran the whole business under the broiler until bubbling.

To which I say: yum.  And also: unlikely.  Highly unlikely, if you answer to Molly. Few of my days invite such swaths of fancy.  And when they do, I usually choose 'nap'.  If you have time and inclination to fix chard in this fashion, by all means do.  Then call me.  I'll be right over.

If you do not, I am here today to tell you: chard is also a one-pot, seven-minute affair, and one of the finest vegetables I know.  With a dash of logic (and permission if you need it: here you go), chard can be cooked ensemble, to fantastic effect.  The premise, here, borrows from the asparagus pot, those tall specimens designed to keep fat spear-ends near the heat, while keeping tender tips away.  Only without the cupboard-cluttering, and without the steep price tag.  As applied to chard, the technique works as follows: in an ordinary saucepan, add a splash of water, followed by the sliced stems, followed by the slivered leaves.  Slap on the lid.  Simmer five-to-seven.  Drain.  Done.  Devour.   (Neat, huh?)

The stems blanch themselves in the bit of boiling water, while the leaves steam to just-tender, up top.   All this talk of stems!  About those leaves, which are the (other) very best part.  Chard has a particular plump to its leaves, somehow built into its crumple and bump.  It doesn't wilt, like spinach, or stay tough, like collards, but in a half-dozen minutes turns silky and splendid.  And then there's the flavor, more sorrel than kale, mostly sweet with a twinkle of tart.  That is their oxalic speaking.  It is a very flattering accent.    

So flattering, we ordinarily add little else.  A dash of salt, to complement the sweet.  A good knob of butter, because, well, it's melted butter.  Some fingers. Sometimes forks.  Seconds and thirds, if you're me.  By any measure, plain.  By every measure, yum. 

Softly Steamed, Buttered Chard

1 big, plump batch of chard, around 1 pound
dash of salt
1 generous tablespoon salted butter

Wash chard well, leaving water clinging to leaves, and trim ends.  Stack leaves in one pile, all pointing the same direction, and beginning at stem end, cut 1/4" slices.  Add stem slices to a medium sauce pan with a lid, along with a few tablespoons of water.  Continue slicing, increasing to 1/2" as you hit the leaves, until all leaves are chopped.  Add to the pot, atop the stems, and add two pinches of salt.  Place pot on stove, turn heat to high, and bring water to the boil.  Turn heat down a nudge, to medium high, to keep water at a vigorous simmer.  Steam, covered, 5-7 minutes, until stems are toothsome and leaves, emerald.  Timing will vary based on chard's size and age, so use these cues for best results:  Begin testing at 5 minutes, and continue every minute or two, until the stems are just past al dente, without crunch, but well before the sog that usually sets in around the 10 minute mark.  There is this lovely zone, usually between 5-7 minutes, where stems are tender but still have substance, like good asparagus, and the leaves are vivid green, soft but not limp.

Drain well, leaving to sit a few minutes in the strainer, then shaking, then transfer to a plate.  Check for seasoning, adding a bit more salt, if desired.  Add a generous tablespoon of butter, and enjoy.   

 

digging out

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

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

And so it was.

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

Hello, 2012.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

:: Extra Yarn.

:: Anything by Oliver Jeffers. 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Campanelle with Kale, Chickpeas, and Sausage
Serves 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

quick 'n dirty

I do not have a problem.  I just want to make that clear.

Because a problem, as I told my children the other morning, as they melted down over the merits of standard versus mini-chocolate chips in their pancakes, is something of consequence.  A problem has weight, import, gravity, impact.  That is not what I have.

What I have is a pile of frames.  And a pile of prints.  And a series of walls in various shades of blank.  Seems simple enough, doesn't it? 

And it would be, should be, were I the sort of person who could pop out to Target and buy three botanicals plus some posters and—*bang* *bang*—call it done.  Who could pull off a room between breakfast and dinner, the way I pull off laundry, quick 'n dirty, done!, next?  Part of me rather wishes I were that person.  Part of me downright longs for it.

I am not.

Or were I like practiced movers, who completely settle, art and all, within a month of getting keys.  I deeply admire these people.  I aspire to be these people.

I am not these people.  Not yet, anyway.

Or, better yet, were I a person who enjoys the blank slate.  Rejoices in the expansiveness.  Welcomes the peace.

Oy.  I'm not that, either. 

What I am is a person with a large and motley assortment of prints and pictures, bits and bobs, ephemera and artifacts, of no value except to me.  Things I like, whose lines bring me cheer.  Whose colors make me smile.  Whose memories give me pause.  Which, since we moved, have been living in basement exile.

We moved on Valentine's Day.  Of 2009. 

Honestly, Molly. 

I am also an art history major.  Daughter of an exquisite, on-a-budget aesthete.  Granddaughter of a woman whose home still gives me goosebumps, comprised though it was of thrifted furniture and shag carpet. 

I eat with my eyes, not just lunch, but life.  My surroundings matter, and their "just-moved-in" look irks me.  (As does the endless clutter, but that's a separate conversation...)  But apparently not as much as getting it wrong.   

Because it seems I've a little trouble committing.  Never mind that we're celebrating our seventeenth anniversary this June.  Small potatoes.  Should the maps go here or should they go there?  Is the Keep Calm, Carry On better upstairs or down?  Would the old shoe forms look fetching hung up on the wall?   Or just strange?  (And how does one affix old shoe forms to a wall, anyway?)  And although I know exactly where I'd like this print here, it doesn't seem to fit that frame there...

Oh, that. There's also the Old Frame Situation.  I've thrifted a few over the years, admiring their small bones, beveled edges, faded charm.  I inherited several others from my grandparents, old beat plaster lovelies, gilded and chipped; ebonied ovals fitted with curved glass and stern black-and-white ancestors; big ugly wood ones I re-painted when Henry was four. 

Henry turns seven next Wednesday.  

Good grief.

Turns out old frames take new work to make them go.  Like, how does a person remove those old, rusty diagonal nails?  And how, then, exactly do you keep the fresh contents in?  And what if the glass is gone, or the backing crumbles, or all manner of trivial, inconsequential roadblocks?  [Answers:  A) Pliers.  And in re-assembly, this tool rocks.  B) Find an independent neighborhood frame store, and move in.  They'll cut new glass and mattes from scrap for a few dollars, per.  C) Use cardboard, stupid.  Oops.  I mean, Silly.]

Anyhoo, I resolved last month to do something about it, figuring what worked for cookies might also work for pictures.  I think my exact wording might have run something like, "Hang pictures by January.  Or they get the heave-ho."  Because while it might not be a problem, it's a high holy mess.  And an aggravation.  And a lost opportunity.  I'm ready to free up that corner of the basement for better things.  So I'm giving it my all, doing absolutely nothing else until I finish.

Well, nothing save joining in drawing sessions with Henry.  And replenishing the chili stores, and making more granola.  And popping up paper cities from Play All Day.  And attending tea parties with Zoë and her 37 closest friends.  (And uncovering the sweet silk carrot Mamo hid: we found it!)  And planning birthday parties.  And minding deadlines.  And organizing a chess night.  And sweeping.  Dusting.  Mopping.  Anything but. 

Yes, that wild rumble's the sound of my feet dragging.  At least I can bang out a salad, lickety-split.  

The salad of which I speak is less recipe than formula, one I come back to, time and again.  The basic equation boils down to this: greens + tart fruit + toasty nuts + salty cheese.  The slightly-less basic version goes:  vary everything.  That's where the fun begins. 

The greens might be arugula, or garden mesculun, or romaine.  The fruit, juicy pears, crisp apples, strawberries.  The cheese, blue, feta, ricotta salata, queso fresco, miso.  (Right, so miso's not cheese, but it's got the same suave umami, which is part of what gives this salad spine.)  The nuts, toasted walnuts, candied pecans, macadamias, bacon.  (Okay, so bacon's not technically a nut.  But a local pizza joint serves a knock-out harvest salad with slivered figs [fruit], pumpkin seeds [nuts], and crumbled bacon for, well, the same thing bacon's always for.  Unabashed yum.  I thought you ought to know it has a place at this table).  Right now, in mid-winter, my go-to position is sweet citrus, spinach, salted almonds and fresh cheese. 

The details differ, based on the season, but the end result is always earthy, soft, crisp, creamy and rich, sweet and salty, tart and light, fresh and bright.  Not a bad ROI for formula food.  

I'm also fond of the fact that it's quick 'n dirty as a salad gets.  I just word-counted the instructions, and if I'd left out the "adjust seasoning" bit, it would qualify as a habit entry.  That's fast.  (I didn't, though.  That last minute tweak is often what takes a salad from ho-hum to more, please.  Also, I've never been good with thirty words or less.)  And if we're being honest here—and if we're looking at rusty nails and old, unfinished business, we're being nothing if not honest—I often don't even dirty a jar for the dressing.  For company, sure, I'll grab a jam jar and shake, to get that lovely, creamy emulsification.  But for me?  For lunch?  I sprinkle salt, vinegar, olive oil on directly, and mix it all with my hands, *toss* *toss*, done.

I think I framed three pictures, last week.  At this rate, it might be March before I'm through.  Things might be a bit spare around here, until then.  But with all the salads you could spin off of this one, here?  You won't go hungry.

A Winter Salad of Spinach, Satsumas, Almonds + Feta
Yield: 4 servings

I buy almost all my nuts raw and whole, toasting and chopping them as needed, because their flavor is so very much better.  There are a few exceptions: marcona almonds, which are typically oil-roasted and salted, and these flaked almonds, which I buy by the large bag, at Costco.  I bought them on a whim once, and regretted it immediately, thinking they would have the stale flavor of most pre-toasted nuts.  But they're lovely, crunchy and crisp and perfectly salted, something I toss into salads all the time.  Except when I run out, as I did last week.  See variations below. 

I go back and forth on the radishes, here.  Nice with, nice without.

8 cups baby spinach
3 satsumas or clementines, peeled and segmented
generous 1/2 cup toasted, salted almond slices (such as these), or chopped marcona almonds, or butter-fried almonds* (see below)
generous 1/2 cup feta, ricotta salata, or queso fresco, crumbled
4-6 radishes, sliced thin as you can manage (optional)

for dressing:
1/2 teaspoon salt
2-3 teaspoons mild vinegar (sherry, cider, white wine)
2-3 tablespoons olive oil

In a large bowl, place all salad ingredients.  Sprinkle lesser amounts of salt, then vinegar, then olive oil over all.  Toss well, with clean hands, until leaves are glossy.  Taste for seasoning, add additional vinegar/oil/salt as desired, and toss again.  Eat.  

*Butter-Fried Almonds:  Plain almonds are nice here, but amped-up almonds are better.  When I'm out of those nibbly little toasted almond slices and marconas, both of which are toasted, roasted and salted, I make up a quick batch of butter-fried almonds, as follows:  Roughly chop 1/2 cup whole, unblanched almonds.  In a small skillet, melt 1 tablespoon butter over medium heat.  Tip in chopped almonds, and sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon salt over all.  Cook almonds in butter, stirring regularly, around 5 minutes, until almonds are golden.  Let cool 15 minutes, to crisp up.  Almonds can be fried hours or even days ahead.  Though you may munch them all before they reach the salad bowl.