remedial eating

on one hand

 

And just like that, here we are, again.

 

The honeysuckle's in bloom, and littering the lawn, relieved by my littles of their single drop of sweet.  'Make ice cream' made this week's To Do list.  Slippers, so new just a few months ago, have come back home, loved, worn, a little smaller.

We're trying out new hair do's to beat the heat.  Re-considering tank tops.  Sporting bare feet.  Long pants and sleeves have been all but forgotten.  The thermometer passed ninety at least thrice, this week.  Socks?  What socks?  Check back in September.

Sprinklers have been run through.  Swim suits broken in.  Sidewalk chalk de-classified from the garage archives.  Lemons and simple syrup are sitting at the ready, awaiting the right combo of kids, time and thirst. 

The morning Rise and shine! has been all but abandoned, replaced by Just try and, you know, sparkle a little.  Perhaps because I've become a staunch doormat, regarding bedtime.  It appears that I'm hopeless around late light and cool nights.  Ten is the new eight.  Breakfast, bananas on the go.

The tomatoes are in, the cucumbers, also, and an indeterminate number of miniscule basil starts.  They are the size of a baby's teardrop, tinier even, and I can't imagine they'll yield a thing.  Still, it's Ohio.  Sub-tropical, to my temperate self.  We may be talking big batch pesto, come August.

The annual spring school bean has been planted, all over again, and for the first time.  I'm not sure why I was so surprised, seeing Zoë's name on the stick.  I guess because it was in her own 3-year-old handwriting.  As was her "Hi" on the end-of-year teacher biscuits.  Didn't see that one coming, somehow.  Feel free to take your foot off the accelerator, Madame Time.

There are flowers galore, outside and in.  The peonies have bludgeoned us with their one-two punch, that knock-down scent, those drag-out looks.  The sunflower is adding inches each day.  We're barreling toward garden 2.0, May's blooms behind, July's lush dead ahead. 

Entire days have been spent in the yard, sweeping, watering, digging, watering, pruning, watering, planting, watering.  My nails have not been clean in seven days.  Weeds go AWOL, overnight.  It is a losing battle.  I'm fighting it, anyway.  And loving pretty much every minute.

Primary colors have returned to our life.  The year's first local strawberries.  Picnic blankets on the grass.  The fall-out of a five-minute shower and an unsupervised preschooler.  An unsupervised preschooler with impeccable party-throwing skills.     

Millenium Park in Chicago.  Jackson Pollock in Chicago.  Alexander Calder in Chicago.  Everything in Chicago.  The weather may have been mid-sixties and overcast (perfect), but the city seemed irrepressibly colorful, anyway.  Even the boats on flannel-like Lake Michigan couldn't hide their jolly.  (Nor could we, after pulling off a whirlwind Memorial Day road trip to the Windy City.  Columbus is nothing if not accessible.) 

Thrift stores have been culled of great fifty-cent classics.  Library reading programs are being anticipated.  The cupboards have been stocked with fresh clay and new paint pots, extra perler beads and endless big ideas.  Many of them won't be implemented, maybe most.  (That's okay.  Others, as yet unimagined, will.)  But, at the moment, knot-tying tops the list, along with projects from this book and that one.  And, if we're lucky, this one, and that one.

Also, two words: Driftwood Fish.  Oh my.

Zoë's been footloose a full week, already.  The boys are down to counting on one hand. 

Must be summer. 

We are so ready.

I had planned to bring you a favorite stir-fry, a jumble of tender chicken, cashews, and bright asparagus.  We ate it last week.  We eat it often.  I crave it, much of the rest of the time. 

But even though it is quick and dead-simple, it involves some twelve or sixteen ingredients.  And between these late nights, and these weeds, and that party, I just can't be bothered pulling it together here.  And, I figured, maybe neither could you.  So as I stared down into my sink the other night, asparagus on the left, bok choy on the right, I suddenly swung my vote over the divide.  Because baby bok and shiitakes require just five ingredients, and then only if you count salt, sugar and oil.  (Barring staples, you need all of two.)  Also, because it makes my knees weak.

There's an alchemy to this dish that I don't understand, though I don't let that stop me, and I suggest you don't, either.  I stir-fry veg often, sometimes mixed, sometimes solo, and nearly always, there are aromatics or sauces involved.  Some minced ginger, some slivered garlic, a splash of sesame oil, an oyster bath.  All of the above.  At least something.

There is none of that, here, only heat, salt, sugar, magic, plus the deeply complementary pairing of veg.  The shiitakes bring an exquisite meatiness, savory and toothsome and faintly smoky.  The bok choy—the small variety, baby or Shanghai, depending on your vendor—goes bright, crisp and sweet in its brief dance with heat.  They're quickly cooked separately, in stages, in the same pan, the mushrooms seared, the bok just steamed, then brought back together to mingle and meld. 

Meanwhile, discreet pinches of salt and (yes) sugar are added, and suddenly seem all the seasoning a person might ever need.  I forget how a flick of sugar brings sparkle, not sweetness, can make the greens taste more green.  I'm reminded of the power of plain salt, well deployed, the way it plumps up and rounds out an edible.

Add a caramelized edge from a small spoon of oil, and a slender thread of char from screaming high heat (wok hay, if you will; skillet breath, if you won't), and you've a straightforward side of beguiling grace.  Not bad for a dish that takes all of ten minutes, from a list of ingredients that fit on one hand.    

Dry Stir-Fried Baby Bok + Shiitakes
adapted from Saveur
Serves four as a side, or one hungry Molly

Dried shiitakes (buy whole, if you can) are available at well-stocked groceries, as well as any Asian market.  I've also used fresh, here, and they are differently, equally delicious.  Just skip Step 1.  Please note: allow 20-30 minutes soaking time, if using dried shiitakes.

Baby bok choy is available at many farmer's markets, well-stocked groceries, and any Asian grocery, where it is dependably inexpensive and impeccably fresh, year-round.  I also spied it last week at, of all places, Costco.  I prefer to wash bok choy by soaking it, as it tends to be gritty.  For the same reason, although whole heads are beautiful in magazines, I always halve mine, to ensure the bases are clean.  The original recipe called for 2 tablespoons of water to steam the bok.  I find the residual, post-soaking water in the leaves to be sufficient.  If any additional liquid is needed, add a small splash of the mushroom soaking water. 

Finally, unlike most stir-fries, I find this one can be doubled.  The following recipe is for one batch.  I must make two, if I intend to share.

6 large dried shiitake mushrooms OR 6 fresh shiitakes
1 tbsp. vegetable oil
1/2 pound baby bok choy (Shanghai bok choy), under 6"
1/4 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt

Prepare Dried Shiitakes:  Place shiitakes in medium, wide bowl.  Boil 1 cup water, then pour over dried mushrooms.  Stir, then place plate on top, to keep mushrooms submerged.  Let soak 20-30 minutes, until plump.  Remove mushrooms with slotted spoon, squeeze to remove liquid, and remove stems.  Slice shiitakes 1/4" thick.

Prepare Bok Choy:  Soak bok choy in a large bowl of cold water, 5-10 minutes, swirling several times to remove dirt and grit.  Slice 1/4" from base, then slice lengthwise, in half, rinsing any that still need additional grit removed. 

Stir-fry:  Heat a large wok or heavy skillet over high heat until it begins to smoke.  Add oil and swirl, around bottom and sides.  Add squeezed mushrooms and cook, stirring constantly, until aromatic and browning on cut surfaces, about 2 minutes.  Remove mushrooms to a plate, and set aside.  Do not rinse wok. 

Return wok to high heat, until it smokes.  Add rinsed, halved bok choy, with water still clinging to leaves.  Cook, without stirring, until water evaporates, about 1 minute.

Add sugar and salt, and toss vigorously, until bok choy is bright green, and dark bits are beginning to wilt, about 1 minute more.  (In the unlikely event that anything begins to brown or burn, add a small splash of mushroom soaking water, stock, or plain water.)  

Return mushrooms to wok, toss to combine, and cook briefly to meld flavors, about 30 seconds.  Taste for seasoning—despite the lack of aromatics, the flavor should be deeply savory—and add more sugar/salt to taste, if needed.  Toss and cook briefly, then remove to a platter.  Serve hot or at room temperature.   

 

greenery-yallery

 
We are awash in flowers, though you wouldn't know it to page down.  I am rather fond of them, too, the bashful violets and the marimekko tulips and everywhere, white pear petals, like so much spring snow.  

Maybe next week.  At this moment, I'm feasting on green.  And yellow, and old rust, and last fall's lingering brown.

I'm not sure if it's their color or form, but I've been glued to buds and branches like some daily horticultural Mad Men.  The plot lines.  The character development.  The drama.  Unbelievable. 

In the Northwest, spring is a ramping up, an amplification of that always-there green.  Oaks and maples add bass notes to the evergreens' year-round melody, the bulbs add color, the fruit trees flower.  It is there, and obvious, and completely glorious, but it is not stark, the way it is here. 

Here, spring startles.  Subtle need not apply.  After months of monochrome, the simple fact of color is a little astonishing.  Maybe I'm still an amateur when it comes to this deciduous tree routine, but it strikes me as terribly Wizard of Oz.  There you are, all down with Auntie Em in grayscale, then the tornado drops Dorothy and BOOM!  Queue the technicolor.  Ohio may not have Munchkins or Jell-O-painted ponies, but she can saturate a landscape like nobody's business.

For all that, there's a gracefulness to it, an orderly re-entry, easy on the eyes.  It begins slowly, the odd leaf, the early daffodils, the occasional rewind.  Pacing, you know.  But by April, spring outgrows its awkward-gawky stage, and hits this rather elegant stride. 

Everywhere, to-all-appearances dead trees are resurrecting, right on schedule.  This morning's plump bump is this evening's leaflet, wrinkled and articulate as a newborn.  Branches hang a hair lower each day, with the weight of a thousand twee flicks of green.  They are almost too precious to stand, until I tune back to the Reality Channel and see them as they are, endless gaping, hungry little maws.  A little daunting, really.  And mighty impressive.  CO₂ into sugar?  Stranger than fiction.  

The ferns are beginning their weeks-long yawn, that journey from curlicue to most excellent mock sword.  There are hostas still in their corsets, and pre-peonies, and the last wizened crab-apples, finally relieved of duty. 

The Japanese Butterbur's invaded the lawn.  Again.  It needs to be pulled, but I so admire its chutzpah, its whopping bud, its parasol leaf.  I can barely thin my radishes.  How can I pluck this gentle giant?  

(What's this?  I've just learned it can be eaten.  Any pointers?)

And all of it, seemingly lit from within.  Now, I know there's no internal LED thing going on here.  And that rain seriously pumps up the shimmer.  And that new shoots always glow a little.  I would, too, under the circumstances.  Still, I think there's a peculiar magic to this fleeting cast of illuminated high spring hues.  (I also know John Ruskin had little use for greenery-yallery leaning folks like myself.  Whatever.  I always did prefer Whistler by a mile.)

But look quick.  It won't last.  Summer comes on fast. 

By June, all this vivid will be ho-hum, color the norm, contrast a memory.  But right now, there's this moment, a.k.a. April, when the landscape is handsomely tailored, distinct. 

Stones are punctuation marks still, not hidden hazards, all overgrown.  There are seam allowances yet between this plant and that.  There's brown ground to be seen, old growth, crisp remains, patches of dirt that make everything pop.  Spring is a spare, clean organized statement to summer's lush, flooded run-on baroque.  I have never been spare, or clean, or organized.  But I have always admired this about spring.  

I think it's the juxtaposition that gets me, this coming and going, in the crosshairs.  It's the rubbing up against of what's next and what was.  The shock of chartreuse against dark chocolate earth.  The insistence of growth against composting leaves.  Raking last week, I came across a bluebell sporting an old oak leaf belt round its middle.  The wildflower had grown right on up through the leaf, piercing clean through and carrying it skyward.  The sheer force of that stem seemed so symbolic, so poignant.  Very changing-of-the-guards.  Very cycle-of-life.  

Metaphysics always improve my mood when I'm still getting after last year's messes.   

Much as a shaved fennel salad improves my outlook when I'm still waiting on this year's food.  The seeds are in the ground.  The markets will start soon.  The chives, bless their hearts, are flourishing.  When we ate this salad, late last week, it sat next to fresh bread and potato-leek soup, topped with smoked mackerel and chives.  Our chives.  Won't be long.

But for now, most fixings are still coming from afar, which suits this particular salad just fine.  I think of it as a three-season salad, the two main ingredients available year-round.  By all means, buy local fennel, when you can get it, but the plump California bulbs are decent year-round.  The mushrooms are the ordinary, cultivated sort, their firm flesh a help for papery slices.  In October, it tastes exactly of fall, thanks to the earthy, autumnal mushrooms.  In January, the fennel stands in for sad leaves, winter whites for the salad bowl.  And in April, right now, it's the lemon that sings, its bright sunny squinch somehow tasting of spring.  (In Summer?  Forget it.  It's tomato season, people!  But we're getting ahead of ourselves, here.)

I'm not positioning it quite right, am I?  Decent.  Ordinary.  Forget it.  Oh dear.  Let's try again: we served it at Christmas Dinner.  Also: I rarely eat less than three servings.  I'd polish it off, all by my lonesome, but I'm always angling for leftovers.  So that, too: it's awfully tasty the following day.  If you can manage to keep it around.

What it is, is nothing more than paper-thin fennel, plus paper-thin mushrooms, plus paper-thin parmesan.  You layer these three, in roughly equal proportions, dousing each layer liberally with fresh lemon juice and olive oil.  Lots of both.  And then a bit more.  Also, salt and pepper.  Be generous.  The end.

If this all sounds a little loosey-goosey for your taste, I've added some numbers and details, below.  I like a recipe, also.  But I feel I should tell you I just made it up.  I was introduced to this salad years ago by Alice Waters, whom I caught demonstrating it on PBS.  She was shaving away on a mandoline, staring straight into the camera, thrilling over this unlikely combination in big, blowsy terms.  I feared for her fingers, but I took her advice to slice thinly, season lavishly, and treat the parmesan as a fellow vegetable.  (I may have made that last part up.  But I'm sticking with it: be lavish with the parmesan.)  And to know this salad's a balancing act, with tastebuds, not measuring cups, as your guide.  

If you're accustomed to a leafy sort of salad, know this speaks in a different tongue.  There's no lettuce here, though there's ample crunch, thanks to the anise-sweet crisp of the fennel.  The mushrooms go almost meaty, by contrast, earthy foil for the fennel, tender sponge for the dressing.  The parmesan makes me smile, just remembering.  Umami wollop.  Saline twang.  Over, under, around, and through.  

It's the anointing, though, that pulls it all together, the dressing of the layers in lemon and oil.  The mushrooms are thirsty, and the fennel so thin, that they both marinate a bit, swapping atoms, and secrets.  They all get a little drunk on each other, which, considering the players, is the best possible outcome.     

My only caveat?  It looks dreadfully anemic, even if it tastes anything but.  Keep a fennel frond, and scissor it over before serving.  Barring that, a few wisps of lemon zest.  Please.  Just scatter some green or yellow overall to pinch its proverbial cheeks.  Thank you, kindly.  
 
 

Shaved Fennel + Mushroom Salad with Parmesan + Lemon
inspired by Alice Waters
Serves 4

When I serve this salad depends on my mood, menu and schedule.  Eaten immediately, each ingredient retains its own texture, which is lovely.  If left to sit a few hours, everything relaxes a bit, also lovely.  Refrigerated overnight, everything will soften and settle, and while I wouldn't serve it to company, I grab it instantly for lunch.   

My "mandoline" of choice for thin-slicing is the Benriner, a Japanese model that is affordable, compact, and to my feel, safer than many larger, French-style mandolines.  A sharp chef's knife makes an admirable substitute. 

One really does need a small hunk of Parmesan, here.  You won't use it all, but you will get the long, meaty curls that makes this salad sing.  Grated or shredded won't deliver the same results.   

1 large or 2 small fennel bulbs, a few fronds reserved
12 large button or cremini mushrooms
medium hunk of parmigiano reggiano
1 large, juicy lemon, halved
extra-virgin olive oil
kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

Prepare mushrooms and fennel:  Wipe mushrooms clean, and trim stems of bottom layer.  Slice stems from fennel, where the stems meet the bulb, reserving a few fronds for garnish.  If outer layer of fennel looks a bit tatty, peel away exterior with a zipper.  If outer layer looks geriatric (withered, browning), discard.

Prepare salad:  Using a mandoline, Benriner, or sharp chef's knife, slice fennel and mushrooms as thin as you can manage.  (When using the Benriner, I stop slicing three-quarters of the way through the vegetables, in defense of my fingers.  Donate remainders to pizza, soup, stock or snacking.) 

Using a sharp vegetable peeler (a Y-peeler if you've got one, any standard peeler if you don't), peel three dozen or so long curls of parmigiano reggiano.   Do not fret over crumbling. 

Assemble salad:  Scatter one-third of shaved fennel on your platter, then top with one-third of shaved mushrooms and one-third of parmigiano.  Squeeze ample lemon juice over all , scatter with two generous pinches of kosher salt (approx. 1/4 tsp.), several grinds of fresh pepper, and a good drizzle of olive oil (one generous Tablespoon).  Repeat two more times, until all fennel and mushrooms are gone.  Top with a few additional shavings of parm, a final squeeze of lemon and drizzle of oil, and a smattering of chopped, reserved fennel fronds. 

Eat immediately, or let sit, refrigerated or at room temperature, a few hours. 

stepping out

Did you hear?  My mom's in town! 

She got here last Monday, we get to keep her 'til next Monday, and we're all pretty much as excited as can be.

It's no small thing, hurtling yourself across the country (am I the only one who thinks of modern travel this way?)  Although it probably pales next to settling into our home, trying to catch a moment's peace while keeping pace with little lives.  Mamo being here means so, so much to all of us.    

It means Henry gets an eternally patient poem-reading buddy.  Zoë gets her very first little purse (it's pink and it's satin and it has with roses!).  And Max gets to make Mamo her very own Mii.  I'm pretty sure he'd all but abandoned all hope.

It also means I get first-person knitting advice, and the best-ever antiquing comrade-in-arms, and a fellow soul whose heart skips several beats over the mere notion of Meyer Lemon by the scoop.  Not to mention stolen moments to capture the last of our first blue iris and the first of our royal purple iris and our one-and-only white iris.  We're so tickled we could burst.

So, we'll be stepping out of this space for a while.  We have places to go and extravaganzas to see!  We'll be back after our adventuring, ten days, give or take. 

Until then, I wanted to leave you with a nice bowl of soup.  Chicken soup, specifically, though maybe not your grandmother's (or mine).  My ancestors are resolutely Northern European, but when it comes to chicken soup, I break all blood ties.  Sick or well, up or down, what I crave most is this one, Tom kha gai if you know it, Thai chicken-coconut if you don't. 

It's meaty with mushrooms and softly-poached chicken, and creamy from a broth based on coconut milk, but it's the riot of flavors that floor me every time.  Sweet, sour, salty, swank, every bite's an adventure, different and grand and totally heady.  It tastes like a diamond, sparkling and bright, always shifting on the tongue like a well-cut solitaire.  The ingredient list might look a little fussy, but check the notes for easy sources and substitutions.  Once the hunting's behind you (and it's not hard, not at all), the whole thing comes together in twenty minutes, easy.  Which is pretty important, when the company's this fine. 

Thai Chicken Coconut Soup (Tom kha gai)
adapted from Nancie McDermott, Quick and Easy Thai

Fish sauce, kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass and galangal are available in Seattle at Central Markets, Uwajimaya's, and most Asian grocery stores.  Fresh ginger substitutes admirably for the galangal, and a bit of extra lime juice for the lime leaves, if you can't find either (I often can't, here in Ohio).  If you do find lime leaves, buy extra: they freeze beautifully.

The final soup will have inedibles floating about — lemongrass, lime leaves, galangal or ginger.  I usually pull these out as I serve it, though you could always warn a grown-up audience to eat around them. 

2 Tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice, + more to taste
2 Tablespoons fish sauce
2 scallions, thinly sliced on the diagonal
2 Tablespoons cilantro, coarsely chopped, + more to taste
6 kaffir lime leaves, torn
1 1/2 cups unsweetened coconut milk
1 1/2 cups chicken broth
1 tsp. sugar
10-12 quarter-sized slices fresh ginger or galangal
2 stalks fresh lemongrass
3/4 pound boneless chicken (breast or thigh), sliced into bite-sized pieces
1 cup mushrooms, stems removed, thinly sliced (cremini, shiitake, buttons, or enoki, sliced from their base and left whole)

In a small bowl, combine fish sauce, lime juice, sugar, and scallions, if using.  Place by the stove, along with the chopped cilantro.  Prepare lemongrass by slicing off root end, peeling off outer layer if browning or dried, and slicing each stalk into several 2" pieces, up to the point where the stalk becomes a fairly dark green (I usually use the lower two-thirds of the stalk).  Bash pieces slightly with back of knife or small can, to release flavor. 

In a medium saucepan, combine coconut milk and chicken broth over medium-high heat.  Bring to a gentle boil, then stir in galangal (or ginger), lemongrass, and lime leaves.  Add the chicken and mushrooms, return to a gentle boil, and simmer gently until chicken is cooked through, about 10 minutes.

Remove from heat, pour in fish sauce/lime juice mixture, and stir well to combine.  Top with chopped cilantro, and taste for flavors.  You are after a bright balance of sour, salty and sweet.  If any of these is too muted, add a dash of each flavor to bring into balance (fish sauce for salt, sugar for sweet, lime juice for salt.)  Slurp in the presence of good friends and family.

 

(forty) two

Humor me one more birthday?  Two in a month, I know.  But two's a big one, no?  After all, it's not every day you double your age, overnight.  And with all that walking and talking behind you, you can focus on the really juicy bits, like ditching the high chair and skipping naps and broadcasting the occasional (no-not-monkey-jammies-POKA-dot-jammies-the-bluuuuue-ones-peas!) opinion.  Besides, I'd like to do right by that smile.

Honestly, I could begin and end right there, left corner to right.  She really is all that, just spunk, twinkle and boo!  A party with pigtails, a diplomat from planet Happy.  All you need to know, really. 

What's missing, though, is all I didn't know, all she taught me, teaches me, patient and slow.  I mean, I knew it all, obviously, with two boys under my belt.  Plenty of parenting technique may elude me.  (Most of it, maybe.)  ((Okay, some days, all of it.))  But personality-wise?  I'd seen it all, night and day.  I was ready, prepared, completely naive. 

I did not, for example, know little girls.  I didn't know "What flavor cake?" could be answered "Pink!"  Didn't know how she'd take so to little bald babies, tuck them under her arm and walk them around, murmuring "Mmmm... I wuuuv you... ummm... nice hug."  Didn't know she'd switch up not two minutes later, barreling at me with blocks and an over-sized war cry.  "Missile!  Uh-TACK!!  Shoot!  Pshew Pshew Pshew!"  (Still that grin, though.  Sort of undermines the whole ferocity angle.)  Didn't know she'd lay claim to sugar and spice and tails and snails besides, because, goodness gracious, why ever not?

I never knew washing hair could be simple.  Or quiet.  Or quick.  Or — stop me now — all of the above.  I'd no idea a toddler could whisper, or nod, or say "yes" and "shooz me!" to people and chairs.  Or add, automatically, "please" after everything.  I'm fibbing; it's "peas".  That "L" is so tricky.  But everything, that part's no stretch at all.  I never dreamt that a toddler's two favorite words might be "Right there!".  Tied with "Like that!"  That anyone might be more particular than me.  Oh dear. 

I didn't know someone One could count all the way to three.  Genius!, I thought.  Survival, I realized.  Forget a room of her own.  A third kid's got to know what evenly divided looks like, if she wants to land a wedge of cookie, all her own.  I had no idea a girl so small could call dibs on seats, so fast.  "Grocery store", I muttered yesterday, planning tomorrow.  "In the BACK!" I heard, from two rooms over.  Seems a certain someone likes the big bottom basket, the one where big brother sits.  Or sat.  Now he walks.  

I never knew twelve tons of gumption could squoosh into thirty three inches.  Don't remember writing Gung-Ho on the Birth Certificate's Middle Name line.  But "Zoë do it" is the refrain of our days, right now, with "By self" and "See mama!" thrown in for good measure.  I was a little startled this week when "I can't!" cropped up.   Until I realized, in Zoë, it means only, "I'm having trouble.  I'm stuck, and I have no intention of stopping.  So HELP ME NOW, peas, since I don't speak 'give up'."

I didn't know, frankly, how she'd manage, with everything.  Wondered whether this youngest might be overwhelmed or ignored (eep!).  Worried, in other words, needlesly.  True, silence is pretty much unheard of, consistency a fabled land somewhere due South of Atlantis.  Routines, regular naps, they really don't happen.  But belonging?  It's rampant.  And Count me in!'s always ever been her only reply.  Part of is all of her understanding of the world.  Part of Pokemon, part of puzzles, part of cabin-fever busting pillow mosh pits.  (Ages 8-and-up, 500-pieces, danger-to-life-and-limb, your point being?)  Part of time outs; not hers, but like she's going to be left out.  Part of school, back in August, on that very first day back.  I delivered the boys to their classes and came home to this.  Found her coat, found her shoes, a backpack and sunhat.  Made it perfectly clear she'd be going, too.  Never mind the nightgown underneath it all.  Or the birthday just a few (dozen) months shy of the cut-off. 

I didn't think she'd one-up me in the responsibility department so soon.  I've heard of young kids going on twelve or twenty-one, even, but she, I swear, is two going on forty two.  Ate raisins with a fork, before she could walk.  Gets her own bowls, and cups, and extras for the boys, also.  She so called me on it when I kicked that toy car under the island, the other day.  Later, I thought.  (Ka-wack!)  "Put away!", she declared, and did.  (Insert blush here.)  You can see what a clean castle she keeps. 

 
I certainly didn't think homemade pizza would become part of our line-up.  For years, I ranked DIY pizza right up there with, oh, homemade toilet paper.  As in, why on earth ever bother?  After all, decent, inexpensive versions are widely available.  The pizza, they'll even deliver.  And every last one of my attempts this past decade yielded something like old Sears catalog crossed with Cedar bark (the pizza, I mean; I've yet to try the t.p.).  Charcoal black on the edges, pasty white in the middle, I'd perfected a pie that was both burnt and raw.  Magical, really.

So magical, in fact, I vanished it from our kitchen for ages.  But this year, prompted by a plucky new sous-chef and Ohio's odd habit of cutting round pies into square pieces, we gave pizza another go.  And I'm so very glad, as we're finally, I think, getting the hang of it.  Understand: we're not turning out world class exemplars, wood-fired wonders that inspire accolades and cult followings.  But I don't really want an imported inferno in my kitchen, or for that matter, a following. 

What I wanted, what we've finally figured, is how to easily, reliably, turn out very nice pies, with crispy thin crusts and gold bubbling tops and whatever bits and bobs suit people's fancy.  Which, in the end, is the second best part of a DIY pie.  (The first being, obviously, the company).  We can please Little Miss Mushroom and Mr. Pepperoni Only and me, and my love of a sort-of-white pizza, sharp with three cheeses and fragrant with Rosemary and worth every last ounce of flour on the floor.  I'll save details for the recipe notes, below, but suffice it to say, if you ask me now, homemade pizza's child's play.  

Pizza: Part I — Tools and Tips

Let's do this in two parts: playbook and recipe.  Because more important than any ingredient is HEAT.  And, after that, a calm cook.  These 5 P's — big tools, little tips — finally turned homemade pizza into something I looked forward to making and took pleasure in eating.  This is just what works for us.  I'd love to hear what works for you.  (P.S.: Just picked up my February Saveur, and lo and behold!, found this same advice on page 94.  Guess we're on the right track, then.)

:: Pizza stone:  These heavy stone circles hold and transfer heat beautifully, cooking that raw dough almost on contact.  EIght minutes takes a pizza from start to finish on ours.  I'm not big on gadgets, but I wouldn't attempt pizza without a stone.  (Again, anyway.  I have, many times, and am so over peeling baked-on dough off of sheet pans.)  We like this one.  It's an investment, for sure, though not much more than two pies, delivered.   

:: Preheat:  Stone and oven both, at 500°, a full hour.  No joke.  Your basic home oven (and mine is just that) can take on pretty awesome powers if you give it time to get up to temperature.  Remember to put a rack on the bottom position, and your stone in while the oven's cold (to prevent cracking), and you're well on your way to brilliant crisp crust. 

:: Patience:  With the dough.  Springy dough drove me mad for years.  I'd roll it out, sproing!, back it would go.  I'd roll again, schwoop!, and up it would curl.  I tried everything; even, one day, reading the directions, which said to let the dough rest a spell before rolling.  Worked beautifully.  After rising (homemade) or removing from fridge (storebought) and dividing into serving size balls, give that dough 20 minutes to relax, and you'll follow suit when it comes time to roll. 

:: Parchment:  Cornmeal's lovely in cornbread, nasty under pizza.  Instead, I slide my rolled crust onto a square of parchment to keep it from sticking to the stone (you need something).  The parchment comes out of the oven black as midnight, but don't worry: it doesn't flame, and the pizza slides off beautifully.  Without that raw, gritty crunch.   

:: Peel:  Just a wide, flat metal paddle on a long wooden handle, a peel seemed so specialized I resisted it for years.  Silly me.  I love my peel with a passion, because it allows me to get all those fragile, floppy raw pies into that blistering oven without incident, every time.  And, better, to get them back out without incinerating my arm hair.  (The only thing worse than dropping a raw pizza upside down on a 500° oven floor is bumping your arm up against a 500° element.  Trust me, on both counts.)  You could buy one new, but my advice is to pick one up for $3 at your local goodwill, where there's almost always a thicket. 

:: Paste:  Avert your eyes if you're at all orthodox, because this is pure heresy.  Pizza sauce is so simple, just simmered-down tomatoes, seasoned the way you like.  But between the dough and the toppings and those ten floury fingers, I always pull it too early, and end up with sad little watery spots.  So one night I cracked a can of tomato paste, instead, and I've never looked back.  Completely inauthentic, I know, but it fits my bill: a rich, intense smear of tomatoey twang, ready to rumble. 

Pizza: Part II — Red, White and Blue Pizza
Adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

Years ago, I stayed with good family friends in New Jersey (Hey ho, Bobbi and David!) while interviewing for a Cloisters internship.  I didn't get the internship (note: New York buses may run three hours late; best take a cab), but I did taste my one and only official White Pizza, which more than made up for it.  My version's not at all traditional, what with the tomato paste and blue cheese, but I love it dearly.  

To top 1 medium or 2 personal white pizzas:

2 Tbs. tomato paste (I like Muir Glenn), or sauce of your choosing
3 ounces parmesan or pecorino romano, freshly grated
3 ounces mozzarella, freshly grated
2 ounces blue cheese, freshly crumbled
2 Tbs fresh rosemary, finely chopped
Olive oil, for drizzling

Combine all three cheeses and rosemary in a bowl.

Pizza Dough:
Yields 1 large, 2 medium, or 4-6 personal size pizzas

I'm not one to staunchly advocate DIY dough; the fresh store bought variety can be lovely.  It is dead simple to make at home, though, and for me often easier than getting out the door.  My standby is Mark Bittman's, which I love for the splash of oil in the dough (essential, I think, for good stretch and body).  That said, I'm eager to try Jim Lahey's.  I always double the recipe, below, and stash half in the freezer for next time (freezes beautifully). 

1 tsp instant or rapid-rise yeast
3 cups all-purpose or bread flour, plus more for dusting
2 tsp. kosher salt
1 - 1 1/4 cups water
2 Tbs. + 1 tsp. olive oil

Combine half of flour, salt, yeast, 2 Tbs. oil, and 1 cup water in stand mixer.  With paddle attachment, blend 60 seconds.  With machine on slow, add remaining flour gradually, until dough becomes a sticky ball that pulls away from the sides.

Turn dough out onto floured work surface and knead by hand a few seconds to form a smooth, round ball.  Grease a large bowl with remaining oil, and place dough ball inside.  Cover with a clean cloth or plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm spot, until dough doubles in size, 1-2 hours.  Dough can also be refrigerated for a slow rise, 6-8 hours (great for making in the morning or evening before).

To roll dough and assemble pizza:

Move rack to bottom position, put pizza stone on it (cold), and turn oven on to 500°.  Preheat oven and stone for 1 hour. 

When dough has risen, knead lightly, roll into ball, then divide into equal pieces in the size you desire (4-6 for individual pizzas).  Roll each piece into a round ball, place on a floured surface, and cover with a cloth.  Let rest 20 minutes, while you grate cheese and assemble toppings.  Have parchment ready.

After dough has rested, roll one ball on a lightly floured board to desired size.  I like mine cracker thin and roll it within an inch of it's life.  1/4" will give you a standard, thin-medium crust.  Move rolled dough to parchment, and parchment to peel.  Top pizza dough (on peel) with a smear of tomato paste, a thick (not heaping) carpet of the rosemary-cheese mixture, or your toppings of choice.  Drizzle olive oil on exposed edges, and slide pizza onto stone with a flick of the peel.  Pizza will be done in 6-8 minutes, when crust is golden and cheese is bubbling.  Slide peel under pizza, lift up and out, and let cool just a moment.  Enjoy with your favorite kitchen help, age unimportant.

let's just suppose

You, this week, are five.  Obviously, this is the post where I veer head-long into fiction, since I can see your six pound self clear as day, barely bigger than a roasting chicken.  But let's suppose there's some truth to it.  Let's just suppose I've lived a hand-full of years by your side, marveled at the boy you become half a decade out.  Where and what and who are you then?


You are my never-ending story.  I'm still awfully fond of Kingsolver and LaMott, Lahiri and Berry, but frankly, you leave 'em all in the dust, at least in the wildly entertaining department.  Every errand ... school day ... tissue ... dinner ... is just a pesky ellipses between Chapters One and Twelve in your ongoing epic.  The costumes, they come, they go, they evolve.  (Who knew K'nex could pinch-hit as superhero gear?)  But apparently the make-believe bit is here for the long haul.  (Hip hooray!) 

You are persistence, personified.  You solve more problems before lunch than I solve in a month.  Never you mind that this world values unraveling insurance snafus over engineering Lego droids.  Same basic skills, my boy: focus, determination, flexibility, and a heaping double helping of humor.  Your frustation runs high only because your ambitions run higher.  The 'twain shall meet.  I guarantee it.

You are my rattle and hum.  You know noise, know the power of stomp, thump and thwack.  You know good drama demands a soundtrack, know Star Wars would've been just a bunch of rinky-dink rockets dangling off monofilament, were it not for Williams' original score.  Even though you've never seen it.  Quiet and shhhhh top your Most Wanted Words list.  And true, I dial down your volume, every now and again.  But mostly, I sit one room over, enchanted.  Charmed by the way you singsong all day, easy as inhale, unconscious as exhale.  Delighted by the little lyrics and sweet soft melodies always drifting by, always different.  Doubled over the choral dissonance, the "Me-ga-tron destroyed the world, and Op-ti-mus Prime saved it" set to Twinkle Twinkle.

You are my barrel of monkeys.  Wiggling arms, tangled legs, all spin, drape and hang.  You scramble up the climbing tower and into the river and between the couch cushions, quicker than quick.  Whether prepositions are your favorite part of speech remains to be seen, but over, under, around and through are among your favorite parts of life. 

You are the reason I need to learn a thing or three about ISO.  I snap and snap and get back mostly blur.  You are a spark plug, a coiled spring, a Tigger, a wonderful thing.  (Especially, at least where film speed's concerned, when you're plumb tuckered.)

You are my truly, madly, deeply.  You wear your heart on your sleeves, and your dungarees, and your hat and mittens too, weather permitting.  I mean, really, who needs sad and glad when completely undone and over-the-moon slaphappy are ripe for the picking?  Monochrome is nowhere in your palette, or your personality.  Thank goodness. 

You are my deep kindred spirit, front and center with silver linings and lemonade.   When I accidentally shattered your superbot right before bedtime, I braced for outrage, got only shrugs.  "I can re-build him, quick."  And you did.  When we somehow stumbled onto over-population over lunch, over the nifty trick of six billion plus of us on one single planet, you didn't pull a Pollyanna.  You were solemn and serious and talked through solutions, sending clean water through "really reeeaaaally big" pipes, cloth napkins to go with our cloth wipe-up rags.  Then added, "and mom, that means there are so many more people for us to meet!"  Atta boy.

You are my betwixt and between.  It's true, you can go from sweet and calm to Sturm und Drang in two siblings flat.  You feel the squeeze, don't know how much the middle matters.  Yet.  (Hubs?  PB&J?  The Sun?  Dude.) 

You are my antennae.  You greet the world with your fingertips, first, last and always.  You are my constant reminder to poke and to prod and see hear and feel and enough with that reserved observation, already.

You are my Hole Is to Dig.  We are planners and ponderers, the lot of us, up to our ears in The Implications.   You are up to your elbows in Fun, Here, Now!  Every walk is an obstacle course, every curb a cliff.  Cracks are to dodge, sticks are to drag, "mud is to jump in and slide in and yell doodleedoodleedoo!"  A sheep is to pet.  Even if it pets you back. 

You are my barley buddy, and a patient one at that.  Even when we're in the car and on round ninety two of Raffi's Oats and Beans because your sister loves it so, you don't say "any more barley and I'll gag" (which is what I'm thinking), but "boy, I sure love barley."  And in no time, I've forgotten all about the downside of Repeat and am pondering the upside of last night's leftovers.  Suddenly, yesterday's braised beef has barley soup written all over it. 

Now, it seems a little unfair, a touch bait-and-switch, to include a line like "3 cups leftover (anything)"  in a recipe.  Let's suppose I don't have a nice slump of tender braised beef in my fridge.  What, pray tell, (this is me, were I you) shall I do then?  Question mark.  Exclamation point.  Eh?!

Well, I often don't, and that's half the point here.  A good barley soup, at least in my book, depends on a slew of good 'shrooms and a broth that's got backbone.  Meat, meh.  I make it at least as often without as with, and because of this, I depend heavily on a few flavor bombs. 

So let's suppose you have nothing, save a yen for one swarthy, swashbuckling, beef-free barley soup.  Here's what you do.  First, you brown the bejeebers out of your onions and mushrooms.  Next, get lazy, and frugal, and devilishly clever.  Soak your dear, tiny heap of dried porcini in plenty of hot boiling water, and watch as that plain H₂O becomes pure liquid gold.  And then there's the soy.  Well, soy squared.  This part's a little unorthodox, but entirely wonderful.  A dollop of miso and smidge of soy sauce improve this soup, exponentially.  They leave no fingerprints, just richness and roundness and sultry smart shadows.  Umami, in other words, in spades.  Which is why, after "3 cups braised beef", I write "optional".  And mean it.     

Of course, let's just suppose you do want the full package, the beef and the barley, both.  Nothing's simpler, just sear and forget, especially on a wet Saturday when you're already indoors, knocking off chores.  Plus you can count yourself brilliant, since you've queued up a half week's worth of dinner in one go.  My standby brisket takes twenty minutes, tops.  This week I tried David Tanis' take, and can't get it out of my mind.  Or use your splattered-page favorite.  Whatever.  What matters is that the beef (chuck or brisket) is melting (braised or oh-so-slow-roasted) and accompanied, if at all possible, by a rich wobbly cup of its own reduced juices.  This way is very nice, too.  Especially when eaten in the company of a certain fine somebody who, yes, I see, is now five. 

Mushroom Barley Soup, with or without Beef
Yield: 6-8 generous servings

Like any soup, this is more suggestion than stern instruction.  I made it this way this week; I'll make it another next time.  Add peas, up the beef, swap out carrots for parsnips, and so it goes.  As long as you have a swaggering stock, you're golden.

About those porcini... they sound a little shi shi, and their per pound price will make your eyes bug out.  But here's the thing:  a heaping cup weighs maybe two ounces, so divide the price dramatically.  And in those few ounces is a heaping huge wollop of flavor, worth every penny.  Finally, if you're using the beef, you could skip the porcini.  Sort of.  Technically. 

1 heaping cup dried porcini, added to...
6 cups boiling water or 6 cups stock (vegetable or chicken)

2 Tbs. olive oil
1 large onion, diced
4 cups fresh mushrooms (button, cremini), quartered 
1 tsp. tomato paste
1/4 tsp. paprika
1 cup red wine
1 Tbs. miso (I like red here, but they all work beautifully)
1 tsp. soy sauce
1 heaping tsp. dried thyme
1/2 cup barley
3 carrots, chopped into 1/2" pieces
3 cups leftover braised beef, cubed or shredded, optional
1 cup leftover braising juices, the more concentrated, the better
dash vinegar (sherry, balsamic)

salt and pepper, to taste
fresh chopped parsley, for spunk

Boil the 6 cups of water.  Place dried porcini in a large, heat-proof bowl.  Pour boiling water over porcini, and let sit at least 20 minutes, or up to 4 hours.  After reviving, remove mushrooms with a slotted spoon, chop roughly, and set aside.  Don't throw away the soaking water; this is your liquid cold.  When the time comes to add it to your soup (see below), handle lightly and pour gently, so that any grit settled on the bottom stays behind.

In a heavy soup pot or dutch oven, heat oil over medium-high heat.  When shimmering, add onions, and caramelize well, 8-12 minutes, stirring every so often to prevent burning.  When onions are gold in the centers and going chocolate at the edges, tip in the fresh, quartered mushrooms, plus a half teaspoon salt.  Stir to coat mushrooms in the oiled onions, cover, and let cook 5-7 minutes, until the mushrooms have released their juices.  Remove lid, and continue cooking, 3-5 minutes, until you hear mushrooms begin to sizzle.  Now you're beginning to get a good sear.  Continue cooking mushrooms another 5-10 minutes, stirring only occasionally, until you see many sides going golden and freckled. 

Add tomato paste and paprika to onion/mushroom mixture, stir, and cook 30 seconds.  Add wine, scraping up brown bits as you go, a minute or so.  Add miso and soy, and stir to dissolve.    

Add mushroom soaking liquid (see gentle pouring note, above) or broth, soaked porcini, thyme, barley, carrots, and beef and juices (if using).  Return to a near boil, and let simmer, 20-30 minutes, until barley is toothsome and carrots are tender. 

Take a few moments to really taste and season.  There are so many layers of flavor here (how intense was your miso?  how salty your juices?).  At this juncture, I usually find it needs a bit more salt, but not much; a wee dash of vinegar, for balance; and a sprinkling of green, if I have it.   

Once it sings, you're well on your way.