remedial eating

quite a lot

I do believe apologies are in order.

March: Mea culpa.  How wrong I was.

I can't imagine what I was thinking, equivocating on about your fine self.  

Waffle, schmoffle.  You're not ambivalent in the least.  You totally have a purpose, and it is called pause.  Respite, re-calibration, ramping up.  Your job is to make sure we're sick and tired of winter, and ready and waiting for spring. Roger, that.

You're St. Patrick's Day.  Jeepers creepers.  I love any month that calls for slumps of spoon-tender corned beef, and golden roast parsnips, and soda bread so good, we ought to make it monthly.  

You're Pi Day!  Excuse to play fractions, and talk equivalents, and feast on pizza and pie, the same night.  And, on an existential note, to debate whether a properly proportioned Pac-Man is two-thirds or three-quarters of one whole.

You're old toys, re-discovered, as days remain cold, and kids dig ever deeper into closets.  Who couldn't use a second Christmas?  Your weather makes it so.

You're old games which play surprisingly like new.  Same old Uno.  Brand new kids.  Older, wiser, now able to hold cards!  Uno, open-hand, is an important first step, but somehow, it just isn't the same.  

You are new-to-us thrifted games, good games, the sort that amuse and challenge and fit between snack and homework.  My favorite.

You are unexpected gifts, logic puzzles, generously given by kind friends. (Thank you, friend.)  So small, it fits in the palm of small hands.  So addictive, it might keep one up until eleven.  Oneself, and one unnamed twelve year old. School or no school, the thing must be solved.  (It's not.  Yet.  A few more late nights.)    

And even if March is raw throats and runny noses, sick days and sleepless nights and lots of missed school, it seems like last gasps, like end parens, on a season that surely is near done.  (Surely?)  

Besides, it opened up a Monday to devour a sweet book, start to finish, between tissues and temperature-taking and tea. 

You are rain, rain, rain!  I adore rain, rain, rain.  After Winter's deep freeze, its kitty-paw snow, I'd all but forgotten that plip-plop, plip-plop.  It actually woke me up one night.  Then hypnotized me right back to sleep.

Except when you send the odd flurry of snow.  The day after Winter is over, say.  It didn't stick around, but it did inspire in my eldest an a cappella Twelve Days of Christmas revision: On the second day of Spring, it was twenty-two degrees...  

(I think, March, it's fair to say you also have a sense of humor.)

You are crunchy brown earth, too thuggish to dig, too ugly to not at least feel the itch.  I'm not one to order seeds after Christmas, to poke with a spade, eager to begin.  But I recognize that this March moment's important, this awareness that someday soon, something must be done.  

You are pre-daffodils I dare to cut, when the buds are barely more bulge than stem.  I knew I was pushing it.  I expected nothing.  It bloomed anyway.  Roger that. 

And then, there's the light, the last faded light, the final throes of Winter's soft hum.  Raging bright sun is returning with a vengeance, and I'm dusting off my soon-requisite squint.  And doubling down, drinking my fill of the intermittent, exquisite overcast.  The flannel skies, the tip-toe mornings, the pale monochrome afternoons.  Hush light.

In the past week, between clear and glare, we've been gifted a few pigeon-belly grey days.  Oyster shell days.  Damp newspaper days.  Old sock, fresh concrete, dirty mop water days.  Days with light so gauzy and fair that even laundry baskets look appealing.  Full, unfolded laundry baskets.  Did I mention I love this light?    

So while I might not call March my most favorite month, it seems I rather like it, food trenches and all.

For pie or no pie, good games or bad, we are still weeks away from spunky fresh food.  This, I cannot fix.  We indulge, right now, in mangoes and oranges, the odd far-flung berry to keep the kids from scurvy.  We pad our menus with hardy roots and leaves that aren't actually March fare, not here anyway, but which at least look and taste the part.  We dig deep into grains, nuts, seeds, and beans.  We rub elbows with roots and crucifers, until everyone involved needs corduroy patches.  

Indeed, without March through mid-April, I'm not sure I'd love roots and crucifers like I do.  It's during this last, long peninsula of winter that I double down, take stock, get serious.  When I pause long enough to pay heed to the turnips, appreciate the cabbage, give thanks for the carrot.

Ah, the old carrot.  The ubiquitous carrot.  Year-round citizen of our fridge, daily guest at our table.  It probably deserves its own place setting, by now, so regularly do we reach for its crunch.  Useful, dependable, versatile carrot.  So common the carrot, it can sometimes seem as familiar as tube socks you buy by the twelve-pack.  As dull, also.  

Or not.

What follows is a way with carrots that is many things, none of them dull.  It is the Ginger and Carrot Stir-Fry, from Naomi Duguid and Jeffrey Alford's Beyond the Great Wall.  And if you wonder why I led off with ginger, read on: it is no typo.  

This is a simple, straightforward stir-fry, a classic in most respects.  Two firm veg, cut slender and fine, for lightning-fast cooking and bold spare flavor. Blistering heat, a splash of oil, garlic and chili, for depth and smoke.  A modicum of pork, mere ounces, really, so little the authors don't include it in the title.  

Which brings us back to that intriguing title.  

Which begins, significantly, with ginger.  

Which is where things get interesting.   

One cup of fresh ginger, the ingredient list reads.  One-third of a pound.  One Pac-Man mouth's worth.  I probably don't need to tell you that that is quite a lot of ginger.  I might, however, need to explain why this lot is an excellent idea.  

I don't know about you, but I tend to think of ginger as an aromatic.  I've no qualms about using several slices in tea, or heaped tablespoons in greens, or ounces in cakes.  But it wasn't until a few years back, when I first took this recipe out for a spin, that I came to see ginger as vegetable, an ingredient in its own right.  I was, as they say, dubious.  Needlessly.  It is so, so right.

Slivered and stir-fried, something happens to ginger, something unexpected, something wonderful.  The heat seems to seal in the heat, the wok's sear mellowing the root's burn.  What remains is an invigorating warmth, a thread of zing, a welcoming glow.  

Against the simple sweet of the carrot, whose texture and shape it echoes like irony, the ginger dazzles, thrills, delights.  High drama as dinner.  Root and alter-root.  And as happy a wake-up call for carrots as any early Spring eater could ask for. 

Which brings me, March, to my second mea culpa: I called you the trenches. When will I learn?  

With meals like these, there's quite a lot to like about eating in the fine month of March.  

Ginger + Carrot Stir-Fry, with Pork
adapted from Beyond the Great Wall, by Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid

Look for fresh ginger that is firm and unblemished; wrinkly, shriveled roots will be fibrous.  Asian groceries stock excellent, inexpensive ginger, though most supermarkets carry it, also.  To matchstick the peeled carrots and ginger, I cut deep diagonal 1/16" slices, stack the slices 3-4 deep, then cut the slices into 1/16" slivers.  Presto: matchsticks!  As with any stir-fry, have all ingredients chopped and ready. The cooking itself takes under 10 minutes.  The original calls for a dozen crushed Sichuan peppercorns.  I typically use freshly ground black pepper instead, but feel free to trot out the lip-tingling original, if you've got it.  

I sometimes increase the pork to eight ounces, to please my resident carnivore.  That said, I think this would sing without any, with instead small cubes of smoked tofu, or tempeh, or even edamame, any mild toothsome bit to round out the bright roots.  If using pork, freeze 15 minutes first for simpler slicing.  

2 tablespoons peanut oil
1 tablespoon minced garlic
5-8 ounces pork tenderloin, thinly sliced into bite-size bits (1/2 x 1"), optional
2-3 dried red thai chilis
About 2/3 pound carrots (6 med., 4 lg.), peeled and cut into matchsticks (1 3/4 finished cups)
About 1/3 pound fresh ginger, peeled and cut into matchsticks (1 finished cup)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup water
several grinds black pepper
2 tablespoons soy sauce 

Have all ingredients sliced and ready.

Heat an empty wok or heavy skillet over high heat.  Add oil, swirl to coat bottom, and let heat until it shimmers, 30 seconds.  Add garlic, stir-fry 10 seconds, then add pork and chilis.  Stir-fry for 3-4 minutes, nudging pork to separate, and to expose all pieces to the hot pan, until meat is seared and coloring here and there.   

Add carrots and ginger, and stir-fry for one minute.  Add salt, and stir-fry another minute.  Add water, cover, and boil vigorously for 3 minutes.  Remove lid, and continue to boil briefly, 1-2 minutes, until roots are tender but still toothsome, and sauce has reduced to a near-syrup.  Add soy sauce and freshly ground pepper (or crushed Sichuan peppercorns).  Stir-fry another minute, taste for seasonings, adjust salt and pepper, and serve immediately. 

if we're to talk soup

I hesitate to talk soup, here.  This is misleading.  And odd.  

After all, I make soup often, once a week, sometimes twice.  I eat it more often, once a day, sometimes twice.  Three bowls are not unheard of, nor are four, but since frice is apparently not considered proper English, we'll leave it at thrice.  And that I eat a lot of soup.

 

 

Thing is, there are two types of soups in this world.  There are discrete soups, the sort you set out to make, with fixed ingredients and brief instructions and some semblance of structure.  Potato leek, say, or Tom Kha Gai, or in summer, cucumber or gingered beet.  Even our beloved go-to chili, which takes a short morning, but nothing more, and always the same eleven items.  Neat, tidy, turn-key soups. 

I make these.  I love these.  I rely on these, often.

 

 

Then there are the other ones, the rambling unwieldy ones.  Soups with no obvious beginnings, no perky, trim, tied-up-in-a-bow endings.  That take other meals as starting points.  That can only exist in ellipses (...soups...).   Soups peppered with hyphens and ranges and words like "leftover", "optional", "to taste".  Soups which may seem ambiguous at best (two carrots or four?), utterly presumptuous at worst (what 4 cups leftover roast?!).  Slippery, shifty, imprecise soups.  

These are the soups that evolve in the making, pinch of this, smidge of that.  So many good soups, so much good cooking—maybe so much good, period—plays out this way, from the hip.  Improvising.  In the moment.  In spite of Dora.  (Best thing I've read all week.  Arguably best post title, ever.  Shipoopi!)

 

 

They're the sorts of soups wherein when you hear "leeks", you know onions, shallots, scallions will do.  All in the allium family.  Wherein carrots can be doubled, or sweet potatoes omitted, or both replaced by butternut.  Parsnips welcome.  Turnips might be nice.  Bag the spuds.  Add rutabagas.  Pantry as guide, über alles.    

They're the sorts of soups more easily explained in person than in type.  That instantly makes sense when you're in the same room, rubbing shoulders, side by side.  Screens seem to be our new side by side.  They're amazing at that, in many ways.  I don't know yet if they're amazing at this.    

 

 

The trouble has always seemed to me that these soups don't belong to words. Trying to stuff them into ingredients and instructions, man, it's awkward. Elephant into tutu territory.  Print, in all its emphatic black and white, does a disservice to such soups, implying sharp edges and crisp corners where in fact there are only curves, soft and yielding.  They don't conform well to cups, quarts, and teaspoons, because they are, by nature, open-ended.  Democratic, flexible, generous.  

Which, if you ask me, makes them worthy of discussion, right there.   

 

 

For ill-suited though they may be to recipes, they fit exquisitely days, bellies, crisper drawers.  Because these soups are the seams between meals, the stitches that fasten yesterday's supper to tomorrow's lunch.  They bind Sunday's roast to Tuesday's Beef Barley, connect the dots between disparate dinners. They call on the orphans and odd-lots in our fridge, the half-head of parsley, the lonely celery, the forgotten carrots, left for limp. They honor our drippings, and trimmings, and bones, which turn water into stock, better even than wine.

And what's more?  Along the way, they take this hodgepodge, and make sense of it all.

 

 

(Not unlike the hodgepodge of a week, making sense of itself in retrospect.  I had little notion what I'd find, when I looked at the week's outtakes.  A week that has felt rather scattershot, as we leave behind winter break, breaks and colds, and creakily, gratefully, find our groove.  Turns out it's the same old January delights.  Scrubbing [preferably with pink-kerchiefed pirates].  Sorting [old art, older spices, new gifts].  Feasting [rice, tofu, shiitakes and bok].  Rushing headlong into resolutions.  I didn't always love resolutions, but boy oh boy, I adore them now.  Maybe because mine include "bake more cakes".  [Week One: Two down.  Not bad, 2013.]

And making.  And snow.  Always making and snow.)     

 

 

Delectable sense, and dinner, besides.  Just not prim and proper copy.

Oh well.

It is January, and cold, and time for deep comfort, and we can't let silly old language get between us and some very good soup.  We'll muddle through.   

 

 

All of which is to say: can we talk split pea soup?   Light, thin, rich, meaty, savory split pea, which was good, very good, and one such soup.  I ad hoc'd it from the Christmas ham bone, building and tweaking as I went, only to find, as I ate the first bowl, it's the split pea I've hankered after for years.  I ate bowl after bowl after bowl after bowl, alternately amazed and overjoyed to have finally found it.  I'm putting it here, in all its ellipses, so as to be able to find it again.  

Here is why I want to remember:

 

 

I have always loved the idea of split pea soup; rarely, the reality.  And I've cooked my way through many realities.  None were truly bad, mind you; just all pretty good, none genuinely great.  They all, to me, tasted too stodgy, too stiff, a little too Pease porridge hot.  A little, for lack of a better word, beige. Add to that their monotony—beyond a few carrots, and the odd bit of ham, most pea soups are all pea, all the time—and I knew just exactly how it wound up nine days old and cold.  

I felt like throwing up my hands in defeat.  I felt a little like Frosty, down there.    

 

 

Still.  I believed in split pea, knew it could do it, kept whispering Little Engine encouragements into pots.  I kept at it, trying out different takes, taking away what I liked from each.  From Moosewood, way back in my college kitchen, I learned the beauty of caramelizing carrots, celery and onions, low and slow. Also, the spunking-up effect of a good slosh of vinegar at the end.  From my friend Martine, I learned to love the Dutch angle, with plenty of pork and soft tender potatoes.  From Emily Franklin, I learned to finish a bowl with "fresh" (frozen) peas, plus parmesan.  And from there, I improvised, madly.

I pumped up the veg, extra carrots, sweet potatoes, because I wanted more interesting bits.  I discarded advice to add veg near the end, twenty minutes before done, for al dente tender.  Instead, I added them all early, not just a mirepoix but a mountain, because I've realized I like the results.  That roots and stock both benefit twice, first from that extra early caramelization, finally from all that time spent rubbing elbows.  Roots cooked an hour or more in broth go velvet-edged, a little bit plush, and entirely drunk on the stock they swim in.

 

 

About that stock.  It's nothing more than water, amplified by a few flavor bombs.  I used our ham bone, as I always do, but earlier and meatier than is my custom.  From my reading up on Ertesoupe, I realized I'd been a Scrooge, that I needed not only the bone but a good heap of ham, besides.  To pump things up further, the meat went in with the veg, to render its fat and crisp up its edges and generally perfume the whole pot.  Knowing how well parmesan played with the finished soup, and how beautifully rinds flavor a bland broth, I figured it couldn't hurt to toss in a few crusts.  So I did.  Have mercy.  Anything but beige.  Here—well, a simmery hour or two from here—was that savory, deep, lip-smacking umami every other split pea I'd met was missing.  

The bratwurst probably helped.  A pound was added near end.  The two porks worked in tandem, one smoky, one spiced, to fill the pot with pomp, circumstance, substance.  Vegetarian this split pea is not (though I think with a doubling of parmesan rinds, it well could be).  But it is meat the way I most like it, honored to the end, made the most of.  Diced small, it's everywhere, abundant, and yet wildly outnumbered by broth and veg, two pounds of pork to eight-plus quarts of soup.  Yum.

 

 

And soup it is, strange as that sounds.  One last note about that water.  There's a lot of water.  Six quarts of water.  Which translates to twenty four cups of water.  More, to taste.  (I used thirty two.  I know; I measured twice.  Also, two pots, to accomodate overflow.)  I realized, finally, this time around, that what I wanted was soup.  Split peas, like all legumes, expand tremendously in the cooking.  The ratio of peas:water in most recipes yields something far closer to stew, thick, stiff, nursery rhyme stuff.  So, I just kept adding water.  

And adding.  And adding.  And, lo!  I had soup!  And something wonderful, besides.  It turns out that when you add enough water to dried peas, they relax into themselves, dissolve, melt.  The end result is not only soup-ish and slurpable, but downright creamy.  Double yum. 

 

 

It looks dull.  Possibly dreadful.  It isn't either, not even close.  But I left it ungarnished, unvarnished, humble, both in the interest of honesty, and because that's how I often eat it.  The peas and parmesan at the end are fantastic, the one delivering bright pops of sweet, the other an unexpected, excellent bling.  They're also unnecessary.  This split pea stands alone.  And if we're to talk soup, we must talk straight.  And sometimes, I want a piping hot bowl yester-minute, no time to grate cheese and no thanks to peas andpleasepassanapkin,thanks!  Slurp.   

 

A Deeply Savory Split Pea Soup
inspired by Martine's exquisite split pea soup, with guidance from The Moosewood Cookbook, The Meat Cookbook, and Too Many Cooks

Good soup depends on good ham.  I'm fond of Niman Ranch hams, for their tremendous flavor, texture, and farming practices.  They also have a lovely "little ham", around two pounds, that would work well here.  Just leave out the bone (or beg one off your butcher, who often has oodles, for pocket change).  I add peas straight from the freezer; the heat of the soup perfectly warms the peas, and the cold of the peas cools the burn off the soup.

3 tablespoons olive oil
3 chubby leeks, well rinsed, quartered, white and pale green parts thinly sliced
1 very meaty ham bone, meat removed, diced 1/2" OR 4 cups good ham, diced 1/2"
5 large carrots, quartered lengthwise, diced 1/2"
3 stalks celery, minced
6 small yukon gold potatoes, scrubbed, diced 1/2"
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled, diced 1/2"
6-8 quarts water
2 cups (around 1 pound) dried split peas
4-8 ounces parmesan rinds (optional)
3 bay leaves
1 teaspoon plus 1 Tablespoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1 pound bratwurst or kielbasa, diced 1/2"
1 teaspoon dried marjoram
1 teaspoon dried thyme
freshly ground pepper
2-3 tablespoons cider vinegar, + more to taste
petite frozen peas (optional)
freshly grated parmesan (optional)

Pull out your largest, heaviest soup pot, set it on your biggest burner, and slick the bottom in olive oil.  Set over medium heat, slice your leeks, and add them to the shimmery oil with a teaspoon of kosher salt.  Give them a lazy stir, now and again, as you go about the business of ham.  If using a ham bone, carve the meat from the bone, then chop the meat into a rough 1/2" dice, removing any great veins of gristle, but leaving on the sweet fat cap along the top.  (This fat will render in the heat, adding flavor, and helping to caramelize the upcoming mountain of vegetables.  If using boneless ham, simply dice, knowing extra olive oil may be needed if the ham has no fat to speak of.)  

After ten minutes, when leeks are limp and translucent, add your chopped ham, and give all a good stir.  Go about preparing the next 4 veg (carrots, celery, potatoes, sweet potatoes), in turn, peeling, chopping and adding, as you go.  Stir with each addition and keep heat at a low-ish medium; this allows each new vegetable to give off its moisture and caramelize gently, building flavor and sweetness along the way.  After adding and stirring sweet potatoes, give them a final ten minutes to caramelize, then add your water, 6 quarts (24 cups) for a thicker, porridge-style soup, 8 (32 cups) quarts for a thinner, cream-style soup consistency.  This is a lot of water.  If need be, pull out a second, small pot at this point, to accomodate overflow.  I do this all the time.  Bear in mind, also, you can always this the soup further, later.

Add dried split peas and bay leaves, as well as the ham bone and/or parmesan rinds, if using.  Turn heat to high, bring soup to a gentle boil, then reduce heat to maintain a gentle burble.  Simmer soup, 1-2 hours, stirring occasionally, until split peas are tender to the point of dissolve.  At the 1 hour mark, irrespective of the integrity of the peas, add the pound of minced kielbasa, and Tablespoon of salt.  Stir, and continue to cook if needed, or simmer another 15 minutes, if peas are ready.  (Total cooking time will depend on the age of your peas.  My most recent peas dissolved within the hour; I've had other batches take upwards of three.)  

Once split peas have collapsed completely into the broth, and sausage has simmered for at least 15 minutes, add the dried marjoram and thyme, crushing them between your fingers as you do, and 2 Tablespoons of vinegar, stirring well to combine.  Let meld a few minutes, then taste your soup.  Are the flavors forward, and bold, and bright?  Probably not quite yet.  Gauge consistency first, adding more water if you wish it thinner.  Then, taste and adjust seasoning.  You will almost surely need more salt (ham and sausage vary greatly in salt content), upwards of 1 Tablespoon.  Add in half-teaspoons, giving a stir and a minute between additions, and tasting as you go.  You may wish for another Tablespoon of vinegar, which doesn't add sour so much as brightness and depth.  I've been known to add sherry, to good effect.  More herbs may be wanted.  Taste, taste, taste.  Continue along these lines, until everything sings.

Eat piping hot, topped by curls of parmesan, a spoonful of frozen peas, or nothing at all.  This soup keeps very well for 5 days, freezes like a dream, and reheats beautifully.  

tip my hat

I woke up last week and realized I've been living in the past, around here.  Between Spring Break slide shows and salvaged afternoons, a month sort of slunk by.  It wasn't as quiet as all that, in practice.  I don't want to bore anyone silly with our domesticities, so please feel free to page down for ace pork, the stuff of happy lunchboxes and stellar rice bowls. 

But because this is where I remember our days, I tip my hat to our April, before we commit to May. 

Last month, we raised four house finches.  Right outside our front door!  Well, we hung up a wreath, anyway  Mother finch did the rest.  Dive-bombed us for weeks, all throughout March.  Laid four blue eggs, then sat on them, ceaselessly.  Hatched them.  Fed them.  Raised them.  Launched them.  All four of them, in the space of two weeks.  Fissured shells to empty nest.  Fourteen days.  Surely, there's a parenting lesson to be had here?

(The wreath was literally just outside our door, not even twelve inches from the hinges.  Level with my shoulder.  Level with Max's shoulder.  Completely within Henry's seven-year-old reach.  Completely madcap crazy, at least from this apparently-helicopter mother's perspective.  Maybe the lesson is chill out, already?)

I cast off one sweater.  And felted another.  Anyone need a really really warm pink hoodie, extra-small? 

Must be time to cast on something new.  Que sera.

The garden exploded, lost all self-control.  Out: brown, soil, contrast.  In: stems, leaves, lush.  Everything grew tall, high, lyrical green.  Except where it's purple.  There's a lot of purple.  April, I think, is the garden's purple period.

I laughed, ungenerously, loudly, repeatedly, over the alliums' hysterical hair.  If ever a plant had a bad case of bed head...

We painted our bean poles!  And a bit of our grass.  And the tips of Zoë's Crocs.  And the tips of her toes.

Messy.  Unnecessary.  Totally excellent.

April ushered in the backyard bouquet.  There is such luxury in walking out one's door with scissors, and returning with stuff enough to fill four vases.  So what if the stuff is chive blossoms and weeds.  It is vital and free and eminently now.  

Mostly, we admire them outdoors, monitoring their progress, squealing over their arrival.

We waited on clematis; we got clematis. 

We waited on iris; we got iris. 

We waited on roses... oh, you get the picture.  April is nothing if not instant garden gratification. 

Well, except the peonies.  The peonies are a perpetual tease, bulging stalled buds for weeks on end.  They take their own slow-oh-ho-hooo sweet time, a boon for the ants, an eternity for us. 

Still, May needs something.  Any day now.  I'm sure of it. 

I debated again, as I do each year, whether I prefer the Pasque flowers as flowers, or memories.  This year, I voted for the frazzle-haired latter: Einstein on a stick, Dr. Seuss on a stem. 

We fell a little more in love with Mariah Bruehl's Playful Learning.  The recurring "Where's my math?" query is wonderful.  The timing—at day's end, during elementary homework, during dinner prep—is more than a little vexing.  Mariah's saved my hide, more peeling sessions than I can count.  

We've gone to bed with the sun, to wit later, and later.

We've gotten up with the sun, to wit earlier, and earlier.  (That up-top shot?  6:04 a.m.  Lovely light.  Ugly early.)

We've had some tired, tired afternoons.  I am not at my best on tired, tired afternoons.  It helps to have a kid who washes doll dishes for kicks. 

It also helps to have windflowers out the window, all a-bobble.  Does any flower pack more charm per square inch?  Does any anything?  

From the dryer, I've pulled mittens and shorts, wool hats and tank tops, t-shirts and scarves.  All from the same load.  All from the same week.  The flowers may be on a steady trajectory, but my goodness, Spring weather's a bit schizophrenic. 

We've played with old friends, in brand new ways, as doors opened and air warmed and playzones expanded.  We've ogled tadpoles and picnicked in parks and traipsed across creeks in ill-suited shoes.

Oh, and have you heard?  The dinosaurs went extinct.  Again.  I didn't quite catch it the first time 'round, but the second devastating asteroid was pretty entertaining.

We said final farewells to the lunar dogwood, the lilacs, the tulips, the grape hyacinths.  And after days and days of April crabapple "snow", we waved off the fruit blossoms, as well.

We welcomed the first foods from the garden, more snacks than meals, more celebration than substance.  Fresh mint, for salads and sandwiches.  Wild spring onions, a.k.a. The Allium Formerly Known As Weed.  Chives, which I never understood as a child.  Rhubarb, which I did, and which one of mine does, also.  Ten stalks, we said.  Ten stalks, we stuck to.  Enough for a bowl of splodge and three small sodas. 

And big, giant glorious collard greens!  I don't even especially like collard greens.  But I grew them myself, accidentally, a year late, from 2011's completely failed crop.  From last year's thirty sprouts, I didn't harvest one leaf; this year, I've gotten a good dozen and counting, from my single, strange Phoenix plant.  I don't understand it, but I'll take it.  Preferably slivered and sautéed in olive oil.

We spied Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail in our backyard.  And ooh'd and ahhh'd! and ran to catch peeks.

Then discovered they were eating our broccoli leaves.  Like, de-foliating them completely, in the space of a morning.  Like locusts.  Like Agent Orange.  Albeit agent orange with impossible ears and whipped cream tails.  We brought in chicken wire reinforcements.  And switched to a sort of frown-croon combo.  (We're keeping close watch on our crop of twelve strawberries).

We made our first popsicles.  We ate our first popsicles.

And our seconds, and thirds, and fourths. 

We dyed Easter eggs! 

Sheesh.  It has been awhile.

And all the while, we've been making bento pork.  Two batches in April, or maybe three.  Back up to September, and append those numbers with "dozen".  Bento pork is some very nice pork.

This pork began its life as chicken, and between the pages of Everyday Harumi.  (If you're not already on a first-name basis with Harumi Kurihara, she of our beloved gingered green beans and pork, may I recommend you introduce yourself, ASAP?).  It also belongs rightly in a rice ball (onigiri).  But I can't quite get rice balls right.  Mine always wind up rather less sphere, more schrapnel.  So bento pork it is.  And wonderful.

What this is is a deeply flavored pot of ground pork, tender and rich, salty and sweet.  If that last combination makes you pause, think terriyaki, for that's the come-hither balance struck, here.  Also, much the same ingredient list.  Mirin, sake, soy sauce and sugar are tipped into a pan with a pound of ground pork.  Then simmered for twenty.  Then eaten.  That's it. 

(This is where you abandon American notions about browning ground meats, because nothing of the sort happens here.  Think instead bolognese, rich meat slowly simmered, until soft as velvet and stumble-drunk on its braising liquid.)  

(This is also where you say: "It's a pleasure to meet you, Harumi.")

I began making bento pork last fall, to send to school in Henry's lunchbox: warm rice, black beans, plus this pork in a Foogo.  I could put a pot on as I made coffee, Monday morning, and it would be ready in time for lunch-packing.  I can't make conversation while making coffee, Monday morning.  This should tell you something about the difficulty level, here.  Also, it made enough to last the whole week long.

Or it did, until I started dipping in.  Soon enough, I found it rounded out a rice bowl spread nicely, the sort we set up sometimes, buffet-style, for supper.  A pot of hot rice, plus black beans (because all my littles love them), plus this pork, plus veg, turns little into much.  Sometimes it's as simple as canned corn and frozen peas.  Recently, there was early asparagus, braised in a little miso butter.  Sometimes, scrambled eggs.  Sometimes, slow-fried peppers.  (Ancient post.  Excellent dish.)  Often, cubes of golden tofu.  I love a fillip of pickled ginger, always.  I'm alone in that last one.  But that's the beauty of rice bowls.  Everyone assembles their own, with whatever they like.

And always, in my rice bowl, I like a bit of this.  I like it because it's meat the way I think meat's meant to be, meat as seasoning, splendid, exceptional.  This is not pork to be eaten by the pound; it is pork honored and amplified, underscored and italicized.  A tablespoon or three informs an entire bowl, mostly made up of grains and abundant veg.  Every crumb is an ambassador of flavor, every crumble, an exclamation point.  It may look like ye olde American ground meat, but it acts like aged parmesan, umami sparks flying everywhere.  We had eight for dinner, last Tuesday night, and one pot fed us all, handsomely.  With several of us returning for seconds.   And enough leftover for three days' lunch.  I don't know about you, but I can tip my hat to that. 

Bento Pork
Adapted from Everyday Harumi, Harumi Kurihara

Harumi's original recipe calls for 7 ounces of meat, destined as it is for onigiri.  (It also calls for finely chopped chicken, which is also excellent.)  I've scaled the recipe up to a pound, the standard packaging for pork and a fine quantity for a week's worth of meals.  Mirin and sake are available in the Asian section of most groceries, though they are significantly less expensive at an Asian grocery.  Also, please note that this is plain pork, not ground pork sausage or meatloaf mix. 

1 pound ground pork
6 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons sake
4 tablespoons mirin
2 1/2 tablespoons sugar

Measure soy sauce, sake, mirin and sugar into small saucepan, set over medium-high heat.  Add ground pork, crumble gently with a wooden spoon, and bring to a strong simmer.  It will look hopeless and a little ghastly, for a spell.  Press on; it all works out in the end.  Turn heat down to a lowish-medium, keeping pork at a gentle simmer, and cook 20-25 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Pork is finished when almost all the liquid has been absorbed, and you've a remaining mahogany syrup of several tablespoons.  Serve with hot fresh rice, with all manner of extras.   

under the wire

This past week, we've been slammed by sunshine.  Then rain.  Then sun.  

Rain.  Sun.  Rain.

Repeat.  

We've appreciated anew the reckless hellebore, that hardy soul that blooms when no one else dares. 

And realized with a start that our first flowers will soon pass.  And welcomed the parade of bulbs that will follow.

We've tidied an extra bit, not an extra lot, but a bit.  It is astounding how many spider webs lurk where you don't look. 

(Don't look up.  Because what you don't see—I've recently decided, in a long overdue analog to what you don't know—cannot, in good conscience, be dirty.)

We've been reveling in nights that are light until eight, walking, park-ing, reading, playing, drinking it in. 

(The mornings, ugh.  Less revelry, more dishevelry.  I hereby propose to the Daylight Savings Supreme Council that we shake things up a bit, gain an hour on both ends.  All in favor?)

The birds are back.  In spades.  In legions.  Sizing up our backyard birdhouses like so many sunbelt speculators, ca. 2004.  And apart from my newfound crow-wariness, the grand hubbub has been all kinds of fun.

We've watched our first daffodil open, and our second, and our fifteenth-sixteenth-seventeenth- ...  And with that, brought the year's first cut flower inside.  Seems like that ought to be a holiday right there, doesn't it?

We've made pie twice, and eaten it thrice, and practiced our 3.14159.  Because Pi Day really is a holiday.  An unofficial one, maybe, but no less tasty for it. 

We finished off the last of last Fall's caramel, and held vigil over the bare patch where we know to expect rhubarb.  Nothing ... nothing ... nothing ... something!  Too small to photograph, heliotrope elf torpedos, but there they were, Wednesday, right on schedule.

We've spied new growth rubbing shoulders with old, everywhere.  Green spears heading north, old brown blooms dangling south.  Little shoes, suddenly too small.  Pants that worked last month, all wrong this. 

We stumbled upon Erin Steed's latest gem, and fell (again) head over heels for her exquisite illustrations.  And one young boy's exquisite patience.  And a hat-wearing penguin.  And... oh, just go.

Go. 

Now. 

Read.  

We've found the first fly, the first ant, the first ladybug.  And after weeks of searching, the first roly poly.  Can you see it, up top, in those dusty cupped hands?  It was tiny, tiny, tinier even than those rhubarb tips.  But when you've been building habitats and hanging "VACANCY" signs and up-ending rocks since February, size is so not an issue.

Bubbly mudpuddles have taken up residence under every soap pump.  There's a fine layer of grit on the bottom of the bath tub.  We've tracked in enough mud to fill a raised bed.  It sounds almost romantic, doesn't it?  It's not.  It's just dirty.  But it's a good dirty.

I've made emergency runs to the basement for shorts.  Fielded—and punted—popsicle requests.  Refereed water fights in the backyard.  At half-past seven.  No goosebumps in sight. 

Yes, those are bare elbows, knees and toes, and yes, those are daffodils in the background.  Sort of like last year, emphasis on the "not at all".  Seventy-seven it was, this past Wednesday.  Next Tuesday's projection: 81º.  That would be Tuesday, March 20.  As in Tuesday, Equinox Eve.  Must be Summer.  Late Winter.  New World Order.  Whatever.  Let's go with a sneak preview of Spring.

Here is where I confess I am Toad.  A touch curmudgeon, dragging my feet, not quite ready to crawl out from under winter's covers. 

Not entirely Toad.  I would never ever say to Spring, point-blank, “Blah.”  I want to skip through the meadows and run through the woods and swim—okay, splash—in the river, I do!  Just, you know, later.  Just not quite yet.  I’ve got knitting in progress!  Basement sewing unfinished!  To-do’s still to do!  Can I burrow down one more month? 

(We've also taken cat naps, since the Daylight Savings Supreme Council seems to be permanently Out of Office.)

This is why I need Frogs in my life, like daffodils and insistent suns and small children in triplicate.  They cajole my slow self into making the switch.  They keep me honest.  They remind me to look up.  And between the bright hot, there are still those damp days.  We can squeeze in some wooly goodness, when the sun don't shine.  Work puzzles, string beads, while sitting out the drizzle.  And before the calendar officially flips, we can sneak in pork and apples, under the wire.

If you've been around here any length of time, you'll have noticed I don't talk meat-centered mains very often.  This is because I don't eat meat-centered mains very often.  Meat appears most weeks, if not most nights, but when it does, it is ordinarily a bit player.  Apart from the odd braise or festive shish kebab, meat mostly makes its way onto our table stir-fried with vegetables, consorting with tofu, or tossed with abundant greens, beans, grains or legumes.  A + 2B family, we are not.

Except on those rare occasions when we are.  This pork, these apples: they are the rare.  I've been making this dish for some ten years, now, often once a year, always regretting not more.  A single tenderloin is sliced thin and seared, as much for the handsome crust this delivers, as for the golden bits they leave behind.  When the medallions are bronzed, but not yet done, they're set aside to rest, and to give the apples and onions their turn. 

I didn't mention the onions.  The onions are important.  They are tiny little things, slivered, transluscent, but the source of that unmistakable allium baritone.  The onions are savory harmony to the apples' tart-sweet melody, a caramelized vegetal counterpoint to the rich disks of meat. 

Rich?  Oh, yes, that.  There's a pan sauce, also, built of booze, cider and cream.  And of course those crusty bits, good as gold, flavor bombs that become one with the sauce.  Well, and thyme, which I shouldn't underplay, because its soft herbal zip is evident throughout.  This all gets reduced, concentrated, until syrupy, whereupon the pork re-enters the swim.  Everything completes finishing school together, until pork, apples, onions, and cream can complete each other's sentences.  I could clutter another paragraph with ecstatic adjectives, or I could just encourage you to give it a go.  You can still sneak it in under the winter wire, if you wish.  But really, there's no deadline on delicious. 

Pork Tenderloin with Apples, Onions, Thyme + Cream
adapted from The Best Recipe, from the Editors of Cook's Illustrated

Long ago, I increased the apples and onions, both, as I always crave more of the caramelized chunks.  Ditto the sauce.  You could quadruple it, easy.  As to apples, use a good firm sweet-tart apple, such as Pink Lady or Granny Smith.  Both hold their shape beautifully.  As to "cider", I last used one Juicy Juice box, leftover from a party months ago.  And as for "Applejack", I used Tuaca, a completely unrelated liquor with a sweet, vanilla edge.  The original called for sage; I like thyme.  My point: apple varieties aside, this recipe is deeply forgiving.  Don't be held back by the details. 

1 pork tenderloin (1 - 1.5 pounds), sliced into 3/4" medallions
1 teaspoon kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon butter + 1 tablespoon oil
3 firm, tart apples, such as Pink Lady or Granny Smith, peeled, cored, and cut into 1" chunks
1 medium yellow onion, sliced thin
3 tablespoons applejack, brandy, rum, cognac, anything heady
1 cup apple cider or juice
1/2 cup chicken broth or water
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons thyme, dry or fresh
1/2 cup heavy cream
additional salt and pepper, to taste

Arrange pork slices in a single layer upon paper towel and blot dry, then sprinkle both sides generously with salt and pepper.  In a large, heavy skillet, heat oil over high heat until it shimmers.  Working in batches, with tongs, carefully lay several slices of tenderloin in the hot pan, leaving an inch between pieces to ensure browning, not steaming.  Let sit, undisturbed, 2-3 minutes, or until the bottom side is well-browed and releases easily.  (If oil begins to smoke, turn heat down slightly.)  Flip medallions, and sear on reverse, until golden.  Remove medallions to a clean plate, and repeat with remaining pork, adding another splash of oil, if needed, to keep bottom covered.  Reserve crusty skillet with all its glorious brown bits for step two.

With the pork seared and resting, sauté your apples and build your pan sauce:  In the same skillet you used to sear the pork, melt butter and oil over medium heat, and swirl to distribute.  Add apples and onions, stir to coat, and sauté, stirring occasionally, until apples are browning at the edges, 4-8 minutes.  Add apple cider/juice and brandy to apples and onions, and bring to a boil, scraping pan bottom with a wooden spatula to loosen the browned bits.  Boil gently until liquid reduces to a glaze, 3-4 minutes.  Increase heat to high, add broth (or water), any accumulated pork juices from the resting plate, salt and thyme (if dried, rub between fingers as you add it, to release its oils and brighten its flavor).  Boil until liquid reduces, thickens and becomes syrupy, 3-4 minutes.  Add cream; continue to boil, until reduced by half, 2-3 minutes.

Reduce heat to medium, and return pork medallions to the pan, turning meat to coat and nestling them down amidst the apples.  Simmer pork in the pan sauce until cooked through, 5-10 minutes (the USDA recently lowered the safe cooking temperature for pork to 145º; I cut open the thickest slice, and look for clear juices and a faint blush of pink).  Taste, and adjust salt and pepper to suit.  Transfer to a serving platter, spooning apples, onions and sauce over all, 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.