remedial eating

constant and steady and true

I went for a bicycle ride, last Wednesday.  I hadn't meant to, hadn't really the time to, had other things to do, in fact.  But I went anyway. 

I went because the weather was mild and balmy and, if not warm, because fall mornings are never warm, at least not finger-numbing.  Temperatures were to climb toward eighty, that day.  They very nearly did, short only a degree.  Hot enough, anyway, that I had to go unearth shorts from the basement for small people after school. 

Shorts. 

Late October. 

That's just crazy. 

Anyway, I went.  It seemed wasteful not to.  Borderline insulting.  Like throwing out perfectly good food just because you're feeling bored, just because you've eaten the same soup, three days running.  I kicked myself out the door.  "Here is abundance.  Don't you dare squander." 

Clouds were a myth.  Breezes were filmy.  The sky was, well, you can see for yourself.  Cerulean.  Indigo.  Beyond blue.  The leaves were doing what deciduous leaves do, parading shamelessly, all pomp and circumstance.  I'm no fan of pomp, as applied to daily life, but I think it suits Ginkos and Sweet Gum swimmingly.  

(Read into this carpe diem, if you will, but I've never really been the seize the day sort.  It's always seemed too simplistic, too stilted, too lacking in the full disclosure department.  Because time spent here costs hours elsewhere, usually accounted for under the column called "sleep".  I'm down with that, good, even, but I think these things need to be said. 

Maybe, Dead Poets don't mind GAAP, transcend somehow debits and credits.  Maybe, the Romans didn't know from ROI.  Probably, I'm just a stick in the mud.  Anyway, I went because I knew these days were numbered.  Because all logic dictated I should.  Because I thought I ought to.  Romantic, no?) 

I had no idea.

Tuesday morning—six days past last Wednesday, while our pumpkins were still pumpkins and not yet jack-o-lanterns, less than one week after my shorts-fetching mission—we awoke to snow.   

Snow.

Late October.

Puts shorts to shame, in the crazy department.

We got off scot-free, in the scheme of things.  Wind, rain, a white flurry, gone by mid-morning.  The sudden blustering away of every last leaf.  The prioritizing of "hats and mittens" to the top of my To Do.  

Meanwhile, much of the East coast went under.  

I've gone back and forth, all week, trying to reconcile these two realities.  The glory, the wreckage.  The glow, the devastation.  The desperate beauty, the desperate people, the millions, without.  Being human, and rational, by which I mean fallible, I want to call it a contradiction.  As in, make up your mind already, Mother Nature, what'll it be, good or evil? 

I'm not really so deluded, of course.  Nature doesn't do black and white; if nothing else, last week's ride taught me that.  Weather is splendid, and fickle, and wretched, and almost entirely beyond our control.  And since we seem bent on squandering what control we have, and then denying all culpability, ...

Oy.  Sorry.  Tangent.  Potatoes.    

I've had potatoes on the brain all week, maybe because they are weather's inverse.  Potatoes are constant and steady and true, there when you need them, dependable.  When fair-weather veg vanish, there are potatoes.  When the store keeps not happening, there are potatoes.  When in doubt, or distress, or dismay, there are potatoes.  Particularly, at the moment, in my pantry.

There is a Potato Situation in my pantry.  This may be the other reason I've had potatoes on the brain.  Our fall CSA ended this week, a fact that mostly makes me want to cry.  I've adored and inhaled the stream of fresh veg, and stayed on top of nearly all of it, the greens and lettuces, the squash and the yams, the turnips and radishes and whatnot.  I say "mostly" because I'm slightly relieved to turn off the potato faucet.  I say "nearly" because I am sitting on a not-so-small mountain of spuds.      

I am not a white potato person.  I don't dislike white potatoes, per se.  I like them alright, at least well enough.  I even make them, now and again, mostly in soup, or summer's Niçoise, or braised into fragrant, warmly spiced curries. 

But I rarely think about potatoes, consider them food, the thrust of a meal. I don't crave them, don't hunger for them, and so rarely prepare them.  It finally dawned on me, two years back, to bake a potato for my kids (!)  Around the same time, it occurred to me that I'd never really made them mashed potatoes (!!)  (Does anyone else have black food holes like this?  And what do you do with white potatoes?)  It took another two years, until now, to realize I'd stopped roasting spuds.  Fortunately, my mountain arrived, inciting panic stirring memories.  

The thing is, I once prepared these potatoes all the time: roasted hotly in olive oil, stubbled with garlic, spiked with rosemary, until the insides turned to cream, and the outsides crisped and caramelized.  Years ago, when my oldest was a babe, my time limited, my skills and money moreso, I made these potatoes frequently.  They were fast, and easy, and required few ingredients, and never failed, and always delighted.  I made them for company, because they were worthy.  I made them for us, because they were tasty.  I made them for Mondays, because.  I can't explain when or why they were dropped.  Only that I'm grateful The Situation brought them back.   

These particular potatoes hail from Jerry Traunfeld's The Herbfarm Cookbook, a gem of a book from a gem of a cook.  I've mentioned Traunfeld once before, and have half-a-dozen causes to mention him again, but for now, all we need to discuss is his genius for marshalling flavor.  This "cook" business may sound like slander, given his award-winning career as a chef, previously here, now here.  But in print, Traunfeld thinks and writes like a cook, like a You or a Me in a standard home kitchen, with ambivalent tools and ordinary ingredients and an actual life beyond the four burners.  This, from a chef, takes extraordinary skill.  As does the ability to take four ingredients and transform bland roots into tastebud bombs.

Roasted potatoes are nothing revolutionary, nor nothing new, unless you're me. That said, there are a handful of details that seem to take them from good to glorious.  I've found par-boiling is essential, as is ample salt in the pot.  Raw potatoes put in a hot oven always wind up dry, and squeaky, and wizened, and sad.  Potatoes allowed a ten minute head start in a properly salted, boiling hot bath become irresistably tender-hearted.

A hot oven helps lock in your gains, as does a loose wrist with the olive oil. Together, high heat and a good gloss create this perfect sort of storm, locking in moisture, searing flat sides, burnishing the odd corner to something like crunch.  

Again, standard roast potato operating procedure.  (As best I understand it. Further education welcome.)  But then—and this is pure Traunfeld—there are the two add-ins.  Before the olive oil meets the potatoes, before the potatoes meet the heat, the oil is amended by four cloves of minced garlic, plus four tablespoons' fresh rosemary.  Ordinary ingredients.  Extraordinary quantities. These aren't so much seasoned as inundated, which is a fine fate for a potato.

The spuds wind up tweedy with rosemary, which sizzles until almost crisp in the oil, and whispers its piney, resinous way deep into the mild white of the root. The garlic alternately mellows and roasts, going amber in spots and ochre in others, lending a heady sticky sweet.  And the potato is the foil for it all, the silent hero, the very good sport.  Its insides go enviably creamy, soft and yielding, welcoming.  Its starchy outsides catch on the hot sheet, making excellent edges to nibble and ponder.  It upholds all that flavor, fragrant and bold, with a quiet, forthright confidence.  Which is, after all, what it does best, the steadfast potato, constant and true.  

Rosemary Garlic Roasted Potatoes
adapted from The Herbfarm Cookbook, by Jerry Traunfeld

Traunfeld calls these Herb-Roasted Potatoes, and opens them up to thyme, savory, sage, and/or oregano.  I can never get past rosemary.  Your choice.  Also, if you have fleur de sel, that fancypants French salt, this is the place to use it, a final crumble adding irresistable crunch and bling to the hot spuds.  That said, I usually use a flurry of kosher crystals, also lovely.  Finally, the original recipe recommends 15-20 minutes total roasting time, though I find they take 20-30 minutes in my oven to reach the optimal creamy/crispy apex. You'll just have to test a few along the way.

2 pounds small, waxy potatoes, such as fingerling, Yukon Gold, or red boilers
2 1/2 teaspoons salt
4 tablespoons rosemary needles, stripped, roughly chopped
4 garlic cloves, minced
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
fleur de sel or additional salt for finishing
freshly ground pepper, to taste

Parboil Potatoes:  Wash potatoes, leave skins on, and halve or quarter, depending on size, for pieces no larger than 1".  Place potatoes in a large saucepan with 2 quarts of cold water and 2 teaspoons of salt.  Bring to the boil over high heat, and continue to boil until potatoes can be pierced with a knife tip, but only just, about 10 minutes.  Remember, they will finish cooking in the oven.  Drain potatoes in a colander, and set aside. 

Roasting:  Preheat the oven to 425°, and place a rack in the lower third.  Place drained potatoes in a large mixing bowl, and toss with olive oil, rosemary, garlic, and remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Spread seasoned potatoes in a single layer on a large, rimmed baking sheet.  (Potatoes will hold, at this point, 2 hours at room temperature, or overnight in the refrigerator.)  Roast potatoes until edges are burnished and surfaces golden, 20-30 minutes, testing a few along the way to ensure insides are still creamy.  Serve piping hot.    

this won't do

It appears I have neglected fall. 

Obviously, this won't do.

After all, fall is my favorite season, October my favorite month.  Or maybe it's my almost-favorite month; I may pull a switcheroo in a few weeks, re-cast my vote on behalf of November.  I can't possibly commit, this early on.  Better to go with the season itself.  

Either way?  I can't help but bear witness. 

Because fall is when the weather turns lovely, becomes what I think a summer should be.  The nasties—heat, humidity, mosquitoes—leave town, with plenty of rain taking their place.  The nights are cool, the days, sometimes sunny, punctuated by plenty of gray.  Temperatures swing between fifties and seventies, sweaters and shirt-sleeves, hot oats and cold cider.  Absolutely perfect, in other words.  The summer of my dreams, slightly delayed.

(Did I mention I'm from Seattle?  Where summer as often means fleece as one-piece?)      

There are puddles for jumping, and breezes for bicycling, and just-sunny-enough days for fairy-house building.  

(Apparently, in Ohio, fairies need more than the standard issue leaf-and-twig hut.  I didn't ask Zoe for details, but she seemed certain they needed four walls and a roof.  It does get nippy.  I can't blame them.)

Fall is when every clearing of the table for homework winds up looking like some trite still life.  Like the colors can't help themselves.  Like sunset and harvest are the only hues allowed.

Fall is when coat zippers need waxing, after their long summer hibernation.  And while we're at it, satchel zippers, also, and bird feeders, filling, and the last of the garden tomatoes, gathering.

And the very last.  

And the very very last.

And the very very very last.  

We've harvested our last at least six times, now.  Ditto the zucchini, which by rights should be toast, two tinies of which were spotted, just yesterday.  Ditto also the green beans, transitioning toward shelly, still putting out, despite a few frosts.  

Apart from the chard and kale, both champs, the harvest is nothing to write home about.  The tomatoes are on the sour side; the bean yield, miniscule.  But the thrill, for some reason, is inversely proportional.  And the amounts allow beans to become a math moment.  Which leads to groan-worthy bean counting jokes.  All of which makes me feel endlessly better about putting off "rip out vegetables" for three weeks.  Maybe four...

The flowers have proven no less generous, soldiering on despite several nighttime freezes.  As everything around them goes withery brown, the stalwarts carry on, all the more stunning for it.  There are mums, of course, which never fail to tickle, so boisterous and raring, all "Winter?  What winter?"

But it is the others, the true blooms and elegants, that dazzle and astound in equal measure.  Mums, I don't know, they just look hardy.  Like the Land's End of flowers, ubiquitous, sturdy.  But windflowers, toad lilies, pink-petalled roses? They seem fragile things, wispy, frail.  To the eye, anyway.  Underneath?  Abs of steel.    

(And with all due respect to Mademoiselle Dickinson?  

Hope is the thing not only with feathers, but with petals and buds at the end of October.) 

The foliage isn't too shabby, either.  Our morning school walks are a russety shuffle, as the oaks finally begin to let loose.  Afternoons, when our route takes us under maples, we might as well be Sigourney, so crimson's the carpet.  

Driving into the country, yesterday, it felt for all the world like blizzard conditions.  Only blizzard conditions brought to you by Ted Turner, all brilliant color, no black and white. 

For all that, we've a few weeks of splendor ahead yet, as we stand on this cusp between full and empty.  Our hawthorne and honey locust are almost bare.  Our crabapple's so bald, it might as well be February.

But our dogwood and hyacinth are just now turning color.  The oak delivers leaf piles right up through Thanksgiving.  Their days are numbered, and they well know it, and they seem intent on going out in a blaze of glory.  Amen.  

Most days, fall follows us right indoors.  My hand slips into my pocket for keys, comes up instead with acorns galore.  Pinecones and tissues go through the wash.  Walnuts and small nuts we can't quite identify accumulate everywhere. After last year's hiatus, due to the crud, we were doubly happy to get in a batch of leaf-dipping.  

Fall may, to you, smell of apples and spice, the leaves' funk and ferment, the thrill of fresh air.  Yes, those.  But to me, I think it will always, also, be tinted with beeswax's honeyed sweet. 

Fall, to my kids, means unearthing The Fall Box, which to them might as well be The Halloween Box.  Or, more properly, "THE HALLOWEEN BOX!!!!!!"  Yes, it contains our acorn and bat stamps.  And indeed, there are the odd wool felt leaves.  

But the immediate excitement is directed toward all things All Hallow's Eve: the old outgrown costume bits, and artifacts from Octobers past, and especially the excellent loot from what we have come to realize are Mamo's annual Halloween box.  

Thus begins weeks of glow-in-the-dark necklaces, and goofy glasses, and appropriately-themed duct tape bracelets.  (You didn't think we were all beeswax and dried leaves, did you?  When there is outrageous duct tape to be had?  Oh, c'mon.)  

And, since this year's haul included twenty tiny spiders, we hung two bags of fake webbing, out front.  I do not, as a rule, decorate for Halloween, but can I tell you, four dollars have rarely delivered such fun?  

Of course, there are bad jokes.  Halloween begs bad jokes.  

Q: "Why are witch twins so confusing?"  
A:  "You can never tell which witch is which."  

(Told you.)

Fall is when we riffle through the construction paper for orange, black, yellow and green.  When jack-o-lantern patterns are trialled in 2-D.  When ghosts appear everywhere, on paper, in meringue.  

It is first (double) batches of everyday cocoa mix.  And ruling one mini-marshmallow per year, reasonable.  Then re-considering.  Twelve marshmallows?  Really?  Yeah, no.  Because, come middle school, that makes for a lot of marshmallows.  Revision to Parenting Code 139.00179:  one mini- per year, up to age 10.       

In fall, pumpkins come home from farm field trips, an easier "yes" than the alternative, newborn piglets.  This necessitates the cooking of a pumpkin, which all but requires the baking of a pumpkin pie.  I highly recommend the baking of a pumpkin pie, several weeks prior to Thanksgiving.  (Actually, I highly recommend the baking of a pumpkin pie, several weeks prior to anything.)  But right now, absent turkey and trimmings, pumpkin pie has the spotlight all to itself.  Few things are as worthy.  

Does it sound like I'm here to talk pies today?  I am not.  I am no baker of pies. I love them, pumpkin particularly, and can muddle my way through, inelegantly. But all I can tell you by way of wisdom is that homemade pumpkin makes for an especially delicate filling, and to tip in a heaping teaspoon of cardamom, and to otherwise follow Libby's label to a T.  (Yes, I'm suggesting you follow the canned pumpkin recipe.  Without, you know, ever opening the can.)    

No, I'm here today to talk up another orange lovely, specifically the sweet potato.  Specifically, the sweet potato and fellow fall veg, aswim in a warm, fragrant coconut milk curry.  Specifically, and delightfully.  

I wrote this up first for the fall Edible Columbus, and nearly forgot to mention it, here.  It's easy to do, the forgetting, magazine deadlines being what they are.  There are those among you for whom this is standard, and I'm finally beginning to bend my mind around it.  But it still seems awfully peculiar to me to be hunting down sweet potatoes in high July.

No excuse, mind you, for missing this korma.  Missing this korma won't do at all.    

A korma—and I'm generalizing wildly here—is a catch-all for an Indian braised curry.  Eloquently spiced, often creamy, deeply flavored, always balanced, a korma is a treat and a half.  There are chicken kormas, and lamb and beef also, and all manner of vegetable-based kormas, my favorite.  Today's korma fits into that last category, and eats like a love letter to fall.   

Like all good kormas, this one is built on aromatics—onions, garlic, a pile of minced of ginger—softened and mellowed and sincerely browned.  Mustard seeds fry in the oil alongside, adding their nutty addictive crunch. Warm spices bloom briefly, coriander, turmeric, plus just enough chili for background blush. Firm vegetables follow, white potatoes, cubed sweets, plus, if you wish, cauliflower and/or kale.  These are joined by tomatoes and coconut milk, the former a foil to the latter's rich lush.  As the tubers and crucifers braise away in the sauce, the sauce thickens and intensifies.  Meanwhile, the aromatic gunge built at the outset infiltrates both, a rather excellent incursion.  

Toward the end, I like adding some sweet green thing, green beans in season, frozen peas, any time.  I also like a tin of chickpeas tipped in.  The buff velvet nubs blend in like old friends.  Once everything's in, there's the matter of seasoning, a final, brief, critical step.  First bites may be dull, as the real seasoning must wait until the braising and reducing is done.  Never fear.  Salt, and sugar, and lime juice, in turn, are added and sampled and tweaked until grand.  Don't be shy.  When the quantities are right—and your buds will know—sauce and vegetable will suddenly sing.    

We ate it tonight with a mound of basmati, which soaks up the mellow, rich sauce brilliantly.  Naan is nice, also, and I'm already anticipating leftovers wrapped in tomorrow's crêpes.  

This sounds strange, I realize, like leftovers without borders, like tupperware run amok.  But it comes off like a cheat's curried sweet potato dhosa.  A well-fed, albeit inauthentic, cheat.  I'm not normally keen on shortcuts and cheating, no more in cooking than anywhere else.  But when cheating involves a scoop of sweet potato korma?  This will do, very nicely indeed.        

Fall Vegetable Korma
adapted from Plenty, by Diana Henry

This is a mild, ecumenical curry, which travels well throughout the season. Add the last zucchini, or the first cauliflower, or ribbons of kale, as summer’s green beans give way to fall’s greens.  As with all curries, leftovers are wonderful.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 teaspoons brown mustard seeds
4 garlic cloves, minced (2 teaspoons)
1 ½ inch fresh ginger, peeled, finely chopped (2 tablespoons)
1 fresh red chile, seeded and chopped, or 1 whole dried arbol chile
½ teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon salt, plus 1 teaspoon, or to taste
2 small sweet potatoes, peeled, cut into 1” chunks (3 cups)
6 ounces waxy white potatoes, peeled, cut into 1” chunks (1 cup)
12 ounces fresh tomatoes, chopped (or 15 oz. tin diced tomatoes, drained of juices)
1 cup regular coconut milk, well-shaken
1-3 teaspoons sugar, to taste
8 ounces green beans, cut into 2” lengths (optional)
1 15-ounce tin chickpeas (optional)
1 cup frozen green peas
juice of ½-1 plump lime
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped

In a large, heavy saucepan, heat oil until shimmering. Add onion and fry, over medium-high heat, stirring regularly, until browning, 5 minutes. Add mustard seeds, and continue to cook until onions are bronzed and sticky, lowering heat as needed to prevent burning, 2-3 minutes. Add garlic, ginger and chili, reduce heat to medium, and cook 3 minutes. Add turmeric and coriander and cook another minute, to meld.

Add tomatoes, sweet potatoes, white potatoes and 1 teaspoon salt, then stir to coat with aromatics.  Cook 4 minutes to relax tomatoes, then add coconut milk, plus enough water to just cover vegetables, ½-1 cup.  Bring to a steady simmer and hold, cooking until potatoes are tender, 10-15 minutes. The sauce will thicken, and should generously coat the vegetables. 

Add beans, and simmer until just tender, 4-5 minutes.  Add frozen peas, and simmer 1 minute.  Remove from heat, add juice of half a lime, and begin the final seasoning.  The first bite will be underseasoned, intentionally, to allow for all the recent reducing.  In this final step, you'll add salt, and likely sugar, and pepper, and possibly more lime juice, in turn.  Add pinches, stir, taste, and adjust, until everything is bright and in balance.  You will want more salt, and likely sugar, possibly pepper, probably more lime, until everything is bright and balanced and round.  Pinch and stir and taste and repeat, until dull is a distant memory.  Stir in chopped cilantro, and serve.   

goodbye, hello

It's a little blurry.  Sorry about that.  There was a small leaf situation in front of the lens.  Shouldn't be a recurring problem.  They're all gone now, blown down in last week's bluster.

Fall flew the coop last week.  I realize we've another month yet before it's official, but we all know a season's soul doesn't much mind the datebook.  

(I, on the other hand, often do, and I noticed Thanksgiving's rapidly approaching.  So do please feel free to scroll right on down to a bang-up sweet potato side, if you're in the market.  Sweet potato and bacon fat.  No offense taken.  I'll be down soon.)

(And actually, while we're on the topic, much of our menu hails from here: cream biscuits, bacon-braised brussel sprouts, maybe this shaved fennel + mushroom salad, definitely this chocolate pie.  In case you have any loose ends to tie up.)

Me, I wanted to pause a moment, say a proper goodbye to fall.   I'm in need of a little eulogy.  No, better, a commemoration.  Maybe both. 

To autumn, then.  It's been swell.

Ginko, oak, pear, sweet gum: your stamina pleases me no end.  You are, I've learned, the final act, and you don't take your duties lightly.  Under any other circumstances, your flamboyant crimson-amber-gold would be gaudy, but in quickening, dark November?  Spot on.  A final riot to ready us for winter's monochrome.  

So long, filigree trees, stained glass leaves, filtered light from threadbare canopies. 

Au revoir, actually, all you leaves.  You've filled our hands, our pockets, our boots, our days.  We never got back to the beeswax this year, but instead painted and stamped and pressed and compiled.  And built and buried and tunneled and jumped.  I've decided each season comes equipped with its very own abundant building material: fall's leaves, winter's snow, spring's mud, summer's sand.  (Dear Universe: Excellent planning, and well done.)   

We've got one final rake to do, then to the shed's archives they go.  Time to move snow shovels to the head of the class. 

Bye for now, pleasant weather and shirtsleeve afternoons.  We've been flirting with freezing, all month long, but we've also enjoyed a stupendous November.  Several days in the sixties, a red letter seventy.  On my birthday, no less.  (Dear Universe, P.S.: Many thanks!)   But there's this palpable shift, brisk to bracing, that happens here, sometime around the end fall.  This fall, that shift happened last week.  And even if you Seattle folk beat us to snow (???), we've already dabbled in the lower twenties. 

We'll catch up with you yet, just wait and see.

Farewell, zinnias.  You rocked our garden for months, early July right through the first frost.  But crisp doesn't suit you in the least.  Let's re-seed next spring. 

Dear ancient roses: how do you do it?  You're this neon spark in an otherwise-brown landscape.  You, and those industrious orangeity-orange daisies.  We may have fresh flowers on our groaning board, yet.  Fingers crossed...

Adios, for now, outdoor field trips.  I wondered whether even November was pushing it.  But with a hearty band of fifth-graders and a Surviving in Nature theme, it seemed within the possible realm.  And the day dawned crisp but dry and clear.  And I learned so much I'd be embarassed by my ignorance, if I weren't thrilled with my newfound knowledge.  (Don't burn logs with vines: poison ivy smoke can kill.  Gypsy moths can wipe out whole tree stands in a weeks.  If looking for water, first find the sycamore, because "it likes to keep its toes wet".  Who knew?  And how many lifetimes would it take to scratch the veneer of the surface?)  

Even if the flint was devilishly difficult to work. 

I'm not moping, mind you, not mourning in the least.  Fall is my favorite, but winter's a close second, in my (possibly) oddball book, anyway.   

There are candles to glow, and fires to burn, and indoor pleasures masquerading as escapes from the cold.  And outdoor adventures, I'm counting on it.  No hunkering down, here, just a turn of the dial. 

So goodbye, fall.  You've had a fine run.  Same time, next year, we'll be ready and waiting.

And hello, winter.  Welcome back, old friend.  Hello hats, mittens, balaclavas, board games, cold noses, colder toes, carols, Christmas, birthdays, brrrrrr days, sleds, snow.  All that lovely jazz.  I am so ready. 

And hello, sweet potatoes.

Sweet potatoes, of course, are no more citizens of winter than are these next several pre-solstice weeks.  They've been popping up at our market, in these parts anyway, since the early days of September.  But I always hold out, while summer's best bleed into fall, the eggplant and greens and last windowsill tomatoes.  It seems a shame to squander the bounty.

But right around the time of that first bone-chilling breeze, a line invisible to all but me is crossed, and my own personal sweet potato season begins.  That line is behind me.  I'm ready for that, also.

My sweet potato love runs deep, if not wide, usually teeter-tottering between straight-up baked sweet spuds in their jackets, and this roasted salad with black beans, lime, feta and cilantro.  It's a rut, I admit, but a delicious rut, one I'm more than contented to settle into.  Or was, I guess.  Until last year.           

Last year, I tasted a sweet potato like no other, prepared on the fly by my mother-in-law.  There were sweet potatoes, clearly, cooked and puréed, and I thought, when I dolloped, that that was that.  And then I tasted.  And paused.  And had to begin again.  Because behind that ordinary earthy-sweet, lay this wicked backbone of smoke and salt and flavor and what exactly?  I couldn't quite pin it, had a second spoonful, a third, and finally inquired after all the other mystery ingredients.  

You, dear reader, of course already know the answer, seeing as I gave away the ending at the outset.  But on that first day, with that first bite, my tastebuds went through more twists and turns than The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo.  And I was about as surprised by the ending: bacon fat.  Not a lot, either, a tablespoon or so per potato.  But one ingredient.  That tasted like twenty.  I waited all last spring, and on through summer, and even into fall to try it myself.  I've now made three batches in as many weeks.  I'll understand entirely if you beat my record.

This is one of those recipes that's more art than science, a firsthand dabble in balance and preference.  It is, on the one hand, no more than cooked sweets and bacon fat, with a bit of salt and sugar to round out the flavors.  But each time I've varied the quantities a bit, as both root and fat are variable.  Some sweet potatoes are notably less sweet than others, and so need four teaspoons of sugar, not two.  One brand of bacon is saltier than the next, its fat going farther in seasoning the spuds.  The one indisputable truth I've learned is to use the best bacon you can find, and to cook it p-a-t-i-e-n-t-l-y.  I got antsy with a batch this past week, cranked the heat, "gained" two minutes, and gleaned a panful of burnt drippings.  Lesson learned: smoky good; charcoal bad.

But don't be fooled by all this talk of finesse: this is child's play, steam, blitz, and eat.  Or better: cook your sweet potatoes a few days early, leverage a little saved fat (from, say, those aforementioned brussels), and just before serving, warm gently and purée.  Sides don't get much simpler than that: no oven, no prep, no sweat, yes please.  To date, they've been everday, busy night fare, and they fit this bill most comfortably.  But these sweets, they've got the swank-rugged flavors of a side with pride of place at the table and personality to spare.  I'm speculating here, but I suspect they'd sidle up to a Thanksgiving spread with no trouble at all.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.  And thank you, always, for stopping by.

 

Mashed Sweet Potatoes with Bacon Breath
with great thanks to Julia
yields: 4 side servings

Ordinarily, I prefer my sweet potatoes roasted, but here I like the clean sweetness of them steamed.  The sweet potatoes can be cooked (and the bacon fat rendered) several days ahead.  Just warm both over low heat in a small saucepan, to reheat.  Double or triple, as you wish.

2 medium sweet potatoes
2-3 tablespoons good, fresh bacon fat
2-3 teaspoons sugar (white or brown)
1/2-1 teaspoon kosher salt

Cook sweet potatoes: peel, slice, and steam over simmering water, 20-30 minutes, until knife pierces easily at thickest point.  Use immediately, or cool and refrigerate, for later.

When potatoes are cool enough to handle (or after warming them, if re-heating), return to a small saucepan with the bacon fat, 2 teaspoons sugar, and 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Blitz with a stick (immersion) blender until no lumps remain, bacon fat is incorporated, and potatoes are creamy-smooth, 2 minutes or so, pausing to scrape sides with a spatula a few times.   Taste for deliciousness: the major themes here are smoky and earthy, with just enough salty-sweet to italicize the above.  Smoky, earthy (salty, sweet).  Seasoning is especially variable (and important) here: it will depend on how sweet your potatoes were, and how salty your bacon, and your materials may demand more or less of the above quantities.  If the spoonful tastes flat, add another pinch of salt and two of sugar, blitz again, taste again, and repeat until everything sings.  Sings.  It will.  You'll know.  Nom nom nom...

did i mention?

I made a sweater?  Does that punctuation seem a little off?

I'm sorely tempted to say I made two sweaters.  The end result was only one, but I'm fairly certain the stitches totalled two garments' worth.  Is this double counting?  Do knitters abide by GAAP?  And where do all the unravelled bits go, anyway?  Is there a special spot in heaven for wayward knits and purls?

Oh, but, people: a sweater.  With a hood!  Plus a pocket, and even two mostly-matching sleeves.  I'm particularly proud of this last little fact, since it means, whatever else, that it isn't a Thneed.  It was a dead-simple sweater, as far as these things go, done on big needles and almost entirely in stockinette.  

Entirely in stockinette.  Would you listen to that.  It's almost like I might have half a clue!  See, the last time I brought up this whole knitting business, I could not keep straight my stockinette from my garter.  I knew one was smooth, and the other, bumpy, but beyond that?  No dice.  They both sounded straight off a pantyhose package.  I was stuck in a scarf rut, digging myself deeper by the row, rapidly barreling toward serious muffler:neck inequities. 

I could not tell then, by looking, a knit row from a purl.  I did not even know to find this frustrating.  I didn't know that anyone could tell them apart, thought you had to just keep it all straight in your head.  My scientific strategy was to add a few rows, examine the results, and rip out all that looked wrong.  Statistics being what they are, this only happened half the time.  

I now know that this is rather like saying you cannot tell your salt from your sugar.  Each time you cook, you add a half-cup of whatever, and if it doesn't taste right, you dump and start over, this time selecting the other white powder.  (Holy. Cow.)  At the time, though, I took the undoing in stride—ignorance, bliss, all that jazz.  But I was more than a little elated when Mamo offered, last Spring, a few (glaring) clues.  Identifying my stitches added three weeks to my life, easy.  It was one of countless lessons I learned along the way.

I learned how to increase, and how to decrease, and how to cast-on without turning to YouTube.  I learned k2tog and St st and RS and WS, and toward the end, skp and ssk.  All of which is only to say, I learned knitters have at least as many TLA's as CEO's.  I discovered that only even-number-aged children may wear hand-knits, at least if pattern-sizing is any indication.  (What, I wonder, does a 3-, 5- or 7-year old wear, during the bitter, cold winter months?)  I learned nothing says "lay your head in my lap" like a mother with needles and wool underway. 

I confirmed, as I'd feared, that it's much more difficult to keep count than to make endless, mindless, identical rows.  Much, much, much more difficult, at least for this Human of Very Little Brains.  Total bummer.  

But I also discovered, as I'd never anticipated, that a kiddo takes immediate ownership of My Sweater.  As in, "Is My Sweater done yet?"  Um, no, actually I'm only on row 3.  Or, "Will My Sweater be ready by dinner?"  Um, no, but maybe December?  Or, from Kid Two, "When will My Sweater be ready?"  Um, ...  Insert Sounds of Silence, here.  I flirted with answering 2012, but concluded it came off as just plain mean.  I thought I'd be in the position of foisting, begging one wearing, just to make it all worthwhile.  I had no idea there would be demand.  Demand, I know, that will soon be gone.  Which is why I'm at work on sweater no. 2 (the real deal, not the ghost of mis-knits past).   



I fine-tuned my knowledge of what does and doesn't make a suitable knitting opportunity.  I nearly kicked myself when it took me three weeks to see the potential in piano lessons.  One inch, easy, between warm-ups and assignments. 

I learned The Curious Case of Benjamin Button runs just long enough to stitch one size-four sweater together.  I learned not to learn the Kitchener stitch while watching How to Train Your Dragon for the first time.  Or for that matter, while watching anything, save the sophisticated square dance of needle and thread.  Also, that bad Kitchener comes out quick.  And then needs re-doing, slowly, with feeling. 

I learned that by keeping project baskets around the house, I could increase my chances of adding a few rows.  (And the corollary, that no basket is as desirable for play as those holding half-finished rows of seed stitch.) 

I learned to consider my constituency.  To bear in mind that, though I like blue woolly Lamb's Pride, my girl might prefer something less scritchity.  And less blue.  And, if I'm being honest, more pink. 

Poor Mamo waited patiently the better part of two hours as I scoured the yarn store for pink.  The right pink.  Soft on the eyes, soft on the skin, with enough weight and yardage to do the job right.   And to endure, on the other end.  No sense in a sweater that's only for show.  No, it needed to stand up to climbing and cement-sitting and sidewalk-chalking, to drawing and scissoring and lego-building, to picnicking and, most recently, to sledding.  (All that extra size-four bulk came in awfully handy for layering, seeing as it was seven degrees.  Seven below, if you're into wind chill.  Did I mention we went sledding?!  Snow, glorious snow!)  

Perhaps best of all, I pocketed experience, a nascent feel for the ways and means of yarn.  How to give a little pull at each row's beginning, to snug up and even out loopy-loose edges.  How to give a little tug at the end of each row, to straighten the stitches and standardize tension.  

Why it matters, after unravelling, to give each stitch a half-twist when re-casting (see Exhibit A: that drunken row, center-front).  Why you always, always, always correct an error, immediately.   (Because it never, ever, ever undoes itself, independently).  Why you follow a pattern: fit, style, guidance, sanity.  Proof of concept.  Wearability insurance.  Before the sweater, I ad hoc'd two hats, thinking I could whip them up, the way I would soup.  

Um, no. 

I learned I knit most and best in the summer, contrary to my every last expectation.  When it's 97º outside or pink and fuzzy inside, there's really no contest.  Anything to beat the heat. 

I learned that the thrill of the thing's in the doing, that off the needles is out of mind.  I think I finished way back in September.  I only just realized I never mentioned it.  (Probably because I'm re-living the good times, having hit Phase: Quagmire in the aforementioned no. 2.) 

Which got me to wondering whether I've ever mentioned how much I adore Indian food?  I've beat around the bush a bit, here and there, championing gingered chickpeas and grilled silken chicken.  But I'm not sure that adequately sums up the fact that I'd eat this way every single day, if I could.  We need, someday, to talk chicken Korma and the quick bliss that is Keema and the glories of Saag Paneer.  I think I could spend a full year on dal.  Dal-a-day project, anyone?  But since we must begin somewhere, let's go with what I've eaten nearly daily for two weeks. 

First, how about a show of hands: who here has known a ferocious craving for cauliflower?  It's a little tough to tally results from where I sit, but I can tell you this: two hands up, right here.  One is for our standby roasted prep, salty and crisp and totally addictive.  The other hand waves wildly for what follows, cauliflower and potatoes, totally transformed.  If you only know cauliflower raw, steamed or boiled, suffice it to say this way's a revelation.  It's a little like the difference between a grey two-piece sweat suit, and a gold-deckled, hand-embroidered, peacock silk Sari.  

Julie Sahni, from whom it hails, calls it "Cauliflower, Green Peas, and Potatoes in Spicy Herb Sauce".  She's right about the veg, but I hesitate over the suffix, since spicy to me is a synonym for incendiary.  Spicy, here, means profoundly fragrant, six dimensions of aromatic, warm comforting yum.  I suppose most American cooks would call it curried cauliflower, but that also sets the stage entirely wrong.  You might then expect a brazenly yellow concoction, vaguely sweet and anonymously spiced.  Not that, either.  So I'm going with come-hither cauliflower et al.  It's spot-on accurate, and the only way. 

It is a close cousin of aloo gobi, the classic dry curry of cauliflower and potato.  The basic idea is to fry heaps of spices—cumin, coriander, turmeric, a blush of pepper—to bring out their best and intoxicate the oil.  To this, tip in a bit of tomato, to bring still more color and a tingle of tart.  And then finally the veg, raw, pale and bland, until they hit the spice-slicked pan.  You toss them about, searing a few edges, introducing amazing into every nook and cranny.  Water is added, a lid clamped down, the whole mess left to braise fifteen minutes or so. 

Those fifteen minutes are where the miracle occurs, and underscore everything I love about this food.  The vegetables do their cooking right in the sauce.  Think about this for just a moment.  We have a habit of adding sauce to our veg: asparagus and hollandaise, broccoli and cheddar.  Very nice, the both of them.  But imagine the sauce snuck right into the veg, infiltrating every atom and haunting every bite?  It's seems downright molecular, all very Achatz or maybe El Bulli.  But in fact it's only an age-old braise, wisely constructed, expertly timed.  When you pick up that lid, the cauliflower's just tender, brilliantly hued and punch-drunk on flavor.  Ditto the spuds, which have soaked up the sauce, and gone creamy and sunny and intensely aromatic.  Bland will not be among your first thoughts.

And, there are peas.  Genius, these peas.  These peas are the thing that sets this apart from your average, relaxing aloo gobi.  Suddenly, you have sweet pops of green pea, crisp little commas in a plush paragraph.  The color, the texture, the flavor, they conspire to turn a two-legged side into a three-legged meal.  That, and they look like polka-dots.  I'm a total sucker for polka-dots.  

If you saw my best mittens, you'd know this was true.  They're robin's egg wool with plucky white dots and they were hand knit by ... somebody, somewhere.  I bought them at the Queen Anne Dispatch last fall, and hope someday to make a second set.  Perhaps once I finish the next two sweaters in the queue—did I mention there were two more?  To fill those baskets, you know—I'll move on to mittens.  Onward and upward.      

****

A bit of housekeeping:  

I wanted also to mention that you can find me at habit, during the month of Feburary.  I well remember when this project launched, and am stunned by the beauty they've captured, these three years.  I am deeply honored to join in. 

And, finally, a quick thanks to Leslie, a fine friend to knit with, indeed.  She mentioned this Santa Cruz Hoodie last year, and it was exactly the starter sweater I needed.  Merci!  (Pattern here.)

Come-Hither Cauliflower, Potatoes and Green Peas (Gobhi Matar Rasedar)
adapted from Juli Sahni, Classic Indian Cooking

Sahni says this dish is traditionally served as a thin vegetable soup.  I admire it this way, but prefer it a bit thicker, more sauce then soup.  My quantities and techniques include both, so that you may choose.

Serve with naan or basmati, or simply big heaps of raita (recipe here) or greek yogurt.  This was also wonderful with a tin of chickpeas tipped in, for protein.  And no, none of my children eat this (yet).  But they do all eat nice, separate bowls of beans, peas, yogurt, naan and/or rice.  I'm all for parsing, at moments like these.

Incidentally?  This dish is vegan. 

1 head cauliflower
2 medium waxy potatoes (about 1/2 pound)
1/2 cup ghee or light vegetable oil
2 teaspoons cumin seeds
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 tablespoons ground coriander
1 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 - 1 teaspoon red pepper
1 cup tinned chopped tomatoes + juices
4 teaspoons Kosher salt
2-3 cups boiling water
10-12 ounces frozen baby peas  (1 bag)
3 tablespoons fresh, chopped cilantro

Prepare your veg and spices:  Wash cauliflower, trim off leaves and tough base, then slice florets and inner core into rough 1 1/2" florets.  Peel potatoes, and cut into 3/4" chunks.  Measure out all spices (cumin seed into pile, the remainder into another), and set aside, near the stove.

Heat ghee or oil in a deep, heavy, lidded skillet over medium-high heat.  When oil shimmers, add cumin seeds, and fry a quick 20-seconds, until they go brown and nutty-smelling.  Add remaing spice pile (cumin powder, coriander, turmeric and red pepper), give a quick stir, then immediately add cauliflower and potatoes.  Stir a few minutes, to coat veg with the spiced oil, and to allow them to sear a bit, about 5 minutes.  Add tomatoes, and continue to fry about 3 minutes, until tomatoes begin to thicken a bit, and oil and sauce begin to separate.  Add salt and 2 cups boiling water for a sauced dish (3 cups for a soupy one), then clamp a lid on.  Reduce heat and immer vegetables, covered, about 15 minutes, or until vegetables are tender when pierced with a knife.  Remove led, and tip in the peas, directly from the freezer.  Stir, bring back to a simmer (1-2 minutes), and turn off heat.  Taste for salt and heat, adjust as desired, and scatter chopped, fresh cilantro over all to serve. 

file under impossible

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

optional:

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

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

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

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