remedial eating

i took to throwing pumpkins

A week for soft things, this one.

Some beg it.  You know the ones.  Heavy on the gentle, double dose of cosset.

 

 

Colds kept everyone home, mid-week.  Sniffling noses, stuffy heads.  Nothing big.  Still, no school for anyone.  PJ days.

(Nothing big, save the penguin, who broke his wing.  Something about being rescued from the jaws of a seal.  And, the stuffed puppy, who was treated for a broken paw.  Ditto Mr. Monkey.  Big play theme right now, broken bones.  Go figure.  Fortunately, scotch tape and tissues heal all.)     

 

 

PJ days which happened to coincide with stellar weather, sixty-four and sunny and, well, weird.  We continue to whipsaw our way through winter.  Last Friday, we had four fresh white inches.  Wednesday, we flung open windows and doors. Today, balaclavas and a fresh dusting.  

As I type?  Fourteen below, with wind chill.  

 

 

What's a person to do, but take advantage?  On the warm days, play outside for hours in shirtsleeves and Crocs, no socks.  Crack nuts.  Pound rocks.  Make messes and ruckuses.  Set elaborate fairy tables.  Turn bean teepees into people teepees.  (The wind still whips.  Any excuse to use a sheet.)  Filthify fingers and toes.  

(Filthify: my 2013 Word of the Year nomination.  See precedents: vilify, quantify, Spotify.  See, also, the widespread utility: The children filthified the white carpet, running through on muddy paws.  See, finally, the tired redundancy of recent years: tweet ('09), app ('10), hashtag ('12).  Come on. Life isn't only online.  Dirt happens.  Filthify.  Are you with me?)

 

And on the cold days?  Make sn'ice cream!  Talk about soft, and taking advantage.  Two minutes between you and ethereal fluff, vanilla-scented, melt-on-impact, food-of-angels fluff.  Ice cream maker not even required.  Does take fresh fallen snow, though, several inches.  Reason alone to love winter. 

On every third day, when it decides to show.

 

 

Quiet afternoons balanced out the big ones.  I don't think of games as after-school fare often enough.  I'm coming to think they may trump snacks.  Doesn't work every day, but when it does, a game's a good way to to settle the tempo, set the tone.  To ease that awkward hour of re-entry.  

I must remember to schedule absolutely nothing more often.  

 

 

There was fiber.  A lot of fiber.  Fiber fixes much.  It's hard to beat the cosseting wallop of wool, linen, cotton, polyfill.  

Okay, polyfill's a little squeaky.  And odd.  But when it's stuffing the limbs of one pink polka-dotted giraffe, it's a soothing sort of squeaky.

 

 

We finally set out to conquer finger-knitting.  Seems such a smart way to launch a small child.  The video was very good.  I was not.  (The end result was to look like a ladder.  My end result resembled a cockroach.  A blue bulky-weight 100% wool cockroach.  Locked onto my hand.  Probably devouring it.)  

Needles for me from now on, thanks.

 

 

One sweater was finished and cast off, blocked, buttons auditioned.  Icy blue yarn was wound for another (TBD).  Yarn-winding is perpetually popular.  Also, perpetually disastrous.  The winder and I, we don't get along.  Or don't see eye to eye.  Or have bad karma.  Something.  

I blame the fact that I lost the instructions.  I suspect the truth looks more like that blue roach.  

 

 

I unearthed a second sweater I began two years back, and finished last fall, and buried last winter.  The Malabrigo yarn, so lovely on the screen, looked like old dishwater in the hand.  The sleeves didn't work up right the first time.  Or the second.  Or the third.  The buttons instructions began with "Crochet...".  I don't crochet.  (I don't, apparently, read instructions through, either.)  

I wrote it off as a giant flop learning experience.

 

 

But someone walked in just as I began to re-bury it, tried it on, declared it a fit.  And I saw just then that gray goes with winter.  And that the Swing Thing's full of twirly, flyaway fun.  And that buttons are really just after-thoughts.  

And really, what's two inches, between sleeves?     

 

 

And there was some saying 'yes', when what I meant was 'no', which always feels like a softening of sorts.  Paper.  Oh, paper.  I do so love paper.  I don't so love the mountains of scrap.  I ask for such conundrums, of course, with my well-stocked cupboards and well-loved childhood books.  Still, somedays, I'm not up for it.  I try to distract.  Drag feet.  Grumble.  On good days, I eventually give in.  Invariably, I'm glad I do.  

Because we figured out how to make curled paper snails!  And super cool cut circle twirlies!  And paperdoll chains!  Here's the key: Make sure the shape—doll, heart, snowman, whatever—goes all the way to both edges.  All the way. Both edges.  Really.  (Unlike Fulghum, I left Kindergarten lacking.)  

 

 

And for winter, and sore jaws, and scratchy throats, soft eats aplenty.  Cakes baked for no better reason than because.  Thick tiles of warm bread, spackled with butter, sliced well before the recommended hour's wait.  Clouds of rice pudding, our Rx for colds.  Cups of hot cocoa, extra whip.  Burbling vats of chicken broth, for them.  And, for me, bowl upon bowl of silky, sparkling, thrilling orange soup.

This is Heidi Swanson's Pumpkin and Rice Soup, which I mentioned last November in passing.  I mention it again, this February, as I've tweaked it to suit my pantry and palate, and want one place to put it all down.  I mention it again, also, as I've made at least a dozen pots since.  It's become a staple, a stalwart in my kitchen.  And staples and stalwarts deserve their own spotlight.    

 

 

I come back to this soup, time and again, for its quiet riot of flavors.  There's the soup itself, a straightforward affair of softened onion, sweet heat, squash and water.  I use fresh ginger in place of Heidi's jalapeno, and coconut oil, for its nutty whiff; either are true to the soup's simple bones.  Once tender, the whole business is blitzed into something of a surprise.  

So much squash soup, like so much pea soup, is thick thick thick, less soup than stew.  (I know.  I do it, too.)  This is not.  This is lofty.  Lilting, if such can be said of a soup.  Thin, airy, delicate.  I didn't know winter squash did delicate.  It does, and swimmingly.    

 

 

You wind up with a gorgeous orange pond, deeply creamy, despite its lack of cream, warm and rich, soul of squash stuff.  It makes a nice sip, all by its lonesome.  Not that I ever eat it that way.    

Because this soup's second stroke of genius (the first being the courage to add all that water) is in the thoughtful extra bits.  Classic Heidi, these.  I've long held puréed soups need bits, to break up the monotony.  I've never thought to combine rosemary, ginger and lemon in browned butter.  Nor to add rice.  Nor nuts.  It delights.

 

 

The nubbins of brown rice—I tried white; brown's better—bring a fragrant, pleasing chew.  The nuts slip in a necessary crunch.  The yogurt's tang offsets the squash's sweet.  Then there's the browned butter.  Can we just pause on browned butter?  Apply exclamation points as needed?  (Browned butter!!!!!!!!) Better.  I've professed my love before.  Ply it, wherever I can.  Pour it over whatever sits still.  I guess I must make antsy soup, since it somehow escaped my browned-butter-flinging ways.  Browned butter on soup's a showstopper. 

Particularly loaded browned butter.  Once the butter looks and smells of toasted hazelnuts, I pile in the minced rosemary, fresh ginger, and lemon, and cook it just a few slow minutes more.  They sizzle, and lend their flavor to the fat, and go a little crisp at the edges.  (Butter-fried lemon zest?  Yes.)  As with an Indian tarka, the aromatics and fat exchange phone numbers, each benefitting mightily from the trade.  And as with a tarka trickled over dal, the browned butter drizzle transforms this soup, a small spoonful of intensity that illuminates the whole bowl.  Good stuff.    

 

 

None of which explains twelve pots in three months, were this a half-day affair. Don't let all those extras deceive.  I clocked my last batch at eighteen minutes. Some slim forethought helps greatly.  I cook up a batch of brown rice most weeks, and keep it on hand, in the fridge, for whatever.  This removes the rice cooking time.  The browned butter cooks while the soup simmers.  And the squash, as always, is ready, cooked, waiting.  

See, I took to throwing pumpkins in the oven, last fall, when we were swimming in CSA squash.  Whole.  Unpeeled.  As is.  As in: sheet pan, foil, pumpkins, go.  I did it mostly as a dare, expecting them to explode/not work/never soften.  They did nothing of the sort.  What they did was cooperate, and cook to spoon-tender, and open up a whole new world in which squash was as hard to prepare as boxed cereal.  And as easy to eat.  It was a revelation.  I've long done this with beets, and loved having the roasted roots on hand.  Tamar Adler calls it striding ahead.  I quote the greeks, call it know thyself.  I cannot be depended upon to want to peel squash, simply because I want to eat soup.  

I want to eat this soup, a lot.  I don't see my pumpkin pitching arm atrophying, any time soon. 

 

Silky Pumpkin Soup with Browned Butter, Rosemary, Lemon + Ginger
adapted from Heidi Swanson, www.101cookbooks.com

Through Christmas, I made and loved this with pie pumpkins.  After the holidays, when pumpkins became scarce, I turned to butternet squash, also wonderful.  I keep the small pan of browned butter on the stove all week, re-warming and snitching spoonfuls, as needed.   

2 tablespoons coconut oil, or butter
1 very large onion (or 2 medium), chopped
1 heaping tablespoon ginger, peeled, chopped
2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more to taste
2 1/2 pound pumpkin or butternut squash, cooked*, flesh only
6-8 cups water

To Top:  browned butter rosemary lemon ginger drizzle**, cooked brown rice, plain whole yogurt, slivered almonds, coconut flakes (any or all)

In a large saucepan, over medium heat, melt coconut oil (or butter).  Add onions and ginger, and cook until translucent, stirring occasionally, 5-8 minutes.  Add water, salt, and squash flesh, stir to combine, and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to a low-medium, and cook at a good simmer, 10 minutes, to let flavors marry.  Remove from heat, blitz with an immersion blender until very smooth (1-2 minutes), and taste for consistency and seasonings, adjusting water and salt to taste.  Bring back up to temperature, if you added water. Serve with spoonfuls of rice, yogurt, and/or almonds, and a generous spoonful of the loaded browned butter, drizzled over all.   

*Whole Baked Squash
Line a heavy rimmed half-sheet pan with foil, place whole pumpkins or butternut squash on top, and bake, on a middle rack, until knife pierces thickest part easily.  I've baked squash alongside cookies at 325°, bread at 350°, and chicken pot pie at 400°, for anywhere from 45-75 minutes.   Cooking times will vary based on squash and temperature.  Once tender, set squash aside to cool, then refrigerate, up to one week.  When ready to use, halve, remove seeds, and scoop out the soft meat.     

**Browned Butter Rosemary Lemon Ginger Drizzle
1/2 cup salted butter (1 cube)
2-3 tablespoons ginger, peeled, minced
2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, minced
zest of 2 lemons

Melt butter in a small saucepan over medium-high heat, and continue to cook until butter bubbles, foams, clarifies, then begins to brown.  When the liquid looks slightly amber in color, the milk solids, brown, and the scent turns nutty and rich, it is done, 5-7 minutes.  Immediately, add rosemary, ginger and lemon zest, and continue to cook over medium heat, another 2-3 minutes, until aromatics crisp a bit and give off their scent.  Take care not to burn.  Keep warm, and set aside.   

 

 

 

don't look too close

At these pants.

Or this post.

Because neither stand up to very close inspection.

These pants (and the next, and the next after that; it's been a week of pants around here) have all kinds of, em, idiosyncrasies.  Which is sewing-speak for questionable technique.  Double hems, where I forgot I'd added inches.  Seams that don't seem to want to meet up.  Cuffs that vary in width, front to back. And side to side.  And inch to inch.  Waistbands that involve a serious change in elevation, higher at the sides, lower in the center.  I still can't figure out why this wants to happen.  Only that it isn't me.  The waistband wills it to be so.

Whatever you do, don't turn them inside out.  

Not that you could.  

They're moving too fast.

Because, for all their (shall we say) irregularities, they do check one simple box.  The pants work.  This cannot be said of all pants.  Particularly pants for young-ish girls.  

Why are young-ish girl pants so problematic?  So fashion-forward, so function-backward?  Since when did flare legs, tight on top, trippy at the bottom, make for great fun on the tumbling mat?  And how exactly does that darling daisy button at the waist, awful even for strong adult fingers to fasten, aid a young kiddo bent on independence?  And explain to me, EXPLAIN TO ME, how skinny jeans make sense for the preschool set??  

We got fed up, Zoë and I.  

We got mad.  And then we made pants.  (Albeit idiosyncratic pants.)  Pants that are long on comfort, and big on ease of use, and entirely devoid of frippery.  Pants that can be pulled on in a jif, and changed in a wink, and worn anywhere, everywhere.  I'm sure she would appreciate a pocket.  I've no doubt she would love a sweet detail.  Button trees.  Embroidered bunnies.  Appliquéd roses.  Alas, I am still stuck in seam allowance territory.  Such is sewing when it takes three tries to simply not stitch the legs together.  Such are pants when your PR is that your finished garment survives its first wash.  Intact.  

(It is not that she doesn't like cute; she does.  She loves the unicorns and the flowers and the twinkles.  Babies, big eyes, anything tiny.  She loves the suite of seven she received on her third birthday from a friend who correctly assessed she was seriously wanting in the princess department.   She just wants to be able to get down, on the ground, and get those princesses lined up right, you know?)

Cute, then.  But accomodating cute.  Cute that enables running and jumping, sweeping and climbing, hula-hooping and apple-peeling.  Cute that isn't bothered by piglet-cooing or turkey-viewing, corn-grinding or pine-needle-kicking.  Cute that has no comment when it's time to flop, *PLOP*, flat on the floor, to draw a turtle or build a kingdom or fill in the [free-spirited/when-the-spirit-catches-you/idea-of-the-moment] blank.  Unconstrained, unencumbered, unbounded cute.  Cute that takes into account play, that basic work of childhood.  

I think the word is comfortable.

That's this week's work, cutting out comfortable.  A job I intend to get back to, post-haste.  Right after we discuss stuffed zucchini.  

I know, I know, it's butternut season, and the zucchini's all but done.  I intended to get to it sooner, truly, it's just that my head was bent over my Bernina.  But just to be sure, I checked the market last weekend, and by golly if summer wasn't still hanging on.  (I offer, as evidence, exhibit A below.  Turns out tomatoes are excellent pattern paperweights.)  It won't be long now, but you might squeak a batch.  And if not, know I use this same formula for peppers, which are fairly reliable the year round.  Know, also, I've been tweaking and testing and refining this for the better part of ten years.  Like a length of Liberty, it's a real keeper; just tuck it into your stash.  

If I sound like I'm procrastinating, I am; I wasn't kidding about not examining this one up close.  Were it a face, this dish would be deemed one which "only a mother could love."  Rugged, maybe.  Rustic, possibly.  A radioface, definitely. Certainly not a head-turner.  

That's okay.  Stuffed zucchini may not be a looker, but done right, it's one one heckuva keeper.

I want to plumb that "done right" bit a moment, because therein lies the difference between bland watery awful, and a dinner with substance and savor to spare.  Zucchini is what I think of as neutral food, like tofu and chicken breasts and eggplant.  Neutral is not bad; neutral is latent, waiting, potential, a wide open stage on which to dance.  Too often, zucchini is stuffed because it can be, because would you LOOK at that perfect boat shape?  Or because it must be (see: legendary glut).  Or because everyone else is (bridge-jumpers, unite!).  Might as well stuff a penny loafer, and move on to real food.

Here, however, is good reason to stuff zucchini, or pattypan, or those funny little roly-poly cannonballs: because their neutral-ness equals opportunity, sweet tender foil for a wild riot of a filling.  Mild-mannered has no place, inside squash.  Only bold and bright need apply.  

Let's get detailed:  You want aromatics, by which I mean onion, sautéed until golden and almost all gone.  You want cooked grains, from last night or the freezer, slowly coated in onion-y oil.  Brown rice is my favorite, for its bounce and chew, but farro or barley are also grand.  White rice, only if you must.  You may or may not want a bit of ground beef, but I do, for its depth, warmth and oomph.  (If you do not, chickpeas, toasted pine nuts and extra cheese make for a pretty fine substitute.)  You definitely want tomatoes, cooked down until jammy, plus the squash detritus left over from the hollowing.  You most definitely want to add each of these when, and only when, its predecessor has been absorbed, building strata of intense, concentrated flavor.  Think layering. Just like fall.  Season as you go.  Taste as you go.  And then, remember the most important part:    

Add fresh herbs.  Lots of fresh herbs.  Herbs by the fistful, the handful, the cup-full.  Herbs enough to raise even Yotam's eyebrows.  Think greens, instead of garnish, when imagining the quantity.  Oodles and oodles of fresh green herbs.  Parsley, basil, mint, chives, thyme.  At least two.  All four is fine.  The main thing is you want their vim, their flash and dazzle, invigorating the whole. They cook down, and mellow, but only to a point, key to the mild shell's counterpoint.

About those shells, those original zucchini: they don't ask much, just smart salting and slow baking.  Dust each scraped squash generously with salt, remembering this is the end of their seasoning, and commit to a slow, patient hour in the oven, which has the most magnificent effect on squash.  Zucchini and its brethern, baked low and slow, cook, yes, but also transform.  They become, in an hour, sweeter, and tender, so tender they can be eaten with a spoon.  So tender the word melting comes to mind.  So tender, you might even forgive, or at least fork right past, their homely countenance.

 

Stuffed Zucchini
adapted over a lifetime of zucchini love

The slow building of flavors is inviolate, here.  The ingredient list is not.  This works just as well for peppers as zucchini, mincing the caps (instead of zucchini innards) to flesh out the filling.  Similarly, I'll often swap ground lamb for the beef, and trade in two cups of fresh mint for the basil.  Use feta, if you go this route.  Use your imagination, and travel others.  

6-8 small pattypan squash, ball squash, or 1 large baseball bat of a zucchini
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, diced
2 cups leftover brown rice, farro, barley, or white rice
1 pound ground beef or lamb
1 red pepper, diced (optional)
2 large tomatoes, chopped
1/2 cup fresh thyme leaves, stripped over their stems
2 cups fresh leafy herbs, chopped (basil and parsley; mint if using lamb)
1 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1 generous cup sharp cheese (sharp cheddar, feta, manchego, gouda), shredded

Preheat oven to 350°.

Slice stem plus just enough top (1/4-1/3) to create an opening from small squash, or halve baseball bat, if using.  Set tops aside.  With a small strong spoon, scoop soft insides from squash, leaving a 1/2" rim on all sides.  Set insides aside, with stems.  If using a grand zucchini, leave a 1" rim.  Settle your squash into a baking dish that fits them comfortably, but without too much room to rattle around.  A  9x13" casserole works nicely.  Sprinkle the teaspoon of salt evenly over all.  

In a large, wide skillet, over a hottish medium, heat olive oil until shimmering. Tip in the diced onion, plus two pinches of salt, and sauté, stirring occasionally, until translucent, 8-10 minutes.  

While the onion is cooking, take your zucchini scraps, and chop-chop-chop them to a fine dice.  I use the tops as well, trimmed of their actual stems.  If using an enormous, elder statesman zucchini, discard the thready core and large, tough seeds, and chop the surrounding solid flesh.  Set chopped squash aside. 

Add ground beef or lamb, stir well to coat, and cook, stirring occasionally, until cooked through and browning in spots, 10 minutes.  When meat is cooked, spoon off much of the fat, leaving 2 tablespoons to finish off the filling. Add leftover rice (or other grain) to the skillet, and stir, cooking, 2-3 minutes.  Add 1 teaspoon salt, chopped zucchini flesh, and diced pepper, if using, and cook 8-12 minutes, until zucchini has released its water and cooked down and consolidated itself.  Add the chopped tomato, stir to coat, and cook 10-12 minutes, until the juices have been absorbed and tomatoes have relaxed, darkening and melting a bit into the rice and veg.

Taste your filling: is it well-seasoned?  There are no herbs, so it won't be bright, but it should be deeply savory and round and a touch jammy.  Seasoning the filling is essential, as the shells depend on it to carry the flavor.  Add enough salt and pepper to make your filling deeply more-ish, then a pinch or two more, to lend to the shells.

Add your thyme leaves, and stir to combine.  Add your chopped leafy herbs (basil, parsley, mint, if using), and stir to combine.  Take the skillet off the heat, taste one last time, and adjust seasoning, as needed.

Scoop filling into shells, making a nice rounded heap, and apply a good smattering of sharp cheddar to each.  Add a splash of water to the pan, a few tablespoons, to give a steamy start.  Any leftover filling can be tucked into a stray pepper, or baked in a small ramekin, or eaten as is.  Cover baking pan with foil that is tented slightly, so as not to muddle with the cheese, and place in the preheated oven.

Bake at 350° for 45 minutes-60 minutes, until squash shells are completely soft and tender to the knife-tip.  Time will vary depending on squash size; I have had baseball bats take close to 90 minutes.  When squash is fully tender, remove foil from top, turn heat to 425°, and bake another 10-15 minutes, until cheese goes golden and bubbly on top.  Let cool slightly, 10 minutes, and eat. 

These re-heat exceptionally well.  I've also been known to freeze a tray or three. 

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Sewing Tidbits:  The lovely Meg, at Elsie Marley, is hosting her semi-annual Kids' Clothing Week Challenge this week.  My pants production actually began late last week, and came about independently, to fill gaps in a certain someone's wardrobe.  But given the serendipity, and a stash of gorgeous cottons from my mum, I'm taking KCWC as the kick in the pants it is to see if we can also dope out a top.  We will see.  

The pants are all cut from one pattern, which hails from this book, which mostly contains clothes I can't actually imagine sewing.  Or wearing.  But the pants pattern is exquisitely simple, and the directions, very clear, and for that, I consider it priceless 

****   

 

the hardly-waits

 
It is wildly childish, I'm the first to admit, but I've been borderline disconsolate over this year's snow situation. 

It's not like we haven't had any snow at all.  Early December saw a few inches, enough for several snowballs and a 4" snow man elf named Fred.  But it all melted within a few days' time.  Another few inches fell the week before Christmas.  Enough to kick up, but too powdery for brass tacks (by which I mean, of course, Calvin-worthy forts and proper Frosty's).  And in fairly short order, it melted, too. 

Then, right after Mamo left, we got another good dusting.  We walked with our toes pointed in, like this.  We walked with our toes pointed out, like that.  We made shallow pale angels, big and small, and cobbled one respectable castle together.  Never mind the naked lawn we left behind.  We fashioned snow balls around pine cones, for wont of enough of the packing-grade stuff.  We caught insta-melt fluff on our tips of our tongues, and kicked ice 'soccer' balls all the way home, and went on thrilling, short, shivering walks around the block.  

And then, this week, well, see above.  Highs in the mid-30's.  Bare grass.  Rain. 

We've made the most of what we've had.  We've had paper flakes posted on the windows for weeks.  Friendly pleas (please, oh please!). 

But I'm hankering for more.  Inches.  Drifts.  Accumulation.

Part of me knows that I'm pouting, here.  I hail, after all, from the Pacific Northwest.  (I first typed Northwets, which I'm pretty sure proves Freud's slip theory, absolutely.)  I've passed many a winter with nary a flake.  Three separate snowfalls, not yet half-way through winter?  You'd think I'd be dancing the snow jackpot jig.  

What can I say.  Complacency comes easy.  

It's just that I'm so very fond of the stuff.  

I appreciate the way that snow settles the score with winter's commitment to steady, stinging cold.  A fresh fwooosh of powder, and abra cadabra!, abandoned backyard becomes rip-roaring playground.  It is hard to over-state what sweet relief this is for the cooped-up and the cabin-fevered among us.  

And at the risk of re-stating the obvious, did you notice the free home delivery program?  It's not like the Northwest lacks snow altogether; the Cascades have copious, glorious piles.  But Ohio delivers it right to your doorstep.  The genius of this plan is so under-rated.  No car rides!  No snack packs!  No rest stops!  Ad infinitum!  Just suit up and step out and play away.  Just as soon as the snow sticks around, anyway.

And then, there's the minor matter of aesthetics.  I'm a little dumb-founded by winter's stealth beauty.

I love the silhouettes and the soft muted colors.  The way colors pop in a gone-grayscale world.  The irrepressible squidge-squeak of fresh inches underfoot.  A sorbet sunrise, stunt-doubled in the snow.  I love the way the entire landscape transforms, powdered and frosted and leavened by white.  It looks like Currier and Ives: The Reality Edition, or my kitchen the day I dropped ten pounds of flour on the floor. 

I love the way every last leaf, pod, and cone dons a jaunty white cap when the first flakes fall.  I love the crisp quiet, the silent eloquence.  The miracle of birds, somehow surviving.  The old foliage of fall, gone suddenly festive.   

I love how, when the cold stays and the skies clear — sunny and sixteen is no paradox, here — the whole landscape lights up like a Christmas tree.  I remember the structure of snow is a crystal, which multiplied by a billion throws off some serious twinkle.  It's a little like Tinkerbell's Pixie Dust-stuffed semi over-turned on I-670 and lost its load all over town.  Dazzling.  Fancy Nancy's got nothing on this glitter. 

This is not to say snow doesn't come with drawbacks.  Car doors freeze shut, ice lurks treacherously, runny noses freeze into icicles en route.  Inconvenient heaps of wet clothes go viral.  I bought extra baskets and boot trays, this year.  I'm losing the battle, anyway. 

But still, I've got the hardly waits.  I want six inches.  Oh, heck, twelve!  And I want it to stick around, awhile.

(Does anyone else have the hardly-waits?  The phrase, I mean, irrespective of snow politics.  It occurs to me, just now, that I don't know it's reach, whether the hardly-waits are ours alone, or part of the general lexicon.  It's one of many wonderful tidbits I acquired when I married, along with a taste for chili and a duplicate copy of Racine's Phaedre.  The Penguin French/English edition, with a Mucha on the cover. 

Maybe the hardly-waits are like the geebie drawer, which is what my family always called the junk drawer, and which no one else has ever heard of.  If the hardly-waits are unfamiliar to you, let me attempt a definition:  hardly-waits (n.): an earnest, fervent, ever-so-slightly immature desire for some thing or some event to occur A.S.A.P.  Preferably sooner.) 

Very good.  Now that we've got our definitions straight, can we talk rice pudding, already?  Because I've had rice pudding hardly-waits for about forever, and snow or no snow, I can't wait another week. 

I don't know if it's true, but I've long suspected that a person is either a rice pudding lover or loather.  I count myself firmly in the former camp, and am pleased (and relieved) I've got compatriots in my home.  Otherwise, I might eat the entire (double) batch by myself.  We have a greedy history, rice pudding and I.

I'm sure I ate this nursery staple as a child, as I carried a fondness for it away with me to college.  But my first concrete memories of rice pudding date back to two months spent in Paris, my last year at University.  We'd travelled there together, to wrap up our studies, and lived in a tiny broom closet apartment a few blocks from the Pont de l'Alma.  

At some point, early on, we discovered Nestlé Riz au Lait, and promptly fell for its sweet creamy calm.  We probably ate our way through a case that quarter, but what I remember best is sitting alongside the Seine one Spring evening, partager-ing a yellow tub while the bateaux mouches sauntered by.  I haven't sat by the Seine in fifteen years.  But rice pudding's recently re-entered our lives.

Truth be told, I've "made" rice pudding for years, but it's been one of my longest-running, chronic kitchen disasters.  Convinced it should be child's play, I'd ad hoc a recipe every few months.  I'd use leftover rice, and random quantities of dairy, and startling quantities of sugar, to no end.  The results were uniformly ghastly, starchy and loose and inedible.  Looking back, it seems obvious I should have, oh, I don't know, looked at a recipe?  But obvious has never been my thing.

It wasn't until I ran across Giao's recipe last year that I finally hit gold, unctuous, lovely white gold.  I've made it at least a dozen times since, and intend to make it many dozen times more.  It is exactly what I'd long sought after in rice pudding, simple, reliable, completely sublime.

A bit about that last part.  There are, I believe, a few simple tricks that make this particular pudding tick. 

You quickly blanch the rice at the outset, which I'd never before done, and which I suspect removes the starch, and which I'm certain is key to the gentle final wobble.  Then, you pour in a good glug of heavy cream (or half and half), plus two good glugs of whole milk.  The proportions are a little bit amazing: nearly four cups of liquid to one-half cup of rice.  But here's the thing: there are no eggs or other thickeners involved.  This means there's nothing at all detracting from the dairy's clean, clear sweetness.  It's so easy to forget that milk and cream have a flavor.  They do.  And it's fine.  And it shines through brilliantly, here.  No egg also means there's no risk of scrambled bits suddenly appearing in your pudding and spoiling the whole lot.  Every plush, silky spoonful is the simple result of evaporation and reduction, over an occasionally-stirred hour.   

Then there's the kicker: two vanilla beans, scraped and deposited right into the slosh.  I'll tell you right now I don't always include them, as they make this a bit of a king's ransom rice pudding.  At the rate we go through rice pudding sometimes, a separate line of credit would be required.  So, sometimes I stir in pure vanilla extract at the end.  Sometimes I grate over ample dustings of fresh nutmeg.  Sometimes I do both, or some combination; one bean is lovely, and better than none. 

I'll also tell you you absolutely must try it, even once, because here of all places, vanilla beans sing.  They are no background note, no distant whiff, but a full-on, intense, exquisite presence.  And just in case their plump flavor's not enough, they bring a riot of tiny seeds that crunch faintly on the tooth, and polka-dot the finished pudding.  Just don't blame me if you can hardly wait for more.

(And, by way of epilogue, and because I love a happy ending:  When I began pulling together this post, the lawn was bare, the ice castle almost gone.  But as I sit here tonight, there are five fresh white inches outside my window, and the prospect of more in days to come.  And thanks to Henry (see below), our season's first snowman.  Good things come, indeed.)

Rice Pudding
adapted from Giao, www.kissmyspatula.com, who in turn tweaked it from Guy Savoy, Simple French Recipes for the Home Cook

I've upped the sugar slightly from the original, and often add another Tablespoon or two at the end, after tasting.  That said, this is by no means an overly sweet pudding.  I suspect Guy Savoy's cows produce sweeter cream than my chain supermarket.  Also, I prefer my rice pudding with a thin whisper of salt, a carry-over from my addiction to Thai coconut sticky rice.  Think salted caramels.  Try it.  You won't regret it. 

I have made this flavored all three ways below (bean, extract, and nutmeg), but there are countless other fine rice pudding accents.  Try several bruised cardamom pods, or the generous curl of the peel of an orange, or a good length of fragrant, fresh cinnamon stick, or even a splash of almond extract.  It is hard to go wrong with this fine base.     

As to those royal vanilla beans, I've been picking up fantastic, fresh, plump beans at Costco.  If your Costco stocks them, they're a screaming deal.  Alternatively, Penzey's. 

1/2 cup short-grain white rice
2 1/2 cups whole milk
1 1/4 cups heavy cream or half and half
2 vanilla beans (or 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract, or 1-2 teaspoons freshly grated nutmeg)
1/3 cup sugar, plus more to taste
1/4-1/2 teaspoon salt

Place rice in a large saucepan, cover with cold water, and bring to a boil.  Remove immediately from heat, and drain rice in a strainer. 

Return rice to the pan, and add milk and cream.  If using the vanilla beans, add them now:  with a small, sharp paring knife, split vanilla beans lengthwise and scrape seeds with the knife's tip.  Add seed paste and scraped pods to the rice and milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 45-50 minutes, stirring now and again with a wooden spoon to discourage sticking.  Milk will evaporate and thicken, becoming nearly one with the rice in three-quarter of an hour's time.

Stir in sugar and salt (and vanilla extract and/or nutmeg, if using), and simmer for 10 more minutes.  Sample, and adjust sugar and/or salt, to taste.  Pour pudding into a small serving bowl, discarding vanilla beans and storing in the refrigerator.  Pudding will thicken as it cools.

We enjoy this warm from the pan, at room temperature, and straight from the fridge.  It's all good.  

 

fried

 
Oof.  It's been one of those. 

I was planning to talk pleasantries today, fresh pillows and sewing strides and other soft squishy goodness.  I'll get around to it.  But number nineteen derailed my plans, and my mind.  My nineteen—lower left molar, to the uninitiated—has been a bit kvetchy, so I stopped by the dentist for some reassuring words.  And left with two I can only just whisper.  

{Root canal}.  Double oof.

On a tooth with no fillings, no less.  No trouble, no trauma, no history, just ouch.  There oughta be a law.  I'll get around to that, too.  But at the moment, I can't quite string two sentences together.  And I'm sorely in need of some serious distraction.  So can we talk about something else? 

Like the way this glorious fall wouldn't quit, sidewalk chalk and short sleeves right up through last week?  Even if mornings increasingly need mittens.  The rains came down yesterday, the winds howled last night.  It's nearly through, but it's been a humdinger.  I'll not soon forget. 

Or how about the oak leaf hydrangea's final hurrah, six colors, easy, all in one leaf?  Or how the ginkos gave up the ghost last week, green-gold-gone (WHOOMP!) between Monday and Friday.  The hold-out oaks and maples are dropping their last.  We finally have a leaf pile.  Jumping's next week or never. 

(Or how it hasn't escaped my notice, Mother Nature, how the curb-side leaf heaps look surprisingly like drifts.  You and your foreshadowing.  Very witty.)

Or the way this little girl's love of all things little shows no signs of letting up.  This week's love: itty-bitty books.  About anything and everything.  We make a good team: I bind, she writes.  And carries them everywhere. 

Or the way I think I will never tire of watching this boy's hands at work.  They're like magic to me, those ten flashing fingers, able to give solid form to abstract ideas.  Then again, I struggle to assemble flat-pack file boxes.  Maybe magic is 'skill set' spelled backwards.   

Or how sometimes a flower can bloom all the year round, and you never give it the time of day, until it's the only thing around.  (Dear Calendula: Apologies, in arrears).  Or how one single Japanese maple tree holds approximately 3,972 lessons on life's fleeting nature.  I collected that plush saw-edged perfection this morning, found it withered and curled this afternoon.  Or maybe it's doing crunches.  Hmmm... note to self.  

Or the clever way that there crab apple leaf landed and curled up around the twig, like an old forgotten newspaper, or a dollhouse cinnamon stick.  That's a little loopy, isn't it?  Like I said, I'm a little fried.  Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, particularly if we're talking rice.   

I'm not sure there is any other foodstuff that can be absolutely inedible or completely transcendant.  If your only encounter with fried rice is the soggy bland side restaurants use as plate-filler, know that this bears no resemblance to that.  This isn't in the same family.  Or even the same tree.  This rice is the rice Henry drew with Crayolas when his Kindergarten class was asked to illustrate their favorite meal.  There, in a sea of steak and noodles, was a paper plate polka-dotted with Lap Cheong and green peas.  I didn't know until then that it was his Number One.  Though I completely understand his perspective. 

I come from the Ken Hom school of fried rice cookery, which is to say I swear by three simple rules: the rice must be old and cold; the pan and oil, screaming hot; and never, ever, ever add any soy sauce.  I've since realized there are many opinions on this last matter (and suspect China has as many fried rice recipes as people).  I wish I could tell you the pros and cons of sauce.  But after tasting sublime, I never saw reason in straying.

Well, at least as far as technique is concerned.  I messed with Hom's ingredients mercilessly.  We always include a good hit of Lap Cheong, those addictively chewy sweet-salty Chinese sausages.  I begin by stir-frying a tumble of red coins, along with two handfuls of raw, sweet diced carrot.  The sausages render their flavorful fat, which casts its spell over everything that follows.  Once the carrots meet a knife with more firm give than crunch, I crumble in the cold rice (from last night, or last Tuesday).  I break up the clumps with the wooden spoon's back, then use it to mix up each grain with porky goodness.  And then—this is important, pay close attention—I do very nearly nothing at all.  

I let those grains sit, single file in the pan, for minutes on end, before giving a quick stir.  Two or three times, over five or six minutes.  It looks like absolutely nothing is happening, but whatever you do, don't rush the nothing stage.  Because, while you're busy twiddling your thumbs, your rice is becoming its highest and best self.  It absorbs all the flavors from its colleagues, for one thing, the sweetness and savoriness and smokiness of the pan.  And its texture transforms entirely.  Each grain goes slowly, surely translucent, gold at the edges, terrifically toothsome, until around minute five some bits caramelize.  Did you know fried rice could (should [must!]) caramelize?  When you see burnished nubbins, you know happy is near.

But wait.  We're not done.  Though the rice nearly is.  Your last step is to stir in sesame-oil spiked eggs, which cook within moments as they meet the hot rice.  Think spaghetti carbonara, gone East, and outrageous.  Again, our quantities aren't exactly authentic.  I like my rice absolutely riddled with delicious.  Mix-ins, if you must.  (Blizzards probably corrupted me.)  Just as soon as you see tender, feathery threads of egg, pull the whole jumble off the heat and toss through with sweet peas (straight from the freezer petit pois are just dandy).  Fifteen minutes, start to finish, famished to chopsticks.  We made it for lunch last Monday, and today.  Although just as often, we call it dinner in a bowl.   

I know Thanksgiving's right around the corner, and fried rice is not Norman Rockwell material.  If you need some T-day inspiration, you could always caramelize a cauliflower, or roast some sweets (skip the beans), or braise some brussels sprouts with bacon.  (Probably best not to ask after turkey.  I roasted mine upside down, last year.)  Besides, sometimes we just need a break from real life, whether its feast day must-do's or cruel twists of tooth fate.  And fried rice, well, it always makes me smile.  I'm telling you, it's powerful stuff.

Our Fried Rice
Adapted from Ken Hom, Chinese Cooking 

I'm sure this is to classic fried rice what over-sauced pasta is to the Italian original: all out of whack in its starch:protein:veg proportions.  So be it.  It's fantastic.  Know that this is more blueprint than recipe.  Sometimes we have 2 cups of rice, sometimes 4.  I simply dial up or down the add-ins, accordingly.  Also, feel free to swap in what's on hand or in season.  Asparagus is fantastic in the spring.  I love the edamame, but Henry loathes them.  I only somtimes stock pressed tofu in my fridge.  You get the idea. 

Many well-stocked supermarkets in the Northwest stock Lap Cheong; all Asian markets, everywhere, do also.  I always keep several packs in my freezer, so we don't wind up with a fried rice emergency.  Note that unlike many American sausages, it is not pre-cooked, so be sure to add it at the outset (see below).

4 cups cold, cooked rice (leftover)
2 tablespoons peanut oil
4-6 chinese sausages (Lap Cheong), sliced into 1/4" coins
3 carrots, peeled, diced to 1/4"  (cut carrot into quarters lengthwise, then slice across sticks as if cutting coins)
1 1/2 cups frozen peas, unthawed (or substitute shelled edamame for half the peas)
1/2 cup pressed tofu, diced 1/4" (optional)
4 eggs
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
3 scallions, slivered, to garnish

Mix egg and sesame oil in a small bowl, and set aside. 

Chop your carrots and sausages, and set aside.  Have your pile of peas (and tofu and/or edamame, if using) ready.

Heat a wok or large skillet over high until very hot, then add peanut oil and heat until slightly smoking.  Add sausages and carrots, turn heat down just a hair, and cook, stirring often, 4-5 minutes, until sausages are browning and fragrant, and carrots are bronzing and firm-tender.  Return heat to its maximum, crumble in the cold rice, and add salt and pepper (and pressed tofu, if using).  Break up clumps with a wooden spoon, stirring well to incorporate cold rice with hot sausage and veg and to coat each grain with the hot fat.  Cook rice mixture on high for 5-6 minutes largely undisturbed, stirring every 2 minutes or so to allow new surfaces to caramelize.  When the grains have gone from opaque to translucent, and the rice is golden in spots, add the egg/sesame mixture.  Stir-fry 1 minute, until egg is just cooked.  Add peas and scallions (and edamame, if using), and toss a few moments to heat through.  Eat immediately.

 

things we managed

Well, that was good fun.

I'm still getting the hang of this long-distance family thing, having grown up with my entire gene pool pretty much within spitting distance.  There's an all-or-nothing quality to being so far-flung.  It's rather light on the spontaneous hey, let's do lunch.  But it's pretty rich on the hey, let's hang, big-time!  Two weeks is some seriously awesome big time.   

It's funny business, figuring out what to do with that sudden extravagance.  I suspect there's a sweet spot between sightseeing and lolly-gagging, or at least I like to imagine there is.  I'm not sure we struck the perfect balance, exactly, but I'm positive we got in a whole lot of great.  

There was travel, kids in tow, two days here, three days there, criss-crossing the state from Kent to Kentucky.  We set eyes on the lush Cuyahoga river valley and saw everywhere tiny two-fingered corn poking through.  We left footprints on the Erie Canal Towpath and nose prints on museum glass.  We collected rocks and kicked up dust.  We saw a mummy.  And a Sargent and a Miró, a Picasso and a Calder, a  gorgeous viola done up as a galleon and a ten-foot-tall robot built of old televisions.  (Cincinnati Art Museum, I think I love you).  

We spent forty-eight hours surrounded by pegs, plus gamboling lambs and hysterical turkeys and a three-week-old chestnut-brown kid named Vivian.  Not to mention exquisite craftsmanship around every bend, the sort that catches your breath and slows your step and sets your mind all abuzz over everyday artistry.  Someday, I'll get over the fact my camera battery died eight hours in.  And I packed no charger.  And no one had a clue how to convert oxen-power to Nikon-juice.  In the meantime, you'll just have to trust me on this: if life ever lands you within 500 miles of Lexington, detour yourself right on over to Shaker Village.  Splendid. 

(Oh, and hey, you Kentucky folk?  Man, you keep a mean secret!  If word ever got out about your endless fences and black tobacco barns and twenty-nine never-before-seen shades of green?  Well.  I-75 would never be the same.)

We wore flip-flops and trench coats, shirt-sleeves and umbrellas.  We waded into the Olentangy and drenched boots in deep puddles.  We cursed the cold wind near Cleveland and the complete lack of it down South.  The weather was all over the map, but so were we, and adventure, I find, makes mere storm clouds seem trivial.  (Humidity's another matter, but let's not go there.)

We didn't see it all, but we covered some ground.

And through it all, serendipity.  We caught the rise and fall of the first peonies.  We made time for knitting lessons galore.  We lucked out, found ourselves in a hotel holding Mother's Day Brunch, on just the right day, in just the right company.  We lucked out again, when a friend mentioned 'Springfield', which happened to be held on the trip's final days.  They were both lovely, unexpected little surprises.  Though if I had to choose (and I think I speak for both of us, here), I'd pick orphaned buttons and discarded dishes over all-you-can-eat shrimp, any day. 

We may plan future visits around this event. 

And between all that gallivanting, a whole lot of nothing.  We spent plenty a dull morning wiping jam and sweeping crumbs, reading tiny Golden Books and building K'nex gizmos.  Not to mention many an ordinary afternoon, playdates and school pick-ups and pushing swings at the park.  Not headliner material, exactly.  But it sure smacked of privilege, under the circumstances. 

Because in the end, that was the main thing, soaking up Mamo, this way and that.  There is something tremendous about whole days together, opportunities and moments that just wouldn't come otherwise.  Pointing out to Henry the how of erosion.  Pointing out to me the fine points of old pillowcases.  Getting one's very own stockinette mustache (!!).  Racing each other on Mario Kart.  She beat me, three for four.  If I had to choose (and I think I'm speaking just for myself, here), we two on the Wii might have been the trip's highlight.   

The asparagus, though, was a close runner-up.  The first local specimens arrived while my mom was here, and we roasted it into finger-licking submission.  Caramelized at the edges, crazy sweet everywhere else, roast asparagus is so simple it's not even a recipe.  Though if you've never tried it, it is a revelation.  Instructions below, for the uninitiated (lucky ducks!).  

Also below, lemon rosemary risotto, because I can't make it past asparagus season without a round.  Twinkling with lemon, fragrant with rosemary, this is to boiled rice what silk velvet is to burlap.  I know, I know, risotto's got Baggage.  But seriously, people, it doesn't get any easier.  Steak terrifies me, and I've made hamburgers all of once, knees shaking, nerves shot.  But risotto?  It's just stirring, and only every now and then, at that.  Zoë'd do a fine job, if I'd let her pull her chair up to the stove.  

It's exquisitely rich, a small mound is plenty, which is just how I like it, ample room for green spears.  Together, I think, they're practically perfect, the last indulgence of winter, the first abundance of spring.  We didn't manage risotto last week.  It wasn't too tricky, only redundant, what with the crêpes we'd queued up for dinner.  But next year, mom, same date, same time?  I'm penciling it in now... "Springfield + Risotto with Mamo in May".

Lemon Rosemary Risotto
adapted from Nigella Lawson, Nigella Bites

I don't subscribe to the Must Stir Constantly school of risotto cookery.  I'm fairly certain, in fact, a mother of twelve first invented risotto, realizing cheap rice plus haphazard stirring yielded one heckuva feast.  Just give a good stir after each addition of broth, and you can busy yourself with other tasks (may I suggest roasting asparagus?) in between.

Really, my only caveat is not to make the whole thing in advance (re-heated risotto doubles as glue; I speak from experience).  You can, however, get it halfway along, fifteen minutes in, then set it aside and finish it off before supper.  (And leftover risotto does make gang-buster fried cakes, bound with egg and cheese and covered in panko.  But that's another story...)

2 shallots or 1/2 yellow onion, diced
4 Tablespoons butter, divided
1 Tablespoon olive oil
2 large sprigs fresh rosemary, needles stripped and finely minced (approx. 2 Tablespoons)
1 1/3 cups arborio rice
approx. 1 quart stock (vegetable or chicken), or hot water
1 large organic lemon, zested and juiced
1 egg yolk
1 cup freshly grated parmigiana reggiano, plus more to top
4 Tablespoons heavy cream
salt and pepper, to taste

In a small saucepan or in the microwave, heat stock or water.  Keep simmering on side burner (or set aside). 

In a small bowl, combine the egg yolk, cream, grated parmesan, lemon zest and juice, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and several grinds of fresh pepper.  Stir briskly with fork to combine. 

For risotto, heat 2 Tablespoons butter, olive oil, diced shallot/onion, and rosemary in a wide saucepan, over medium heat, around five minutes, until onion is soft and translucent.  Add rice to butter/onion mixture, stirring to coat, and continue to cook 3-5 minutes, until steady sizzle changes to an occasional crackle.

Turn heat to low-medium.  Add a ladleful of hot stock to the rice, and stir slowly, until stock is absorbed (1-2 minutes).  Add another ladleful of stock, stir to combine, and move on to tidying up.  Check back in a few minutes, give a stir, and when stock is absorbed, add another ladleful. 

Repeat, for twenty minutes or so, stirring after each addition, then returning to play dough snakes or multiplication tables.  Each addition will take a little longer to absorb, though usually no more than 4-5 minutes.  After twenty minutes, start to sample your risotto.  You're after a creamy, dreamy rice, with a faint bite at the center (al dente), but certainly no crunch.  At twenty minutes, it won't be quite there; at thirty minutes, you'll be setting the table.

When the texture is right, add the cream/lemon mixture, and stir well to combine.  Finally, beat in the remaining two Tablespoons of butter, stirring well with a wooden spoon (this changes everything; don't skip it).  Taste for seasoning, adjust salt and pepper if needed, and dig in. 

*******

Roast Asparagus

Move rack to bottom of oven, and preheat to 450°.  For each pound of medium-thick asparagus: wash, snap ends, and lay out on a rimmed baking sheet (jelly roll pan).  Drizzle with 2 Tablespoons olive oil, sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, and shake pan well and/or rustle with fingers to coat spears evenly with oil and salt.  Slide tray onto bottom rack, and leave undisturbed, 10 minutes.  Open oven door, standing back to let steam escape, then give the pan a good shake.  Return to oven for another 2-8 minutes, depending on size of spears.  You're after some nicely browned bits and a lovely tender bite. 

Jerry Traunfeld once demonstrated done-ness to me this way: pick up a spear, and hold it by the thick end, and if it bends ever so gently, it's perfect.  Pencil-straight?  Give it another few minutes.  Hopelessly droopy?  Pull it a little sooner, next time!  Devour.