remedial eating

hem and haw

March, March. 

What do we think of March?

I'm lukewarm on the month, myself.  February, I realize, is for many the dregs, rock bottom of the winter blech barrel.  I get that.  I feel the same way about July. 

But by March, it gets a little funny.

For one thing, March is when winter divides us, North from South, inland from edgeland.  By March, in Seattle, there are daffodils to speak of, and yolk yellow forsythia, already come and gone, and the possibility, if not the reality, of peas.  Rain boots and bumbershoots replace cold weather gear, and the (often unrequited) hope for the white stuff.

We landed four inches, yesterday.  School was cancelled.  We won't be planting peas, anytime soon. 

You know I'm all over inches and igloos, and you probably hear my happy dance from there.  But by now, such splendor's the exception, not the rule, and more than a little melancholy for it.  Winter has entered its epilogue, the thrill of those early chapters behind us.  

Any snow that falls now inevitably brings thoughts not of firsts, but of lasts. Lasts are wistful.  

Mostly, March snow's a half-hearted thing.  Yesterday's was damp, heavy, and by today, halfway to gone.  It snowed all last week.  Accumulation: Zero.  It vanishes, on the way down.  It's a different snow species going forward, flyaway stuff, with no plans to stick around.  

The season itself seems spent.  But the finish line's a long way off, yet.   

By March, in Ohio, Winter starts to wane.  It does not follow that Spring kicks in.  Sun happens, March through May, in small, non-contiguous, biggering bursts.  But it will be two months, anyway, before Spring is here to stay.  

April is, after all, no stranger to snow. 

And so, dressers bulge with three seasons of clothing.  Shoes multiply, snow boots, rain boots, flip flops.  The coat closet teeters between clutter and chaos. Our first week in school, our first year here, it was 7° Monday morning, 70° Friday afternoon. 

A spread of sixty-one degrees.  Five days.  Same week.  First week of March. 

It's as if March, and its doppelgänger, April, can't decide which way to go. Winter, Spring?  Spring, Winter?  Eenie meenie miney mo...  

(We discussed how best to address this, the other day, and decided these next months deserve their own season.  A fifth, transitional, in-between season. Wing?  Wring?  Maybe Sprinter...  To, you know, get us through quicker.)

And I think that's the thing that gets me about March.  I'll mourn Winter when it goes, welcome Spring when it lands, but where we are now is a no-man's land. March waffles, equivocates, hems and haws.  It's ambiguous at best.  I am not. At my best, around ambiguous, that is.

So it's hard to explain why it is that I've dodged this minestrone for months.  

Partly, I point to the fact that it's one of those fluid recipes, wide open to interpretation and the contents of your crisper.  But we've covered that, now. Improvise.  Innovate.  Check.

Also, it's a dog.  Relentlessly unattractive.  Even in person.  I still ate thirty quarts.  (I know.  I couldn't believe it, either.  I just double-checked my pots. I've made more like forty.  But I did relent, and share a few bowls, so let's go with thirty-plus, and call it conservative.) 

Mostly, though, I'm still blinking in disbelief that minestrone could be considered edible, much less greed-inducing.  Prior to this fall, my minestrone encounters all came from crowd-friendly faux-talian restaurants.  The sort where you order not entrées but "dinners".  The sort where you get free bread/salad/soup/coffee/ice cream/refills.  Laugh if you will, but I've a soft spot for this sort.  For everything, that is, save the strident red sludge with tinned potatoes, khaki green beans, and that rarified terroir that comes only from three days on a steam table.  

Apparently, that was not minestrone.   

Apparently, if the fine women of River Cafe are to believed, minestrone is actually an exaltation of vegetables.  It's a careful building up of flavors, layer upon well-considered layer.  It requires a bit of work, and a bit of time, as ten pounds of vegetables don't chop themselves.  But it is good, deeply pleasing work, as the chopping and stirring and layering dovetail like an anonymous 19th century oak desk.  Perfectly.  Which translates pretty much directly to the spoon.  

But I'm getting ahead of myself...  

This soup is Judy Rogers' and Rose Gray's Winter Minestrone, and it is a first-class keeper.  Maybe that's redundant, since pretty much anything Rogers-Gray is, in my experience, a first-class keeper.  Still, there are several small, brilliant steps in this recipe that do a real number on ordinary old veg.  It is based on soffritto, that dense, intense, slow-cooked slurry of aromatics that go just shy of caramelized, anything but shy in flavor.  This slow dance is key, and totally unhip, when tinned broth, beans, and greens equal soup in ten.  I do that soup.  I like that soup.  This isn't that soup.  And it shows.  Save this one for a weekend morning, because thirty minutes is almost a cheater's soffritto, and forty-five minutes, not a moment too long.  

To this heady sludge, you add things in quantities that may raise eyebrows, and will demand seconds.  A full bunch of parsley, stems and leaves, both.  Heads of garlic.  Heads.  Plural.  Swiss chard ribs, tinned tomatoes.  And then, again, chop, stir, chop, stir, let the magic unfold in slo-mo.  Because caramelized tomatoes?  So, so not strident.   

Almost there.  In go your six pounds of slivered greens (you read that right), your mountain of diced roots, a few quarts of water.  I add parmesan rinds, as I love their umami, and a small throw of kielbasa, for my small sausage fiends. Both add something.  Both are unecessary.  That soffritto brings flavor to spare.  

Then, simmer.  Half an hour, give or take.  Add tender veg at the end, if you wish.  Beans—I like chickpeas—no matter what.  Season well, with the same slow attention you've given all along.  Because an undersalted soup is a television on mute, but add just enough, and in that moment, each vegetable becomes eloquent, articulate, witty.      

One last note about those vegetables: they're all my addition, and I adore them. Gray and Rogers call this one Winter Minestrone, and theirs is a soup of beans and greens.  But I made my first batch late last fall, as we were readying for two days in the hills, and my fridge and garden were both bursting.  These pictures all date to that time; this minestrone's carried me through every month, since.  From fall's last zucchini to late winter's storage veg, it has flattered every thing I've thrown at it.  Indeed, while peeling roots for last week's pot, I went a little panicky over their impending loss.  Hold up, I scolded the turnips and parsnips, I'm not done with your soft pepper, with your sweet cream.  

Whereupon I resolved to quit hemming and hawing, and get you a bowl of this soup.  Because what could possibly possess a person to pine for turnips in March?  See below.   

Three Season Minestrone
adapted from Italian Country Cook Book, by Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray 

Vary the veg to suit your taste and crisper drawer.  Bok choy can stand in for swiss chard.  Double the spuds.  Skip the green beans.  Follow the general guidelines for timing—stems in step two, roots in step three, and tender veg just before the end—and you can substitute at will.  

Rogers and Gray add half the cavolo nero at the beginning and half at the end, for a splash of bright, resilient green.  I prefer mine added entirely at the beginning, where it goes army beige but turns silky and rich.  Your choice. Either way, six pounds disappear.  Seriously.  Theirs is also a thick, standing-room-only soup, which contains only enough water to cover, and has half the beans mashed before adding.  I leave my beans whole, and often increase the water, as I love the warming effects of hot broth.  Also your call.  Half-inch dice.  I know.  But it makes for the most pleasing spoonfuls, each a small party of sweet, tender veg.  Truly.    

This makes vats, gallons and gallons.  I freeze a tall stack of portions, for later lunches, and get nervous when the pile runs low.  Halves easily, if you want less.   

4 tablespoons olive oil
6 medium carrots, chopped
3 medium onions, chopped
6 celery stalks, chopped
2 teaspoons' salt
2 heads of garlic, cloves peeled and minced
2 pounds swiss chard, leaves and stems separated, leaves slivered, stems chopped
1 28-ounce can plum tomatoes, roughly chopped
1 bunch parsley, leaves and stems, chopped
4 1/2 pounds cavolo nero (Tuscan kale) or other hearty green, stripped of tough stems, leaves slivered
3-5 quarts water, vegetable stock, or chicken stock
8-16 ounces parmesan rinds
6-8 cups root vegetables (parsnips, potatoes, turnips, sweet potatoes, more carrots), peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
6 cups tender vegetables (green beans, zucchini, corn), prepped and cut into 1/2" dice
8-16 ounces kielbasa, cut into 1/2" dice (optional)
2 cups chickpeas, cooked
salt and freshly ground pepper
freshly grated parmesan, to top 

Peel and roughly chop your carrots, onions and celery.  In your biggest, heaviest pot, preferably a dutch oven, warm the olive oil until shimmery.  Set flame to low, tip in your carrots, celery and onions, add two teaspoons' salt, and stir well to coat.  Cook slowly, stirring occasionally, until soft and amber, 30-45 minutes.  While this is happening, go about the rest of your prepping and chopping, working your way through the roots, leaves and such.

When your soffritto is one third its' former volume, slumped, and smelling wonderful, add the two heads' minced garlic, half the chopped parsley (stems and leaves), and the chopped chard stems.  Stir well, let settle, then add tomatoes.  Cook, stirring occasionally, until reduced, 15-30 minutes.

Add half (or all, see note above) of swiss chard and cavolo nero leaves, the diced root vegetables, enough water or stock to cover, parmesan rinds, and diced kielbasa, if using.  (At this point, I usually divide the soup over two large pots, so as not to crowd, and to allow for the vegetables still to come.)  Bring to a boil, and let simmer, 30-45 minutes, or until the biggest root yields easily to knife point.  Taste for salt—it will need plenty more, anywhere from 1-2 tablespoons.  Add and taste, add and taste, until you are happy.  

Now, finish off the soup with the final line-up:  add the remaining greens, if you reserved any; cooked beans; plus any tender vegetables (green beans, zucchini, corn), and let simmer another 5-10 minutes, until tender.  Taste for seasoning again—all the vegetables should be flavorful, each tasting distinctly of itself, and the broth bright and deeply savory.  Adjust salt and pepper until this tastes true.

Serve immediately, topped with freshly grated parmesan and/or olive oil.  And stash some away in the freezer for later.  There are few things better to find in the deep freeze.  

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.    

like i said

I forgot, last week, the suffix to Spring, at least when you have little people about: BREAK!

The kiddos were off these past ten days, and we're all a little bleary-eyed and wobbly-pinned, these first days back.  Mondays are iffy.  Mondays after Spring Break, doubly so.  I've been leaning heavily on the 3x5" index card I scrawled for myself, just before school let out.  Knowing I would forget everything important, I jotted down a few Must Remembers for yesterday, like Take Out Trash, and Send Important E-mails, BE PATIENT, and BE KIND.  I didn't exactly bat 1000.  But I haven't yet biffed it entirely, either.  We won't, at the very least, be lamenting last week's garbage, next Thursday.  So I think I'll call it a Qualified Success.  And I thought I'd pop over with a wave and hello.

It was just what we all needed, I think, this pile-up of days in the middle of March.

Playing dominoes, drawing with wax, puzzling out hopping frogs. Memorizing Charlie Harper. Bearing witness to an embarassment of flowers.

There were dinosaurs, and playdates, and Graeter's waffle cones.  Come to think of it, that might've made the Break, right there.  But that was just day number one.  

Our usual St. Patrick's Day feast didn't happen. But some of us found gold at the end of the rainbow, complete with leprauchaun. That made up for a lot.

We welcomed a bit of weather whiplash, with nights back to freezing, and days bright but nippy.  We bobbed for apples.  Only with marshmallows instead of apples.  And with hot cocoa instead of water.  Because we won't be needing either, a month from now, and we'd best clear out the fridge and pantry.

(All in the name of spring cleaning, you understand.)

Long-overdue projects were tackled. I cleaned out my purse, for example. I lost eight pounds instantly, mostly in crumbs. I vacuumed my car. That took the better part of a Saturday afternoon. There were Cheerios, people. We haven't brought Cheerios along in the car in I-don't-know-how-long. We used up the very last stale house stash last summer. In bracelets. Seeing as they weren't suitable for human consumption.

Like I said: needed. I should preface that: sorely.

Taxes.

Room-cleaning.

Balancing spoons on frozen-blueberry bowls. Important stuff like that.

(Spoon photo by Max. Balancing talent, also.)

We dug for bugs.

We searched for swirls.

Oh. And we went to Montréal.

Nous sommes allées à Montréal!

By car. Twelve hours, and one-half.  In one day.  Twice in one week.  (Gas stops, meals, border crossings, chocolate emergencies, not included.)

Still recovering.  More on Montréal later.

Until then: beets and oranges. (Like I said: more salads.)

But beets.  Do you do beets?  I do, and adore them.  Fiercely.

For one thing, they are devilishly convenient.  I am no Tamar Adler when it comes to produce processing.  I am lucky if I get my groceries in the fridge before nightfall, never mind roasting the week's veg before they ever see the crisper.  Never, that is, save for my beets.

Years ago, I began mindlessly roasting my beets as I put away the pretzels and dish soap.  Roasting beets is about as basic as it gets: trim, rinse, and place in a Pyrex pie plate, with a half-inch of water and a tight lid of foil.  Slide them in solo, or alongside whatever you're baking, at whatever temperature you want, until a knife mistakes your beets for butter. I've baked beets alongside cakes, and granola, and bread, and lasagne, and cookies, and just last night, baked potatoes. There's no peeling, no chopping, no prepping, no thinking.  Sign me up yesterday. This is so my style.

What you wind up with is sweet garnet meat, giant balls of the stuff, tender, earthy, vivid. They are excellent tucked into mustardy French lentils, or tossed with cucumbers, dill, and sour cream.  I can often be found eating them out of hand, whole, like an apple, though that does get a little Lady MacBeth. (Temporarily.  Plain old soap and water makes quick work of ghoulish hands. And their storied staining power is much ado about nothing: Clorox 2 gets beet juice out of anything. You could, I suppose, go with golden beets, but where, precisely, is the thrill in that?)

But among my most beloved beet standbys is a simple salad with orange, feta, and mint. The beets are diced, plated and drizzled with vinegar.  Okay, alright, full disclosure: strike 'drizzled'; insert 'lashed'.  Roasted beets love vinegar.  Roasted beets need vinegar.  Beets are sweet, no matter which way you fix them, floating in borscht or grated raw into flinty salads.  But roasting intensifies beets' sweetness exponentially, intensifying them into a concentrated, almost syrupy swagger.  This is a good thing.  A good thing bettered by vinegar. 

The acid adds interest and edge and dimension, harmony to the melody, Amy Ray to Emily Saliers.  It does not, I should note, yield your average Acme canned beet, which is strident and sharp and a little bit tawdry.  The home-roasted spiked beet is another beast completely, rich, well-rounded, intense, decadent.  Talk about a strong foundation.

To this, you pile on the chopped meat of an orange, a toss of good feta, a tangle of fresh mint.  The bright citrus sweet is entirely unlike the stored underground sort, which is fascinating, and wonderful.  It's sun and soil, distilled and assembled, amped up on feta's twang and the fresh slap of cool mint.  Sometimes I build it on a base of baby spinach.  Often, I add a smattering of roasted, salted pistachios, which amaze.  Mostly, I make it over and over, just like this, just the very best bits.  I ate some for lunch, not long before we left.  And again for brunch, this very morning.  Chances are, I'll double it for dinner, and eat it again, before the week's out.  Because there are beets in the fridge, ready and waiting, and five minutes between me and a feast.  Join me? 

Beets + Oranges with Feta + Mint
Serves 1

If you live in a place where new spring beets are coming on: congratulations! This is as fine a place to honor them as any.  If you live in a place where senile storage beets are all that are on offer: congratulations!  Beets are one of the best keepers I know. We are decisively in this latter category, and I continue to marvel over the beet's mysterious stamina.

As written, this makes a tidy lunch for one; scale up as needed.  Beets are often paired with chèvre, but I prefer something more toothsome.  Feta, ricotta salata, queso fresco all work beautifully here.  Finally: I build this salad from the beets up, because they color everything in a heartbeat.  Your snowy feta will be lurid magenta within minutes.  And all the more delicious for it.  But, you know, FYI.   

1 plump, juicy navel orange
1 plump roasted beet, peeled**
1 tablespoon sweet, mild vinegar (raspberry, cider, any color wine, sherry...)
drizzle olive oil
2-3 tablespoons good feta, crumbled
2-3 tablespoons' fresh mint, slivered
salted, roasted pistachios (optional)
salt and pepper, to taste

Cut peeled, roasted beet into bite-size (1/2-1") bits, and set on plate. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon vinegar over all, add a good pinch of salt, and let beets drink this up while you prepare your orange...

Semi-suprême your orange: with a sharp paring knife, top and tail your orange, and set it on it's newly flat end.  Work your way around the sides, paring peel and pith from the fruit.  Once you are down to a sphere of fruit, separate it into halves, remove the pithy core, and slice it (interior pith and all) into bite-size (1/2-1") bits.  Set orange bits on beets. 

Crumble your feta, sliver your mint, roughly chop pistachios, if using, and scatter all over beets and oranges.  Drizzle with a bit more vinegar, and a touch of olive oil, and final flurry of salt and fresh pepper.  Smile.

***

To roast your beets:  Trim leaves off, leaving an inch of stalk, and set aside for soups or sautées.  Wash, and place in a small baking dish (Pyrex pie plates work beautifully) with a half-inch of water, and cover tightly with foil.  Bake beets in the oven, with whatever else is baking, anywhere from 275º to 450º, until a knife glides through the biggest beet with ease.  This may take anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour and a half, depending on beet size and oven temperature.  Test after 45 minutes, and if you meet any resistance, return to the oven again, adding more water if needed and sealing foil tightly.  Most of my beets take around an hour at 400º.  When done, cool slightly, top and tail, then roll each beet gently in a clean paper towel: the skin will slide right off.  Use immediately, or store in the refrigerator for later use.  Roasted beets keep beautifully for 5-7 days.

 

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...

a little guilty

 
Seeing as it's March, and nearly all over now, I feel it is finally safe for me to say this: I love winter.  I really do.

Not that this is news, exactly; I've never hidden my fondness for the frozen months.  But as we stand on this rain-soaked, soggy cusp between seasons, I hope you'll indulge me one last, long goodbye.

What I admire so of winter, what I will miss, are all the small details, the gentle rhythm of our days.  The still-midnight mornings giving way to first light, late sunrises and birdsong we catch without trying.  The blow-first breakfasts to build warmth within, the parade of steaming mugs to heat fingers and bellies. 

Evenings that wind down with the day, bedtimes eased by Mother Nature, turning off light at the source.  It is, of course, still an uphill battle, but they seem to recognize a certain folly in opposing such high authority.        

Winter is inside play.  I love inside play.  And, unlike in summer, life indoors seems a-okay.  Hibernating, hunkering down, holing up, blissing out, call it what you will: I call it dreamy.   

I adore the library books by the stack, my card maxed out for months on end.  The board games and puzzles and dominoes and playing cards, the science experiments unearthed at long last.  The paints pulled out weekly, new media explored, old toys resurrected, re-purposed, re-imagined. 

Winter is wool and cheery striped socks, flannel pajamas and rumply blankets, darting candles and dancing orange logs whose hot breath and pure spectacle never fail to draw a crowd.  Winter is cozy. 

Cozy.  

Honestly, can you even speak the word without smiling?  Although the dictionary cites 'boom' and 'hiss' as examples, I secretly suspect cozy's the original onomatopoeia.  No one ever, I feel I must state for the record, goes gushy over sitting around the A/C. 

Winter is birthdays, for us, anyway.  Two of my babes were born in the dark months, and I'm sure this influences my winter-love.  Post-Christmas, we have plenty to celebrate yet, this year ushering in Mr. Six and Miss Three.  It is hard not to love a season of layer cakes, of puffed cheeks and paper lanterns and piñata parties.

And of course the outdoors, frosted and brisk.  Few things compare to the grand bas relief between deep bundled layers and mincing sharp air.  I know I've gone on and on about the aesthetics, but have we declared hot diggity yet for that awesome invisible?  Winter's air is a wonder, invigorating, exhilirating, crisp and clear and exquisitely clean.  The proverbial fresh breath, free to a good home. 

And then there's light.  Good golly, the light.  Come winter, my glare-weary eyes get relief, soaking in the quiet shades and soft, muted hues.  The spare glowy rays on our up-tilted earth are scrimmy, diffused, diaphanous.  The hours of sunlight may number too few, but the stuff itself is extraordinary.  Quality over quantity, you have my vote.  

Winter is endless, overcast skies.  You might think I'm turning coat.  No way, no how. 

Blue skies are nice, but so trite, so bright.  But grey skies are wild with nuance and splendor.  Subtle and whispery, comforting and close, ten thousand shades masquerading as one.  Grey skies are the sheet-draped pillow forts of my childhood but in grandiose lengths of the finest wool flannel, strung up and hung high, right overhead.    

 
Winter is not without its drawbacks.  It is hard on houses, and trees, and extremities.  Every outing means getting chilled to the marrow, returning home all red-nosed and stone-toed.  Skin doesn't take kindly to the fierce dryness, chapping and cracking relentlessly.  Apparently, if this year's any indication, chairs, doors, and wood instruments feel the same way.  

The plague common cold is a regular visitor, digging in its stubborn heels for weeks on end.  Fashion takes a back seat to survival: I bit the bullet this year, bought a 'sleeping bag coat'.  This isn't its proper name, but you know the ones, those enormous shoulder-to-knee pufferies.  I look like a walking, talking duvet.  I love it, unconditionally.    

Last week I found WordMake, the ridiculously addictive word scramble app.  Six letters, five minutes, on your marks, get set, spell!  I once thought I was literate.  I couldn't beat 65%.  Repeatedly.  For hours.  Humiliating.  (Hours?  On an app?  For shame.  And you can thank me whenever you tear yourself away.)  Finally, finally, I nailed 85%, aided greatly by my first-ever six-letter word.  IRWENT?  WINTER, obviously.  We're kindred spirits, winter and I.

I realize I am a minority of one.  

Why the guilt?  Well, I've noticed I'm sort of alone, here, that for many there's no love lost on the calendar's first months.  What for me is a most welcome stretch of sweet quiet, is for many a too-long, much-dreaded slog.  I understand; I have my own unendurable months.  They just happen elsewhere in the year.  I didn't want to rub anyone's nose in my joy while endless winter stretched before us, yet.  Spring starts next week.  Thanks for indulging me. 

For my part, I'm mourning the passing of this season.  Last weekend, we took one last walk in the woods, after a surprise dusting, Saturday night.  We saw ducks, froze our feet, thanked the heavens for car heaters.  I had chance to say a proper farewell.  Until next year, then.  I'll miss you, dear Winter.  Except in the kitchen, where winter's still alive and well.

We'll be eating winter for some time, yet.  No peas in the ground until Mother's Day, here.  But eating winter in Ohio is funny business, involving no small amount of cross-country provisions.

Let's pause here.

I think by now you know I'm fairly dedicated to my foodshed, to eating what grows in my extended backyard.  Berries are a two-month treat in our home, an early summer feast we await all year long.  We've not had fresh tomatoes since fall, though we're still pulling them, roasted and sauced, from the deep freeze.  Asparagus in Ohio is a two-week eye-blink, and this year, I intend to eat it for fourteen days, straight.  I've been praising local produce over at Edible Columbus for nearly a year, now, and walking the talk for many years, more.  I believe in the price, the impact, the local economy, the freshness, the small farmer, and above all, the flavor. 

However.  Nothing grows in Ohio in winter.  Really, nothing.  In Seattle, you can eke out greens and roots in January.  Not so here.  We still can (and do) eat local in winter—grains, meats, honey, dairy—but for produce, we supplement with imported fare.  I feel a little guilty about this, also.  But not a lot.  In part, because of this intelligent analysis.  In part, because we are oh so choosey.    

In the broad black-listed group of shipped produce, there are, in my mind, clear winners and losers.  I would not, for example, buy out-of-season strawberries, because their very nature is fair-weather and fleeting.  Ditto any soft, supple, juicy ripe anything; they lose their souls in cold-storage and semi-trucks.  But there's a whole separate class—hardy roots and sturdy leaves, apples and crucifers, glorious citrus and alliums—that fare very well for weeks on end.  The traditional storage veg, in other words, the once-upon-a-time root cellar residents.  So when the mercury bottoms out and the local stores dry up, we turn to these keepers for winter sustenance.   

Which brings me to parsnips, keepers extraordinaire.  Do you know parsnips?  I can't remember not.  They inhabit my earliest memories, like carrots and peas and vienna sausages (remember those?).  But my dear friend Dania once brought it to my attention that perhaps parsnips haven't hit the mainstream just yet.  So in case you have not made their acquaintance, allow me to introduce you.  You'll soon be fast friends. 

In form, parsnips look rather like carrots, but the vampire-stricken version, maybe the old black-and-white model.  Bleached-out carrots is one angle, anyway.  I happen to think they are humble ivory stunners, elegant in winter whites, the color of parchment.  And then there's the flavor, which is something else altogether.  Parsnips share carrots' sweetness, but it is modulated, mellow, tempered by a fantastic creaminess.  Parsnips share potatoes' starchiness, but with yards more personality, which somehow brings vanilla to mind.  David Tanis, in his fine A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes, says they taste like a cross between butternut and chestnuts.  Yes, those too.  And all of the above, and none of the above.  They're their own individual excellent.   

They're wonderful cooked to falling apart and puréed, with a splash of heavy cream and big lashings of fresh nutmeg.  They are my white root of choice for soups and stews; last week's beef stew was studded with carrots and parsnips, hold the potatoes.  But the way we eat them most is simply, straight-up, roasted with olive oil and salt.  Roasting vegetables is nobody's news, but I sing its familiar song anyway, because it's foolproof, fast, and ridiculously delicious.  And although nearly all vegetables react brilliantly to high heat, each one transforms differently.

Parnsips, for their part, caramelize at the edges, going bronzed and slightly crisp, nearly crunchy at the tips.  The insides, meanwhile, turn yielding and creamy, their sweetness offset by a dusting of salt.  I prefer them to french fries by many a mile, and make these, not mashed spuds, each St. Patrick's Day (nudge, wink).  I didn't learn to roast parsnips from David Tanis; I fell hard for them nearly a decade ago.  But I've yet to find a better description for this preparation, which he calls 'Parsnips, Epiphany-Style'.  And although I can only speak for myself, here, I find any season bearable with the odd epiphany thrown in. 

Roasted Parsnips

Look for small, firm parsnips—carrot-size or smaller are ideal—if you can find them.  That said, I mostly wind up with medium, which are also fine; just trim them of their cores when chopping.  If they are huge (more than 2" at the base) and/or floppy, leave them for another winter's day. 

Because of their high starch content, I roast parsnips lower and slower than veg with a higher water content (i.e. cauliflower, asparagus, carrots).  Cut roughly 1/4"-1/3" at the widest point, the time and temp below should yield a creamy center.  If your parsnips are significantly larger or smaller, adjust the time up or down, accordingly.  Chopped leftovers are smashing in hash or in soups.

2-3 pounds parsnips
3-4 Tbs. olive oil
salt + pepper

Preheat oven to 425°, and place rack in lower third of oven. 

Peel, top and tail parsnips.  Cut into roughly equal 3" lengths—I simply cut the small ones crosswise, then cut the thick end in two.  For larger parsnips, cut crosswise, halve the small end, and quarter large end.  If your larger parsnips have a particularly woody-looking central core, remove with your knife and discard.  I do not bother on the smaller specimens.  This takes much longer to read than to do.  All you are aiming for is even sizing for even cooking.

Scatter cut parsnips on an unlined, heavy sheet pan (jelly roll pans work wonderfully for cookies and roast vegetables, both), and drizzle liberally with 3-4 Tablespoons olive oil.  Sprinkle with 1 generous teaspoon kosher salt, plus freshly ground pepper, if using, and toss all together with fingers, to coat.

Roast parsnips 25-30 minutes on lower rack, shuffling with a spatula after 15-20 minutes, moving corner veg toward the center and center veg to the outfield.  Test at this point, and if more tenderness and/or crispness is desired (likely), roast another 5-10 minutes, or until parsnips are golden and caramelized at the tips, and fork tender at their thickest point.  

Remove, taste for seasoning, add additional salt and/or pepper if desired, and serve hot.