remedial eating

on the off

And then it was summer.

 

Technically, summer began weeks ago, on Thursday, June 7 at 2:50 p.m.  (Not that anyone was counting, weeks, days, minutes, nanoseconds...)  But for me, summer doesn't really begin until we nail our routine.  Finalize a schedule.  Establish ground rules.  File every last shred of school year schrapnel.

We are there.

 

Here.

 

 

Greetings from Week Two.

 

The backpacks have been moth-balled.  The paper mountains, scaled.  The lunchboxes, deep-sixed.  (Two years of spilled crumbs and cock-eyed thermoses and who-knows-what-wedged-everywhere takes its toll on even the finest of boxes.) 

But more to the point, we have pinned down our days.

The routine, it turns out, is a rigid one, an unbending adherence to rolling with it.  "It" being the weather.  "It" being impromptu playdates.  "It" being the what-shall-we-do-today's?  "It" is the ultimate variable, come summer, as fickle and free-spirited as pronouns get.  

It is eating breakfast illuminated, because it's solstice season, and the light has gone all glow-y again.  It is forts strung up, and hidden under for days.  It is Mario, because Mario is family, around here.  And because I placed second for the first (fist pump!) time.  (Diddy Kong.  He's my monkey.)

Some days, it's a short walk to our much-loved little library.  Some days, geo-caching in the company of friends.  Some days, it is pool jaunts (and the shampoos and empty bellies and wet towels that follow). 

It is eating something from the garden, nearly every day.  Snow peas, snap peas, herbs, salads, the last of the service berries.  Broccoli.  Our first broccoli!  A modest head.  Completely organic.  Absolutely alive with cabbage worms.  A-L-I-V-E.  We're talking cabbage worm condo, rent control: zero.  (I love broccoli.  Loved broccoli.  Hope to love broccoli again.  After a few years.  And lots of therapy.)

It is correctly identifying a beetle, directly from Peterson.  A seemingly simple task, complicated by their bizarre typology.  Something about body shape and antennae length and leg shape, rather than the clearly superior and obvious schema: colors of the rainbow, polka dots versus stripes, cute versus almost unbearably ugly.  I persisted, in any case, and discovered that our darling yellow ladybugs are in fact spotted cucumber beetles.  Spotted cucumber beetles with their sights set on my cukes and zukes.  

Henry's piggy bank is now edging toward porker status, since I placed a five-cent bounty on their darling little yellow heads. 

Some days, it is me, taking a big long deep breath, in order to answer "yes" to their paper mâché pleas.  We do due diligence, draw up plans, talk options, until it becomes not just mess but problem solving exercise.  Oxen, it seems, are more difficult to build out of newspaper, flour and water than, say, giant eggs.    

Foil, for the record, makes a nice armiture, with many more limb, head and horn options than ye olde balloon.  Should you happen to have barnyard paper mâché ambitions. 

It is games, whenever we can manage.  There has been epic Uno, and enchanted Yahtzee, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar Game, which is surprisingly all-ages. At least when proper drama accompanies the playing of the cheese. Mister X has been a bit slow getting off the ground.  I have high hopes of tracking him down, this next week.   

(Finding games suitable for 4, 7, 11 and almost-40 is always interesting, but interesting, in my experience, is always better than easy.  Also, it leads to novel new rules, like sprinkling magic dust on the Yahtzee dice, and other creative recipes for inclusion.)

It is getting out into the garden, in pajamas, before eight, because the garden is something else in June.  Lush, intense, brand new every day, a tiny jungle we can call our own.  

It is avoiding the garden, all day, like the plague, for exactly the same reasons. 

Those beans right up there?  The ones halfway up the teepee?  Those were last Friday's beans.  These are this Friday's.  Over the top.  Literally.  And flexing their muscles, if I'm not mistaken.  This is an excellent thing in a bean.  Not so much in the weeds, just outside the frame.    

It is building, because there is always building.  It is excavating rocks, from a kit or our dirt pile.  It is library reading programs begun, and inked up.  It's our first summer read, picked by guess-who, but eagerly being followed by all.  It's re-reading, and re-loving, The Walrus and The Carpenter.  Not all Victorian lit (I'm looking at you, Heidi) holds up to contemporary kids.    

Lewis Carroll, Congratulations.  And thank you.  Fondly, us.     

(Will we make it through this stack?  Good heavens, no.  But options are good, and a mother can dream.  Because what, praytell, is parenting, if not boundless optimism, calibrated by crumbs?)

It is a bit of writing, lest the pencils get dusty.  (In comic books, for starters, lest the natives get restless.)  Some science, which pops up pretty much everywhere.  Some numbers, to keep our math muscles strong.  And if the day's problem is x = 3 kids + 2 friends, where x = 1 full afternoon of fun, then I consider my work done.  Algebra doesn't get much better.  

It doesn't, in other words, look much like what I'd planned.

And I don't mind a bit.

And I like it very much. 

The thing is, I enter every summer armed, with ideas and lists and notions, pre-conceived.  Since we schedule nothing save the occasional swim lesson, it always seems wise to have a few Plans.  Schemes.  Lessons.  Diversions.  Distractions.  Shared goals.  Just, you know, to be prepared. 

This year, we planned a butterfly study.  And got in one good session in before genuine summer kicked in.  And shelved the rest, without a second thought, because mastering underwater nose bubbles is so the priority.  Besides, the very idea of it was enough to see us through the raising of two black swallowtails, caterpillar through chrysalis.  (Did you know they turn to soup while inside?  Digest themselves and re-build as butterflies?  Why oh why didn't Eric Carle include that page?)  The pessimist might say it was all for naught. Me, I rather like having a plan B, on the off chance the "B" word comes up. 

From where I stand now, the "B" word seems unlikely, about as unlikely as the timing of this next dish.  But I put it out there, on the off chance you have asparagus, still.  We do not, though that hasn't stopped me from buying more. I can't seem to bring a close to this asparagus season.  Even if "this season" now stretches into Northern Canada.  

This is why.  

This is stir-fried asparagus and ginger, and this, I realize, doesn't look like much.  That's okay.  I didn't get into it for the looks department.  I got into it because I grew a little weary of asparagus' unwieldy ways.  Because asparagus arrives on the same train as open windows, first freckles, and still-pleasant sun, I tend to cook it quick and whole.  Roasting is a given, on repeat all spring.  Grilling, if I get up the gumption.  Steaming, if we want to dip and swipe.  I love whole spears, finger food, the whole harbinger thing.  For the first twenty, thirty pounds, anyway.

But this spring, which stretched unusually long in these parts, I found myself craving bite-sized bits.  Something I could spear with a fork.  Something less awkward,  less napkin-needy, less floppy-foldy-bendy-drippy.  Something with better table manners.  Something that would still honor all that is lovely in asparagus.  

In the past, I've found few better shows of vegetable respect than a searing-hot, lightning-quick turn in my wok.  The past did not fail me, this spring.  

Asparagus is a wok natural, fairly uniform in width and fairly high in water content.  The first time I stir-fried some spears, I didn't bother to blanch them, just cut the bunch cross-wise into bite-sized bits.  They got a good sear, right off the bat, before releasing just enough of liquid to flash-steam their insides. By the five minute mark, they'd begun to re-claim their juices, which had taken up flavor and funk from the pan. This release-and-catch system that happens with vegetables is one of my favorite wok features.  Things cooked this way go exponential, their inner selves being extracted, augmented, re-absorbed.  At one level, it's all a little Doc Ock/Spiderman.  At another, it's mind-numbingly good.

Caramelized and faintly smoky at the edges, just-tender and nutty within, they had that fresh, lively, still-flopping-about quality that all good stir-fried vegetables do.  I thought them tasty.  I ate the whole pound.  And then I kept tinkering. 

I remembered a stir-fried broccoli I once loved, with a full quarter(!) cup(!) of julienned ginger.  It fell by the wayside, because it required blanching first.  And it will stay by the wayside, because I'm still blanching over broccoli.  But asparagus waved its long, lanky hand, volunteering to understudy the part.  And now broccoli has no role to return to.

Have you ever stir-fried tablespoons of aromatics?  It is a surprisingly elegant thing.  The asparagus goes in first, to take the heat and cushion the blow, and pick up a good whiff of that storied wok hay.  The aromatics—in this case, a tablespoon of garlic, and two of ginger—follow, and mellow, and metamorphose.  They trade in their signature fresh bark and bite for something deeper, richer, more well-rounded.  The garlic goes nutty and rich, with twinges of that muscular sweet you get from roasting.  The ginger exchanges its heat for warmth, a fragrant, heady, bright warmth that lights up each bite.  

Each bite which still, somehow, enunciates asparagus.  For despite the aromatic windfall, here, there's no soy sauce nor oyster sauce nor corn starch to interfere.  Absent glop, the asparagus speaks sweet grassy green clearly, overjoyed, not overwhelmed, by garlic and ginger.  It is unexpected, and surprising, and wonderful.  Rather like summer itself, actually. 

Stir-Fried Asparagus with Ginger and Garlic

In my well-seasoned steel wok, one tablespoon of oil is plenty.  If you don't own a wok, cast iron makes a good substitute.  (Also, a basic carbon steel wok will be the best $20 you ever spend.)  As with any stir fry, have all your ingredients cut and ready before beginning.  This moves on and off the stove in under ten minutes.  To double, simply prepare each pound separately, with a quick wipe of the wok between batches.  

Honestly, I can eat a platter, straight.  But this also goes swimmingly with brown rice and bento pork, or pan-fried tofu, or eggs, softly scrambled or fried.    

1 pound asparagus
1-2 tablespoons peanut or canola oil
1 tablespoon fresh garlic, minced
2 tablespoons fresh ginger, minced
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
seasame seeds to garnish (optional) 

Wash asparagus, shake off excess water, and remove tough ends.  Slice medium spears into 1/2" lengths.  (Alternatively, adjust cut size to spear size.  For pencil-thin spears, slice into 1" lengths.  For thick, stout spears, cut 1/4" lengths.  The important thing is consistency, to ensure even cooking.)

In a wok or heavy skillet, heat 1 tablespoon oil over high heat, until shimmering.  Tip asparagus into hot oil, being careful of splatters.  Let sit 30 seconds without stirring, then shake or stir well to re-distribute.  Let sit another 30 seconds, undisturbed, then add garlic, ginger, salt and sugar, and toss.  Turn heat down a nudge, to a still-hot high medium, and continue to stir-fry, stirring often, 5-8 minutes total, depending on spear size.  (If garlic starts to brown significantly, add a bit more oil, and turn heat down a nudge.)  Asparagus will be done when it is still mostly bright green, but beginning to caramelize in spots, and when ginger and garlic are golden.  

Taste for seasoning, adjusting salt if needed.  Serve immediately, with sesame seeds on top, if desired.   

plain and fancy

When my mom was in town, a few weeks back now, we spent one delicious afternoon strolling the Springfield Antiques Show. We didn't bring home much, no more than we could carry, easily, for hours, under the beating hot sun. (This, I find, is an important rule for such places.)  The joy of such outings is really in the being there, anyway, the chatting, the perusing, the endless unknown backstories.  

Still, we came away with a clutch of jolly striped towels, a few mother of pearl buttons, one small special something for each child.  Old blue bottles, formerly home to Dr. S. Pitcher's Castoria and Sirop d'Anis, currently home to singular stems.  And a phrase, which weighed nothing, and cost the same, and which might have been my favorite takeaway.

At one point, early on, we came around a corner and face to face with a frog. He was two feet tall, maybe three, vivid green and very flat and completely fantastic.  He was the centerpiece of an old, defunct sign company's sign, the name of which was something like Dazzling Frog Signs, the motto of which was exactly, we make signs plain and fancy.    

Plain and fancy.  I love that.

Plain and fancy, I realize, is how we do so much around here.  It is how we host guests, one foot here, one foot there.  We did, for us, a fair bit of sightseeing, those ten days.  We saw the Science Center, had lunch under the rooster, played hooky at the zoo with the goats and polar bears.  We paid visit to the Conservatory, where we hung with the Blue Morphos and Atlas moths and Koi as big as Copper River Salmon.  Passed an afternoon finding frogs and smelling the roses, the only afternoon I bothered to bring a camera.  Went to tea, just us three, and ate as many scones.  Enjoyed multiple applications of ice cream.  

Two words regarding Graeter's: pretzel cone.  

Two words regarding Jeni's: try everything.    

But equally, okay more so, we hung around home. We bailed on a proposed trip to Pittsburgh, after I finally thought to look up.  Given the glorious spring weather over our heads, it seemed criminal to up and leave here for elsewhere. We watered the garden.  We walked to the park.  Searched for fireflies, made mudpies, re-read Many Moons.  (Oh, Thurber...)  Scooped up schoolboys for lunch out, more than once.  Celebrated imaginary birthdays with real lemon cake.  Poked around thrift shops.  Went to the movies.  Played Clue.  (It was Miss Scarlet.  Isn't it always?)   Made fantastic messes of the kitchen table. If that were a hobby, it might be my favorite.  Most especially when Mamo's in town.  

Everyday, ordinary, unremarkable stuff.  Very plain.  Very good. 

This plain/fancy business makes such sense to me.  Not as dichotomy, not as paradox, but as method through the madness.  There are those who can do full-time fancy.  Me, I need big doses of plain, as ballast, as bulwark, as beige to the bling.  But taken together?  By all means, count me in.

It is all about the conjunction, I guess.  The absence of or.  The presence of and.      

It is our everyday dishes, old Limoges plus all manner of orphans.  (There's something about settling chips in a swell old bowl that makes such a snack seem the treat that it is.)

It is my summer uniform, white T's and Tevas, and swishy long skirts for cool and comfort.    

It is how we design our days, at least the ones we enjoy most, an outing, maybe two, and long stretches without structure.

It is how I see the garden, oblique, articulate, as eloquent in decay as in full throttle.  I cannot resist dewdrops, buds, bugs, expired blooms, the sinuous tracks of some stump-loving chomper.  For all my peony appreciation, and this litany of roses (if only I could .mp3 their perfume ... ), I am convinced the common daisy is as elegant, in its way.  Not to mention that snake, and that opal fly, up top.    

(This may be why I so often miss the weeds.  Or, rather, why I stop to admire their shape, form, texture, and sway.  And then walk right on by.)  

And it is how we eat, ever and always, this week, as much as any other. We've grilled flank steak and poached salmon and made hash from spring turnips. Made scratch waffles and gougères and strawberry-stuffed crèpes.  Biffed a double batch of lemon bars, the less said about which, the better. (Actually, scratch that, and know this: they were serious, I was serious, about filling hitting HOT crust. Pour it over a cold crust, and, it turns out, it runs right under, yielding Burnt Lemon Slime Bars. That is a euphemism.  And a generous one, at that.)  Redeemed ourselves with cardamom shortbread.  

Ate apples and popcorn and called it dinner.  

Plain or fancy?  Beats me.  One cook's plain is another's fancy.  Starting waffles in the evening, setting dough to rise in the morning, salting water like the sea for a treasured Copper River side: these are habits, in my hands and in my memory, requiring little time and less thought, and therefore, my plain. Even past little bedtimes, and so past the KitchenAid's curfew, I know I can go off-recipe on shortbread, pinch soft butter into flour with ten silent fingers.  I know I'll find small hands to help in the a.m.  We've rolled cookies together one hundred times.  Easy-peasy.  

Pork chops, on the other hand, terrify me.  I last made a batch in 2003.

But sometimes something comes along that is perfectly plain, by anybody's standards, in anybody's day.

Say hello to chard.  Steamed, buttered chard.  

Chard is a funny, fence-sitting sort of green. It is not one of the lightweights, lettuce, spinach, arugula, the stuff of salad bowls and shimmery vinaigrettes. But neither, really, is it one of the hardies, the kales, collards and mustards, the braise and sauté set. For years, too many years, I let this confuse me, egged on by countless recipes that complicated matters.  Unnecessarily, it turns out.

Can we talk stems?

There is a body of literature that claims, nay, insists, that a chard leaf is in fact two different vegetables. Unlike the ribs on tuscan kale, say, which are too tough to eat and must be stripped away, chard's ribs are entirely edible. Indeed, the charm of chard, at least for my children, lays entirely in the stem, which turns tender and sweet.  I agree entirely; the stems are magnificent.  (I adore the leaves, also; more on those in a minute.)  The problem's not in the eating, then, but in the cooking.

The Two-In-One School separates leaves from stems, then prepares each separately, according to its needs.  The theory of course being that the more-substantial stems need more time on the hob to cook through.  This makes sense.  This also begets fussification.  I recall a recipe which yielded a yin/yen sort of plate, garlicky sautéed greens over here, stock-braised stem batons over there, re-united on the plate after two profoundly different paths. I recall another that tossed seriously blanched stems and barely blanched leaves with a nutmeg-gy béchamel, showered one and all with gruyère, then ran the whole business under the broiler until bubbling.

To which I say: yum.  And also: unlikely.  Highly unlikely, if you answer to Molly. Few of my days invite such swaths of fancy.  And when they do, I usually choose 'nap'.  If you have time and inclination to fix chard in this fashion, by all means do.  Then call me.  I'll be right over.

If you do not, I am here today to tell you: chard is also a one-pot, seven-minute affair, and one of the finest vegetables I know.  With a dash of logic (and permission if you need it: here you go), chard can be cooked ensemble, to fantastic effect.  The premise, here, borrows from the asparagus pot, those tall specimens designed to keep fat spear-ends near the heat, while keeping tender tips away.  Only without the cupboard-cluttering, and without the steep price tag.  As applied to chard, the technique works as follows: in an ordinary saucepan, add a splash of water, followed by the sliced stems, followed by the slivered leaves.  Slap on the lid.  Simmer five-to-seven.  Drain.  Done.  Devour.   (Neat, huh?)

The stems blanch themselves in the bit of boiling water, while the leaves steam to just-tender, up top.   All this talk of stems!  About those leaves, which are the (other) very best part.  Chard has a particular plump to its leaves, somehow built into its crumple and bump.  It doesn't wilt, like spinach, or stay tough, like collards, but in a half-dozen minutes turns silky and splendid.  And then there's the flavor, more sorrel than kale, mostly sweet with a twinkle of tart.  That is their oxalic speaking.  It is a very flattering accent.    

So flattering, we ordinarily add little else.  A dash of salt, to complement the sweet.  A good knob of butter, because, well, it's melted butter.  Some fingers. Sometimes forks.  Seconds and thirds, if you're me.  By any measure, plain.  By every measure, yum. 

Softly Steamed, Buttered Chard

1 big, plump batch of chard, around 1 pound
dash of salt
1 generous tablespoon salted butter

Wash chard well, leaving water clinging to leaves, and trim ends.  Stack leaves in one pile, all pointing the same direction, and beginning at stem end, cut 1/4" slices.  Add stem slices to a medium sauce pan with a lid, along with a few tablespoons of water.  Continue slicing, increasing to 1/2" as you hit the leaves, until all leaves are chopped.  Add to the pot, atop the stems, and add two pinches of salt.  Place pot on stove, turn heat to high, and bring water to the boil.  Turn heat down a nudge, to medium high, to keep water at a vigorous simmer.  Steam, covered, 5-7 minutes, until stems are toothsome and leaves, emerald.  Timing will vary based on chard's size and age, so use these cues for best results:  Begin testing at 5 minutes, and continue every minute or two, until the stems are just past al dente, without crunch, but well before the sog that usually sets in around the 10 minute mark.  There is this lovely zone, usually between 5-7 minutes, where stems are tender but still have substance, like good asparagus, and the leaves are vivid green, soft but not limp.

Drain well, leaving to sit a few minutes in the strainer, then shaking, then transfer to a plate.  Check for seasoning, adding a bit more salt, if desired.  Add a generous tablespoon of butter, and enjoy.   

 

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.

 

on one hand

 

And just like that, here we are, again.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, two words: Driftwood Fish.  Oh my.

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

Must be summer. 

We are so ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

you would be wrong

We had house guests this past week. This means that I hosted. What that means, I'm only just beginning to figure out.

This isn't our first go-round with hosting, not even close.  We've been bowled over, these past two years, by family and friends' willingness to make the trek.  But up until Ohio I never had need to host, since everyone I knew lived within an hour's drive.  Terribly convenient, this.  But a little ignorant-making, also, at least when it comes to knowing how to welcome travelers.

I am vaguely aware that there's an entire art to this whole hosting business, although I only have two firm ideas about what exactly this entails. I know, after years of IKEA catalog perusing, that I'm duty-bound to offer up a heap of fresh $2.49 slippers. I know also, based on some 2004 Marth Stewart spread, that I ought to rise with the chickens and squeeze 17 grapefruits into submission. I didn't do either. But at least I know where and how I erred.

I'm too new at this house-guest-having business to nail the details, so I think about basics and do what I can. Mostly, that means I supply the necessities—clean towels, abundant Jeni's, a complimentary 7 a.m. buffalo stampede child-led wake-up call—figuring if I can't quite manage gracious, I can at least hope for memorable. And meet guest requests, as they arise.

As for that first box, I have it easy, since the company in question checks it themselves.  I know from past trips that Annette and Joanne typically arrive with more memorable than jeans, t-shirts and toiletries, combined.  Before they even crossed our threshold this time, they unpacked incredible tales of travel gone awry.  Of late departures and missed connections and projected 9 p.m. arrivals, that wound up ending in a.m., in Cleveland.

We don't live in Cleveland.

Tack on a three hour middle-of-the-night drive through split pea fog and, I quote, "waterfalls", and, at long last, a 4 a.m. arrival. I'm inclined to believe they missed their plane on purpose. They are good that way, going all out for a story, appreciating the power of a grand entrance.  I guess I'll never know, but I wouldn't put it past them.  (You better believe I was up and waiting.)

And that was only just the beginning.

I won't bore you with the details, but I will pass on a few house-guest-vetting suggestions I've gleaned from this most recent experience.  First, anyone who arrives bearing excellent micro-roasted coffee is automatically admitted, no questions asked.  Second, throw your doors open wide for anyone with a bottomless Bananagrams appetite.  Bonus pillows to those who share 2-letter word lists. (You, too, can use qi, aa, and za!)  Always screen guests for flexibility in case you must abandon them on day one to repair a broken phone, say, or re-neg on much-ballyhooed squirt gun battles and barbecues. (I maintain weather management is beyond the hostess' job description. Who knew it would go from mid-eighties to mid-forties?  Mid-forties and raining?  The peonies and iris pretty much tell all.)  Also, give special preference to people who leave your kidlets in stitches (in their sides, not their heads) and can dispatch them to bed with giggles and speed.

And while I cetainly don't require it, I will confirm that a carry-on full of kitsch is a wonderful thing. Temporary tattoos and lunch bugs and ABC magnets (the Already Been Chewed gum variety, not the Spell DOG, sweetie! classics).  Foamy things, growing things, flying things with wings. Hysterical, awful zombies with pop-out brains.  Plants vs. Zombies, a new hit around here. Tours of the world's first zombie-proof house.  A heart to accompany our zombie brain jello mold.  (We added worms this time, a rousing success.  Not so gracious.  Definitely memorable.)  It wasn't until Henry chose Zombunny as his next monster that I realized Zombies had been quite the theme. This is what you stand to gain from great house guests: expanded horizons, in the most dubious of directions.

You would think, under the circumstances, all those guts busted, all those miles traveled, that I could at least answer a simple recipe request.  You would be wrong.

I don't cook much when we have company, as I rather prefer to chit-chat and play.  We did, however, manage breakfast that first bleary-eyed morning, an ad hoc affair that included ricotta pancakes.  We were out of the buttermilk that our go-to calls for, so we defaulted to our runner-up, a rather misleading rank for a food I call 'cloud cakes'.  Not that any of this matters, since we're talking asparagus.  

I'll get around to those pancakes, Annette, really, someday.  But, see, ricotta's good the year-round.  Asparagus, on the other hand, is here, now, briefly, as fleeting as that construction sign, below.  It popped up across the street the morning after you left town, and I'm hoping it will tide you over until pancake season returns.  For what it's worth, I had to act fast and log a tardy; the text reverted to road closure blather within the hour.  Timing is everything, with zombie zones and asparagus.  Not so much with hollandaise, but I'm jumping ahead. 

We've been eating asparagus every way imaginable, since the season started a few weeks back. I've diced it into soups, minestrone, avgolomeno, and tucked it into woks full of fried rice and gingered pork.  I've braised handfuls in miso-butter and grilled inch-thick spears alongside bratwursts and roasted more pounds than I care to count. (I wasn't kidding when I said I intended to eat it daily.) But of all the ways that I love asparagus, the one that skips my heart a beat is simply steamed, with hollandaise.

Hollandaise, of course, is that voluptuous French sauce of lemon and butter, emboldened by egg yolks.  It belongs to that futzy, storied family of emulsions, which also counts mayonnaise among its members. Traditional recipes are peppered with warnings, like careful, and curdle, and if it breaks...  This has always been a sore spot for me, and for years my results were what euphimists might call "mixed".  Pessimists would pick "dismal", without passing go.  I can't be relied upon to be careful with a sauce when there are siblings to referee.  And, just as a matter of principle, I'm not a fan of food that breaks.

I am, however, a wild fan of hollandaise.  So when I stumbled upon the blender method a few years back, I was more than a little intrigued.  After all, the blender had turned that other cliff-hanger, lemon curd, into a non-chalant, no-sweat affair.  Also, in an attempt to love mayonnaise last summer, I'd made a blender batch, which was just as easy as Luisa says.  And since hollandaise and mayonnaise are kissing cousins—the key distinctions being that hollandaise replaces a whiff of dijon with a jigger of lemon juice, and swaps out all that oil for 2 cubes (!) of melted butter—I figured it was worth a go.  Five minutes later, I was sold.  Also a little astonished, and a lot lemon-breathed.  If you think hollandaise hard, you'd be wrong about that, also. 

I set out to confirm this fact twice in recent weeks.  Qualtiy control, you understand.  The first night, I set a pan of asparagus to simmer briefly, in well-salted water just until knife-tender.  In the seven minutes it took those stalks to brighten, I melted butter, squeezed a lemon, and in sixty whizzing seconds, so disoriented those egg yolks they didn't even think to mutiny.  Then, last Thursday, faced with twenty minutes and a fierce hunger, Henry and I whipped up eggs benedict for lunch.  To be clear, here, we usually have fruit, cheese and crackers.  Maybe scrambled eggs, if we're feeling fancy.  But I was tickled by the notion that with pantry staples plus a blender, this banquet brunch star could be a busy afternoon's lunch. 

And this, my friends, is the dark underbelly of blender hollandaise: nothing so good should be so easy.  You start scanning the kitchen for vehicles, excuses:  Fish!  Broccoli!  Tablespoons!  Index Fingers!  So in the interest of modesty and mild restraint, I've decided to limit it to asparagus, for now.  Because, while you can't really go wrong with hollandaise plus anything, you can't get more right than dunk spear, eat, repeat.  

Hollandaise Sauce + Steamed Asparagus
adapted from Gourmet Today

Any size of asparagus (pencil-thin, pinky-thick, and thumb-giant) works here, but do stick with roughly (any) one width, for even cooking. I "trim" asparagus by holding the stalk at the center and, with the other hand, snapping off the wide end; it will snap at the point where tough turns to tender.

I prefer my hollandaise on the zippy side, so replaced some of the original recipe's water with additional lemon juice.  Start with 1 tablespoon, and adjust to taste.  I've included the original recipe's range in liquid, which allows for a range in the end consistency, but frankly, I cannot imagine needing more than 3 tablespoons total. Two (all lemon) yields a thick, plush, billowy sauce for dipping (think artichokes, asparagus, fingers). Three tablespoons (two lemon juice, one water) produces a velvety, pourable sauce suitable for fish, crèpes or eggs benedict.  Lastly, I find my stick blender invaluable here, though an ordinary stand blender ought to do the job nicely.

Please note: eggs may not be entirely cooked.  We use local, organic farmer's market eggs here.  Pasteurized eggs, available at most groceries, will eliminate any risk of salmonella.

1 1/2 pounds asparagus, washed, ends snapped

2 sticks (1 cup) salted butter
3 large egg yolks
1-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1-3 tablespoons warm water
1/8 tsp. salt

Prepare asparagus: In a wide, deep skillet, bring 1" of water to a boil, then add 2 teaspoons of salt. Turn down to a steady simmer, lay asparagus in bubbling water, and leave to steam-simmer until just knife-tender: 3-5 minutes for thin, 5-7 minutes for medium, 7-9 minutes for thick. Check by poking at thickest point with a knife; knife should insert with little resistance. Alternatively, lift one spear from the water. When held by its thick end, spear should just begin to droop.  Drain well. 

Prepare hollandaise: Melt butter. Remove from heat, let stand 3 minutes, then skim off most of foam with a table spoon.

In a tall measuring cup (if using a stick blender) or in the blender jar (if using a stand blender), combine egg yolks, lemon juice, salt and 1 tablespoon lemon juice. Blend briefly, 2 seconds. With motor running at a moderate speed, add hot melted butter in a slow, steady stream, leaving milk solids on bottom of pan behind.  Mid-way through, add a second tablespoon of liquid, lemon juice or warm water, to taste.  When all butter has been added, blend an additional ten seconds, then sample for consistency and seasoning.  Add additional lemon juice/water and salt/pepper to taste, and enjoy.

Note: Although hollandaise is best eaten shortly after making, this recipe makes a lot, and we held some for later.  Reheat by warming gently over simmering water, and whisking in an additional 1-2 tablespoons warm water to loosen.