remedial eating

don't look too close

At these pants.

Or this post.

Because neither stand up to very close inspection.

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

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

Not that you could.  

They're moving too fast.

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

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

We got fed up, Zoë and I.  

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

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

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

I think the word is comfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Stuffed Zucchini
adapted over a lifetime of zucchini love

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

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

Preheat oven to 350°.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

****   

 

exactly

I am feeling very at one with the bees.

Our white asters are a-buzz, at the moment, alive with ebony bees on gossamer wings.  As is our butterfly bush, and our hostas, and our purple asters, and, I think, golden asters.  Don't quote me on that last one.  The aster ID, I mean.  The bee bit is totally legit.  

Our yard is like one of those optical illusions, where first you see one and only one thing, only, moments later, to see something else entirely.  You walk outside, see a garden in decline, leaves curling, petals crisping, earth re-emerging.  

You see only stasis.  Silence.  Static.  Still.

Wait.  

Twenty seconds.  Maybe thirty.  Weirdest thing.  There is motion, movement, everywhere.

Bees.  Hundreds.  Madly buzzing. 

They are milking fall's flowers for all they're worth, somehow staying airborne, despite their loads.  They work each flower over, quickly, completely, their glossy apostrophes circumnavigating each bloom.  This feat alone would, I think, have Newton's knickers in a twist.  Their mass is clearly all out of whack with their delicate landing pads.  How can a handful of fairy-size petals possibly support these strapping buff bees?  I think the answer lies in their wings, though for all my staring, they seem to be at rest.  But enough about me.  It doesn't phase them.  Nor does their golden cellulite.

Those legs, man.  Serious pollen quads.  If this were the Tour, they'd be so busted.  

But it is only fall, and they are only determined, and single-minded, and motivated, and endlessly focused.  Dizzyingly busy as, well, themselves. 

I'm fairly certain that, could one read their bee brains, the radiotransmitter would spit out something like this: "...en, pollen, pollen, pollen, pollen, pollen, pollen, MORE POLLEN!!, pollen, pollen, pollen, QUICK!! MORE POLLEN!! pollen, pollen, pol..."  

Exactly.

I feel very much of the same mind.  Well, with a little Search and Replace. Excise the pollen, insert the following "... sweep, build shelves, clean pantry, caulk bathroom, repeat sweep, make pants, weed, archive tanks and T's, install switchplates, file, excavate desk, can the caulk wait?, file, patch walls, run errands, clean garage, repeat sweep, nope caulk can't wait, it's fall don't forget to get outside already!, file, clean basement, repeat sw..." One long run-on sentence, this mind of mine. 

So maybe I lack the bee's exquisite focus.  I could arm-wrestle them into the ground on intent.  

I tend toward to-do lists that could pass for novels, but never more so than in fall.  Life goes on hold every year in May, and doesn't really resume until school starts up.  And so I accumulate projects and tasks, to-do's and want-to's and must-do's, all summer.  Out of sight, out of mind, May through August.  But once bells ring?  The undone's in my crosshairs.  I head into September raring to go, my list a mile long, my ambitions unplumbed.  

I forget that September is spoken for, with meetings and new rhythms and first colds.  And more meetings.  And second colds.  And endless urgents, come and gone.  That when there's tea to be steeped, and vanilla beans scraped, and miso soup stirred (our holy healing trinity), the list is abandoned to corners and dust.  That sometimes, clean clothes and packed lunchboxes and one's full attention during homework hour, are, right there, a week's work.  That free time is fickle, and highly elusive, and more often than not, a sometimes-treat. That my chicken-counting habit and penchant for best-laid plans are ever and always subject to change.  

That Life isn't what's on the list, but the margins and headers and non-photo-blue lines.  That I would do well to review my John Lennon.  That anyway, it's all discretionary.

This is, I suppose, where it would be PC to go all zen, praise being present. There is certainly something to this, to things working out, getting done in due time.  Because just as Life supplants plans, surprise windows arise, erasing the prefix right out of impossible.  

Sunday afternoons magically open up (hello, office desk, so happy to see you!). Siblings hit upon a shared game (four white loads, I'm looking at you!).  A perfect fall afternoon opens wide, and kids drift outside, and finally, eventually, you see opportunity, staring you down and smacking you silly. Gloves, trugs, boots, weeds, gogogo, quickquickquick!  The moments, the opportunities, they're still there.  Just in disguise, dressed in shades and trench coats.  

Which is why, in the end, I'm a bee on these matters, sticking with my lists, standing by my plans, buzzing about whenever I'm able.  I am not zen; will never be serene; favor, by nature, doing over being.  I am not proud, but I am aware, and I think that counts for something.  Back-pocket projects help me spot James Bond moments when Things can get Done, my holy grail.  You could call it hubris.  I prefer goal-oriented.  

All of which is to say, I've got plans for you, October.  Discretionary plans, but plans.    

One of which is to try to eke out a fifth (or is it sixth?) batch of this salsa. Maybe a seventh.  Ideally, a twelfth.  

This salsa hails from Diana Kennedy, by way of Saveur's recent The Mexico Issue.  I don't know whether the name, "Bricklayer's Salsa", refers to it's cobbled demeanor or hearty effect.  Nor do I much care.  What matters to me is that it makes a semi-regular appearance on our dinner table, from here on out.  At heart, it's a basic salsa verde, tomatillos, cilantro, garlic, white onion, and lime.  This alone makes for a pretty fine slurry, tart and herbal, sweet with onion, bright with lime.  

But basic is only the backbone.  Because into this puddle, you then slice equal parts avocado and queso fresco.  Think on this a moment.  Avocado.  Queso Fresco.  Salsa Verde.  Yes.

The avocado is creamy, and just-soft, and brings its peculiar silken squish. The queso fresco is differently creamy, with a bit of bite—better, squeak—and that salty swagger that verges but doesn't quite tread on brash.  I've long known this fruit and cheese get along swimmingly, even known how much they adore tart company.  But set afloat in salsa verde?  Be still, my corn tortilla.

Everything works, here.  Just, everything.  Suave avocado, the crunch of sweet onion.  Briny queso, lip-twisting tomatillo.  Cilantro aplenty, keeping the beat. A good squirt of lime, to seal the deal.  

With a stack of warm corn tortillas, or a pile of crisp chips, a full meal in my book, and one of the finer.  And exactly the way to right a week, whatsoever the winds may bring.    

Bricklayer Salsa (with Corn Tortillas)*
adapted from Diana Kennedy, via Saveur, Number 149

A few adaptations: I upped the cilantro a nudge, and added the juice of one lime, which I love.  Also, I ommitted the serranos, as I'm a chili wimp, and found ample flavor in all that remained.  The chili quantities below are per Kennedy's original; add heat to suit.  I love the queso, here, but leave it out, and presto, vegan.  The avocado alone is pretty sublime.  

Finally, a technique note: Kennedy calls for slicing the avocado and queso fresco into 12 long, 1" wide strips.  I did this the first time, but in subsequent batches, diced them 1/2"-1", which I preferred for ease of scoop and mingle.   

8 oz. tomatillos (6-8, depending on size), husks removed, rinsed of stick
1/2 cup cilantro roughly chopped, 2 tbsp. reserved for garnish
1/4 cup minced white onion, 2 tbsp. reserved for garnish
2 serrano chilis (optional), stemmed, seeded, and chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2-3/4 tsp. kosher salt
juice of 1 plump lime
4 oz. queso fresco, cut into 1/2" cubes
1 avocado, halved, pitted, and cut into 1" cubes

Place peeled tomatillos in a small saucepan of water, and bring both to a boil.  Simmer briskly until tomatillos are soft, about 5 minutes.  Drain, and set aside to cool, 30 minutes.

Place cooked tomatillos, cilantro and onion (saving aside the reserved garnish), chilis (if using), garlic, salt, and lime juice in the bowl of a food processor, fitted with the metal blade.  Blitz until combined but still slightly chunky, 20-30 pulses.  Scrape salsa into a wide, shallow serving dish, then scatter with avocado, queso fresco, and reserved cilantro and onion.  Serve with warm corn tortillas, or crisp tortilla chips, or roasted sweet potato and black bean burritos, or eggs, or...

*Corn Tortillas
Homemade corn tortillas a treat we indulge in for the making as much as the eating.  (For tacos, I actually prefer store bought, as the homemade tend to be awfully small).  They're great fun for even the youngest child, involving the simplest of recipes and techniques.  Warm and fresh, they're magnificent for dipping.  We picked up our first press at the Goodwill for $2, and were gifted the second.  Available here, but if you're a thrifter, try your local shop first, as they often have several for a song.  

As to recipes, we make ours per the back of the Quaker Masa package, pretty much exactly.  My only modification, and it is a momentous one, comes via the lovely Kelsey at Happy Yolks: use parchment paper, above and below your dough.  Every class, every recipe, ever instruction booklet I've seen has always called for plastic, a hassle at best.  Parchment is ten thousand times better, and that is a conservative estimate.  Kelsey also has lovely, detailed instructions for pressing tortillas without a press, a fine alternative.   

it seems silly

To talk tomato sauce.  I mean, excellent tomato sauce is on offer around every street corner.  It is one of those few foods, like frozen peas and dried pasta, that packages really, really well.  

Also, homemade sauce is an afternoon's work.  A morning and afternoon, if you consider the market run.  Morning, afternoon and evening, if you consider the cleaning up.  

(Unless, like me, you conveniently finish the sauce, and saunter out of the kitchen, la-di-da!, after dinner, and on to other things, like stories and such. Forgetting, entirely, about the fact that your kitchen looks like Babette's Feast meets The Shining: pots, pans, RED, everywhere.  Only to discover, six minutes past midnight, your non-chalance-cum-negligence.  Then, it runs morning-to-morning.)

Also, I am not remotely close to Italian.  I have nothing authentic, nor authoritative, nor for that matter particularly legitimate to offer on the vast subject of sauce.  

(Though if heritage drove my cooking and eating, we'd be talking haggis and lutefisk and mushy peas.  Which we won't.  Any time soon.  Or ever.)  

There are three dozen lives I can imagine in which homemade tomato sauce makes no sense at all.  I fully expect to live one of them soon, and to not give a wink to September's sauce, and to buy what we need when the need arises, and to not be bothered by this one bit.

But right now, this year, and for the past several, making tomato sauce has made sense.  And as long as I've kids who count sauce-making fun—and as long as I've a girl who declares dinner "spuh-giddy!"—I'll continue to dedicate a day, each fall.  And if you too find yourself with small children to amuse, or a hunger for summer come January, or an appetite for things deep, rich and red, then maybe, just maybe, sauce makes sense for you, too.  

Because sauce is not hard, nor complicated, nor onerous, despite the timeline outlined above.  That all-day business is really mere technicality, the beginning and end of a day spent otherwise.  It is almost entirely a hands-off affair, and a deeply democratic one, at that.  Flexible, open-ended, exquisitely all-ages, tomato sauce is one of the most forgiving of foods.  It cannot be flubbed.  I love it for that.  We all need more things that cannot be flubbed.   

Weekend before last, we made our year's stash, turning twenty pounds of pastes into red gold.  It had rained all week, and the tomatoes had begun to split, and I knew the moment to make sauce was fleeting.  Depending on where you are, and what the weather's been, and where the week's headed, your moment may be ahead, yet.  If you've an at-home Saturday and empty freezer and a yen, here is how we go about it:  

Get your hands on as many ripe local paste tomatoes as you think you can fit in your two biggest pots.  At least ten pounds.  Better, fifteen.  Better yet, twenty, just trust me on this.  You'll think this too many tomatoes for a year. You'll think this too many tomatoes for a lifetime.  Until earliest February,when you'll curse your inner Ebenezer.

Wash, de-stem, dry, and quarter, then fill your pots not quite full.  Add several halved onions, a garlic head's peeled whole cloves, a clutch of fresh basil, and a fistful of fresh thyme.  No need to engage in the dreaded de-stemming; the long simmer ahead will free thyme leaf from twig.  If you've no thyme, use oregano, though considerably less as its considerably stronger.  Or up the basil.  Or drop the herbs, and carry on.  It will still be beyond good. See forgiving, above.  

Add half a cup of olive oil (no less, maybe more) plus 1 teaspoon kosher salt, per seven pounds of tomatoes.  (Multiply accordingly).  Freshly ground pepper is nice, as is one dried red pepper, one per pot, just for kicks.  Place on a medium fire, bring to a boil, then dial it down to a steady blurble.

(Meanwhile, with your extra fruit, because you will have extra fruit, fill a sheet pan with halves, salted and oiled, and set them to roast at the lowest heat for the longest time, until garnet and sweet and crazy intense.  

Take the rest, because there will still be "the rest", and dice them into a bowl with salt, and ribbons of basil, and a bit of balsamic.  Set them aside for an hour, better, two, and pile them on top of garlic garlic-rubbed toasts.  Bruschetta and slow-roasted tomatoes are my kind of by-products.  And dinner.  Because projects like sauce are never done in time for dinner.) 

Simmer forever, or at least three hours, probably four, possibly five.  When the volume is reduced by half, turn off the heat, and let cool an hour.  Assemble a ladle, and a food mill (we love this one), and a small army of biceps and bowls.  Settle in your largest disk, and get cranking.  This bit's fun, and surprisingly fast, the only tedium being breaking up the arguments over whose turn is whose.  Then—and this is the most important part—put in your medium disc, and run through once more.  This captures the seeds, which are bitter and ruinous, and lends your sauce a plush, velvety texture.  This is where fairly good becomes grand.   

Taste your sauce.  Really, taste it.  Taste first for texture: it should have body, weight and loft in equal measure.  Too often I've stopped short, with sauce too thin and watery, still of two minds, which is no sauce at all.  If your sauce is still going its separate ways, solids and liquids, this way and that, just return it to the stove and simmer further, until it is all of one piece.  It will concentrate, and emulsify, and come together as one.  A spoon will make its mark, and leave a trail.  The term "gravy" will suddenly make sense.  As will jammy.  And plump.  Good tomato sauce is plump. 

Next, taste for flavor.  You will likely need salt.  We undersalt at the outset, to allow for all that reducing, then backfill at the end, as needed.  Salt not until it is salty, per se, but until sweet and tart and salt are equals.  Salt so that the tomato flavor sings, sweet and rich and round and true.  

Pinch, stir, taste.  
[Does it need anything, apart from salt?  Very Possibly.  All years, all tomatoes, all batches are different.  A pinch of sugar for added sweet, a splish of vinegar if the opposite.]  

Pinch, stir, taste.  
[Better?  A flick of chili?  A few more fresh herbs, added the end?]  

Pinch, stir, taste.  
[Trust your buds.  Adjust until tickled.  We're after neutral, but gloriously neutral.]

Continue, seasoning and adjusting and slurping, until you cannot stop the last step.  Done.

And what do you do with said sauce?  Oh HO!  Hello, lovely problems to have. Slip it between roasted eggplant steaks, layer after layer, interrupted only by mozzarella, for eggplant parmesan in a trice.  Toss it with heaps of cubed, roasted eggplant, plus pecorino and basil, for Pasta alla Norma. Simmer it with meatballs, or sausages, or ground chuck, for a bang-up swoony ragu. Collate it with crumple-edged pasta sheets, plus besciamella or ricotta, and spinach or beef (or both, or neither, entirely your call), for a lickety-split lasagna.  Or do as we most often do, and serve it up simply, stirred into spaghetti, blizzard of just-grated parmesan mandatory.  

We're only warming up, you know.  The saucy list goes on and on (and on...) But we've made only 12 cups, maybe 14, and we've run through half, just in our imaginings.  Seems silly we ever questioned the quantity, no?  Next year? Twice as many tomatoes.

playing favorites

Did I mention we live on a flower farm?  Six acres, densely planted, with only row after row (after row) of helenium?

Of course I didn't.  Perhaps because it's untrue.  Though you'd be hard-pressed to prove it, based on my past two weeks' images.  Seems my world has gone rather orange.

I've been on a bit of an helenium bender.  

Not a bad fate.  

Not a bad fate, at all.

Picking favorites has never been my strong suit.  In elementary school, it was my second most-loathed assignment, right after New Year's resolutions. Favorite foods left me stumped.  (Where to begin?)  Favorite colors, flummoxed.  (Robin's egg?  Oxblood?  Frozen butter?  Goose terd green?  Tell me other families taught colors in such terms?)  But "name your favorite book"? That beat all.    

I mean, honestly.  How is a girl to choose between Bridge to Terebithia and The Great Brain?  Laura Ingalls Wilder and Wilson Rawls?  Not to mention Roald Dahl, who might've been a fine answer, were the question geared toward authors and entire outputs, rather than the ridiculously singular "book".  

We haven't even touched on Island of the Blue Dolphins. 

These days, my children are on the receiving end of the old "favorites" inquisition, and I am all ears and empathy.  "Just pick one," I tell them.  "You just need an answer, any answer, among the legitimate many.  It isn't binding. You are not under oath.  You're allowed bounty, in your mind and our home."  

They struggle with it like I did, like I do, and we shake our heads, together, over silly adults.

So I can't exactly say helenium are my fall favorite, first, foremost, forever and always.  I reserve the right to adore Japanese anemones, if only for the way the word trips along the tongue.  (Also, they're the first excuse I've had since age 7, when I bought my coveted set of 64 Pentel pens, to use the word heliotrope.) The bees are keen on the autumn joy, and I am keen on the bees, so I ought to at least give it a nod.  And I'll lease a small part of my heart to the wild sunflower, with its Giacometti proportions and exuberant yellow.  

And zinnias, man.  Jolly, incarnate.  Frowns and zinnias are mutually exclusive. On my honor.   

But I fried most of my zinnia starts, this year.  Left my seedlings outside, to acclimatize to the Spring "cold", only to be met with a string of mid-nineties. I've grieved.  I've mourned.  I've vowed to do better.  

And I've freed up all that bandwidth for added helenium admiration.  So let us say that for a solid four days in September, possibly six, and definitely including the second Tuesday, this pouf-centered, copper-edged, rhumba-stemmed perennial is my absolute favorite of the flock.  (Hedging helps soften the blow.) 

Not that much hedging is required to crown that platter, there, my unequivocal Queen of green bean salads.  I'll allow I love a good Niçoise, and have eaten my way through many platters of orzo and summer veg, but those are team efforts, giant collaborations.  This is that rare, particular thing, an exaltation of green beans.  And figs.

Yup.  

Figs. 

This salad hails from another rare thing, a treasure of a cookbook called The Basque Kitchen.  I can't say I've heard anyone else mention it.  Ever.  Which is a shame, as it's one of my dog-eared splattered treasures, a catalog of trieds-and-trues.  Mashed potato cakes, spiked with manchego.  A rust-streaked tortilla of potatoes and chorizo.  That chèvre frosting that, to this day, sneaks into my mind at the most inopportune moments.  And this fresh fig and haricots salad, herb-flecked, walnut-stubbled, basil-breathed, extraordinary.

The method here is straightforward, and simple: boil up a pound of green beans until just tender, with a bit of bend, but no danger of flop.  While they are burbling, mince a small shallot, toast a few walnuts, chop parsley and chives. Pluck a few basil branches of their leaves.  Quarter a gathering of plump, purpled figs.  Gently combine with a quick vinaigrette.  Ba-da-bing, boil, chop, toss, eat.

But.  But.  About that last verb.  The eating is where this salad stands alone. This salad is unlike any salad I've known, and if you know me at all, you know I've known a few salads.  It follows all the great salad protocols: ample fresh herbs for bling, toasty nuts for crunch and rumble, a good basic vinaigrette to turn disparate parts into excellent sum.  What sets it apart, and stands my tastebuds at attention, is its tender backbone of green beans and fragrant figs.    

If this sounds unexpected, it is unexpected.  Like a Ten-spot, found on an empty street.  Or a care package, arrived on your doorstep, unannounced.  Or snow, in Seattle, on Christmas Day.  Unexpected in all the best ways.  The beans yield to the tooth, and taste of fresh grass, and faintly, flatteringly, of chlorophyll.  The figs, for their part, bring their soft velvet sweet, part honey, part sunshine, part mystery.  

All well and good, if a bit distinct.  Enter the embellishments.  Prepare for revelations.  Minced shallot litters the vinaigrette, and adds gorgeous sparkle to both beans and figs.  All the ordinary glories of oil and vinegar apply, the one lending richness, the other, verve.  The walnuts are inspired, earthy and crunchy and pretty much vital to the whole.   Chives ampify the shallots, parsley echoes the haricots, and the basil is about the best supporting cast a bean or fig could possibly ask after.  

Our helenium are on their way out, a few blazing petals in a chocolate drop sea. The green beans are not far behind.  I'll be gobbling both, double-time, while they last.  

A Salad of Green Beans, Fresh Figs, Walnuts and Herbs
adapted from The Basque Kitchen, Gerald Hirigoyen

The original calls for 3 tablespoons toasted walnut oil, plus one of olive.  I do not often have walnut oil on hand, so have taken to using all olive.  Use walnut oil if you have it; it will shine.  I've also doubled the basil and toasted nuts, as I appreciate both in modest excess. 

This salad must be finished at the last minute, but most everything save the tossing can be done in advance.  To get a head start: make the dressing, prep the nuts, wash and dry the whole herbs, and cook the beans, setting them aside to cool and dry on a clean kitchen towel.  This can all be done 6 hours in advance.  Just before serving, slice the figs, mince the herbs, and toss the veg with the dressing.  This keeps everything spunky, and prevents the green beans from going brown.  

1 pound fresh green beans, topped and tailed
6-10 fresh, plump figs
1 heaping tablespoon minced shallot
2 tablespoons sherry, champagne or white wine vinegar
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil 
2 tablespoons snipped fresh chives
3 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
generous handful fresh basil leaves (40-50 small; 20-30 large)
generous 1/4 cup walnuts
kosher salt and fresh pepper 

Set a medium saucepan of water on to boil, and add 1 tablespoon salt.  Preheat oven or toaster oven to 350°.  

While water is heating:  Set your minced shallot in small bowl, pour vinegar over, add 1 teaspoon kosher salt, and set aside.  This will mellow the shallot.  If your green beans are especially long, cut them into 2" pieces, for easy eating.  Scatter walnuts on a baking sheet, and when oven is to temp, toast them 8-10 minutes, until deeper in color and wonderfully fragrant.  Set aside to cool.

When water reaches a rapid bowl, tip in green beans.  Boil 6-8 minutes, until just tender but with a bit of spine (test a few), then tip into a colander and drain thoroughly.  

In a large wide shallow bowl, pour shallot/vinegar mixture.  Add olive oil, and a good grinding of fresh pepper, and whisk to combine.  Tip in well-drained green beans, and toss well to coat.  

Quarter medium figs; slice large figs into sixths.  Mince parsley, snip chives, and chop toasted walnuts into a rough rubble.  If your basil leaves are large, tear them into a few pieces; if small-ish, leave whole.  Set a few herbs and nutty bits aside for garnish, if you wish.  When green beans are at room temperature, 10-15 minutes, add figs, herbs and nuts, and gently, thoroughly toss to combine.  I do this with clean hands.  Taste for seasoning, adding salt and/or pepper, as needed.  Enjoy straightaway.    

chock-a-block

Don't believe a pixel of it.

Those masts have approximately nothing to do with our lives, at present.

 

 

Nor does the Virginia V.  Nor the salmon fry.  Nor Gasworks at sunset.  

Ditto the next however many.

 

 

Our actual days are buzzing with all that back to school brings.  Did I mention that classes have begun?  That we've already completed Week One? Will soon begin Week Three?  These August start dates still catch me off guard, raised as I was on a post-Labor Day academic year.  

Still, it feels good, on this holiday weekend, to have a foothold in the new year.  

 

We've spent these past weeks re-orienting ourselves to the weekday/weekend division.  Re-acquainting ourselves with our alarm clocks.  Adjusting to new schools, schedules, routines, rigamarole.  Re-learning how to make and gobble pancakes before eight.  And ideally, acquire lunches, clothes, tied tennies, along the way.  Remembering to brush what needs brushing.  

(Extra credit for keeping hair and tooth brushes straight.)  

Our evenings are thick with meetings.  Our afternoons, field studies in de-compression.  The calendar is suddenly as dense with graffiti as a Seattle NO PARKING sign.  Though what it shares in over-crowding, it lacks in character. I'm considering switching up my chicken scratches to pictograms.      

Homework is still mostly on the horizon, but it won't be long now.  Wish us all luck.  

We have gone through the annual fall shoe Q&A, which always seems more like a comedy routine:

"How do your shoes feel?"

"Fine, fine.  Just great.  Fine."

"But you've had them a year.  Shall we measure, just for kicks?" ... "Would you look at that!  Two sizes too small!  Are these (elevens-twos-eights) any better?"

"Yup.  Fine.  Just great.  Fine."

I'm grateful, to be sure, to have dodged those skipped sizes.  Still and all, I think I'd be feeling somewhat pinched in the toes.  Then again, maybe I'm just overly sensitive.

Cubbies have been cleared.  Dressers, exhumed.  Counters buried in paperwork, more times than I can count.  Entire Saturday evenings have been given over to excavation.  Another one (or three) evenings are still owed. The piles remain fierce.  And deeply unkempt.  And so it is that these last Seattle snaps will have to do.

For while I haven't seen a seaplane in weeks, haven't walked Lake Union since mid-August, haven't had a kayak invade my frame in recent memory, they're all more appealing than untamed forms and folders.  Besides, Suzzallo got me off on the right school foot more than once.  I see no reason not to let it work its magic, once more, settling a little calm over our chock-a-block days.

They'll settle down, soon enough.  This salad will not.  It's full-to-bursting by design, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

This is what we, here, call Chop Chop Salad, a name I almost hesitate to drop. Does "chop" preceding "salad" make your spine shudder, instinctively, severely, the way it does mine?  Chopped salads sort of swept the restaurant scene, ca. 1988, and settled in for the long, lackluster haul.  As a rule, I avoid them all.  (The restaurants and the salads, alike.)  But once upon a time, before kids, before degrees, we would on occasion patronize a hip new Italian eatery.  It was a wildly edgy, progressive affair, the sort of place that prefixed pizza with "goat cheese", mushrooms with "wild", and garlic bread with "whole roasted".  

Remember when Wolfgang Puck was a California chef?  

Remember when Justin Bieber was, like, not even born?

Anyhoo.  Said spot made one knock-out chopped salad, a bright, vivid number I could eat by the vat.  It was equal parts greens and "bits", a knife-and-fork affair if ever there was one.  It was salad as meal, and meal as salad, every flavor and texture wrapped up in one bowl.  It was the first chopped salad I'd ever encountered, and the last one I ever enjoyed.  Within months, we began making it at home*.  We've never stopped.  It's some salad.  

The bits themselves are a jolly assortment of sweet red veg—soft ripe tomatoes, crisp peppers—and protein in all its many guises.  There is diced provolone, sharp and beguiling, plus tender chickpeas, nutty, earthy, toothsome.  Sometimes, there's leftover roast chicken; sometimes, honey-roasted turkey; sometimes neither, pictured here.  The white meat is nice, but optional; I never miss it when it's gone.  The salami is otherwise, excellent, essential, a rich deep confetti, threaded throughout.  

You might imagine all these bits are the best part, an antipasto party in a bowl. You would be close.  Also, wrong.  Because the greens are something special, here.  Half the roughage is ordinary lettuce, albeit uncompromisingly crisp. Romaine hearts are nice.  Iceberg will do.  Right now, a fresh local fall [fill-in-the-blank] head is grand.  It just must be crisp, crisper than crisp, in order to stand up to those bits and that basil.   

About that basil.  Basil comprises the rest of said greens, a full 3-4 cups of loose, fresh leaves.  Like the lettuce, the basil's chopped into fork-worthy slivers, and tossed willy-nilly right into the bowl.  Imagine.  Basil as salad green.  Rubbing shoulders with tomatoes, chickpeas, salami, peppers, cheese. It's a little like a caprese, gone berserk. Berserk in the very best possible way. And finally, sensibly, tamed to the fork.  

The whole mess is tossed with a straight-up vinaigrette of red wine vinegar, olive oil, plenty of S and P.  The end result is a salad of stunning contrasts, sweet, tender, piquant, winy, crisp, fragrant, bright.  Every bite has a bit of the party about it, merry veg, vivid greens, some fantastic tidbit.  It gives chock-a-block a very good name.  Must remember that as I sort through the stacks ...   

Our Chop Chop Salad
inspired by Cucina! Cucina!, ca. 1990

*Not until tonight did I ever think to look up the recipe for this salad's ancestor. It seems my version, evolved over years, veers sharply from the original, in everything from greens to dressing.  Who knew?  More to the point, who cares? These proportions, these ingredients, listed below, will forever be to me Chop Chop Salad.  Heretofore amended, "Our..."   

No one does tinned chickpeas better than Goya.  As to cheese, I love provolone, here, but any sharp white number (manchego, romano, smoked mozzarella) works well.  

3-4 cups crisp salad greens (romaine, iceberg, local fresh crisp lettuce), washed, well-dried, and chopped into 1" bits
3-4 cups fresh basil, washed, well dried, and chopped into 1" bits
1 cup red bell pepper, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup firm, ripe tomato, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup chickpeas, tinned or homemade
1 cup salami, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup roasted turkey or chicken, chopped into 1/4" bits (optional)
1 cup provolone, grated, or chopped into 1/4" bits
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
25 turns of freshly ground pepper
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Place all solids in your biggest salad bowl, then drizzle with oil and vinegar, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Toss well, preferably with clean hands, until every bit has met the dressing.  Taste a few bites: you want bright, sweet, crisp, salted, peppered.  Vivid.  Jolly.  A balance between them all.  Add a bit more salt, pepper and/or vinegar, to taste, toss again, and serve right away.