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 

****   

 

the only headline

We made zucchini marmalade tea cake last week.  I just want to put that right out front, there.  

Zucchini marmalade tea cake is not the only headline, a week being what it is, variegated, capacious.  There were thunderstorms, three separate, significant ones, each intense enough to constitute a watering.  Not as newsworthy as it would be, in, say Kansas, whose shade on the drought map is downright fierce. Actually, the whole drought map is downright fierce.  Ohio's had an easy time of it.  Still, our lawn resembles fried chicken.  A little real rain was a pretty big thing.

First sleepovers were organized, anticipated and held.  Being new to such things, we were full of questions.  Would the usual good vibes hold, given the unusual timing and duration?  Would the play stall after a few hours?  Would they ever get to sleep?  Would we?  What time to wrap up?  What time to begin?  (Answers: yes, no, yes, yes, later, earlier.  Much much earlier.)    

Turns out the day leading up to a sleepover is The Longest Day Ever.  Longer than the wait for fireworks, which at least comes with parades, prior.  Longer than Christmas Eve, which is all abuzz, anyway.  There was much egg-separating and clock-watching to wile away the waiting hours.  There was mourning the day after, for its premature finish.  And a discussion of what a fine thing it is to have friends whose company you don't tire of, after some seventeen-plus hours.

Lemonade was made.  The first tiny green beans, picked.  And boiled and buttered and inhaled.  The Sweet 100's and Sungolds began truly producing. The skies went ridiculous with surgically-enhanced clouds.  I went ridiculous with a few days finally south of ninety.  (The storms freshen everything, skies, lawns, vegetables, spirits.)  

We set off on adventure!  A headline, for sure.  Albeit a headline for another day.

The cone flowers and lillies gave up the ghost.  Close inspection of trees revealed seed pods galore.  The grass grew fancy.  The hydrangea got a bronze. The hellenium and anemone veered toward bloom.  

I think of those last two as back-to-school flowers, so much so I immediately ran out and bought lunch boxes.  Not because I'm ready for them to return. Just because I'm ready for the weather that goes with it.  I'm too superstitious to drop the f-word just yet, but see for yourself:  

Anemone.

Hellenium!

HIP HIP HOORAY.

Actually, that's as apt an intro as any:

Zucchini.

Marmalade!

In an olive oil cake.  HIP HIP!  And holy cow.  

This particular cake hails from Tartine, which probably tells you everything you need to know.  Chad Robertson and Elisabeth Prueitt are, after all, the engineers behind our go-to lemon bars.  Indeed, it was while baking a batch for said sleepover that my eye corners caught the enigmatic pair.  Zucchini, Marmalade, page 106, wha ?!  I tucked in a marker, to investigate later.  

Now, two weeks ago, I would have told you that I'm no more a zucchini bread person than I am a weird chip one.  I adore zucchini.  I grow what I can.  I buy extras, just to fill in.  Unload zucchini on me any time; fleeing the scene, completely unnecessary.  I'll use it all, in savory preparations.  But zucchini in baked goods?  Meh.  I am a baker of some things, cookies, breads, sometimes cakes.  And not so much of others, muffins, cupcakes, quick breads.  I've just never felt the love, never seen the point.  Always preferred my butter on my bread, rather than in it.  

Note the past tense.  I am reformed.  

The zucchini had a hand in my new world view, to be sure, a few cups of grated, green-deckled shreds.  Threaded throughout the cake, they bring a fine damp, and a sweet more versatile than vegetal.  

The marmalade also shoulders partial blame, and by partial, I really mean ample.  Zucchini bread can be a plain, pallid thing.  Zucchini marmalade bread cannot.  The bits of peel add jolts of color, jollying up an otherwise green-leaning loaf.  But far better still is their signature bittersweet, intense nubbins of edgy, addictive orange.  Not enough to overwhelm.  Just enough to delight.  

And then there's the olive oil.  Let's talk about the olive oil.  I habitually alt+Tab when I see sweets baked with olive oil.  Somehow, they always seem overly earnest, bent on being Interesting or Healthy.  I like Interesting in books and friends and Healthy in walks and naps, but find little use for either in baked goods.  Besides, I prefer olives in salads, not cakes.  

That said, I've been making granola with olive oil exclusively, ever since that landmark July 2009 day when Melissa Clark wrote up Early Bird's recipe.  I adore the crisp loft it lends to the oats.  Also, I was completely out of canola.  In went olive.  I'm reformed there, also.  It was, how shall we say, exquisite.  I've long (and maybe heretically) preferred oil to butter in cakes and quick breads, for the way its 100% fat content guarantees a richness 84% butter sometimes can't. This held true, here, but better texture was only the beginning.  The olive oil brought flavor, not at all olive-like or savory, but warm, thrumming, sunny. Buttery.  This makes no sense at all, but I tested it repeatedly.  First heel to last?  Buttery it was.       

All told, you wind up with quite a crumb, rich and tender and rimmed with crisp sugar.  Did I mention the rim?  Paved with turbinado?  Which half-melts, half-caramelizes in the long slow oven?  It forms a brittle ridge, a bit like burnt cream, which winks and tugs as you debate bites.  Not that you can go wrong; you can't; you won't.  There are no dry corners, no bland deserts.  Each bite has it all, gentle squash and soft nutmeg, whispery with melted marmalade, punctuated by peel.  In a week abundant by all counts, this cake still headlines my memories.

Zucchini Marmalade Olive Oil Cake
adapted from Tartine, by Elisabeth Prueitt and Chad Robertson

A few ingredient notes: This doesn't need a fancy marmalade, but it does need a serious one.  Something more about bitter peel than orange jam, a marmalade with a stiff upper lip.  I love Dundee, classic and reasonable.  As to the olive oil, I used our go-to, the 2 Liter Extra Virgin house brand from Costco.  If you use a particularly large zucchini, wring the grated shreds in a clean kitchen towel, or drain in a colander, half an hour before using.  The original called for toasted walnuts and cinnamon; I omitted the first and swapped in nutmeg for the second, and like it this way, very much.  Finally, I used all white flour, but imagine this would be a fine place for half and half, wheat and white.  Or all wheat.  Or a bit of buckwheat.  Be playful.

Also.  Thick slices, toasted golden and buttered.  Make a note.

1 3/4 cups + 2 Tbs unbleached all-purpose flour (or mix of white and wheat)
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp nutmeg, freshly ground
2 large eggs
1/2 cup + 2 Tbs mild extra virgin olive oil
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup orange marmalade
2 1/2 cups grated zucchini
1/2 tsp kosher salt
2-3 Tbs demerrera (raw) sugar, for topping

Place oven rack one rung down from middle position, and preheat oven to 350°.  Butter and flour (or oil) a 9 x 5" loaf pan, and line the wide side with a strip of parchment paper. 

In a small bowl, add flour, baking soda, baking powder and nutmeg, and whisk to combine.  Set aside. 

In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, olive oil, sugar and marmalade until combined.  Add zucchini and salt, and stir well with a spatula or wooden spoon, until combined.  Add flour mixture and fold into egg mixture, until just combined. 

Pour batter into the prepared pan, smoothing surface with your spatula, and sprinkling top with demerrara sugar to cover.  Bake 60-70 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean.  This cake is difficult to over-bake, so moist it is; err on the long end of the recommended time.  Let cool in the pan on a rack for 20 minutes, then run knife along short sides to loosen and remove with the parchment "ears" to a rack.  Let cool completely, 1-2 hours, if you can manage.  Keeps beautifully, well-wrapped, at room temperature, several days.  

funny business

Breakfast is funny business.  There were the days (years, really) when small babes couldn't make it the night.  Would wake up one, two, three times to re-fill tiny bellies.  Breakfast, then, wasn't so much meal as artifact, an alien concept from pre-newborn days.  Those years are behind us, now.

There were the days (years, really) when toddlers would wake up at four, five, six, for a top-off before their final few hours' sleep.  Or not.  Sometimes they were ready to rumble, before daybreak.  We are past those, now, also.  Those were rich, hard, tired, good years.

Then came the days (years, but by now you know that) when preschoolers could actually make it the whole night through.  For some, these days came by age two.  For others, hourly wake-ups were standard operating procedure until four. But finally, eventually, complete nights came.  Those days felt like miracles. They still do.

Small bodies such as these, who've slumbered without pause, always seem to wake up hungry.  The sort of hungry that is spelled f-a-m-i-s-h-e-d.  So we tend to start the day with breakfast, off the bat, nothing fancy, toast and peanut butter, scrambled eggs and toast, cinnamon toast.  Some yogurt, some fruit, so much better, already. For those who are hungry, anyway.

I qualify 'those' because appetite's a fickle thing, like upper arms and arches, subject to change.  I am rarely hungry when I first wake, which, because morning's not my thing, is almost always when they wake.  My singular goal is to grind beans and boil water, and to let the two mingle until my mug can be filled.  I always eat a little something, because coffee begs a little something, biscotti or a biscuit or a square of said peanut butter toast.  But this is all I need, all I want, until later.  

(Age changes appetites.  I see this, plainly.  My eldest little, who just yesterday woke up starving, today coasts to eleven on funnies and fumes.  For all the kerfuffle over breakfast being important—and I'm getting to breakfast, and I underscore the important—the timing and content is up for debate.  Not everyone needs flakes and o.j. before eight.)  

As for me, later does not equal lunch.  Later, for me, usually arrives around 9:47, or three hours after eyes open, whichever comes first.  Whether I've had a stack of flapjacks with a side of sausage and scrambled eggs at seven, or nothing at all, three hours in, I'll be ravenous.  I can't account for this.  I only know it to be true.  So when I can, I wait until the appetite goes off.  And when it does, I listen.

Mostly, it asks for produce and protein.  Sliced apples and almonds, lots of both.  Plain whole yogurt plus banana, crunched up with granola.  Last night's leftover veg, with this morning's scrambled egg.  Yesterday's salad, topped with a fried egg.  A bowl of the week's soup, with a poached egg afloat.  If you're sensing a theme, you found me out.  Put A Bird On It!: The Breakfast Edition.  

Sometimes, it's pretty fine.  Sometimes, worse for the wear.  A little deflated, but the right idea, and quick.  I'm no fan of quick eats for their own sake, but mid-morning's an awkward time to insert breakfast.  Everyone else has eaten, we're in the middle of some big thing (watercoloring, weeding, adding, Farkle-ing, encrypting bananas with top secret messages), and no one's interested in me setting aside 45 minutes to chop and cook a proper, glorious vegetable skillet for one.  Myself least of all.  For the mess alone.  

But the other morning, twenty mintues before swim lessons, I threw together a plate that hit all my high notes.  Yesterday morning, I did it again.  Today, I jumped at the gift of zucchini.  You can see where this is headed.  

It began with something called gilbir, a Turkish dish of yogurt and eggs I stumbled over in Silvena Rowe's latest.  But really, before that, it began with Jess' yogurt and eggs, a combination I'd never thought to make, much less eat. I mean, really.  Yogurt, eggs.  Soft, soft.  Creamy, creamy.  White on white.  I don't know.  It seemed so too too.  Like potato pizza, or spaghetti tacos.   (To read the comments in this piece, apparently I'm not alone.)  

But I've never known Jess to champion anything an inch less than excellent, and yogurt and eggs are no exception.  Read her words to understand why they work, and how.  (Actually, read her words because they're just pure joy to read.)  Maybe, like me, you'll walk away craving the contents of that blue-rimmed plate, a version I intend to try very soon.  As it is, I was waylaid by rusty butter. 

See, Rowe's eggs and yogurt, Turkey's gilbir, are drizzled in paprika-spiked butter.  That's it.  Butter, melted.  Sweet paprika, stirred in.  A spare, simple sauce.  A gorgeous, gutsy thing.  The paprika blooms in the hot butter, which takes up the deep sweet roasted toastiness of the pepper.  A teaspoon or two of this ruddy, intense stuff splits into vivid rivulets, everywhere.  It might overwhelm, were it not for the mint, a tablespoon of fresh leaves, slivered and scattered over all.  Together, the mint and paprika are brilliant, cool and hot, sweet and savory, yogurt and eggs.  (A fine match.)

Toast, I suppose, would be lovely alongside.  Cukes and tomatoes are calling my name.  But for now, I can't get past the zucchini.  I sauté two, sliced, in a splash of olive oil with garlic, quick enough to hold their shape, long enough to bronze (and lose their bite).  They are sweet, and toothsome, and fantastic sauce mops.  I imagine green beans might work the same magic.  

I imagine also it might seem funny business, calling this spiced-yogurt-vegetable-egg thing breakfast.  Not exactly blueberry pancakes, I guess.  Call it lunch, if you wish.  Or dinner.  Or brunch.  Just call it up, sometime, when the appetite strikes.   

Eggs, Paprika Butter, Mint, Yogurt, Zucchini
adapted from Silvena Rowe, Purple Citrus and Sweet Perfume

My first go, I poached my egg, per Rowe's version.  The second time, I fried my egg in olive oil, which I maybe loved even more.  I'd repeat either in a heartbeat; take your pick.  (I am no egg-poaching expert, but the bare bones are outlined below.  Deb's tutorial is clear, concise, and spot-on.)  

For crunch, I sometimes add a smattering of dukkah, the Egyptian blend of crushed nuts and spices.  Heidi has a wonderful, small-batch dukkah recipe.  A handful of toasted pine nuts would also be grand.  

Rowe's original calls for twice as much paprika butter, but the quantities below got me through two separate servings.  FYI.   

2 medium zucchini, cut into 1/4" slices
1 clove garlic, sliced
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 very nice eggs
distilled white vinegar, a splash
plain whole-milk yogurt
1 tablespoon butter
2 teaspoons sweet paprika
1 tablespoon fresh mint, slivered
toasted pine nuts or dukkah to top (optional) 

In a large skillet, over medium-high heat, bring the olive oil to a shimmer.  Tip in the sliced zucchini and garlic, season with 1/2 teaspoon salt, and let sit a few minutes to get a good bit of brown going on the underside.  Your zucchini will cook in 7-9 minutes or so, with the occasional flip and stir, adjusting heat if necessary, to prevent burning.  The end goal is slices with a bit of burnish on both sides, and interiors that still have their wits about them. They can mostly manage themselves, while you go about fixing eggs and melting butter.  

For Poached Eggs: Break your egg into a teacup or low, thin-lipped dish, and set aside.  Fill a small saucepan by half with water, season well with salt, and bring to a low boil.  Add a splash of vinegar.  Turn down heat to maintain a not-quite-simmer, then with a large spoon, create a whirlpool of the water.  Bring your dish to the surface, then slide your egg into the vortex.  All will look lost. Carry on.  Use said spoon to fold egg whites gently over the yolk, to help the whole thing hold together.  Turn off the heat, and let poach to desired doneness.  I like a solid white, and a yolk that is fudgy at the outside and saucy at the center, which is a 4.5-5 minute poach for my jumbo market eggs.

For Fried Eggs, Over Easy:  Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a small heavy skillet until it shimmers.  Crack in your egg, season to your liking, and let fry, covered, over a hottish flame, 2-3 minutes, or until white is completely set, and egg almost done.  Flip egg, if desired, and cook until yolk is done (or undone) to your liking, 1 minute for a runny bit at the center.   

Check your zukes.  Toss, taste and season, and/or turn off the heat, when done.

In a small saucepan, melt the butter.  When bubbling, add the sweet paprika. Let burble gently 30 seconds over medium heat to meld flavors.

Paint half a plate with a generous 1/2 cup of plain, whole milk yogurt.  Tip caramelized zucchini onto the other half.  Set poached (or fried) egg atop both, drizzle spiced butter over all, scatter with slivered mint, and sprinkle with dukkah or pine nuts, if desired.      

to practice with a string bean

It's official: I am a stooper.

Are you a stooper? Here's how you know: when you walk through a garden—yours, your friends', the local roundabout—and you spy some flagrant wayward weed, you cannot help but bend down and yank the thing clear. I've never before in my life been a stooper. I've always just walked by the weeds, maybe waved.  No longer. That is something, anyway.

I'd thought that, by now, I might have come farther. Had a gardening manifesto, maybe, or perhaps a philosophy. At least some semblance of a routine. I've nothing so orderly, but no matter. What I have is a haphazard summer of small efforts, and I can see, looking back, they add up to experience. And experience, I think, might just trump manifesto.

I've mentioned before my deeply compromised gardening skills, and our great good fortune in adopting a well-established landscape. This, combined with a gracious garden fairy to tend it, has meant my involvement's been minimal to zip. Until now. This summer, I took on a few actual responsibilities, which led to a few key learnings, a heap of questions, and a definite turn toward the au naturel look. 

I observed, for example, that my plans are bigger than our plot, which I'm fairly sure is the gardener's analog to eyes bigger than the stomach. Way back in Spring, when we planted seeds for eight cucumbers, and three dozen beets, and one dozen tomatoes, and a few (dozen) each of the basils and zinnias, it all seemed fairly modest in the scheme of things. It's just that our particular scheme sits on one teeny-tiny tenth of an acre. House, front lawn, compost, and flower beds included.

Full-to-bursting doesn't begin to describe it. Turns out, plants, like children, only grow.

I've learned my enthusiasm waxes and wanes, that a week can go by without me lifting a gloved finger. And that my weeds are not subject to such whims. Nor, for that matter, are my plants' thirst.

To be fair, my watering skills have improved drastically: I drug out the hose on at least twelve occasions. To be equally fair, my watering deficiencies endure, a truth my Joe Pye weed would echo. Were he still with us.

I've learned I've a lot to learn about gardening with children. Spreading out a blanket helps. Puppets and books, also. Small gardening gloves encourage the accessory-minded sorts. Snacks buy time, as do bug habitats, as does permission to pick flowers for a 'boo-kay'. (We're working on the notion of blooms and stems). Popsicle breaks are key, and very low ambitions, and the odd episode of Spiderman when something absolutely must get done. But when all those sleeve-tricks add up only to an hour, and the pruning/watering/tying/planting/weeding list runs to another three, well ...

All tips on gardening with small people welcome.

I've discovered that plants, unlike children, don't talk back. No matter how intense the interrogation. I cannot count how many hours I've cross-examined weird green things: "Flower? Weed? Weed? Flower? WEED or FLOWER?! Yes, YOU!!" One late July day, after several dozen such exchanges, I finally realized that if it's shabby, I can pull it out.

Just. Like. That.

I guess I thought I needed a license. Or at the very least, a permission slip. Somewhere along the line I forgot I was in charge, and this epiphany was terribly liberating. The sudden influx of tidy was deeply satisfying. Even if a lovely lemon thyme gave it's life to over-zealousness.

I've learned that by putting one foot in front of the other, one can dope out a bean teepee, making it up as you go. That although there are likely instructions a-plenty, two relentless eager assistants and a dash of gumption will get you through.

A chalk mock-up's not a bad idea, nor is lots (and lots and lots) of twine. Okay, and a stool, and your biggest hammer, to drive the stakes twelve inches underground. The summer storms here are something else. This year's the first year our teepee hasn't toppled.  (Hoo-ah!)

I've learned that if you are harvesting green beans, and feel like something is on your arm, you are probably just being paranoid.  Note all those dangling beans overhead? 

Unless, of course, you are not.  Unless it's a two-inch grasshopper. 

Then?  You are entitled to scream.

Also, working in the dirt is really, well, dirty. You know I don't mind a good mud romp, but I do rather prefer it remain outside. This summer, a good portion made it somehow indoors, I think because my sights were elsewhere. Like on everything within my limited, stooped-over sights.  I suspect a survey of us human weed whackers would reveal a marked increase in muddy footprints and faucet handles.  Note to self: install outdoor shower next year.

Also, it made me a superhero. After spending an hour wrestling a crazy fifteen-foot wild sunflower, I heard Zoë call out, and I quote: "Mom, you are Wonder Woman." Understand, no amount of bread-baking or bandaging or explicating why a cylinder's volume equals πr²h has ever before earned me this status.  (Yes, geometry will come back to haunt you.)  Might all be worth it, right there.

I realized that, despite my avowed love of muted blooms, I am mad for bee balm and zinnias.  The bee balm's a dead-ringer for my kids over breakfast, with its lazy bobble and goofy bed-head.

And the zinnias, well, they're like rosy red cheeks and brand new mary janes and 64 fresh Crayolas: irrepressibly, hopelessly happy.  And, get this: we planted them from seed.  From seed.  And they grew!

(!!!)

(!!!!!!) 

I will not bore you with the tired old miracle of how exactly all that jolly fit in one barely-there seed.  Except to argue that it exempts a person from the standard single exclamation point rule. 

The zinnias were not our only seed efforts, though they were definitely among the top-performers.  The radishes were gorgeous, a foot tall, big white flowers, but nothing below save white spindly disappointments.  I always saw radishes as Psych 101 for the science-challenged set, an easy win, a guaranteed A.  Oops. 

We did manage a very small crop of carrots, the emphasis being on 'very', and 'small' (that would be our total harvest, above).  But the spring lettuces thrived, and the sweet peas produced, and the cucumbers and basil were champions of their kind.  And then, those beans, those teepee-topping beans, those late, great, finally abundant green beans.  I realize, looking back over these past three Ohio summers, how glad I am of the chance to practice with a string bean.  (And how I'm convinced the best lines in literature mostly hail from children's books.  Thanks to Russell Hoban and Gloria for this one.)* 

I know string beans are sort of a slam-dunk, but slam-dunks are what I need at this amateur stage.  I didn't even know to plant string beans, until then-four-year-old-Henry brought them home from preschool.  They thrived.  We repeated.  Last year, and this.  Despite our blundering, they've delivered every time.  I'd love them for that, even if they tasted like sand.

They don't, of course, though I admire them more each year.  I've never exactly not liked string beans, but for years I was, shall we say, green-bean-neutral.  Until they turned garden all-stars.  Now, I've got a list, long and running, of ways we eat and appreciate their charms.  We cut them up small and steam them with carrots and bathe them in butter, so simple, so good. We tuck them into curry and orzo and into endless salades Niçoise. We stir-fry them like this and stir-fry them like that, because I find a bit of pork helps the green beans go down.  And last week, I roasted them with friends, and confirmed this to be a fine fate, indeed.

I first tasted roast string beans just after Zoë was born, when my sweet friend Beth brought me two (two!) full dinners.  One included a side of said beans, roasted with shallots, rendered addictive.  I well remember standing in my kitchen, newborn in one hand, non-stop beans in the other.  They were unlike anything else I had roasted, more toothsome than tender, pleasantly chewy, with a deeply green, baritone sort of flavor.  I could not stop eating them, any more than I can explain why three years passed before I made my own.  Not that there's much to it.  Or to this.

What this is, I feel I should explain, is something pretty pedestrian.  It's a tray of those beans, plus summer squash and eggplant, chopped into equal-sized bits over homework, chucked into a screaming hot oven for twenty.  It is nothing more than the ordinary glories of roast veg, though that's the sort of ordinary I crave often, and in quantity.  The result is a tray of deeply caramelized nuggets, salty-crisp without, softly sweet within.  Not unlike last week's zucchini, minus the frying and the MUST EAT NOW mandate. 

What to do with a heap of roast veg?  Well.  If you're me, you eat a good serving at the stove, plucking bronzed bits from the tray at your tongue's risk.  Then, you might heap them alongside sticky sausages, which cook in the time the vegetables roast.  Or, toss bunches into hot pasta, with parmesan and basil and chickpeas, for protein.  Or, tumble them over brown rice, with feta, fresh thyme, an olive-oil fried egg.  A plain, lovely lunch, practically perfect in my book. 

(Angling to excise that "practically"?  Drizzle Shauna's bagna cauda over all, or splash on some of Heidi's magic sauce.  Done.)  

I could go on about the versitility of such things, about how this is more blueprint than recipe.  Go with all green beans, plus one thinly slivered onion.  Use just zucchini, cut into cubes.  Eggplant-only is divine.  You get the picture.  Use what delights.  Just remember that roasting's not restricted to winter; practice with whatever late summer has on offer. 

As for me, I've not worn my gloves in a week.  I've got some serious stooping to do. 

 

A Late-Summer Roast of Green Beans, Summer Squash + Eggplant

2 large handfuls green beans, topped, tailed, and cut into 1" lengths
1 large eggplant (or several small), cut into 1" cubes
2 medium summer squash (or zucchini), cut in half lengthwise, then into 3/4" slices
olive oil
salt
fresh thyme (optional)

Move oven rack to lowest position, and preheat oven to 475°.

Tip cut vegetables onto large, rimmed baking sheet (I use half sheet pans, a.k.a. jelly roll pans). Generously drizzle olive oil over all, 3-4 seconds (3-4 tablespoons). Dust with 1 teaspoon of kosher salt. With clean hands, toss vegetables, oil and salt to coat. Roast in preheated oven for 15 minutes. With a flat metal spatula, gently turn vegetables, which will be browning and caramelized on undersides. Roast another 3-7 minutes, until vegetables are showing color on second side.

Remove, and when cool enough to sample, taste for salt, adding more to taste. Think french fries, here—you do not want to overwhelm, but there should be just enough salt to notice and please, to balance out the deep sweet of the vegetables.  Scatter fresh thyme over all, if using, and serve hot, warm, or at room temperature.

******

" 'It is a nice dish, isn't it?' said Mother.

'Eat up the string bean, Gloria.'
'Oh!' said Gloria, and ate it up.
She had already eaten her dinner of strained beef and sweet potatoes, but she liked to practice with a string bean when she could."

—Bread and Jam for Frances, Russell Hoban

Me and you both, little Gloria.

soon enough

We are in this lovely little limbo, right now, boys back in school, me and miss Z flying solo.  I'd imagined these weeks would usher in the Being Productive Phase, whereupon said mother finally gets to her l-o-o-o-o-ong list of to-do's.  The one tossed aside the middle of last May.

{Insert laughtrack here.}

Turns out, big brothers provide far more entertainment than I knew.  Now that they're away, there are only three playmates left: me, myself and, you guessed it, I.  It took me one tedious, endlessly frustrated day to size up this new state of affairs.  Then I got a clue, back-burnered the dull stuff, and gave myself over to this splendid window.  Me!  My girl!  One on one!  Hoot, hoot!

We've met friends at the park and had sidewalk chalk-jam sessions.  We've painted and doodled and snipped and glued.  We've worked puzzles, read stories, played games, applied stickers.  We've built letter families on the fridge, set up a new little writing corner.  We've played The Very Hungry Caterpillar.  We've caught the real hungry deal.   

We've switched up the music on errand outings, playing all the sweet lyrics the boys no longer love: Raffi, Elizabeth Mitchell, the extraordinary Bev Bos.  Has anyone else heard of this force of nature?  Her books and music are pretty much magic. 

We've done pistachio math.  I recommend it highly.  So long as you're not the nut.  (It ends badly.) 

We've nursed summer colds, and several cups of tea, and managed to catch it before it caught us.  We've been tired and a bit cranky, mourned long-gone naps, nabbed one or two fleeting snoozes on the car fly.  Those used to drive me bonkers.  (The lost time!  The wasted opportunity!  Would that we'd managed a proper nap at home!)  Now I appreciate them for what they are, a tiny dose of what's needed most.  

We've emptied the dishwasher at ten past one, because the new routine's a bit wrinkly yet.  We've run out of clean clothes more times than we ought.  I cannot figure out how I cannot figure out how to get the laundry done with one child in the house.  Inverse correlation may be our next math lesson.

We've built fairy houses, sized just right for hosta peeps.  And discovered the umbrella plant makes a fine home for life-size fairies. 

We've noticed the nights coming on sooner.  Watched bruise-black mornings pinken over cinnamon toast.  We've wandered the garden, talking up what needs doing.  Then wound up trolling the anemones and the liriope, and, well, blowing bubbles.  Ahem.

We've meandered our favorite forest, looking for the first inklings of autumn.  Mostly, the whole thing was still brilliant greens and blues, with fewer signs of fall than our own back yard.  But it was quiet and sun-splattered and exquisitely cool, so cool, in fact, we got to wear sweaters.  (By today, we were back to ninety-six-degree skies.  Long sleeves are a particular thrill.)  

We've learned to ride a tricycle!  Big one, that. 

We have, despite it all, caught up on a bit, cleaned the fridge, tidied the art cupboard, wreaked a little order on the books.   

We've taped.  A lot.  Oh, how we've taped.  We really ought to buy stock in Scotch brands.  I think Zoë thought she'd found her calling when it came time to wrap Max's birthday presents.  Tape!  As necessity.  Who even knew?  (The Washi's kept way up high.  For obvious reasons.)

There was that, also, the birthdaying about, baking cakes and school treats, decorating and celebrating.  Eleven. 

Eleven! 

Eleven.  Can you imagine?   

Blink of an eye.  I kid you not.

It will all change soon enough, when preschool starts up, when she, too, turns eleven, tomorrow.  Make play while the sun shines.  And as much fried zucchini as you can manage.  Because, soon enough, it will be gone, also.

Fried zucchini.  Doesn't sound like much, does it?  Breaded and heavy, like fair-food, or worse.  I can't rightly say that it looks like much, either.  Can I tell you, though, all covers aside, that this zucchini's more excellent than a cardigan in August?

It began as part of a pasta dish, from none other than Gwyneth Paltrow.  (I'm tempted to add "...of all people...", but in all of ten minutes perusing her book, it is plain the girl actually, passionately cooks.)  The original included a mess of spaghetti, tossed with parmesan, garlic, basil and said squash.  I made it more than once, back in July, and it was really quite wonderful.

The zucchini, however, were outlandish.  I know this because I couldn't quit snitching, as I waited, impatiently, for the pasta water to boil.  I know this, also, because I kept poking through my noodles, angling for more crisp-sweet-salty discs.  I especially know this because I've made it again, with double the zucchini, hold the everything else.  Several times, actually.  And I'm not done yet.

I should mention that, if 'fried' ordinarily puts you off, know this fried's unlike any I've encountered.  The breading, for one thing, is flippin' genius.  Remember the usual breading routine, three bowls, flour, eggs, bread crumbs, giant sticky mess?  Yeah, no.  None of that.  This is infinitely simpler, and cleaner, and so, so much better.  Win-win-win. 

All it takes is one bowl of well-seasoned flour, plus one longstanding weakness turned enormous asset. Do you know how summer squash retains water like a sponge?  How zucchini slices bead up within sixty seconds flat?  Bingo.  There's your moisture.  Just flour, shake, and shallow-fry. 

So there's the second bit: this is not deep-fried territory, no six inches of scalding, bubbling hot oil.  (There's a very fine, doughnut-lined place for such things, but we're talking something altogether fairer, here).  You'll want a mere quarter-inch of oil, most of which will stay behind.  The zucchini coins cook to a shocking sweetness, almost melting without actually collapsing.  The dusting of flour turns whisper-thin crust, shattery and golden and impossibly light. 

I suspect this is what the hosta fairies eat.  I know it's the only zucchini any of my children has ever eaten.  With a throw of kosher salt sprinkled over all, you have yourself one serious plate of delicious.  Eat immediately.  If not sooner.

Fried Zucchini
adapted from Gwyneth Paltrow, My Father's Daughter

The 1/4" slice is significant, here, as it yields just the right balance of golden exterior and tender interior. 

If you're feeling fancy, and have fresh basil on hand, toss a few leaves into the fresh, hot oil.  They curl on impact, and go all translucent, and make a nice crisp flavor-pop alongside the zucchini.  It takes all of twenty seconds.  Just make sure the basil is dry (so as not to splatter), and do it at the outset, as the oil gets sludgy toward the end. 

several small to medium zucchini, sliced into 1/4" coins
1 cup unbleached flour, tossed with two teaspoons salt

olive or canola oil for shallow-frying
additional salt for sprinkling
basil leaves (optional)

Place your largest skillet over medium-high heat, pour in oil to a depth of 1/4-1/2", and heat to a shimmer.  Meanwhile, place flour and salt in a wide, shallow bowl.  Tip one large handful of zucchini into seasoned flour, and toss to coat.  Test oil temperature: with a slotted metal spoon, slide one zucchini slice into the shimmering oil.  Bubbles should immediately form around the edges.  If bubbles don't form, wait until they do to add more.  (Use a long-handled spoon or spider, and add coins gently, to prevent splattering of hot oil.) 

When oil is ready, add enough zucchini to fit comfortably in a single layer, being careful not to crowd the pan.  Fry 2-3 minutes, until bottoms are golden, then use your slotted spoon or tongs to turn coins over.  Fry on reverse, another 2-3 minutes, then remove to a plate lined with several sheets of paper towl.  Sprinkle generously with kosher or sea salt, and repeat in batches, until complete.  

Eat just as soon as you won't burn your tongue.