remedial eating

i much prefer rush limbaugh

I probably shouldn't say this.  Not out loud, anyway.

It seemed impolitic.  Impolite, even.  The sort of thing that just isn't said in some circles, much less believed.  I had though, for years, fiercely, discreetly.  Kept it on the QT, because it was so obviously sacrilegious.  But there I was, in trusted company, still awash in my morning coffee rush.  Maybe a little giddy, seeing as it was November and the last of the nightshades had finally kicked the bucket (finally).  And anyway, even us stoic Scandinavians can keep the hairy messy truth tucked away only so long.  So I blurted.

Actually, I much prefer Winter cooking to Summer. 

She couldn't have been more shocked were I Sarah Palin, taking sides on quality journalism. 

Actually, I much prefer Rush Limbaugh to Stewart. 

Actually, Palin probably wouldn't say "much prefer".  And actually, I must've danced a few too many parsnip jigs in years past.  The psychological community prefers the technical term No DUH!, I think, for the reaction I got.  Apparently I don't know how to keep a secret.  (FYI.) 

Don't get me wrong: I adore high summer, all those tiny zucchini and slender sweet green beans and eggplants and peppers and herbs and and and...  All that slap-me-now bounty?  It rocks.  I revel in it.  I haul it home, by the bag and the bushel, and for months we eat Nothing But.  I love it.

But I also loathe it, just a little.  Because it's sort of exhausting.  Pots must be put on to boil before the corn's picked.  Peas must be shelled, pronto.  Those perfect peaches, those peerless tomatoes, they're relentless.  At their peak one minute, sad and slumped the next.  Usain Bolts, the lot of them, across the finish line before they're off the blocks, even.  Leaves me a little breathless.   

And winter's a bit of a bear, to be sure.  It gets light late.  Gets dark early.  Stays cold always.  I could do without daily highs well below freezing.  And while I'd press Henry James on his beautiful word picks (Spring Afternoon is so very much nicer than Summer, at least in Ohio), I think we'd both agree that Wind and Chill are absolutely, hands-down the most hideous two.  When we saw the mercury flirting with forty, we were up and out hiking before the clock hands hit noon.  A bit starved for fresh, unfrozen air, perhaps.  Deluge notwithstanding.   

But winter's kitchen is a thing of quiet wonder, a slow and cozy place.  Here's produce that speaks shelf-life, that knows how to pace itself.  Hearty greens keep a week.  Squash, weeks.  Roots, months.  (Goodbye Bolt, hello Benoit!)  Urgency takes a back seat to endurance, for plants and people both.  Those roots and squash and greens being all there is to eat for months, if you're inclined to wait on asparagus until May, anyway.  It might seem restrictive, a little Mother Hubbardesque, I guess.  But limits like these work their own clever magic.  Limits supply direction and focus and spur creativity to solve tough, intractable problems.  Like red cabbage, what the heck?   

Red cabbage has flummoxed me for years.  This bugs me no end.  Partly because I'm so keen on green cabbage, lazily braised or quickly stir-fried or slowly wilted and caramelized in a good knob of butter.  But its red cousin doesn't respond the same way, turning mushy and squishy and a strange shade of blue.  This, I presume, is why most recipes serve it up sweet-and-sour style, paired with apples or onions and always, always vinegar.  The giant glug of vinegar sets the color, which is nice.  It also sets my teeth on edge.  I'm actually wincing, remembering.  That bad.  Worse, really.  I much prefer Rush Limbaugh.  Well, okay, no.  But a winning way, any winning way, with red cabbage, was needed.

So I bought one and brought it home and stared it down for days.  Until it dawned on me (finally) that this character's flaws were no flaws at all, so long as you don't apply heat.  (Just like the rest of us.)  All that water that makes red cabbage soggy when cooked means a salad "green" that's irresistibly crunchy and crisp.  And, raw, it remains that fantastic magenta.  (Red?  Pshaw.  In name only.)  If your only experience with this veg is the finger-nail clippings in bad salad bars, do try again.  Do!  Sliced fresh, it's juicy and sweet and completely addictive.  I've eaten three big bowls-full, this week alone.  Once, I even shared.

To be fair, it was flying in fine company.  Six ingredients in all, all simple, all straightforward.  Which somehow end up looking a little Lady Gaga, what with that vivid purple playing off the parsley's dark green.  Sort of sounds like her, too, with its emphatic C-R-U-N-C-H.  But the flavors, the flavors, they're all classic harmony.  On the heap of red cabbage goes one tart crisp apple, slivered, for sweetness.  Also a half bunch of fresh parsley for bright grassy spunk, and a greedy fistful of toasted walnuts for their buttery crunch.  Tossed in lemon and oil (walnut if you have it, olive if you don't) and a spoon tip of dijon, the whole thing sings of freshness and light.  No small feat, in the dark days of January.  And one more reason (just in case you need one) for a little winter cooking love.   

A Deep Winter Salad
Serves 2-4 as a side salad, or 1 hungry Molly as lunch

A full head of cabbage may feel like a big commitment, but bear in mind it keeps two weeks in the crisper, beautifully.  Maybe three; by then, mine's always gone.  And unlike most salads, I find this one delicious the next day.  Everything settles into itself a little, the apples stained pink, the nuts gone a bit toothsome.  But it works, quite well I think, if my scarfing straight out of the tupperware's any indication.

Walnut oil is lovely here, if you have an orphaned half-can, or need an excuse to buy one.  But there's no need -- olive oil is brilliant. 

And a final note: I ran through all my parsley one night, and so took trotted this through Southeast Asia, swapping in cilantro, lime juice, salted peanuts and sesame oil.  That was nice also (though I love this one best).

1/4 head red cabbage (5-6 cups, slivered)
1 tart, crisp apple (pink lady, honey crisp)
1 cup fresh, flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
1 shy cup walnuts, toasted and coarsely chopped
2 Tbs. lemon juice, freshly squeezed
2 tsp. dijon mustard
2 Tbs. walnut or olive oil
1/2 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 325º.  Toast walnuts on a small baking sheet or pie pan, 8-12 minutes, or until golden and fragrant.  Set aside to cool. 

Cut the cheek off one side of the cabbage (to avoid the core).  Lay the cheek flat-side down, then slice into thirds.  Now slice cross-ways (90° to your first cuts), thin as you can with a sharp chef's knife.  You're angling for nice, slender bite-size shreds.  Set aside in a bowl big enough to toss.

Julienne apple (see notes and photos below; so easy), and add to cabbage.  Add chopped parsley and walnuts.

Dressing: Combine juice of one lemon, salt, and dijon in a small bowl, and stir to dissolve salt.  Add the oil, and stir vigorously to combine.  Pour over salad, toss well, and crunch.

*Note:  I don't julienne much of anything.  Too tedious, too time-consuming.  But apples are fast and easy and not at all like carrots, even with a cranky toddler tangled between both feet. 

All there is to it:  Set apple on board, then slice a thin disc, 1/4" or so, from one "cheek".  Continue slicing in toward the core, until you reach the core casing.  You'll get 4-5 progressively larger discs, depending on the size of your apple.   Rotate your apple a quarter turn, and repeat on next "cheek".  Repeat twice more, until you have nothing but a square core remaining.  Now, stack 4-5 discs atop each other, flat side down, and simply slice left to right, every 1/4" or so.  Voila: julienned apple.  Step 1 to step 2, in two minutes, tops.

With special thanks to Julia, for the puddle-jumping pictures.

let's just suppose

You, this week, are five.  Obviously, this is the post where I veer head-long into fiction, since I can see your six pound self clear as day, barely bigger than a roasting chicken.  But let's suppose there's some truth to it.  Let's just suppose I've lived a hand-full of years by your side, marveled at the boy you become half a decade out.  Where and what and who are you then?


You are my never-ending story.  I'm still awfully fond of Kingsolver and LaMott, Lahiri and Berry, but frankly, you leave 'em all in the dust, at least in the wildly entertaining department.  Every errand ... school day ... tissue ... dinner ... is just a pesky ellipses between Chapters One and Twelve in your ongoing epic.  The costumes, they come, they go, they evolve.  (Who knew K'nex could pinch-hit as superhero gear?)  But apparently the make-believe bit is here for the long haul.  (Hip hooray!) 

You are persistence, personified.  You solve more problems before lunch than I solve in a month.  Never you mind that this world values unraveling insurance snafus over engineering Lego droids.  Same basic skills, my boy: focus, determination, flexibility, and a heaping double helping of humor.  Your frustation runs high only because your ambitions run higher.  The 'twain shall meet.  I guarantee it.

You are my rattle and hum.  You know noise, know the power of stomp, thump and thwack.  You know good drama demands a soundtrack, know Star Wars would've been just a bunch of rinky-dink rockets dangling off monofilament, were it not for Williams' original score.  Even though you've never seen it.  Quiet and shhhhh top your Most Wanted Words list.  And true, I dial down your volume, every now and again.  But mostly, I sit one room over, enchanted.  Charmed by the way you singsong all day, easy as inhale, unconscious as exhale.  Delighted by the little lyrics and sweet soft melodies always drifting by, always different.  Doubled over the choral dissonance, the "Me-ga-tron destroyed the world, and Op-ti-mus Prime saved it" set to Twinkle Twinkle.

You are my barrel of monkeys.  Wiggling arms, tangled legs, all spin, drape and hang.  You scramble up the climbing tower and into the river and between the couch cushions, quicker than quick.  Whether prepositions are your favorite part of speech remains to be seen, but over, under, around and through are among your favorite parts of life. 

You are the reason I need to learn a thing or three about ISO.  I snap and snap and get back mostly blur.  You are a spark plug, a coiled spring, a Tigger, a wonderful thing.  (Especially, at least where film speed's concerned, when you're plumb tuckered.)

You are my truly, madly, deeply.  You wear your heart on your sleeves, and your dungarees, and your hat and mittens too, weather permitting.  I mean, really, who needs sad and glad when completely undone and over-the-moon slaphappy are ripe for the picking?  Monochrome is nowhere in your palette, or your personality.  Thank goodness. 

You are my deep kindred spirit, front and center with silver linings and lemonade.   When I accidentally shattered your superbot right before bedtime, I braced for outrage, got only shrugs.  "I can re-build him, quick."  And you did.  When we somehow stumbled onto over-population over lunch, over the nifty trick of six billion plus of us on one single planet, you didn't pull a Pollyanna.  You were solemn and serious and talked through solutions, sending clean water through "really reeeaaaally big" pipes, cloth napkins to go with our cloth wipe-up rags.  Then added, "and mom, that means there are so many more people for us to meet!"  Atta boy.

You are my betwixt and between.  It's true, you can go from sweet and calm to Sturm und Drang in two siblings flat.  You feel the squeeze, don't know how much the middle matters.  Yet.  (Hubs?  PB&J?  The Sun?  Dude.) 

You are my antennae.  You greet the world with your fingertips, first, last and always.  You are my constant reminder to poke and to prod and see hear and feel and enough with that reserved observation, already.

You are my Hole Is to Dig.  We are planners and ponderers, the lot of us, up to our ears in The Implications.   You are up to your elbows in Fun, Here, Now!  Every walk is an obstacle course, every curb a cliff.  Cracks are to dodge, sticks are to drag, "mud is to jump in and slide in and yell doodleedoodleedoo!"  A sheep is to pet.  Even if it pets you back. 

You are my barley buddy, and a patient one at that.  Even when we're in the car and on round ninety two of Raffi's Oats and Beans because your sister loves it so, you don't say "any more barley and I'll gag" (which is what I'm thinking), but "boy, I sure love barley."  And in no time, I've forgotten all about the downside of Repeat and am pondering the upside of last night's leftovers.  Suddenly, yesterday's braised beef has barley soup written all over it. 

Now, it seems a little unfair, a touch bait-and-switch, to include a line like "3 cups leftover (anything)"  in a recipe.  Let's suppose I don't have a nice slump of tender braised beef in my fridge.  What, pray tell, (this is me, were I you) shall I do then?  Question mark.  Exclamation point.  Eh?!

Well, I often don't, and that's half the point here.  A good barley soup, at least in my book, depends on a slew of good 'shrooms and a broth that's got backbone.  Meat, meh.  I make it at least as often without as with, and because of this, I depend heavily on a few flavor bombs. 

So let's suppose you have nothing, save a yen for one swarthy, swashbuckling, beef-free barley soup.  Here's what you do.  First, you brown the bejeebers out of your onions and mushrooms.  Next, get lazy, and frugal, and devilishly clever.  Soak your dear, tiny heap of dried porcini in plenty of hot boiling water, and watch as that plain H₂O becomes pure liquid gold.  And then there's the soy.  Well, soy squared.  This part's a little unorthodox, but entirely wonderful.  A dollop of miso and smidge of soy sauce improve this soup, exponentially.  They leave no fingerprints, just richness and roundness and sultry smart shadows.  Umami, in other words, in spades.  Which is why, after "3 cups braised beef", I write "optional".  And mean it.     

Of course, let's just suppose you do want the full package, the beef and the barley, both.  Nothing's simpler, just sear and forget, especially on a wet Saturday when you're already indoors, knocking off chores.  Plus you can count yourself brilliant, since you've queued up a half week's worth of dinner in one go.  My standby brisket takes twenty minutes, tops.  This week I tried David Tanis' take, and can't get it out of my mind.  Or use your splattered-page favorite.  Whatever.  What matters is that the beef (chuck or brisket) is melting (braised or oh-so-slow-roasted) and accompanied, if at all possible, by a rich wobbly cup of its own reduced juices.  This way is very nice, too.  Especially when eaten in the company of a certain fine somebody who, yes, I see, is now five. 

Mushroom Barley Soup, with or without Beef
Yield: 6-8 generous servings

Like any soup, this is more suggestion than stern instruction.  I made it this way this week; I'll make it another next time.  Add peas, up the beef, swap out carrots for parsnips, and so it goes.  As long as you have a swaggering stock, you're golden.

About those porcini... they sound a little shi shi, and their per pound price will make your eyes bug out.  But here's the thing:  a heaping cup weighs maybe two ounces, so divide the price dramatically.  And in those few ounces is a heaping huge wollop of flavor, worth every penny.  Finally, if you're using the beef, you could skip the porcini.  Sort of.  Technically. 

1 heaping cup dried porcini, added to...
6 cups boiling water or 6 cups stock (vegetable or chicken)

2 Tbs. olive oil
1 large onion, diced
4 cups fresh mushrooms (button, cremini), quartered 
1 tsp. tomato paste
1/4 tsp. paprika
1 cup red wine
1 Tbs. miso (I like red here, but they all work beautifully)
1 tsp. soy sauce
1 heaping tsp. dried thyme
1/2 cup barley
3 carrots, chopped into 1/2" pieces
3 cups leftover braised beef, cubed or shredded, optional
1 cup leftover braising juices, the more concentrated, the better
dash vinegar (sherry, balsamic)

salt and pepper, to taste
fresh chopped parsley, for spunk

Boil the 6 cups of water.  Place dried porcini in a large, heat-proof bowl.  Pour boiling water over porcini, and let sit at least 20 minutes, or up to 4 hours.  After reviving, remove mushrooms with a slotted spoon, chop roughly, and set aside.  Don't throw away the soaking water; this is your liquid cold.  When the time comes to add it to your soup (see below), handle lightly and pour gently, so that any grit settled on the bottom stays behind.

In a heavy soup pot or dutch oven, heat oil over medium-high heat.  When shimmering, add onions, and caramelize well, 8-12 minutes, stirring every so often to prevent burning.  When onions are gold in the centers and going chocolate at the edges, tip in the fresh, quartered mushrooms, plus a half teaspoon salt.  Stir to coat mushrooms in the oiled onions, cover, and let cook 5-7 minutes, until the mushrooms have released their juices.  Remove lid, and continue cooking, 3-5 minutes, until you hear mushrooms begin to sizzle.  Now you're beginning to get a good sear.  Continue cooking mushrooms another 5-10 minutes, stirring only occasionally, until you see many sides going golden and freckled. 

Add tomato paste and paprika to onion/mushroom mixture, stir, and cook 30 seconds.  Add wine, scraping up brown bits as you go, a minute or so.  Add miso and soy, and stir to dissolve.    

Add mushroom soaking liquid (see gentle pouring note, above) or broth, soaked porcini, thyme, barley, carrots, and beef and juices (if using).  Return to a near boil, and let simmer, 20-30 minutes, until barley is toothsome and carrots are tender. 

Take a few moments to really taste and season.  There are so many layers of flavor here (how intense was your miso?  how salty your juices?).  At this juncture, I usually find it needs a bit more salt, but not much; a wee dash of vinegar, for balance; and a sprinkling of green, if I have it.   

Once it sings, you're well on your way. 

shades of grey

Travel's tough.  No matter which way I paint it, at the end of the trip, there's that.  This pains me a little bit, because I'm sort of a raging hidebound optimist.  As in, you'd best keep an eye on me around almost-empty glasses.  As in, I'm not at all beyond topping them off, just to bring them up to snuff, half-full, where they all belong.  And really, what part of an eleven-day stint in Seattle could possibly be anything but shiny white glory?  

Well, the small matter of packing and present-wrapping and trip-planning, all at once, Christmas Eve.  And that madcap launch, pulling three sleeping children out of their beds and into a dark frigid downpour, before dawn, Christmas morning.  Also the preposterous impossible, using up the last of six (!) nappies, somewhere over Wisconsin.  With three hours yet to go (fingers and legs crossed).  Losing my wallet.  In a heavily trafficked public restroom, no less, just for good measure.  Encore the preposterous.  Cursing myself for waaaaay over-packing, then finding Max clean out of socks by day seven.  And that Henry's run through all his pants the day following, and shirts and sweatshirts and you-name-it also. 

Did I mention the jam-packed first half, each day a little too long, each get-together a whole lot too short?  Or the wet-chattering second half, wherein one mama realizes why they preface those New Year's Day Swims with Polar Bear?  Or the hours spent wordsmithing my memo to Delta?  (Dear Mr. Anderson, CEO, Sir:  Really, no changing table, anywhere?  Not even the tiny 12" ledge some planes provide?  Would you prefer I change her on the seats in first class, then, or your office chair, sir?  Oh, and when you abandoned that longstanding Families Board First policy, were you actually trying to alienate your best customers, those Super Duper Fliers who now get sole dibs on early seating?  Because I'm just not sure Mr. 3B felt his front row seat to three hot, squalling kids stuck ten minutes in the aisle was, you know, a privilege.  But maybe I misread his smoking ears.)  Pure utter exhaustion.  Losing Baby.  Schleppage.

Some grey bits, then.  I guess traveling home and living there are not quite exactly the same.  I'm learning.  I'll pack more socks, next time. 

But.  But. 

Did I mention I picked up my wallet eight hours later, every last credit card intact, even the twenty just where I left it?  Because that, right there, sums up the overwhelming most of it.  Luck and joy and a big old boatload of happy.  Because although we were flying Northwest in Detroit at 12:01 Christmas Day, it wasn't that Northwest flight.  And despite the niggling grind of modern air travel, it's sort of a jaw-dropper to wake up in Columbus and share dinner with family in Seattle, same day.  Sheesh.  Small price, wet lap. 

Time was short, but long enough to hang at old haunts.  To get coffee and cake where we've gone since Max was weeks' old.  To scoop up the best burgers and cupcakes this side of anywhere.  To drink in old familiar sights that somehow, this past year, went all exotic on me.  (I might have gulped, just a little.)  Time enough to scramble and climb and run, jump and play.  Which, if I've learned anything these past nine years, is the single non-negotiable item on any parent's itinerary.  Above even nappies.  

And did I mention all the fabulous jam we packed into those long, first, full days?  Friends galore, from college and high school and long before and after.  Lazy slow breakfasts and big lego mosh pits.  Boys being boys and Mario Kart marathons.  Coffee wedged in to time no one had.  Card games and block building and baby doll tending.  Nothing much, really.  In the right company, everything.  Two dinners out with three small children, with good food and great conversation and not even one meltdown.  This, my friends, is more miraculous than flight and found wallets, combined. 

Plus a nice quiet stretch tacked on at the end there, just us and some seals and the small brittle edge of the earth.   Five days, together.  Driftwood forts.  That ocean.

People, that ocean.   

A pale grey, then.  Oh, gosh, unless I factor in gratitude.  For every last stewardess who fetched milk for Zoë, often during their break, usually during turbulence.  For borrowed washing machines.  And automobiles.  And whole entire homes.  For free rides to the airport, at four in the morning.  With fresh coffee, waiting.  Seriously. 

So maybe faded dove, or palest alabaster.  Maybe off-white.  I'd better stop there, commit it to writing while I still remember returning to sand-filled socks and one-in-the-morning good "nights".  Because frankly, by next week, I'll have every last shade of grey bleached and whitewashed.

My memories may go all pristine, but never my meals.  I know it's proper to be all pure and white in the kitchen, right now, what with New Year's and noble goals and heaps of Eat Healthy resolve.  Sorry.  Try elsewhere.  I'm pretty grey with my food, pretty much all year round.  I mean, true, what I lunge for when the calendar rolls over are things brothy or green or vivid with spice.  And true, what I crave, what I cook, are sweet roots or creamy beans or knubbly grains or all three.  But, also, butter by the knob, twangy aged cheese by the fistful, glorious oil by the sloshing quarter cup.  I just don't do teaspoons.  I'm not talking too much, no chili cheese fries or deep fried Mars bars, mind you.  But enough.  Enough to overshoot official upstanding Healthy.  Enough to soften and brown and singe every edge with caramel's smack.  Enough to startle spices wide awake and send their spunk burrowing deep down and beyond.  Enough to round out rough edges and nudge flavors forward and make all that good stuff taste flippin' great.  Enough to have you, or me anyway, absolutely longing for chickpeas.  Nutty-sweet and ginger-bright and really rather sassy in their red fragrant coat, spooned up with the herbed creamy crunch of raita, I've been longing for these chickpeas for weeks, more than anything.  Well, aside from a return ticket, anything.   

 

Gingered Chickpeas and Tomatoes
Adapted from Julie Sahni, Classic Indian Cooking
Serves 4 as a main, 6-8 as a side

2 cans chickpeas, plus liquid
1/4 cup olive oil, light vegetable oil or ghee (clarified butter)
1 large onion, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 Tablespoons fresh ginger, finely chopped or grated
2 teaspoons corinader, ground
1/2 teaspoon cardamom, ground
1 1/2 teaspoons lemon juice
1/2 cup water
black pepper, several grinds
1/2 cup chopped, canned tomatoes
1 teaspoon Kosher salt, plus more to taste

Raita (see recipe, below)* and Rice or Flatbread, to serve

Drain chickpeas, reserving liquid

Over medium-high heat, heat oil in a large frying pan.  Add onions and fry 5-8 minutes, stirring now and again to prevent burning, until golden and browning at the edges. 

Add garlic and ginger, reduce heat to medium, and fry another 2 minutes.  Add dry spices (coriander, cardamom, pepper), mix, and fry until fragrant, 30 seconds or so.  Add tomatoes, stir well, and let simmer over medium until oil begins to separate from tomato mixture (6-8 minutes). 

Add reserved chickpea liquid, lemon juice, salt, and water.  Cover, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 10 minutes, until sauce is thickened and plump.  Add chickpeas, stir well to combine, and continue cooking, covered, another 10 minutes.  Test for salt and seasoning, adjust to taste, and serve.

*About that Raita:  Sahni suggests raw onions and chili to garnish, but I'm not much for either.  I much prefer a mild cucumber raita with this (and most any other Indian meal).  I eat this by the great wobbly dollop, more hearty side than dainty garnish, so this makes copious quantities.  Feel free to downsize accordingly.  So simple:  Combine 1 1/2 cups cucumber cut into 1/4" dice (I used 3 of those little cukes sold by the bagful) with 1 1/2 - 2 cups whole milk yogurt (or 2% Greek yogurt), 1 cup (1 small bunch) chopped cilantro (or 1/2 cup fresh mint), plus 1 teaspoon ground cumin (feshly toasted and ground is awesome, but optional), a pinch of sugar and 1/2- 1 tsp. salt, to taste.  Stir well to combine.  My raita is a bit of a racket -- no hot chilis, and more cukes and green herbs than any traditional version.  But I like it very much this way.  Feel free to amp up the heat with some chopped jalapenos.