remedial eating

file under impossible

At a certain point, you've got to admit that She's just kind of full of it.  Life, I mean, and Her grab bag of outrageous, the one She keeps slung over one shoulder.  I'll bet it's a messenger, and a plain one at that, and I imagine She reaches in every now and again, casting little bits of absurd and incredible, scattershot, Johnny Apple Seed style.  

I got to thinking about this in earliest January, out on the Peninsula.  We'd stopped off in a down-trodden little town dear to my heart, in search of a certain spectacular Ridge.  It was closed, as it happened, so we settled instead for a rainbow.  A whole rainbow.  A sight I'd always filed under the same basic header as unicorns and philosopher's stones and flattering stirrup pants.  I.e., impossible.  And while I guess I was never taught as much outright, I left grade school certain the only full arcs I'd ever encounter would involve markers and Leprechauns and pasted-on pots of gold.  To see one in real life?  Highly unlikely. 

And yet, there it was, one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of unlikely.  So ever since, I've been sort of taking notes, noticing those funny little wrinkles in Life where reality and Ripley's rub shoulders.  And darned if they don't keep cropping up.

Like spying, for example, both of these within the week.  We didn't travel to Alaska for glacier-gawking.  Nope, not Greenland, either.  We just stepped out our back door and stared straight up, and bingo!  Glaciers, global-warming or no.  Technically, they're gutters, full-to-bursting with ice, but I understand your confusion, completely.  Glaciers, gutters, gutters, glaciers, my pretty little head can hardly keep 'em straight.  And not ten yards away?  Dogwood buds, by the hundreds.  Audacity of hope, indeed.

Or consider how improbable it is that those alliums ever stood four feet tall, ten feet deep.  Fireworks posing as flowers, so abundant we tossed off "too many!", maybe a few too many times.  They took us so seriously, just up and vamoosed.  The odd brittle memento mori's all that's left at the mo, plus the promise of dozens, sleeping deep under ground.  I'm trusting that's where my next issue is, also.  Because done's not acceptable, over's not allowed.  Someone, please tell me, you're working on this? 

Or just try to imagine that top one like this.  Or this bottom one, that.  Or being able, even, to make the comparison, having marked, this week, our first year here.  Believe it, or not.

I won't ask you to consider soufflés.  I won't talk about how simple they are, no harder than whipping cream and whisking up white sauce.  We don't know each other well enough, and you wouldn't believe me, and you'd file that under impossible.  And that would be a shame. 

So instead let's talk soup.  Three ingredient soup.  Four if you count the flourish, optional but sensational.  Still, then, less than a handful.  Plus five minutes' work, and an hour of nothing, save the alchemy that turns two dirty roots into downright delicious.  Lame, so lame, believe me, I know.  In this analytic age of Brown and McGee, alchemy's a pretty huge cop out.  But how else to explain how potatoes and leeks bend all the rules here? 

Julia may have filed this under Potage Parmentier, and it's French heritage is hardly in contest.  But the technique reads more like a red and white can than something from the homeland of haute cuisine.  There's no mirepoix, gently stirred and caramelized.  No stock, slowly simmered and strained.  Not even a measly bouquet garni, bobbing along for oomph.  Instead, it's just chop and chuck into plain salted water, and simmer away until all is soft.  Blend until smooth, finish with cream, and pull up a chair for a slurpable feast.  

Still seem impossible?  Did to me, too.  I'm a little handicapped, really, stumping for this soup, since for my first thirty years I considered it a waste of a clean spoon.  I never tasted it, mind you.  Just turned up my nose at the sight.  So pale, so thin, so lacking in anything, well, interesting.  Like something you'd feed sick people.  In a hospital.  Apologizing profusely with every choked sip, promising smuggled brownies, ASAP.  I still think it's ugly.  I also think — and I've tucked into both this week — that potato-leek soup rivals a soufflé, any day. 

It is earthy and sweet with spuds and leeks, which balance each other, beautifully.  But the cream, the cream is everything.  It rounds and embellishes like nobody's business, and transforms this from frugal thin pot to silky lush slurry.  You'd guess there's a cup, but it's only a quarter, and I wouldn't dream of skimping a drop.  Just like that, it's perfect, unless my day's been less so.  And then, when I need just a little bit more, some protein for punch to get me through bedtime, I gild this lily with a small heap of smoked fish.  Wilson's salmon, in Seattle; here, smoked trout.  Either turns this soup into supper, light and hearty and, dare I say, perfecter.  Grammatically speaking, I know that's impossible.  But you know, my taste buds just really don't care. 

Potato Leek Soup
Adapted from Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking
Yields 4-6 supper-sized servings

I prefer this slightly thicker than the original, as I'm usually calling it dinner.  Two medium russets and two generous leeks weighed in at 15 ounces, this time around.  This yields a soup that is surprisingly loose, like light cream, but I love the way this feathery texture plays against the lush flavor.  I've made it with larger veg, verging on 18 ounces, and liked these slightly thicker results equally.  Your choice.  

And a note on the salt:  A full tablespoon of salt sounds like a LOT, but it is pitch perfect with this quantity of water and roots.  That said, I would dial it down just a bit (to a generous 2 1/2 teaspoons) if you're using regular table salt (I use kosher, which is looser).  Ditto, if you plan on adding the fish, which adds it's own salty kick to the mix. 

15-18 oz. russet potatoes (2-3 potatoes; 4-5 cups), peeled and sliced
15-18 oz. leeks (2-3 leeks, 4-5 cups), halved, thoroughly washed, and thinly sliced (whites and tender greens)
2 quarts (8 cups) of water
1 Tbl. kosher salt
4-6 Tbl. heavy cream

optional:

3-4 Tbl. chives or parsley, for garnish
6-8 oz. smoked salmon or trout, flaked, to top

Place sliced potatoes, leeks, water and salt in a medium saucepan, and bring to the boil.  Turn heat down to low-medium, and simmer, partially covered, 40-50 minutes, or until potatoes are very tender. 

Place stick blender in soup pot, and blitz 1-2 minutes, until soup is completely smooth.  Alternatively, process in batches in a standing blender, or pass through a food mill until uniformly smooth.  Stir in cream off the heat, taste, and correct seasoning if needed. 

Ladle into soup bowls, pile a small heap of flaked fish on top if using, and garnish with fresh herbs, if you so wish. 

(forty) two

Humor me one more birthday?  Two in a month, I know.  But two's a big one, no?  After all, it's not every day you double your age, overnight.  And with all that walking and talking behind you, you can focus on the really juicy bits, like ditching the high chair and skipping naps and broadcasting the occasional (no-not-monkey-jammies-POKA-dot-jammies-the-bluuuuue-ones-peas!) opinion.  Besides, I'd like to do right by that smile.

Honestly, I could begin and end right there, left corner to right.  She really is all that, just spunk, twinkle and boo!  A party with pigtails, a diplomat from planet Happy.  All you need to know, really. 

What's missing, though, is all I didn't know, all she taught me, teaches me, patient and slow.  I mean, I knew it all, obviously, with two boys under my belt.  Plenty of parenting technique may elude me.  (Most of it, maybe.)  ((Okay, some days, all of it.))  But personality-wise?  I'd seen it all, night and day.  I was ready, prepared, completely naive. 

I did not, for example, know little girls.  I didn't know "What flavor cake?" could be answered "Pink!"  Didn't know how she'd take so to little bald babies, tuck them under her arm and walk them around, murmuring "Mmmm... I wuuuv you... ummm... nice hug."  Didn't know she'd switch up not two minutes later, barreling at me with blocks and an over-sized war cry.  "Missile!  Uh-TACK!!  Shoot!  Pshew Pshew Pshew!"  (Still that grin, though.  Sort of undermines the whole ferocity angle.)  Didn't know she'd lay claim to sugar and spice and tails and snails besides, because, goodness gracious, why ever not?

I never knew washing hair could be simple.  Or quiet.  Or quick.  Or — stop me now — all of the above.  I'd no idea a toddler could whisper, or nod, or say "yes" and "shooz me!" to people and chairs.  Or add, automatically, "please" after everything.  I'm fibbing; it's "peas".  That "L" is so tricky.  But everything, that part's no stretch at all.  I never dreamt that a toddler's two favorite words might be "Right there!".  Tied with "Like that!"  That anyone might be more particular than me.  Oh dear. 

I didn't know someone One could count all the way to three.  Genius!, I thought.  Survival, I realized.  Forget a room of her own.  A third kid's got to know what evenly divided looks like, if she wants to land a wedge of cookie, all her own.  I had no idea a girl so small could call dibs on seats, so fast.  "Grocery store", I muttered yesterday, planning tomorrow.  "In the BACK!" I heard, from two rooms over.  Seems a certain someone likes the big bottom basket, the one where big brother sits.  Or sat.  Now he walks.  

I never knew twelve tons of gumption could squoosh into thirty three inches.  Don't remember writing Gung-Ho on the Birth Certificate's Middle Name line.  But "Zoë do it" is the refrain of our days, right now, with "By self" and "See mama!" thrown in for good measure.  I was a little startled this week when "I can't!" cropped up.   Until I realized, in Zoë, it means only, "I'm having trouble.  I'm stuck, and I have no intention of stopping.  So HELP ME NOW, peas, since I don't speak 'give up'."

I didn't know, frankly, how she'd manage, with everything.  Wondered whether this youngest might be overwhelmed or ignored (eep!).  Worried, in other words, needlesly.  True, silence is pretty much unheard of, consistency a fabled land somewhere due South of Atlantis.  Routines, regular naps, they really don't happen.  But belonging?  It's rampant.  And Count me in!'s always ever been her only reply.  Part of is all of her understanding of the world.  Part of Pokemon, part of puzzles, part of cabin-fever busting pillow mosh pits.  (Ages 8-and-up, 500-pieces, danger-to-life-and-limb, your point being?)  Part of time outs; not hers, but like she's going to be left out.  Part of school, back in August, on that very first day back.  I delivered the boys to their classes and came home to this.  Found her coat, found her shoes, a backpack and sunhat.  Made it perfectly clear she'd be going, too.  Never mind the nightgown underneath it all.  Or the birthday just a few (dozen) months shy of the cut-off. 

I didn't think she'd one-up me in the responsibility department so soon.  I've heard of young kids going on twelve or twenty-one, even, but she, I swear, is two going on forty two.  Ate raisins with a fork, before she could walk.  Gets her own bowls, and cups, and extras for the boys, also.  She so called me on it when I kicked that toy car under the island, the other day.  Later, I thought.  (Ka-wack!)  "Put away!", she declared, and did.  (Insert blush here.)  You can see what a clean castle she keeps. 

 
I certainly didn't think homemade pizza would become part of our line-up.  For years, I ranked DIY pizza right up there with, oh, homemade toilet paper.  As in, why on earth ever bother?  After all, decent, inexpensive versions are widely available.  The pizza, they'll even deliver.  And every last one of my attempts this past decade yielded something like old Sears catalog crossed with Cedar bark (the pizza, I mean; I've yet to try the t.p.).  Charcoal black on the edges, pasty white in the middle, I'd perfected a pie that was both burnt and raw.  Magical, really.

So magical, in fact, I vanished it from our kitchen for ages.  But this year, prompted by a plucky new sous-chef and Ohio's odd habit of cutting round pies into square pieces, we gave pizza another go.  And I'm so very glad, as we're finally, I think, getting the hang of it.  Understand: we're not turning out world class exemplars, wood-fired wonders that inspire accolades and cult followings.  But I don't really want an imported inferno in my kitchen, or for that matter, a following. 

What I wanted, what we've finally figured, is how to easily, reliably, turn out very nice pies, with crispy thin crusts and gold bubbling tops and whatever bits and bobs suit people's fancy.  Which, in the end, is the second best part of a DIY pie.  (The first being, obviously, the company).  We can please Little Miss Mushroom and Mr. Pepperoni Only and me, and my love of a sort-of-white pizza, sharp with three cheeses and fragrant with Rosemary and worth every last ounce of flour on the floor.  I'll save details for the recipe notes, below, but suffice it to say, if you ask me now, homemade pizza's child's play.  

Pizza: Part I — Tools and Tips

Let's do this in two parts: playbook and recipe.  Because more important than any ingredient is HEAT.  And, after that, a calm cook.  These 5 P's — big tools, little tips — finally turned homemade pizza into something I looked forward to making and took pleasure in eating.  This is just what works for us.  I'd love to hear what works for you.  (P.S.: Just picked up my February Saveur, and lo and behold!, found this same advice on page 94.  Guess we're on the right track, then.)

:: Pizza stone:  These heavy stone circles hold and transfer heat beautifully, cooking that raw dough almost on contact.  EIght minutes takes a pizza from start to finish on ours.  I'm not big on gadgets, but I wouldn't attempt pizza without a stone.  (Again, anyway.  I have, many times, and am so over peeling baked-on dough off of sheet pans.)  We like this one.  It's an investment, for sure, though not much more than two pies, delivered.   

:: Preheat:  Stone and oven both, at 500°, a full hour.  No joke.  Your basic home oven (and mine is just that) can take on pretty awesome powers if you give it time to get up to temperature.  Remember to put a rack on the bottom position, and your stone in while the oven's cold (to prevent cracking), and you're well on your way to brilliant crisp crust. 

:: Patience:  With the dough.  Springy dough drove me mad for years.  I'd roll it out, sproing!, back it would go.  I'd roll again, schwoop!, and up it would curl.  I tried everything; even, one day, reading the directions, which said to let the dough rest a spell before rolling.  Worked beautifully.  After rising (homemade) or removing from fridge (storebought) and dividing into serving size balls, give that dough 20 minutes to relax, and you'll follow suit when it comes time to roll. 

:: Parchment:  Cornmeal's lovely in cornbread, nasty under pizza.  Instead, I slide my rolled crust onto a square of parchment to keep it from sticking to the stone (you need something).  The parchment comes out of the oven black as midnight, but don't worry: it doesn't flame, and the pizza slides off beautifully.  Without that raw, gritty crunch.   

:: Peel:  Just a wide, flat metal paddle on a long wooden handle, a peel seemed so specialized I resisted it for years.  Silly me.  I love my peel with a passion, because it allows me to get all those fragile, floppy raw pies into that blistering oven without incident, every time.  And, better, to get them back out without incinerating my arm hair.  (The only thing worse than dropping a raw pizza upside down on a 500° oven floor is bumping your arm up against a 500° element.  Trust me, on both counts.)  You could buy one new, but my advice is to pick one up for $3 at your local goodwill, where there's almost always a thicket. 

:: Paste:  Avert your eyes if you're at all orthodox, because this is pure heresy.  Pizza sauce is so simple, just simmered-down tomatoes, seasoned the way you like.  But between the dough and the toppings and those ten floury fingers, I always pull it too early, and end up with sad little watery spots.  So one night I cracked a can of tomato paste, instead, and I've never looked back.  Completely inauthentic, I know, but it fits my bill: a rich, intense smear of tomatoey twang, ready to rumble. 

Pizza: Part II — Red, White and Blue Pizza
Adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

Years ago, I stayed with good family friends in New Jersey (Hey ho, Bobbi and David!) while interviewing for a Cloisters internship.  I didn't get the internship (note: New York buses may run three hours late; best take a cab), but I did taste my one and only official White Pizza, which more than made up for it.  My version's not at all traditional, what with the tomato paste and blue cheese, but I love it dearly.  

To top 1 medium or 2 personal white pizzas:

2 Tbs. tomato paste (I like Muir Glenn), or sauce of your choosing
3 ounces parmesan or pecorino romano, freshly grated
3 ounces mozzarella, freshly grated
2 ounces blue cheese, freshly crumbled
2 Tbs fresh rosemary, finely chopped
Olive oil, for drizzling

Combine all three cheeses and rosemary in a bowl.

Pizza Dough:
Yields 1 large, 2 medium, or 4-6 personal size pizzas

I'm not one to staunchly advocate DIY dough; the fresh store bought variety can be lovely.  It is dead simple to make at home, though, and for me often easier than getting out the door.  My standby is Mark Bittman's, which I love for the splash of oil in the dough (essential, I think, for good stretch and body).  That said, I'm eager to try Jim Lahey's.  I always double the recipe, below, and stash half in the freezer for next time (freezes beautifully). 

1 tsp instant or rapid-rise yeast
3 cups all-purpose or bread flour, plus more for dusting
2 tsp. kosher salt
1 - 1 1/4 cups water
2 Tbs. + 1 tsp. olive oil

Combine half of flour, salt, yeast, 2 Tbs. oil, and 1 cup water in stand mixer.  With paddle attachment, blend 60 seconds.  With machine on slow, add remaining flour gradually, until dough becomes a sticky ball that pulls away from the sides.

Turn dough out onto floured work surface and knead by hand a few seconds to form a smooth, round ball.  Grease a large bowl with remaining oil, and place dough ball inside.  Cover with a clean cloth or plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm spot, until dough doubles in size, 1-2 hours.  Dough can also be refrigerated for a slow rise, 6-8 hours (great for making in the morning or evening before).

To roll dough and assemble pizza:

Move rack to bottom position, put pizza stone on it (cold), and turn oven on to 500°.  Preheat oven and stone for 1 hour. 

When dough has risen, knead lightly, roll into ball, then divide into equal pieces in the size you desire (4-6 for individual pizzas).  Roll each piece into a round ball, place on a floured surface, and cover with a cloth.  Let rest 20 minutes, while you grate cheese and assemble toppings.  Have parchment ready.

After dough has rested, roll one ball on a lightly floured board to desired size.  I like mine cracker thin and roll it within an inch of it's life.  1/4" will give you a standard, thin-medium crust.  Move rolled dough to parchment, and parchment to peel.  Top pizza dough (on peel) with a smear of tomato paste, a thick (not heaping) carpet of the rosemary-cheese mixture, or your toppings of choice.  Drizzle olive oil on exposed edges, and slide pizza onto stone with a flick of the peel.  Pizza will be done in 6-8 minutes, when crust is golden and cheese is bubbling.  Slide peel under pizza, lift up and out, and let cool just a moment.  Enjoy with your favorite kitchen help, age unimportant.

short, sweet and spicy

We'll keep it short and sweet this week, because we've been felled.  What did it, I can't say for sure.  The snowball fights, maybe.  The snow-shoveling, possibly.  Snow-eating, whole roly-poly fists full, well yeah, probably didn't help.  (Not that I wouldn't do it all over, in a heartbeat.  No sane Northwesterner squanders fifteen white fluffy inches, right out the front door.)  Whatever, fact remains, we've been tumbling like dominoes to the great winter crud.  

Henry fell first, fast and hard, and for a good week I thought he'd keep it to himself, very kindly.  But then, this week, came the moment.  You know the moment.  The one where that scritch-scratchy throat loitering for days in the undecided camp suddenly goes all partisan on you?  The one where you wake up one morning with your head out to here, so full of wool you could pluck a Fair Isle out of each ear?  The one where no amount of sleep or vitamin C or pointing out your Parenting Contract lacks so much as a single sick day will change your fate?  The one where you realize you are In For It, period?  Right, that one.  

I'm sure we all have coping mechanisms in moments like these, and for me, said mechanisms look a lot like my favorite striped socks and several wool sweaters and heavy, heavy drinking, pretty much non-stop.  Truth be told, the tippling often begins when the cold's still a tickle, a negotiation with wiggle room still to be had.  But once we've arrived at the take-no-prisoners point, I chug mug after mug of this hot golden brew.  

What it is is, well, I'm not sure, exactly.  Lemon ginger tea is what I've always called it.  But it's not really tea, as it lacks any leaves.  Tisane, I suppose, is technically better, though those always strike me as gauzy and thin, whereas this comes across like Geronimo in a glass.  You wouldn't know it to look at it, all transparent yellow, like faded sunlight.  But beware.  Or rejoice.  The stuff goes down like fresh neon, vivid spicy and bright.

Were this alcohol, it would be 80 proof, easy.  Espresso, a double.  A race car, Corvette.  But it's only lemon and ginger in four-alarm quantities, plus just enough honey to soften the edges and coat the throat.  It's sort of like those honey-lemon teas and lozenges, I guess.  Sort of like Velveeta and Double Gloucester are both orange cheese, anyway. 

It doesn't sound like much, but it seems almost magic, somehow soothing and feisty and fortifying at once.  The sweet heat of ginger clears the fog, quick.  The shot-glass of lemon calms a voice, raw and ragged.  And even a honey-phobe like me can see it's the perfect third leg, sweetener and salve, all in one go.  Without fail, it puts a spring in my step, at a time when all I want is to collapse in a heap.  It sounds strange to say, but I hope you don't try this one, any time soon.  Though if you do, if you must, may it keep you truckin' the way it does me.  

Lemon Ginger Tea
A Good Brew for a Bad Cold

Yields: 1 generous serving

I like this brew stiff as starch, though you may prefer it half-strength, or somewhere in between.  Try it this way, a sip anyway, then adjust to your taste — more water to weaken, more honey to sweeten.  It's endlessly flexible.  Note that I make this in quite a large mug, one which holds a generous cup and a quarter of boiling water (on top of the lemon and ginger). 

I'll often triple the recipe below to fill a teapot, which I pour from all day,re-heating as needed (there's no bitterness here, as in a true tea).  With the ginger left in, it gains heat and bite as the day progresses, until by 3 p.m. it's positively sinus-searing.  This calibrates pretty well to my day and needs, but if you prefer less spice, take a slotted spoon to the ginger early on.  Also, I don't peel the ginger here, as it's only the essence I'm after.  Just give it a good scrub and slice. 

1 lemon
1 piece fresh ginger — width of a quarter, length of a thumb (or rough equivalent)
2-3 tsp honey (a 2-second squeeze)

Put kettle on to boil, with enough water for one generous mug.

Roll lemon on counter to loosen the juice, then squeeze directly into a large mug.  Add 2-3 teaspoons honey (a 2-second squeeze).  Cut ginger into 8 slices, each the width of a quarter (save any remaining for another cup), and add to mug. 

Pour boiling water over all.  Stir to melt honey and loosen ginger slices, then let sit to infuse for 10 minutes.  Stir again, and taste.  If you'd like more bite, or are too cranky and crabby and desperate for comfort, leave in the ginger and drink up as is, dodging the little discs as you sip.  It's what I often do.  If have oomph enough for niceties, or find it plenty strong, strain into a second cup for a lovely clear, jolly yellow brew. 

serious trouble

So I have this little problem.  It started as a solution, if that counts for anything, a solution to the fact that for years now, I've been rude and impossible.  Not always (I hope), but when the TV comes on, well, even I can't stand me.  I cannot just watch television.  Really, just can't.  I am physically incapable of sitting (arg) still (oof) and just simply watching (ack!).  I can be present, as in physically in the room.  But the fingers, they must be moving.  Filing papers (flip, flap).  Dusting ('scuse me, pardon me).  Moving furniture (sliiiide, whack!).  Anything, save idle sitting.  I'll die.  I'm sure of it.  Fortunately for my family, we don't watch TV much.

Still, I wanted to be a better team player when family movie night rolled around.  So I dreamt up a solution.  I'd get radical.  I'd take up knitting.  

As it happened, I was able, during my whirlwind Seattle stop last fall, to snag time on the calendar of an expert knitter.  She's one of those people who can take two sticks and six skeins and turn out an absolute stunner of a sweater, complete with intricate detailing and elegant flaring and such universal compelling appeal that strangers stop her on streetcorners just for compliments.  She's so talented, in fact, she can teach a stump to knit. 

Well, maybe not a stump, exactly, but a daughter who might as well be.  I am not crafty.  For years, I've actually had trouble getting the word out.  K-k-k-rafty.  I kind of choke on it.  Partly, this is because I have two left hands.  And three small children.  And zero patience, when it comes to these things.  And partly, it's because I came of age in the Seventies which, in case you missed it, was the absolute, rock-bottom nadir of crafting.  Think macrame plant hangers.  Think Red Heart acrylic.  Think this.  (Sorry.  A thousand words and all that.)  But while I had my back turned, oh these past thirty years, well.  Have you looked around lately?  There are all these brilliant, clever sorts whipping up all manner of wonderful. 

Still, I must admit, a small part of me thought, Knit?  How quaint!  What a throwback. Then I remembered my poor family.  So I bucked up and buckled down and spent two hours learning one stitch.  Enough for a scarf.  Enough to get me launched.  Enough to have me mumbling ...just one more row... by morning's end. 

That was probably my first clue things might veer a little off course.  On the bright side, my idea succeeded, brilliantly.  I've watched two feature-length films since November, opening overture to closing credits.  No darting eyes, no ripping pages, no gnashing of teeth.  Just the quiet tap-tap of two bamboo needles.  We're talking PR already, and we're just in Q1.

On the other bright side, I finished the scarf in no time.  Two weeks, I think it took.  Because, funny thing, that ball of Rowan PureWool kept turning up in the darnedest places.  I'd imagined it would gather dust between films, on sabbatical, sort of.  I hadn't imagined it would follow me around, day after day, like a puppy.  Like a habit.  Like a hobby.  I had no plans for a hobby.  

I need a hobby like I need a hole in my head.  Hobbies take hands, and my hands were last free August 30, 2000.  I mean, seriously.  Who ever heard of a mother walking around, empty-handed?  Empty-minded, baggy-eyed, saggy-thighed, sure.  But my hands?  Full to bursting.  Always.  I need tentacles, not hobbies. 

But lo and behold, I kept stumbling over all these weird little divots in our days.  After school snack.  Homework help sessions.  Three a.m. play dates, last November, with a Certain Someone still on Seattle time (dark days, those).  Baths.  Bedtime stories.  After-all-that coffee klatches.  Even over Christmas, when nothing happened save cookies and necessities, a second scarf somehow took off.  And a third.  Remember the Quiet Old Lady, whispering hush?  Sitting and knitting, I kid you not.  Turns out many days have a few such nooks, several busy-brain, empty-hand crannies.  I filled them, of course.

I filled them with mindless rows, soft and warm, of something or other.  What exactly, I can't say.  I know knit, and purl, but can't remember which stitch is which.  To me, it's still this way and that way, or easy and hard, or the normal and oh-no-here-we-go-again way.  I've made weird holes and strange loops and odd haunted spots where the stitch stretches long like a fun-house mirror.  I finally discovered there's a back and a front, though I can't for the life of me figure out what the implications are.  Well, besides unraveling whatever I just put in.  I still have two left hands.  But I'm kind of loving it, anyway. 

It's not the end product I'm loving, per se.  I'm strictly in scarf territory, and don't see myself re-locating anytime soon.  It feels a little silly, really, to even mention it in this space, where so much talent is on stunning display.  A little like marching into Le Cordon Bleu and hollering "Guess what?  I made TOAST!!"

But that's okay; I wasn't after excellence.  What I was after, what I'm loving, is the way a pair of #10's and a ball of Brown Sheep ground me for bigger matters.  Somehow, flashing fingers snag my mind into stillness, let it settle more deeply into The Really Important, like a stack of new stories or lego estates or coming full circle, a really good flick. 

What I wasn't after, what I'm also loving, is the way this knitting business echoes the endless loops of motherhood, the dish-washing and nappy-changing and laundry-doing, all those necessary never-endings.  The yarn, the needles, they're rote and monotonous, just like the rest.  Except at the end of the day, instead of more dirties, there's a warm woolly scarf, the color of sky.  It's an organizing rhythm, immediate gratification, strangely sustaining.  Like breathing, I guess.

And then there's the Something To Show For It bit.  Parenting's one of those gigs that runs awfully light on tangible progress.  Real progress is rampant, I'm sure of it, even if it's only nailing down how not to do things tomorrow.  But too often, the only solid signs of a day's work are a new basket of mud-scruffy cuffs and dinner's detritus, teetering in the sink.  No Powerpoints signifying done, no promotions signed sealed and delivered.  Knitting's progress.  Concrete, quantifiable, Lookee-there! progress.  The sort you can squeeze even into a week with a whole morning lost to dental unpleasantries and a whole evening hosting the after-hours plumber.  A week with two kids wolloped by nasty-bad colds, and conferences and half-days and sick-days galore.  A week when you need to eat snowflakes and bake birthday cakes and dig out from a wee winter storm.  And build a first-ever igloo, let's not forget that.  Even in a week such as this, well, would you look at that!  Two skeins down, two more scarves nearly done. 

Problem?  Oh, that.  Well, if you've been keeping count, you can see it yourself: this time next week, I'll have five nice warm scarves.  Then what?  A round of back-ups, maybe.  That'll get me through March.  But unless I find enough bandwidth to count as I knit (do they sell this on Etsy?), I think, come April, I'm all out of luck.  And my fingers are feeling all twitchy, already, imagining mufflers up to here and sad mothballed needles.  And the yarn.  Hoo boy.  The letters R-O-W-A-N keep prancing all over my brain, completely uninvited.  Sometimes I send Spud and Chloë in to chase after them, but that's a whole separate problem.  Serious trouble, I tell you.

Sort of like lemon bars, this knitting thing, I'm reckoning: awfully hard to stop once you've got started.  Chocolate I can take or leave, but a great lemon bar leaves me weak in the knees.   For years now I've baked the same bar, a fantastic Cook's Illustrated number that avoids all the usual pitfalls — too sweet, too stodgy, too stingy on the filling — and bakes up into a lovely tart treat.  A few weeks back, I turned coat, tried something new.  The technique was a bit different — bake that crust until brown — and the ratio a little odd — so many eggs, so much flour! — but oh, let me tell you.  Those folks at Tartine deserve all the praise they rake in.  These bars, these are The Ones.  They check all the important boxes — shattering shortbread, proper pucker — and several more besides.  Am I the only one who understood lemon bars to be a carpe diem affair, stunning day one, soggy the next?  I'd come to terms, learned to inhale.  But these bars here?  They've got stamina.  That brown butter crust survives three solid days (they promise four, but how would I know?).  It also supports a trembling lemon layer of outrageous proportions.  Just look at that crust-to-curd ratio — 1:5 easy, maybe 1:6. The bar's ripped.  Not to mention a slice of sunshine on these cold, cold white days. 

I'm not sure why I abandoned my old favorite.  Maybe I needed a change.  Maybe it's my radical new knitting self.  All I know is I'm not looking back anytime soon.  And if you know what's good for you, you'll bake up your own batch of serious trouble, spit spot.        

Lemon Bars
Adapted from Tartine

One of the beautiful things about this bar is the consistency of the filling.  It is soft and exquisite and yet holds its form admirably when sliced, a tricky little balancing act many lemon bars miss.  The one catch is you must wait a few hours to slice it, else it will oop a bit here and there.  Of course, if all you want is a knock-down, drag-out lemon bar, looks notwithstanding, well, just wait a few minutes to not sear your tongue, and you're set. 

Tartine calls this a brown butter crust, which is a bit misleading.  The butter itself is not browned before adding.  Rather, the shortbread is baked several shades past blond (where most bar cookies stop), to a nice golden caramel.  This adds flavor and firmness and strong bones to the bars, which is brilliant.  I baked mine in a basic 9x13" Pyrex, to encourage browning, and found it done on the near end of the range.  The more evenly you press and roll the raw crust, the more evenly the base will brown.  That said, there will be darker spots and lighter; take it out when the darkest are very nearly on the verge.  

I've used salted butter in the crust and upped the zest in the filling here, not one to let a little more zip go to waste. 

Crust:
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) salted butter, room temperature

Filling:
1/2 cup unbleached, all-purpose flour
2 1/4 cups granulated sugar
zest of 3 lemons (organic, if possible)
1 cup + 2 Tbs. lemon juice, freshly squeezed (4-5 plump lemons)
6 whole eggs
1 egg yolk
pinch of salt

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Butter a 9x13" baking pan.

First, make the crust:  Into the bowl of a standing mixer, fitted with the paddle attachment (a handheld mixer or even a pastry cutter would be dandy here, also), sift the powdered sugar.  Add flour and stir to combine.  Add butter, then beat on low just until dough comes together. 

Scrape dough into buttered pan, and using fingers, level and press evenly into the bottom and 1/2" up the sides.  Dough should be roughly 1/4" thick throughout.  Use a round glass, turned sideways, or the flat bottom of a measuring cup, to roll/press dough firm and even.  Bake until the crust colors a rich caramel brown, 25-35 minutes.  Check halfway through, and rotate pan if baking unevenly. 

While crust bakes, prepare the filling:  Whisk flour and sugar to combine in a mixing bowl. Add lemon juice and zest to flour/sugar mixture, and stir to dissolve sugar.  In a separate bowl, thoroughly whisk the eggs and egg yolks with the salt, until fairly smooth.  Add eggs to lemon juice mixture and whisk thoroughly to combine.

When the crust is ready, pull out the oven rack with the baked base, and pour filling onto hot crust.  (If you've baked the crust previously, re-heat it for 5 minutes or so in a hot oven to bring back up to temperature.)  Reduce oven temperature to 300°F and bake just until center of filling is no longer wobbly, 30-40 minutes.  Filling should not be loose in the middle, but a gentle jiggle will firm up as it cools.  

Let cool completely, or as long as you can stand it.  Cover and chill well before cutting with a sharp knife.  Pretty fine with a cup of tea and two needles.