remedial eating

what we came back to

Summer time has its own syntax, doesn't it?

 

The old 24x7 doesn't really do it for me, right now.  There's a warp thing that happens, or maybe a conversion factor.  Like dog years, only different, every five days feeling like one. The late nights help, and the lack of school and schedule, and the constant go-go-go of three kids, three directions (under the same roof, mind you, but that hardly matters). Our days are separated less by periods than ellipses, one long run-on paragraph of ... build ... make ... read ... play ... repeat...

(More accurately, insert "... clean ... " between each dot-dot-dot.  The crumbs, the crumbs.  Like indoor knotweed.)

Oh, hey there. 

How's your summer?

Rollicking, I trust. 

Our days have been the best kind of exhausting, full, packed, long, not long enough.  Ten days back, I got as far as a post title, thinking, I think, about the garden we returned to.

And that got me thinking about the deep sigh of settling in.  About how returning is such a particular pleasure.  About the firm comfort of the familiar, the fine groove of routine, the singular rhythm of the ordinary.  And the thinking gave way to doing.  And, well, you know ...   

There were hosta dolls to assemble, and Roald Dahl to read, and exquisite dead beetles to examine and dissect.  And Mystery Road Trips to take, and paper cranes to fold, and margaritas to make and linger over with friends.  There was wizard foam; that was fun.  (LuckyBeans was spot-on: adding color and dish soap transforms ye olde vinegar and soda.  Instructions here.) 

There was bread to bake.  Three batches; more tomorrow.  Ordinarily, I run screaming from baking, come summer.  And just to be clear, I reserve the right to repeat that.  But so far, this year, it's just simpler to DIY it, than to sweet-talk three kiddos into seatbelts.  We'll see. 

There was (is) one giant, wolloping wall of heat to beat.  They call it a dome; I say, a sauna by any other name...  We've been managing just fine, though, thanks to a strict regimen of wading pools, sprinklers, picnics, popsicles, and indoor afternoons.  And regular genuflections to the air-conditioning gods.  Very, very important, that last one. 

There were (are [will always be]) spats and squabbles to referee.  This is not The Sound of Music, folks. 

I glanced briefly at the keyboard again, a few nights back.  But then, did you know, the fireflies are still here?  Fireflies!  Stuff of myth, to my Northwest self.  Might as well have unicorns, ambling through our lawn.  I'll take their flicker over this flicker, pretty much any time. 

But tonight's their night off; they're not keen on the thunderstorms.  I rather am, although I do shake my fist a little: skies split by lightning keep scuttling our swimming plans.  Still, I watch the positive and negative duke it out overhead, the collision of atmosphere and temperature, and think this, this is what my Romantic Poets Prof needed when he tried (and failed) to explain the sublime.  A bit awkward to get onto the overhead projector, perhaps, but oh, the lectures he could have bypassed. 

All of which is to say, we've been busy doing Nothing.  

Or Everything.  

Or Summer: Full Speed Ahead.  We've been swallowed up in the warp.  I'll take it, crumbs and all. 

And weeds.  Right, the garden.  Another day, another post.  At the moment, all I recall is being struck by this fact: leave a house a fortnight, and so long as you didn't leave the water running, it's just as you left it, give or take an inch of dust.  But leave a patch of earth, and whoah, Nellie!  Particularly if said earth sits under a late June sun.     

We left a garden, came home to a jungle.

Everything was in top form, thanks to my friend Kate's ministrations with the hose.  Everything was also completely immense.  

The tomato plants were so big, they broke of their own weight, leaving little green orphans to line the windowsill.  An extra cucumber seedling, sent to the compost, grew while we were gone to an eight-foot vine.  The green beans are no longer worth measuring; they've grown up past the stakes, left the teepee behind.  We're hoping they might even pollinate, yield real beans.  Though if that fails, it remains a hide-out success. 

There were bees in the bee balm.  Verbena everywhere. The last of the larkspur.  Lilies, galore.  And rampant mint, much to my delight.   

I use fresh mint all summer and fall.  A lot.  So much, in fact, that when we put in four plants last year, I lobbied to dig them right into the soil.  Under wise counsel, I went with pots.  (Friends don't let friends plant mint directly.)  I'd culled all four pots, just before we left town, to make up this excellent quaff for a party.  I'd worried I might have done them in. 

Ha.

 

We also had lettuce, planted last spring, and now days away from bolting irrevocably.  Plus the memory of Washington still on my mind, and deep red Rainiers, in my refrigerator.  I can tell you, having recently devoured them on-site, that Washington cherries are best eaten in-state.  I can also tell you that they're pretty well unbeatable, even after crossing the Rockies and Plains.  Washington has a way with cherries.  What I didn't know, until recently, was that salads do, too.

It was a rice salad in Heidi's latest that got me thinking.  And eating.  And repeating.  And wondering, why have I only ever eaten cherries out of hand? 

Her original is a whole grain rice salad, shot through with fresh cherries, pitted and torn.  I made it this way, and liked it very much, but over several makings wound up somewhere else entirely.  That somewhere else involves a bowl full of mixed greens, plus a fistful of fresh mint and a clutch of hazlenuts.  These are tossed well with equal parts lemon juice and olive oil, just enough to give each leaf a faint shimmer.  To this, a few smudges of chèvre and those cherries, added at the last to prevent magenta.     

One night, I went further, added fennel-crusted pork tenderloin; so good.  Another night, hot brown rice tossed in more lemon and oil; wonderful.  But what I enjoy, what I come back to, is this lemon-bright backbone of minted greens, made interesting with crunch and the odd salty ping, made lovely with those plump garnet knobs of tart-sweet.  These five ingredients seem the soul of the thing, at least for a few more weeks, while cherry season holds.  Then we'll tuck it away until next summer, which, at this rate, will be here in no time. 

 

A Salad for Early Summer
Mixed Greens with Cherries, Hazlenuts, Mint + Chèvre
Inspired by Heidi Swanson, Super Natural Every Day

Holmquist, Holmquist, Holmquist:  Their hazlenuts will make you weep.  I order a year's supply and tuck them into the deep freeze. 

For so few cherries, a knife or chopstick will pit nicely.  But should you ever see one, snap up a vintage Zack-Zack.  It works brilliantly, is so effortless my three-year-old has it mastered, and set me back all of $3.  Plus the box is a scream.        

6 cups mixed greens (mesculun), washed and dried well
1 cup fresh mint leaves, washed and dried well
1/2 cup hazlenuts, toasted 8-10 minutes, and roughly chopped
2 tablespoons lemon juice, freshly squeezed from 1 lemon
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 heaping cup bing cherries, pitted and roughly torn
1/2 cup soft chèvre, crumbled

Make dressing: In a lidded jar, add lemon juice and salt, and swirl to dissolve salt.  Add olive oil, then lid, then shake vigorously to combine.

Combine washed and dried lettuce, mint, and hazlenuts in a salad bowl, and pour two-thirds of dressing over all.  Toss gently and thoroughly, with hands or tongs, to dress leaves.  Taste, and adjust seasoning and/or add more dressing, to suit.  Add torn cherries, and crumbled chèvre, and toss very gently, to just combine.  Serve immediately. 

over and over

Whew.

We've gone, and come back. We're mostly unpacked. Almost through the laundry. Nearly recovered from end-of-the-trip ailments. It was a good trip. It always is.

While they're still fresh, before I forget them, I wanted to remember here two things recently on my mind.  

The first is fresh eyeballs.  Apparently, whenever I do this do-si-do between states, I get all Proustian, noodling over new landscapes and eyes.  It happened last summer, over wooded walks and long hikes.  Happened again last month, in other ways, big and small.  I'm thinking that as long as we summer in Seattle, it's due to become tradition, right in line with raspberry popsicles.  Not a bad fate, if you ask me.   

Anyway, I hope you'll forgive the redundancy.  It's just that, from where I sit, on this July Ohio Monday, everything looks rawther Mary Poppins.  We woke to sticky, blinding 95° skies.  By two, I probably could've feigned bedtime.  The heat hit the fan, the windows went charcoal, little could be heard save wild rumbles and limbs snapping.  One hour, two inches of rain, easy.  (Glad I didn't water.)  Did I mention the twenty-three degree mercury freefall?  I adore thunderstorms.  And I'm reminded of why, when I land at SeaTac, I'm a bit of a Martian, surveying my old stomping grounds. 

It's not that I didn't see the Northwest, those first thirty-five years I knew nothing else. Like everyone, I knew the damp drizzle, the serrated skyline, the perpetual green.  I knew the (sweet, ridiculous) routine of spontaneously shouting, Hey! The Mountain is out!  I knew the weird, trapped contradiction of drinking in the spectacle while idling on I-5.  Of feeling that the entire story of the city was tucked between one discreet, majestic clause.  (Olympics, Cascades.  Paren, end paren.)

I knew all this. Academically, anyway.

But I was also a little looked out.  It was my familiar, my over and over, my everyday ordinary 365.

This didn't breed much in the way of contempt. I adored gray skies, steady rain, jeans in June; I still do. But I was a bit complacent. Maybe a bit blind. My actual eyesight is blessedly 20/20. My interior eyesight's more quarter-inch lens territory. It's to be expected, I suppose.

Not that I'm waxing nostalgic here, pining lost moments. Quite the opposite, actually. What I want to mark, what I wish to remember, is the way I look less, see more, each return. 

Rhodendrons somehow look less like landscape blather, more like kind, gentle, reliable friends.  Sword ferns, dime a dozen in any backyard, catch me off guard with their ancient demeanor.  The dandelions.  I had no idea.  They're downright epic.  Seriously, locals, carp away about weeding.  Those things are Godzillas.  You've got my sympathetic ear. 

Instead of Tall Grass, I spy a half-dozen individual grasses, one wheaty, one green-tipped, one soda pop purple.  I find, accidentally, again, that unnamed grass that pulls thrillingly free from its stem.  It's an unremarkable grass, with unremarkable seeds, otherwise not worth noticing, but for this one trick.  I must have pulled apart two thousand as a child; the firm tug, doubtful pause, decisive whoosh-whoop! release.  Comes back to me like breathing.  I show Zoë, ASAP. 

And, from the time we step off the plane, I inhale with gusto.  I must sound nearly-drowned.

The air.  Holy cow.  It's outrageous stuff, damp, rich, briny, completely addictive.  I'm not sure how I missed this my first three-plus decades, and technically, I guess this is new nose territory, but forget all that.  Just, if you go, you know, inhale.  And notice.  And repeat.  It's pretty impeccable.     
 

I realize that my children might need re-assimilation.  This has been one of my biggest concerns all along, that they'll forget their origins, their ocean, their tidepools.  Mostly, my concerns have been unfounded: they're fine little dual citizens.  But there are a few gaps in their memories and education, which I try to address during each return.  Dick's cheeseburgers are the best, this side of anywhere.  Besalu makes Parisian croissants look like frauds.  This is not actually a roller coaster, just the counterbalance.  Hey! The Mountain is out today!

This trip, I re-acquainted them with the local flora and fauna.  We talked salmon berries, and maple trees, moss and seaweed, the sneaky trick of a second strawberry season.  Max had forgotten sea anemones.  Henry had no recollection of spit bugs.  Zoë had dibs on the biggest jaw-dropper.  We were winding down a trip to our old haunt, St. Edward's, walking through one of the thickly forested trails.  Just ahead, on the path, sat a long, lone, black slug.  I casually asked whether she remembered its name. There was no flicker of name.  No flicker of recognition.  No nothing.  She stared up at me, all blank face and curiosity. 

Dear Reader, my daughter did not know from slugs. 

Not to worry.  We had ample opportunity to brush up.

The other item on my mind of late is poached salmon.  (Surely, the worst segue.  Anywhere.  Ever.)  I poached some, while in town.  I poach some every few months.  I've probably, over the course of the past decade, poached the population of a small tributary.  Occasionally, I'll slow roast, or sear spice-crusted slices over blistering heat.  As should you, if it's looks your after.  Poaching is not the prettiest preparation; there's no burnished crust, no handsome cross-section.  But when it comes to salmon, I find I return to this same addictive method, over and over. 

Method's probably too strong a word for a recipe that runs something like this: dump two tablespoons of salt in a bunch of water, slide in your salmon, and bring to a boil.  Clamp on a lid, set the timer for ten, play a few hands of Uno, *ding ding*, dinner's done.  Actually, that's exactly the recipe.  Well, minus the Uno; that part's optional. 

You can complicate it, if you wish, if you prefer extra work and unnecessary mess.  Plenty of poaching recipes out there call for chardonnay or court bouillion or bouquet garni or all of the above.  Be my guest.  I've tried gussied.  Not one beats this one, in my book, anyway.

Get past the cover, and poached salmon's wild on content, foolproof, versatile, fast, easy, do-ahead and delicious.  The method's so gentle—you don't even hold the simmer—that you cannot wind up with dry if you try.  It's wonderful warm, fresh from the broth, and excellent cold, especially the next day.  I think this is because the texture relaxes, and the salt settles in with a good night's sleep.  I'll allow, though, that it might just be the thrill of throwing open the fridge and finding such splendor.  It's weeknight-quick (or vacation-quick, quicker still), and involves neither splattering oil nor supervision.  It always puts me in the mind of a batch of hard-boiled eggs.  Only when you're done, you've an entire gorgeous platter of salmon.

So yes, it does redeem itself a bit there.  Poached salmon may be pink all over, but an entire poached side—no harder than a slice—necessitates a platter, and platters all but guarantee oohs and ahs.  (Transitive Property of Serving Dishes.  Look it up.)  Throw some hydrangea leaves under, scatter dill over all, and you've suddenly got an awfully nice affair.  I've served this to company (main course done the day prior? oh, hello), brought it to potlucks, whipped up a half-fish just to have on hand for nibbling.  It's like that, high/low, fancy/everyday fare, a neat trick if you can swing it.  Salmon can.  Lucky us.  

What's that?  What does one do with three pounds of poached salmon, if, say, it's just you and yours?  Well, well.  Tender chunks are what I use for these fish cakes, or scatter over green leaves, or sub in for tuna in Niçoise.  But for the first serving, and often the last, what I love it with best is this lemon-dill sauce.  The sauce, like the fish, is classic Mark Bittman, a triumph of his minimalist best.  He tossed off a few words about yogurt and lemon; I fine-tuned it slightly, into what you find below.  It's fantastically creamy from the Greek Yogurt, sharp with fresh lemon, fragrant with dill.  I think it was intended to be a condiment.  I, as you can see, eat it more like a side.  More often than not, I'll intend to spin the bounty into two or three different meals.  More often than not, I can't get past this duo, returning over and over until the whole platter's empty.  Not a bad thing.  Not a bad thing at all.

Poached Salmon
adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

You don't need any specialized pans, here.  Use a large, deep, lidded skillet for a center-cut slice, or a roasting pan (with foil to cover) for a full side.  Alternatively, cut the side to fit a skillet.  If you wish to get fancy, IKEA does (did?) stock a fantastic fish poacher for just $20.  

If your salmon is more than an inch at its thickest point, allow a few additional minutes to cook through. 

***

1 salmon filet, full side or large center-cut slice (2-3 pounds), skinned and cleaned
2 rounded tablespoons kosher salt

Fill your pan half-full with cold water, set on stove, add 2 tablespoons salt, stir, and lay salmon in water.  Add additional cold water to just cover salmon, if needed.  If you have a full side, fold tail end under itself to approximate center thickness.  Turn heat to high, and bring just to the boil, then cover, turn off heat, and set timer for ten minutes.   

Test for doneness by inserting a thin knife into the thickest point.  Salmon should flake easily, and be just barely opaque to the center.  If still translucent, cover and let poach a few minutes longer.

Carefully remove salmon from pan to platter.  Drain excess water by gently tilting plate over sink, while holding firm to the fish.  I'll often take a paper towel or two to the plate after draining, just to soak up the last lingering bits of liquid. 

Eat warm, immediately, or eat cold, straight from the fridge.  Salmon keeps beautifully up to three days.  

Lemon Dill Yogurt Sauce
adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

Neither traditional yogurt nor non-fat Greek is any good here.  I've tried.  This sauce is also shockingly good as a dip for steamed broccoli. 

1 16-ounch tub Greek Yogurt, 2% or whole
1 bunch fresh dill, chopped (1/2-1 cup chopped, to your taste)
1/2 tsp. salt
2 lemons, organic if possible

Wash lemons, zest lemons, then juice lemons.  Tip yogurt into a medium bowl, and stir briefly to loosen.  Add juice of 2 lemons, zest of 1 lemon, 1/2 cup dill, and salt.  Stir well to combine and dissolve salt.  Taste, adjust as desired (more zest, dill, and/or salt), and serve alongside salmon.