remedial eating

this won't do

It appears I have neglected fall. 

Obviously, this won't do.

After all, fall is my favorite season, October my favorite month.  Or maybe it's my almost-favorite month; I may pull a switcheroo in a few weeks, re-cast my vote on behalf of November.  I can't possibly commit, this early on.  Better to go with the season itself.  

Either way?  I can't help but bear witness. 

Because fall is when the weather turns lovely, becomes what I think a summer should be.  The nasties—heat, humidity, mosquitoes—leave town, with plenty of rain taking their place.  The nights are cool, the days, sometimes sunny, punctuated by plenty of gray.  Temperatures swing between fifties and seventies, sweaters and shirt-sleeves, hot oats and cold cider.  Absolutely perfect, in other words.  The summer of my dreams, slightly delayed.

(Did I mention I'm from Seattle?  Where summer as often means fleece as one-piece?)      

There are puddles for jumping, and breezes for bicycling, and just-sunny-enough days for fairy-house building.  

(Apparently, in Ohio, fairies need more than the standard issue leaf-and-twig hut.  I didn't ask Zoe for details, but she seemed certain they needed four walls and a roof.  It does get nippy.  I can't blame them.)

Fall is when every clearing of the table for homework winds up looking like some trite still life.  Like the colors can't help themselves.  Like sunset and harvest are the only hues allowed.

Fall is when coat zippers need waxing, after their long summer hibernation.  And while we're at it, satchel zippers, also, and bird feeders, filling, and the last of the garden tomatoes, gathering.

And the very last.  

And the very very last.

And the very very very last.  

We've harvested our last at least six times, now.  Ditto the zucchini, which by rights should be toast, two tinies of which were spotted, just yesterday.  Ditto also the green beans, transitioning toward shelly, still putting out, despite a few frosts.  

Apart from the chard and kale, both champs, the harvest is nothing to write home about.  The tomatoes are on the sour side; the bean yield, miniscule.  But the thrill, for some reason, is inversely proportional.  And the amounts allow beans to become a math moment.  Which leads to groan-worthy bean counting jokes.  All of which makes me feel endlessly better about putting off "rip out vegetables" for three weeks.  Maybe four...

The flowers have proven no less generous, soldiering on despite several nighttime freezes.  As everything around them goes withery brown, the stalwarts carry on, all the more stunning for it.  There are mums, of course, which never fail to tickle, so boisterous and raring, all "Winter?  What winter?"

But it is the others, the true blooms and elegants, that dazzle and astound in equal measure.  Mums, I don't know, they just look hardy.  Like the Land's End of flowers, ubiquitous, sturdy.  But windflowers, toad lilies, pink-petalled roses? They seem fragile things, wispy, frail.  To the eye, anyway.  Underneath?  Abs of steel.    

(And with all due respect to Mademoiselle Dickinson?  

Hope is the thing not only with feathers, but with petals and buds at the end of October.) 

The foliage isn't too shabby, either.  Our morning school walks are a russety shuffle, as the oaks finally begin to let loose.  Afternoons, when our route takes us under maples, we might as well be Sigourney, so crimson's the carpet.  

Driving into the country, yesterday, it felt for all the world like blizzard conditions.  Only blizzard conditions brought to you by Ted Turner, all brilliant color, no black and white. 

For all that, we've a few weeks of splendor ahead yet, as we stand on this cusp between full and empty.  Our hawthorne and honey locust are almost bare.  Our crabapple's so bald, it might as well be February.

But our dogwood and hyacinth are just now turning color.  The oak delivers leaf piles right up through Thanksgiving.  Their days are numbered, and they well know it, and they seem intent on going out in a blaze of glory.  Amen.  

Most days, fall follows us right indoors.  My hand slips into my pocket for keys, comes up instead with acorns galore.  Pinecones and tissues go through the wash.  Walnuts and small nuts we can't quite identify accumulate everywhere. After last year's hiatus, due to the crud, we were doubly happy to get in a batch of leaf-dipping.  

Fall may, to you, smell of apples and spice, the leaves' funk and ferment, the thrill of fresh air.  Yes, those.  But to me, I think it will always, also, be tinted with beeswax's honeyed sweet. 

Fall, to my kids, means unearthing The Fall Box, which to them might as well be The Halloween Box.  Or, more properly, "THE HALLOWEEN BOX!!!!!!"  Yes, it contains our acorn and bat stamps.  And indeed, there are the odd wool felt leaves.  

But the immediate excitement is directed toward all things All Hallow's Eve: the old outgrown costume bits, and artifacts from Octobers past, and especially the excellent loot from what we have come to realize are Mamo's annual Halloween box.  

Thus begins weeks of glow-in-the-dark necklaces, and goofy glasses, and appropriately-themed duct tape bracelets.  (You didn't think we were all beeswax and dried leaves, did you?  When there is outrageous duct tape to be had?  Oh, c'mon.)  

And, since this year's haul included twenty tiny spiders, we hung two bags of fake webbing, out front.  I do not, as a rule, decorate for Halloween, but can I tell you, four dollars have rarely delivered such fun?  

Of course, there are bad jokes.  Halloween begs bad jokes.  

Q: "Why are witch twins so confusing?"  
A:  "You can never tell which witch is which."  

(Told you.)

Fall is when we riffle through the construction paper for orange, black, yellow and green.  When jack-o-lantern patterns are trialled in 2-D.  When ghosts appear everywhere, on paper, in meringue.  

It is first (double) batches of everyday cocoa mix.  And ruling one mini-marshmallow per year, reasonable.  Then re-considering.  Twelve marshmallows?  Really?  Yeah, no.  Because, come middle school, that makes for a lot of marshmallows.  Revision to Parenting Code 139.00179:  one mini- per year, up to age 10.       

In fall, pumpkins come home from farm field trips, an easier "yes" than the alternative, newborn piglets.  This necessitates the cooking of a pumpkin, which all but requires the baking of a pumpkin pie.  I highly recommend the baking of a pumpkin pie, several weeks prior to Thanksgiving.  (Actually, I highly recommend the baking of a pumpkin pie, several weeks prior to anything.)  But right now, absent turkey and trimmings, pumpkin pie has the spotlight all to itself.  Few things are as worthy.  

Does it sound like I'm here to talk pies today?  I am not.  I am no baker of pies. I love them, pumpkin particularly, and can muddle my way through, inelegantly. But all I can tell you by way of wisdom is that homemade pumpkin makes for an especially delicate filling, and to tip in a heaping teaspoon of cardamom, and to otherwise follow Libby's label to a T.  (Yes, I'm suggesting you follow the canned pumpkin recipe.  Without, you know, ever opening the can.)    

No, I'm here today to talk up another orange lovely, specifically the sweet potato.  Specifically, the sweet potato and fellow fall veg, aswim in a warm, fragrant coconut milk curry.  Specifically, and delightfully.  

I wrote this up first for the fall Edible Columbus, and nearly forgot to mention it, here.  It's easy to do, the forgetting, magazine deadlines being what they are.  There are those among you for whom this is standard, and I'm finally beginning to bend my mind around it.  But it still seems awfully peculiar to me to be hunting down sweet potatoes in high July.

No excuse, mind you, for missing this korma.  Missing this korma won't do at all.    

A korma—and I'm generalizing wildly here—is a catch-all for an Indian braised curry.  Eloquently spiced, often creamy, deeply flavored, always balanced, a korma is a treat and a half.  There are chicken kormas, and lamb and beef also, and all manner of vegetable-based kormas, my favorite.  Today's korma fits into that last category, and eats like a love letter to fall.   

Like all good kormas, this one is built on aromatics—onions, garlic, a pile of minced of ginger—softened and mellowed and sincerely browned.  Mustard seeds fry in the oil alongside, adding their nutty addictive crunch. Warm spices bloom briefly, coriander, turmeric, plus just enough chili for background blush. Firm vegetables follow, white potatoes, cubed sweets, plus, if you wish, cauliflower and/or kale.  These are joined by tomatoes and coconut milk, the former a foil to the latter's rich lush.  As the tubers and crucifers braise away in the sauce, the sauce thickens and intensifies.  Meanwhile, the aromatic gunge built at the outset infiltrates both, a rather excellent incursion.  

Toward the end, I like adding some sweet green thing, green beans in season, frozen peas, any time.  I also like a tin of chickpeas tipped in.  The buff velvet nubs blend in like old friends.  Once everything's in, there's the matter of seasoning, a final, brief, critical step.  First bites may be dull, as the real seasoning must wait until the braising and reducing is done.  Never fear.  Salt, and sugar, and lime juice, in turn, are added and sampled and tweaked until grand.  Don't be shy.  When the quantities are right—and your buds will know—sauce and vegetable will suddenly sing.    

We ate it tonight with a mound of basmati, which soaks up the mellow, rich sauce brilliantly.  Naan is nice, also, and I'm already anticipating leftovers wrapped in tomorrow's crêpes.  

This sounds strange, I realize, like leftovers without borders, like tupperware run amok.  But it comes off like a cheat's curried sweet potato dhosa.  A well-fed, albeit inauthentic, cheat.  I'm not normally keen on shortcuts and cheating, no more in cooking than anywhere else.  But when cheating involves a scoop of sweet potato korma?  This will do, very nicely indeed.        

Fall Vegetable Korma
adapted from Plenty, by Diana Henry

This is a mild, ecumenical curry, which travels well throughout the season. Add the last zucchini, or the first cauliflower, or ribbons of kale, as summer’s green beans give way to fall’s greens.  As with all curries, leftovers are wonderful.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 teaspoons brown mustard seeds
4 garlic cloves, minced (2 teaspoons)
1 ½ inch fresh ginger, peeled, finely chopped (2 tablespoons)
1 fresh red chile, seeded and chopped, or 1 whole dried arbol chile
½ teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon salt, plus 1 teaspoon, or to taste
2 small sweet potatoes, peeled, cut into 1” chunks (3 cups)
6 ounces waxy white potatoes, peeled, cut into 1” chunks (1 cup)
12 ounces fresh tomatoes, chopped (or 15 oz. tin diced tomatoes, drained of juices)
1 cup regular coconut milk, well-shaken
1-3 teaspoons sugar, to taste
8 ounces green beans, cut into 2” lengths (optional)
1 15-ounce tin chickpeas (optional)
1 cup frozen green peas
juice of ½-1 plump lime
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped

In a large, heavy saucepan, heat oil until shimmering. Add onion and fry, over medium-high heat, stirring regularly, until browning, 5 minutes. Add mustard seeds, and continue to cook until onions are bronzed and sticky, lowering heat as needed to prevent burning, 2-3 minutes. Add garlic, ginger and chili, reduce heat to medium, and cook 3 minutes. Add turmeric and coriander and cook another minute, to meld.

Add tomatoes, sweet potatoes, white potatoes and 1 teaspoon salt, then stir to coat with aromatics.  Cook 4 minutes to relax tomatoes, then add coconut milk, plus enough water to just cover vegetables, ½-1 cup.  Bring to a steady simmer and hold, cooking until potatoes are tender, 10-15 minutes. The sauce will thicken, and should generously coat the vegetables. 

Add beans, and simmer until just tender, 4-5 minutes.  Add frozen peas, and simmer 1 minute.  Remove from heat, add juice of half a lime, and begin the final seasoning.  The first bite will be underseasoned, intentionally, to allow for all the recent reducing.  In this final step, you'll add salt, and likely sugar, and pepper, and possibly more lime juice, in turn.  Add pinches, stir, taste, and adjust, until everything is bright and in balance.  You will want more salt, and likely sugar, possibly pepper, probably more lime, until everything is bright and balanced and round.  Pinch and stir and taste and repeat, until dull is a distant memory.  Stir in chopped cilantro, and serve.   

shouted from mountain tops

Dear Me of Just Over Two Years Ago:

You will become a person who makes pants.  Weird, I know.  Weirder still?   You'll dwell on this fact for two weeks running.  

Because you'll look up and realize that last week's output—six pair?  seven?  plus another dubbed "pajamas"?—was really a postscript to a whole lot of sewing.  Even though it didn't feel like a lot, because sewing is a very occasional behavior around here.  Weeks go by without a stitch.  Months.  Entire summers.  But still, looking back?  You'll realize many yards have somehow passed between feed dog and presser foot.  Not just pants and PJ's, but curtains, pillows, small stuffed people.  So many what-nots, you'll lose count.  So many yards, you'll stop keeping track.  

(Don't worry, you'll let it rest, thereafter.  Because you'll still be entirely un-romantic about it all, thinking homemade pants about as critical as Kool-Aid to a proper upbringing.)  

But before moving on, there are things you should know, things that will smooth the journey immensely. Things probably covered in any basic sewing manual.  If you ever bothered with manuals.  Since you're no better at reading instructions than recipes, I'll shout them out.  Listen up.  

Buy a pants pattern, right off the bat.  Wiser souls will tell you to trace an existing pair, add inches for seams, ba-da-bing!, stitch and go.   Do not believe them.  You are not them.  You are the one who aced Algebra, not Geometry.  They, being wise souls, can achieve such miracles.  You will waste umpteen yards, and at least as many hours, spoiling fabric and ripping seams, before you (wisely) seek professional help.  You are a person who will want a pattern. You are a person who will NEED a pattern.  

And while you're at it?  Pick up this paper.  Because, get this: you don't actually CUT along the dotted line.  Or the dashed-dotted line.  Or the dashed-dotted-dashed line.  No, see, the pattern is intended to be traced, onto special tracing paper, sold separately.  It's like toys and batteries, back in the day.  Only they don't announce this on the envelope.  No, "Don't cut the contents!  Or you'll regret it.  Because when your 3T goes 4T, you'll be sunk.  Unless you use tape and all the fiddly trimmings.  Or can convince the children to shrink."  

Talk about weird.   

Speaking of which:  "Measure twice, cut once" applies not only to fabric, but windows and kiddos, as well.  When measuring the family room for curtains?  Take your tape beyond the pane.  Because curtain rods don't hold well when installed directly into glass.  And drapes just look odd when they don't reach the sills.  Which means you'll wind up one yard short.  Of a lovely, discontinued print.  

And just because last May you cut a pants pattern, and remembered to trace it, and successfully stitched it into something recognizeable?  Doesn't mean you should use it again, come October.  Because zucchini doesn't have the explosive growth market cornered.    

And when you do make something too long/short/wide/whatever?  Be kind, be patient, be forgiving with yourself.  Mistakes happen.  Often.  If you're you, more often than not.  Those brown pants with blue flowers?  The courderoy runs sideways.  The flower smock made last spring?  Too small, from the get-go.  

The dress made last week?  After so many successful pants?  Your first foray into tops after the aforementioned failure?  Equally off, in the other direction.  Maybe she'll grow into it by age 6.  Maybe she'll become a linebacker.  Too broad in the shoulders by a mile.  We're talking Eli Manning territory.  

And yet.  A yoke was successfully built and installed.  The armholes actually aligned with the sleeves.  There were two of the latter, not one, not three.  Small victories.  Learn from your mistakes.

This will all be easier—no, scratch that—all be possible—no, scratch that—only be possible if you lengthen your stitch length.  It's allowed!  Why you thought you had to keep it dialed down under 1, which is approximately the length of a flea's eyelash, is a total mystery.  And absurd.  And completely unnecessary.  There's no extra-credit for elfin stitches.  Or for the penury of picking out said stitches.  An exercise, I'm afraid, which you'll perform often.  Life will be better, and sewing, simpler, if you nudge it down to a 2.  

The same is true of the odd fun project, the sort that brings smiles and squeals.  By and large, you are in this for the pragmatics, for pants that can dig, run, climb, jump and play.  Meeting the market where it fails: that's your beat.  But every so often, some thing calls out—a wee pouch, a Poppy, a doll baby sling—and the only thing to do is answer.  Pouches are useful, and Poppies great gifts, and as any four year old will tell you, all dollies need transport.  Practical, then, to a point.  But really?  Seams come together more swiftly, more sweetly, when they yield arms, legs and owls.*

(*Just not messenger bags.  Messenger bags aren't you.  Messenger bags will nearly de-rail you.  Messenger bags involve linings that can be installed inside out.  Repeatedly.  And straps which can be stitched down twisted.  Repeatedly.  And mind-boggling geometry which, well, see above.  And move on.  FLEE!)     

You will finally learn how to thread your machine.  Really.  Without even glancing at the diagram.  You will, on occasion, still thread it incorrectly, forgetting that last little loop doo-hickey.  You will, every time, not realize that this upstairs error is responsible for the horrible gumming-up of the downstairs.  You will wish you had had a V-8, or some sense, or at least the presence of mind to write a post-it.  

When you finally get through the mise-en-place, through the cutting/ironing/pinning, to the good part, the actual sewing, you will want to drive like Danica Patrick.  Don't.  Drive like a little old lady from Ballard.

But?  When your Bernina stops back-stitching, and you take it in for service, and they tell you only chain-smoking, bourbon-swilling, seventy-somethings still use these?  That this Bernina's day has come and gone?  And might we interest you some shiny new whizz-bangery?

Hold your ground.  Silent.  Steady.  Until they look up, see you're lacking a Beehive.  And thirty years.  And nicotine fingers.  Do not budge.  Like a real little old lady from Ballard.  Because although oil did not fix the problem, although it mysteriously resolved itself some six months' hence, although your Bernina may qualify for Medicaid?  You adore this machine, quirks, cranks and all.   

The list goes on, the lessons are many, but you'll learn as you go.  So long as you go.  It's that old journey of a thousand miles, whatever you can do or dream you can, Nike ca. 1988 business:  Start.  Small.  Somewhere, anywhere.  Now.  

And Dear Me, while you're there, please please please pick up the then-just-published Essential New York Times Cookbook?  Because otherwise you'll ignore it until 2012, which is two years without The World's Best Cake, which is not only a shame but a grievous waste.  As wasteful as ad-hoc'ing pants.  Thank you, Me.  

And now, You: Don't dawdle as I did.  Make this cake.  Now.  

This cake is the Almond Cake from the aforementioned, and the cake I mentioned in passing, in May.  I meant to bring it here sooner, truly, but wanted to test it again many, many, many a few times.  Just to be, you know, sure.  I did.  And I am.  Absolutely sure.  If I never make another cake, I will be happy.  

It's a simple thing, a cake about almonds, no layers, no frosting, no spice, no pretense.  It is hard to imagine, on the surface, that this buff wedge is anything special.  It is hard to imagine, after first bites, any cake exceeding this one.  You pick the measure.

There is the texture, dense but not heavy, hard to explain, impossible to forget.  Rich and tender and buttery, for sure, but that is only the outerbelt.  There's more.  Velvety, but not so flyaway.  Creamy, almost, if a cake can be creamy.  Squidgy?  Yes, arguably squidgy.  Fudgy might be better still.  The crumb of this cake is almost fudgy, but fudgy with almond, and sour cream, and butter.  And four egg yolks, just in case.  Fudgy without a fleck of fudge.  Exquisite is a serviceable synonym.   

About that almond.  This cake is all almond.  But mellow, round, deep, profoundly soft almond.  Because the almond here hails not from chopped nuts, but a full tube of paste, plus a splash of extract.  This has the curious effect of working almond into the very heartbeat of the batter, without so much as a hint of crunch.  Now, I like a nut's crunch, adore it even, but a strange and wonderful alchemy occurs when you channel a nut, no body, all soul.  This cake is an elegy to almond, almond as poem instead of prose.     

Which is good, because it looks a state.  A plain, dull, beige, hockey puck sort of state.  The surface rumples.  The top buckles.  The center collapses, once out of the oven.  It has all the tectonic integrity of Seattle.  All the aesthetic appeal of my hems.  Drab doesn't even come close.      

Which is why, when we sent one to Mamo recently, I was a little nervous about its reception.  I knew she loved almond, knew she needed cake, but it matched the cardboard, for goodness sake.  I sent a quick e-mail, pleading powdered sugar.  I needn't have worried.  It spoke for itself.  "Unbelievably, ineffibly wonderful, this must be what is what was served to the gods on Olympus!"  And that was five days, and 2,200 miles, away from the date and place of its baking.  

There was more, about it preventing revolutions, and tasting like perfection itself, but the relevant bit was the recipe request.  Mamo, here you go.  And because I believe all good things should be shared, and magnficent ones, shouted from mountain tops, here, as well, the rest of you go.  

Almond Cake
adapted from Amanda Hesser, The Essential New York Times Cookbook

This recipe, like all of Hesser's recipes, is pretty much perfect exactly as written.  The modifications below are minor, and were made to suit my tastes and equipment.  I prefer this with a bit of extra salt (in both the butter and dry ingredients), to balance the significant sugar.  Also, an added smidge of almond extract.  As to the mixing, Hesser calls for the food processor, likely because the blade helps break up the truculent almond paste.  I've tried it both ways, and find I prefer my Kitchenaid, which performs very well with freshly bought paste, and which saves the dirtying of an extra bowl.  Finally, you'll notice a wide range in baking times.  Hesser calls for 50-60 minutes, but my cake center is still liquid at the end of an hour, usually taking upwards of 70-75 minutes.  Possibly my oven.  Use the visual cues and benchmarks, below.    

Technicalities:  This cake keeps (and improves) like a dream, easily five days, maybe more.  It also travelled across the country intact, via the US Postal Service.  FYI.  I use this almond paste, widely available, though more important than brand is freshness.  Old paste hardens, and is hard to incorporate.  Leftover egg whites are ideal for these (just up the sugar to 1 cup).  Please note: this recipe requires a 9" springform pan.  Truly.  I tried it in a traditional cake pan.  Disaster.  Delicious disaster, but still.

1 cup sour cream, at room temperature
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups all-purpose, unbleached flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) salted butter, sliced, softened
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
One 7-ounce tube almond paste (not marzipan)
4 large egg yolks, at room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons pure almond extract
Powdered sugar, for dusting

Preheat the oven to 350°.  Butter or spray a 9" springform pan, and line the bottom with a circle of parchment.  Measure sour cream, add baking soda to cup, and stir to combine; set aside.  In a separate small bowl, whisk together flour and salt; set aside.

Cream butter and sugar in stand mixer, fitted with the paddle, or in a food processor, fitted with a metal blade, until pale and fluffy, 3-4 minutes.  Pinch off bits of almond paste, and add them to the moving butter, bit by bit, until incorporated and lump-free.  This will take several minutes.  Add the egg yolks, one at a time, mixing and scraping, until incorporated.  Add the almond extract and sour cream; mix until combined.

If using a stand mixer, add flour and salt, mixing on slow until just combined, a few seconds.  Remove bowl from stand, and fold in last bits by hand, if needed.  If using a food processor, scrape batter into a wide, shallow clean bowl.  Fold in the flour and salt mixture until just combined.

Scrape the batter into the prepared springform pan, and spread to evenly distribute.  Bake for 50-70 minutes, until the center has no more jiggle.  It will begin browning around 45 minutes, but carry on until the sides of the cake shrink away from the pan, a knife comes out damp but clean, and the center just springs back when pressed.  

Store at room temperature, well-covered, five days.

don't look too close

At these pants.

Or this post.

Because neither stand up to very close inspection.

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

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

Not that you could.  

They're moving too fast.

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

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

We got fed up, Zoë and I.  

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

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

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

I think the word is comfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Stuffed Zucchini
adapted over a lifetime of zucchini love

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

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

Preheat oven to 350°.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

****   

 

exactly

I am feeling very at one with the bees.

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

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

You see only stasis.  Silence.  Static.  Still.

Wait.  

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

Bees.  Hundreds.  Madly buzzing. 

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

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

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

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

Exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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