remedial eating

this bodes well

 

Last night, due North of 11 pm, I heard a strange dragging-scraping-scuffling, coming from Henry's room.  Henry is my earliest bird, often up before six, so to hear him rustling so late is an odd thing.  Maybe a dream?  Bathroom run?  Maybe a midnight cleaning frenzy?  

(It has happened.  Anyway, a mom can dream, too.)

 

 

I was in bed myself, and tired, and so let it rest awhile.  

(Okay, full disclosure: I was both-eyes-glued to The BFG, alternately devouring Sophie's adventures in Giant Land, and wondering how in heavens I'd made it four decades without crossing paths with this  completely excellent gobblefunk-filled gem.)

 

 

((And!!  Check this out!  Enter an address, hit translate, begin hysterics.  Some sites work better than others.  This one's a zinger.))

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, I crept down the hall, expecting to find him puppy-snug and breathing slow.  Only as soon as I rounded the corner, I realized the lights were not only not off, but instead, blazing double-time.  

Turns out the rumblings were a small civil engineering project, undertaken to jury-rig a reading lamp.  Toys were re-located, chairs dragged bed-side, clip-lamps unplugged and re-plugged, all the better to see the print by.   He was a quarter-inch from the end of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I'm sure you understand.

 

 

I'd handed him a copy at 8:30, the same evening.  

He turned the last page at half-past midnight.  

He'd read The Twits, earlier that day.

It's going to be a good winter.  

 

 

Even though my eyes all day have felt feel like some awkward cat tongue-sandpaper hybrid; and even though Zoë was home with the sniffles, second time in seven days; and even though the laundry's five four (double) loads from complete, I feel certain about this.    

After all, there are turkey legs burbling on the stove, stock-bound.  On the counter, a grocery list with the words brussels sprouts.  A page on my desk headered "Mile High Chocolate Pie".  Friends coming, Thursday, to feast.  

 

 

There's a nutcracker that is not "for decoration only".  Golden-yolked local eggs, still.  One last hurrah from our oak leaf hydrangea.  A (fingers-crossed) final leg check-up, tomorrow.  The exact right number of stitches on my needles.  

This, despite my terrible habit of not counting after increase rows; despite clocking no fewer than five such rows; despite accruing thereby some 180ish* stitches.  I'm forever increasing and decreasing at odd moments, to make up for my extra/absent stitches.  

*Any knitter will tell you -ish isn't in the lexicon.

 

 

Except today, when time came to separate the sleeves, a.k.a. when my moment of reckoning arrived?  I had exactly 186 stitches.  Wildly, improbably, the proper number.  

This is akin to, oh, measuring flour with a backhoe, only to find after the fact you've shoveled precisely the 276 grams the recipe called for.  I'm telling you, this bodes well.

 

 

Also: It snowed last night.  Again.  Just a generous inch, not exactly a blizzard, but still.  Third time this year, and it's not even December.  Snow for Christmas always seems magical.  Snow for Thanksgiving? Well, that's just swishwifflingly gloriumptious.  

Also: this.

Also: this salad.  

 

 

Oh, this salad, this scrumpdiddlyumptious salad.  It's what will see me through to April.  If there is one subject on which I sympathize with the sunny-weather folk, it is salads.  I am grateful for any greens at all, come February, but two-thousand-mile-away, ten-day-old leaves can't hold a candle to the nearby plump vital stuff.  I'll miss it.  

But this will so tide me over.   

 

 

I call it a salad.  Some might argue side.  I don't much care, beyond the eating.  It begins with a base of just-wilted kale, ribboned and quickly sautéed until inky. Raw is, I know, all the rage, and it could easily be swapped in, here.  But I like the vivid, meaty quality of kale that's only just flirted with heat.  

To this is added caramelized delicata, roasted simply in olive oil, skins and all. (Despite years of reading recipes to the contrary, I'd never believed you could/should/would want to eat skin-on-squash.  I imagined it tough.  I sized it up bitter.  I figured it a compromise, at best.  Then Heidi ran a delicata squash round-up, and encouraged, I roasted a what-the-heck batch.  And discovered the skin helps hold the whole together and adds this tender sweet excellent chew and that I had it figured all wrong, exactly upside down and backwards.  Which is awesome.) 

 

 

While things blister and bronze in the heat, you chop almonds, shave parmesan, pluck a pomegranate.  Shake up a quick vinaigrette.  Because once your leaves and slices stop steaming, you'll toss them together, still warm, with all that.  

Got that?  Caramelized commas of savory-sweet squash, tangled up in rich mineralled tender kale.  There is sherry vinegar there, for clarity.  And roasted almonds, for toasty crunch.  And parmesan filings, for obvious reasons.  And pomegranate, for fireworks.  Not just for looks, those arils.  Not even.  They could be dull brown, and just as essential, for the bright juicy pops they bring to the whole.  

 

 

All told, it is this merry riot of toothsome and tender and excellent crunch, of salty and savory and tart and sweet, of green and orange and red and rejoice.

As written, this yields dinner for several salad-as-main sorts, or a side for four to six.  And indeed, it may neighbor our upcoming turkey, a salad substantial and bold enough to stand its ground against all that beige.  But in practice, this is an everyday salad, part of my regular lunch rotation.  Here is how:  

 

 

At the outset of a week, I make a full batch of roasted squash and pomegranate seeds.  That's the work, done.  Then, day of, I fire up the skillet with a shimmer of oil and fistfuls of slivered kale.  Once it wilts, I add a helping of cold squash, which warms in the kale's heat, and in turn, cools the kale to just-warm, which is just where you want it to add in the rest.  A splash of dressing, seeds and nuts, shave of cheese, and he-llo.  I've not run any hard side-by-sides, but generally speaking?  I find that when my lunch looks like this, it bodes well, very well, for the balance of the afternoon.  

 

A Warm Salad for Cold Days :: Kale, Delicata, Pomegranate + Almonds

As to kale, I've used and loved lacinato (a.k.a. Tuscan; dinosaur; cavolo nero) and red Russian.  You'll need a proper wedge of parmesan here, to shave.  Pass over the grated or shredded if that's all you've got, and either substitute another strong cheese (ricotta salata, aged gouda), or leave the cheese out altogether.  This salad stands, without it.  Finally, squash numbers: I usually use 2 large-ish delicata squash, and always wish I'd used 3, because once roasted, it eats like candy, and I inhale half the batch before the salad bowl sees daylight.  You've been warned.  

2-3 delicata squash
2 bunches kale (2 pounds, give or take)1 pomegranate
1/2 cup salted roasted almonds, chopped
wedge of parmesan, to yield 1/2 cup (packed) shavings
olive oil, 4-6 tablespoons
2 tablespoons sherry vinegar
salt

Preheat oven to 400°.  Line a baking sheet with parchment. 

Wash squash, trim ends, and slice in half cross-wise (the short direction), then halve lengthwise.  (I find shorter lengths of squash simpler to halve.)  Scrape out seeds and strings with a spoon, then with flat side down, cut squash into 1/4" slices.  Toss with a good glug of olive oil (1-2 Tbs), and a generous 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt.  Roast at 400° for 20 minutes, then increase oven to 450°, flip squash slices with a spatula, and return to oven for another 15-18 minutes, until surfaces caramelize and bronze up a bit. 

Wash kale, leaving water clinging to the leaves.  Strip leaves from tough stalks; discard stalks.  Stack leaves, then slice into narrow (1/2") ribbons.  In a large wide skillet (or dutch oven), heat 2 tablespoons' olive oil over medium-high heat, until shimmering.  Add damp kale in batches, tossing and adding more as initial layer wilts and room opens up, 30 seconds or so between additions.  Continue until all kale has been added, then add 1 teaspoon kosher salt and a splash of water, and toss every 20-30 seconds, until kale turns dark emerald green, glossy, and is tender but still toothsome, 3-4 minutes from final addition.  Set aside to cool slightly, 15-20 minutes.

Seed pomegranate.*  Roughly chop almonds.  Shave a small heap of parmesan, 1/2 cup or so, to taste.  Set aside a small portion of pomegranate arils, nuts, and parmesan to garnish, if desired.  In a lidded jar, add 2 tablespoons' sherry vinegar and 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, and swirl to dissolve.  Add 2 tablespoons olive oil, replace lid, and shake well to combine. 

Salad is ready to be assembled as soon as kale is no longer steaming, a warm-ish room temperature.  Warm is fine; we just don't wish to melt the cheese.  In a large bowl, or the kale skillet (one less bowl!), toss the kale with the dressing.  Add delicata, almonds, pomegranate arils, and parmesan, and with fingers, toss oh-so-gently, just to incorporate.  Taste for seasoning; add additional salt/vinegar to taste.  Garnish with reserved bits, if desired.  Salad holds beautifully up to 2 hours.  Enjoy at room temperature. 

*I subscribe to the Lay Down Newspaper and Let Your Kids Go At It school of pomegranate seedery.  We slice off top and tail, break apart across natural fissures, then set the several resulting clumps on the table to be plucked. Absent small fingers, the underwater method's a fine alternative. 

the proof

 

It is an impressive thing, how productive a person can be whilst procrastinating. At least, this person. 

 

 

Why, in the past ten days, I've read my way through three books, start to finish!  Granted, they were all three quite brief.  And two were aimed at the 10-and-unders.  But I count Roald Dahl an all-ages author.  And in this particular life stage, three per quarter is a feat.

 

 

We've hosted houseguests!  Two!!  Though really, when your guest brings a suitcase filled with talking bellies; and a 5-year-old niece for your Five to play with; and teaches your peeps how to make the much-admired Starburst; and bakes you homemade yeasted laminated butter-drenched caramelized pastries, well.  You have to ask who's hosting who.  

 

 

(Seriously?  If Annette could get the cloning thing down?  She'd be bigger than Tickle Me Elmo and the Snuggie, combined.) 

 

 

I've finished three more pairs of pants for Miss Z.  Maybe four.  And cut out, oh gosh, another few?  

You know you're in deep when you lose count.

 

 

I actually made my way into the garden, Saturday, to pull the tomato cages and tidy a bit.  It was a hack job, as it always is when I am wielding the clippers.  And a half-done hack job, at that.  But.

 

 

There's a certain joy in the whacking back.  The finding small piles of tomato droppings.  The out-with-the-old, in-with-the-bare exhale.  The great stands of deadwood collapsing in heaps.   It's not unlike hoovering up a turnip-sized dust bunny.  Weirdly satisfying.  

 

 

We made a wee snowgirl!  Complete with carrot.  When it snows in November, it's obligatory.  

Although, also, when it snows in November, one must, it turns out, pluck one's snowballs.  Leaves poke out at all angles, like feathers.  Who knew?  This Winter-in-Fall (Fwinter?) business is new to me.

 

 

I jotted down a Thanksgiving menu!  Made serious, uncharacteristic Christmas headway!  Ordered calendars for 2014! 

Mind: you'll usually find me, mid-February, trolling the look-what-my-cat-can-do clearance calendars.  And here I am, all over 2014.  Now, to be all over this week...

 

 

I've spent untold hours staring, slackjawed and stupid-faced, up into all manner of trees.  It's a miracle, really, I didn't draw a crowd.  Or ingest a stink bug.  Or both.  

(Your fault, Ohio.  You're utterly shameless.)

 

 

But I knew they would all blow away, any day.  Turns out Sunday was any day. Life looks nothing like this, now.  Our oak lost four thousand leaves, overnight. Everything now is overgrown sticks, save the pear and a few stubborn truculent maples.  

 

 

I finally, finally mastered the paper crane.  It only took some 41 years.  There's been a major origami revival, around these parts, and I was fortunate to learn at the knees of a master.  I tried not to let our 33-year age gap impact my learning. Or pride.  

 

 

My sideboard is currently home to a paper gorilla, dolphin, lobster, goldfish, balloon, box, boat, turkey, alligator, dog, plus a few dozen others.  Fingers-crossed my Thanksgiving guests won't mind the menagerie. 

 

 

I spent the better part of last night, filling seven yellow-lined pages with eighth grade algebra.  I adore algebra, but after 10 p.m., even well-balanced equations start to look a little tipsy.  

Then again, when I'm hard in pursuit of distractions, X's and Y's start to look pretty good.  

  

 

I've caught up on the laundry.  

Twice.  

All the proof you need right there, really.

 

 

Though if you need more, there is the pudding.  There were two pots, this past week.

The first was strictly necessary, made while making dinner, last week.  The second pot was sequel to the first.  Because one pot of pudding is never enough.    

 

 

(How can pudding be necessary, you ask?  Friday.  Friday is how.  

Friday, Zoë was feverish and achy and clearly coming down with something.  Friday, the boys were spent, and exhausted, and tired, and also extremely weary.  Friday, I was on day 3 of a 4-day migraine, not yet knowing its endpoint.  Friday, I had phone in hand to order pizza, only to remember we'd played that card, the night prior.  Friday, I lifted our informal suspension on plain buttered noodles, and boiled up an entire box.  Friday, we all needed to be swaddled and wrapped in cotton and tucked into happy.  

Friday, pudding was necessary.)

 

 

Maybe it's just me, but it seems that plain old pudding's been booted by posher meal end parens.  Budinos.  Pôt de crèmes.  Flans, custards, crème caramels.  Mousses.  Possets.  Messes.  Excellent, all.  In fact, I'd elbow you aside for any of the above.  But there is something spot-on about plain old pudding.

 

 

I'm sure there exist 27 fine chocolate puddings.  (And if you possess one?  Please, do share?)  So I'll refrain from any claims that this is The Best.  It is just, of the half-dozen I've tried, and over the ten years I've been stirring pudding pots, the very best of a very nice bunch, fast, simple, excellent, and dependable as an old friend.  I've leaned heavily on its shoulder, off and on, this past decade.  It has never flagged.  It has always delivered.  Usually with a debonaire bittersweet moustache.        

 

 

Pudding, of course, is nothing more than milk, flavored, sweetened, enriched and thickened.  Which, of course, is sort of like saying leaves are merely carbon rolled flat.  In fact, pudding—a good pudding—is to milk what velvet is to burlap: fiber, yes, but fashioned into something else entirely, fantastically smooth, nearly ethereal, essentially simple, unstintingly rich.  Not a bad trick, if you can swing it.    

 

 

As puddings go, this is a well-considered thing, gently thickened by egg yolks and cornstarch, both.  The yolks add unctious; the cornstarch, stability; the two together, a money-back guarantee.  It never scrambles.  It always thickens.  Its flavor is never oddly inflected.  This thickening business is background stuff, really, the studs in the house that hold up the walls.  But just as a house won't stand long on dry rot, no tempermental thickener will yield sublime pud.  A pudding's only as good as its bones.  And if a decade's eating's any indication, pudding bones don't get better than this.   

 

 

The finish work isn't bad, either.  The flavor is straight-up chocolate, by which I mean deep, intense, round and true.  Cook's Illustrated bills this Double Chocolate Pudding, owing to the use of both cocoa and bars.  As a rule, I add a little coffee to all things chocolate, liking the way it extends the rumble.  It betters brownies.  It swarthies up brownie bread.  It is the third leg in the chocolate-vanilla- stool.  Still, it is optional.  Either way, this will read ALL CAPS CHOCOLATE.  So many puddings are titled chocolate, and tinted brown, and taste like the color.  Close your eyes on these faint-hearts, and you'd be hard-pressed to ID any flavor beyond sweet.  Not so, here.  Bring on the blindfolds.  

 

 

Or don't.  This isn't challenge material.  No tests, no cross-examinations, allowed here.  The point of pudding is to cosset, to comfort and coddle, soothe and calm.  A proper pudding is to the tongue what a soft hum is to the ear.  A lullaby, all shush and smile.  Pat-pat, there-there, gentle business.  Plush as Pooh bear's much-fingered ear; smooth as a dragged-about, threadbare blankie.  It can mend a Friday torn at the seams, and launch a Monday off on the right foot.  And if it stole moments from pressing projects, it didn't steal many, being a friendly fifteen-minute job.  Pudding's good that way, too, asking little, giving oodles.  

 

 

And in that spirit of offerings, here's a tidbit, gleaned from one last rabbit hole: turns out the proof isn't in the pudding after all, but rather, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.  I can only second that.   

 

A Fine, Dependable, Deep Chocolate Pudding
adapted from The Best Recipe, from The Editor's of Cook's Illustrated Magazine
Yield: 6-10 servings
Equipment: fine-mesh strainer. 

As to the dairy: I've recorded the recipe as written, but in practice, I use whatever I have on hand.  Last week, this was 1 cup heavy cream + 2 cups non-fat milk (which, inexplicably, my kids prefer).  I've used half-and-half and 2%, also.  Both were grand.  You get the picture.  

Also?  On top, the whipped cream?  Technically, it is optional.  In my opinion, it's mission-critical.  Indeed, I prefer equal parts pudding and cream.    

Oh, and those 3 extra egg whites?  Problem solved.

2 Tbs Dutch-processed cocoa powder
2 Tbs cornstarch
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 tsp kosher salt
2 tsp instant espresso powder (optional; I use this)
1 cup light cream
3 large egg yolks
2 cups whole milk
7 ounces bittersweet chocolate (I use two 3.5 oz 70% Lindt bars)
1 Tbs salted butter, softened
2 tsp vanilla extract

whipping cream, to serve 

Melt chocolate, and set aside to cool slightly, 10 minutes, while you proceed.

Place cocoa powder, cornstarch, sugar, salt and espresso (if using) in a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, and whisk to combine.  Still off the heat, slowly whisk in cream, followed by egg yolks, then milk.  Whisk in the melted and slightly cooled chocolate.  Don't mind the clumps.  

Bring mixture to a barely-boil over medium-high heat, stirring constantly with a whisk, scraping bottom and sides of pot.  This will take 4-5 minutes.  Pudding will darken slightly and thicken gently, as it heats.  Once you see bubbles, reduce heat to medium, replace whisk with wooden spoon or silicone spatula,  and continue to cook, another 1 1/2-2 minutes, until pudding thickens further and thickly coats the spoon.  Cook's Illustrated says it will register 200°.  Could well be.  I've always used my eyeballs.  

Remove pan from heat, then stir in vanilla and butter.  Strain pudding through a fine-mesh sieve, stirring and pushing gently with a wooden spoon or silicone spatula.  Pudding is ready to eat right away, or can be chilled and eaten cold. Warm, the texture is loose and lovely.  Cold, it firms up enough to hold peaks.  I love it best warm.  Until I eat it cold.  Then I switch allegiances completely.  Eat at whatever temperature suits, preferably with thick lashings of cream, gently whipped.

Theoretically keeps, refrigerated, 5 days.  We've yet to make it past 24 hours.

 

it seems only right

 

Please note: I did not, two weeks ago Wednesday, sit down in this space and shout, "IT SNOOOOWED!!!  In OCTOBER!!!!!!  Wa-HOOOOO!!!!".  I nearly did.  I wanted to.  (And it really did.)  

But I didn't.

 

 

I didn't, not because it was only a light dusting.  (Though it was, gone almost before it began.  But there were cars with white caps and frosty-topped mulch and flakes on the weather map and that works for  me.)  

Nope.  I kept my mouth shut because it was only October, early yet, and it seemed, I don't know, disrespectful?  It is always a little awkard, come Fall, this being a fan of the cold months.  For the most part, people like September, with its apples and school bells and kids in new coats.  Even October goes down pretty easy, its blaze of leaves a handy distraction.  

 

 

But by November, folks get grim.  Upper lips stiffen, shoulders curl, and grins acquire that stern flatline that says I'm bearing it, but only just.  Returning from school this afternoon, I walked behind two women lamenting what's next.  I get so sad when it's like this, they mourned.  I LOVE summer, they agreed.  I hate winter.  I'm always cold.  I wish every day was 90°.  It is a testament to my mother's excellent parenting, particularly in the area of politeness, that I did not bust in with What are you, CRAZY?!  That, and considerable experience.  I've learned the hard way that, at least in mixed company, mooning over winter's cold and overcast and other glories is a little like enumerating the joys of grout cleaning.

 

 

So I bit my tongue and bided my time and not just on matters of snow.  I didn't gush over the quickening cold, the winds biting through our mostly mild days. Or thrill over the morning my girl and I spent, recently, digging in the dungeon for hats and scarves.  About how cold days and damp afternoons have nudged our play increasingly indoors, where paints plus water pretty much always equal excellent.  

Some like it outside.  I get it.  I kept quiet.  

 

 

I didn't go on about how, for weeks now, we talk less of meeting at pools and parks and playgrounds.  About how, on some especially lucky days, friends big and little join us indoors, to make stuff and messes and something out of nothing and silk purses out of school day afternoons.  (Riddle: How do you know if a friend is a true friend?  Answer: They don't so much as mention the considerable glitter in their cheese.)

 

 

I've not really dwelled on the garden dying back, and the swell of relief that brings me each year.  I do admire the last hardy few, the toad lilies and fierce daisies and final tough-as-nails roses.  But I love as much if not more the crisping, the blackening, architectural, stark.  I prefer it this way, less pressure, less mess. Not to mention mosquitoes.  Probably ought to pull those tomatoes...

 

 

I didn't bring up the bit about Monday, when Zoë asked just how many days until Winter.  We did the math.  Two days shy of halfway!  We cheered in unplanned unison.  

Two peas in a pod, we are.  She is as eager as I.  

 

 

I dodged the way we, on Halloween, declared it The Day To Dunk Leaves.  Because Dunk Day means the leaves are at their most ridiculous, which in turn means we're but a twitch from bald trees and bare branches, now until March.  The house smelled of honey all that afternoon.  I don't much like honey to eat (too sweet), but the smell is something I adore, as it signals the cresting of full-on fall and the long winter months unspooling ahead.  But I get that it might seem the beginning of the end.     

 

 

After all, even I, winter diehard that I am, understand the trade-off analysis.  I tried to get groceries by bike, thrice last week.  Two times I succeeded, though at twice my regular bulk (cow coat, mittens) and half my regular speed (serious headwinds).  The third time, I made it just two blocks.  Rained out.  Such is now.    

 

 

Five five gallon buckets of leaves came out of our gutters, last week.  I didn't just stutter.  It was twenty five gallons.  Our roofline isn't all that generous.  But boy, the trees are.

 

 

We're squeezing in outside play while we can, after school, before dark.  Two separate times, these were, just last month.  As of last Sunday, it's afterschoolbeforedark.  Just one word.  Just one one window.    

 

 

We indulge in the last of the shirt-sleeve days, casting off coats and climbing higher and scrambling unencumbered and pushing our luck because we know these days are numbered.  Because most days already, we're thick with clothes and clumsy with chill and out there anyway, because we can.   Because we soon can't.  Because iced-over monkey bars just aren't all that.  

 

 

The sky is turning that brittle blue.  Still glass-clear, still often cloud-free, but thinner, somehow.  Fragile.  The world has been desperately beautiful, this past week.  Air mincing-crisp, Pantone leaves, the whole shebang bottle-it-up perfect.  You ache, even in the moment, knowing it'll all like a starry-fingered newborn be in the rearview in 10-9-8...  

It isn't done yet.  I miss it already.  And I'm so ready to turn the page.  

 

 

Because a girl can keep quiet for only so long.  (My upbringing was excellent.  My follow-through, limited.)  Pumpkins are nice and carving was wonderful and already one's too old for jack-o-lantern's and so, I get all gooped up to my elbows and enjoy.  But if I'm honest?  Pitchforking them to the compost the week after is at least as excellent, as it means the situation's finally getting serious.  We're in for the long haul.  Apply the warm woolies.  Light the candles.  Breathe.  Burrow in.  Hunker down.  Exhale.  Eat cabbage.

 

 

Um, hi?  

Still with me? 

 

 

I understand cabbage is sort of hard core.  That it signals winter.  Sort of screams Adios, tomatoes!  That there is this user-friendly team of fall fare—apples, carrots, pumpkins, back-to-school snacks, all-purpose cookies—that folks embrace.  That cabbage is so on the other side.  I get that.  But I've been toting plump celadon heads home since August, August, and in a rare show of restraint, managed to keep mum until now. 

Mum's up.  Time to talk.  

 

 

I love cabbage sautéed simply, and often as not polish off one that way.  But I also appreciate how it plays well with others, particularly potatoes, preferably across the sub-continent.  India has a way with cabbage and potatoes that is full-stop gifted.  There are hundreds (thousands) of variations on the theme, but to the last they share this: take two bland stalwart storage vegetables, add three jiggers of spice and one shred of time, and behold, transformation.  Transformation and lunch, warmly spiced, profoundly fragrant, and sunny enough to span a long winter.

 

 

In fact, it's little more than a basic fry-up, but a fry-up well and wickedly spiced.  Cabbage is ribboned; boiled potatoes, cubed; the both, set down in a slick of hot oil, spluttering with chili, cumin and mustard seeds.  The cabbage softens and sweetens and morphs from bulky heap to melting tender tangle.  The potatoes, being potatoes, get stumble-down drunk on the spiked oil.  A fine fit.  Together, they spend under ten minutes in the pan.  They emerge unrecognizable.  

 

 

Golden with turmeric and coriander, freckled with mustard's nutty crunch and cumin's funk, warm but not hot with two chilis' shadow, this is cabbage, adored and exalted.  Sometimes I stir in little green peas.  Sometimes, garbanzos.  Often, neither.  Almost always I dollop plain whole yogurt alongside.  Except when I fry an egg to go over.  Or wrap it up in a leftover crêpe and eat it, eyes-closed, dosa-style.    

It is late, here, now, too late, but I couldn't sleep, listening to the rain.  There was snow in the forecast.  There is now snow on the ground.  (!!!)  It won't last, will be gone by noon, but I've decided that once there's snow?  It seems only right that cabbage shall follow.    

 

Spiced Cabbage + Potatoes
adapted from Savoring the Spice Coast of India, by Maya Kaimal

Potato Notes:  Whenever I can, I bake or boil extra potatoes one night, and dice the remainders into this dish, the next.  Alternatively, I've successfully added the potatoes raw, along with a splash (1/4 cup) of water.  Cover the pan, turn down the heat, and let the potatoes steam in the hot spiced oil until just tender, around 8-10 minutes, before adding the cabbage.  

Kaimal's original reads Potatoes with Cabbage, and calls for 4 of the former.  I can't get enough cabbage, and so make Cabbage with Potatoes, with just 2 spuds.  Use whatever suits in the range below.  Kaimal's original calls for 10 curry leaves, which add a lovely funk, if you've access.   

2-4 medium boiling potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes
3 Tbs vegetable or coconut oil
2 tsp brown mustard seeds 
1/2 tsp cumin seeds
2 dried red chilis (or 1/4 tsp chili flakes)
1/2 head medium green cabbage, sliced into thin ribbons
2 tsp ground coriander
1/4 tsp turmeric
1/8 tsp cayenne
1 1/2 tsp kosher salt
1-2 Tbs. fresh lemon juice, to taste

Boil potatoes in salted water for 8-10 minutes, or until barely tender.  Drain and set aside.   

In a large wok or heavy skillet with a lid, heat oil over a hottish medium.  When it shimmers, add the mustard and cumin seeds, and cover.  When the seeds begin to pop, 60-90 seconds, add the dried whole chilis and curry leaves, if using, and fry for just a few seconds.  Add the cubed potatoes, sliced cabbage, remaining spices, and salt.  Sprinkle 1 tablespoon water over all, then stir well to coat potatoes and cabbage with spices.  

Stir regularly over medium heat, adjusting if necessary to keep from burning, until cabbage and potatoes are meltingly tender, about 8 minutes.  Around the 6 minute mark, give a good squeeze of lemon juice directly over the pan, let burble briefly, scrape interesting bits off the bottom, and let cook the final 2 minutes or so.  Test a few of the larger potato pieces and cabbage threads for tenderness and seasoning, add any additional salt and/or lemon juice to taste, and eat, hot or at room temperature.  

naive

 

I knew it was coming, the whole huge teenage appetite thing.  I really did.

I have a brother, five years my senior, and I remember his teen meals well.  The Himalayan mashed potatoes.  The buckets of cold cereal and milk.  The Quarter Pounders, ordered in multiples, eaten in maybe three bites.  The Tuesday all-you-can eat nights at Skipper's, where our dinners regularly ran to two hours, and refills regularly ran to fifths, sixths.  That location is no longer in business. I've often wondered if we weren't to blame.  And all this, and oh so much more, just to support one looooong, lanky frame, with something like .5% body fat.

I knew.

 

Also, I have a boy, a very hungry boy, of my own who I've known would one day eat volumes.  At four, he asked for and ate the Thanksgiving drumstick.  Off our twenty pound turkey.  At five, I watched him inhale an entire Chipotle burrito. Then ask for another.  (Me, I can only ever eat half.  I gave him my other half.  He ate that, too.)  At six, he'd eat four bowls of potato soup, each topped with a small heap of smoked mackerel, plus stacks of bread for dunking.  For an after-school snack.  At seven, breakfast routinely entailed two jumbo fried eggs, two slabs of buttered toast, and an apple or three to wash it down.  At eight, I hired a financial planner to structure investments for the next ten years' feeding.  

Kidding.  So far.  But, I knew.

 

 

I just didn't know it would happen so soon.

 

See, my hungry boy is my middle child, who at eight still has a few (knock-on-wood) years before famished.  And my eldest, who turned thirteen this past August, has never much been one for food.  I mean, he eats, and certain things, he loves, and if you're ordering pizza, you'd do well to order a large pepperoni, just for him.  With half a dozen warm chocolate chip cookies to follow.

It's just that he's always been equally likely to skip dinner entirely, if it doesn't suit.  It often doesn't suit.  Many a night, he's nibbled a few carrots and moved onto homework, no big deal.  

Time was.  Times have changed.

 

Because recently, in addition to growing five inches, he has grown, for the first time, an appetite.  A genuine appetite.  Needy, voracious.  Bordering not infrequently on desperate.  (I'm saving bottomless for Number Two.) 

To wit:  A few weeks back, we had bagels and apples for breakfast.  He ate his usual half with cream cheese, plus a small mound of sliced fruit.  Then another half.  Then another.  Then looked up, a little wild-eyed, and around.  I am so hungry.  I handed him a banana.  Gone.  Again: I'm SO hungry.  We raided the fridge, turned up two (plate-sized) crêpes, one-two, gone.  And again:  I'm sooo HUNGRY.  Another banana.  At which point, I thought I'd over-solved the problem.  He: Ohhhh, my stomach hurts...  Me: Maybe you, um, ate too much?  He:  Noooo, I'm SO HUNGRY.....

 

This was no isolated incident.  Milk used to sit in our fridge until it soured.  Now, I buy two cartons each week.  I spend more on apples than clothes each month. I never leave the store without more bananas.  I go to the store every few days. Time to buy stock in Chiquita.  In second grade, I made it to States in the Spelling Bee, only to flame out on "naive".  At the time, I felt foolish for adding a second "i".  Now, I know I was just foreshadowing.  

So maybe I was caught a little off guard.  A few famished weeks, and I got religion.  Increased pancake yields.  Stocked twice the fruit.  Escalated my search for quick, portable snacks.  It was a mission, many years in the making (and little did I know how urgent it would become), but I'm pleased to report it's now accomplished.  Meet my co-defender against fierce teenage hunger: the peanut butter chocolate chip granola bar.  

 

 

(By the way, if you're tempted to read into all these golden leaves some metaphor about seasons of life, don't.  It's just me, gawking.  But that yardage? Well.  I spent last week making new longer p.j.'s and pants for my new longer peeps, though only after washi-taping an extra 4" of tissue to each pattern's cuffs.  While at it, I made a wee pair of pants for an expectant friend.  They were cut from half a yard, with half of that left over.  They came together in maybe thirty minutes.  It felt more like making a crêpe than a pair of pants.  Way more poignant than any old tree, if you ask me.)

 

 

Sounds straightforward enough, and it is, but glory, the trail of mediocre bars we've left behind.  I've lost count of all we've tried and rejected; let's just say legion.  Some were awful.  Some were so-so.  Many were close, almost swell, but failed some tiny, crucial test.  Too sweet, too plain, too fruity, too dry, too damp, too soft, too dull, too crumbly, too fleeting, too well-intentioned, too too.  I was ready to boycott all bars.  And evict my inner Goldilocks.    

And then, last October, we received Standard Baking Co. Pastries and bingo, there was our bar.  (Mind, when I say bingo, it invariably means I've deleted three things and added two others and altered quantities and adjusted baking times.  I can't help myself.  Also, my kids don't do dried fruit in stuff.)  The thing is, my small tweaks aside, the bones of this bar are all Standard, and are spot-on brilliant, and are what makes this bar, for us anyway, The Bar.  And none too soon.

 

 

These were everything I wanted in a bar, plus a few things I hadn't dared wish after.  They are loaded with oats, the old-fashioned kind, the sort that go chewy or crisp, depending.  Wheat germ and sesame play small supporting rolls, one toasty, one nutty, both sweetly background.  In place of all sorts of dried fruit and seeds, I fold in nearly three cups of chopped walnuts, which would never, and I mean ever, get by in a cookie, but somehow here aren't an issue.  

All this toasty-oaty-crunchy rubble is bound by butter, brown sugar, more sugar, and peanut butter, the better part of a jar.  Also, two fantastic tablespoons of vanilla, plus one smart tablespoon of salt.  Goodbye, dull.  Hello, flavor.  Actually, hello all granola bar goodness.   

 

 

The net effect is a bar that is deeply, roundly flavored, with structural integrity and excellent longevity and, key, an enduring fan base.  On the granola bar gamut, these fall I suppose toward the chewy end, though not woefully so.  They crisp at the edges in the baking, and are shot through with enough nuts for necessary crunch.  The peanut butter is pronounced, a toasty nutty baritone, ripped with vanilla, sparkly with salt, and ever as always at home with chocolate.

Did I mention the chocolate?  One bag of mini chips, which make an appearance in each and every bite.  Crucial, this, as chocolate is one of the four food groups in our house, and a winning feature here.  Winning, in this case, meaning this bar's become the mortar that helps us hold days together, buys us an hour, keeps the wolves where they belong.  

 

 

They're what gets grabbed on the way out the door, when two quesadillas didn't do it for breakfast.  They're snack after school, a phenomenon I'd recently (and wrongly) believed a preschool-era artifact.  They're duct tape and baling wire for brain cells and leg bones expanding at speeds probably beyond the legal limit. They're tough enough to survive a lunch box, gracious enough to keep beautifully for weeks, and swoony enough that I eat them for dessert, even as I hand them out before dinner.

 

 

One final word about that.  Even I'm not naive enough to imagine a few eyebrows won't rise over what follows.  Yes, these bars call for a full three cups' sugar, plus another one of butter.  Yes, there are granola bars out there with less sugar and more dates and apple sauce and shiny halos and hallelujah if your kids eat them.  Mine won't.  Nor have I had much luck modifying these.  Cut back the sugar and the bars crumble, thus failing the crucial grab-and-go test.  These are then, for us, the happy medium.

 

 

And honestly, I stand behind that happy, because for me and mine I am okay with a daily dose of reasonably-sweet.  After all, they're mostly consumed by a boy who still lets me pack peas and apple sauce for lunch.  Who's never even asked after a soda.  Who'll happily down two smoothies with dinner.  Who's ever-present accompaniment to said bars is a banana and a tall cold one.  I'm down with that.

Besides, there are also those eight cups of oats, that pile of peanut butter, those cups of good nuts.  This makes a whopping half-sheet pan, for something like 56 bars.  That's less than three teaspoons of sugar per bar.  Not that I'm naive enough to think that one bar's the average teenage serving size, but hey, that's another story.   

 

 

Granola Bars for Growing Boys (a.k.a. Salted Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Granola Bars)
adapted from Standard Baking Co. Pastries, by Alison Pray and Tara Smith 
Yield: roughly 56 1.5" x 2.5" bars 

A few ingredient notes:  The original recipe calls for corn syrup.  I've used corn, as well as brown rice and barley malt syrup, all to good effect.  I suspect honey would work, also.  We use an equal weight of walnuts in place of the original mix of sunflower and pumpkin seeds and dried cranberries.  Feel free to swap in what pleases.  I've fiddled with these bars endlessly, and have found most any substitutions work, so long as the following ratio is adhered to: 3 cups sugars (liquid + solid) : 9 cups grains (oats + germ/seeds) : 4 cups "chunks" (walnuts + chips) is a good balance, for a sturdy final bar. 

Please note that the melted butter needs 30 minutes to cool, before mixing bars.

1 cup salted butter
2 cups packed dark brown sugar
1 1/2 cups crunchy, salted peanut butter
1 cup light corn syrup or brown rice syrup
2 tablespoons vanilla extract
8 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
2 1/2 cups toasted, chopped walnuts
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1/2 cup wheat germ 
1/2 cup sesame seeds
one 12-ounce package mini chocolate chips 

Melt butter.  Place melted butter in a medium bowl, and add brown sugar, peanut butter, corn syrup and vanilla.  Mix well to combine, and set aside to cool, 30-60 minutes.  (Butter mixture must be cool to the touch, so as not to melt the chocolate chips.)

Preheat oven to 375°.  Line a rimmed 13 x 18" baking sheet (half sheet pan, a.k.a. jelly roll pan) with parchment paper, then spray or butter exposed sides.  

In a very large bowl, combine oats, chopped walnuts, salt, wheat germ, sesame seeds and mini chocolate chips.  Add the cooled butter-sugar mixture to the oat mixture, and stir well to thoroughly combine.  I usually begin with a long wooden spoon, then switch to clean hands, halfway through.  All in all, I give this a good 2-3 minutes of mixing, the last minute or two being a hands-on squish-smoosh. A fantastic job for tactile (clean) children.  You want every oat coated, for a successful finished bar.  

Spread mixture into prepared baking sheet, and press down to evenly distribute. Cover mixture with a second sheet of parchment (or waxed paper), and press firmly to compact and level.  A rolling pin makes quick, efficient work of this. The underside of a measuring cup will also do the job.  Either way, compact your mixture well here, and you will have a bar which will withstand the rigors of a lunchbox.  

Bake for 25-30 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through, until the edges are light golden brown.  The mixture will be fall-apart tender when first finished. This never stops us from scoop/cutting several helpings when warm.  But do wait for the bars to cool fully, 4 hours or overnight, before slicing the entire batch for storage.  

Bars keep beautifully, stored airtight at room temperature, for 3 weeks or more.