remedial eating

notwithstanding

First: You lovely people, you! 

Thank you, truly, for a rollicking book back-and-forth, last week. I've discovered new authors. Received great recommendations. Heard them seconded. Thirded. More. And generally, had bolstered my whole fledgling resolve to make it from front to back cover. Thanks for that.

 

 

Second: Happy Spring! I forgot to mention that, last time we spoke.

What?

Can't you tell? 

 

 

Between the snowflakes, there? See that wink of purple? Those bulgy daffodils-in-waiting? They're as patient as they are determined, pushing through despite it all, then biding their time until real Spring. 

No word, yet, on when that might be.

 

 

It has snowed twice, this past week. The first was Tuesday, around 3:40. I know this because at 3:30, it was bright, if a bit chill, and sunglasses-sunny. I stepped outside to greet my eldest as he rounded the corner toward home, from school. Ten minutes later, as we sat catching up on the day, I looked up and out the window and saw this:

 

 

Only, that doesn't quite capture it. Yes, they were almost white-out conditions. Yes, visibility was, like, ten feet. Yes, the snow was blowing so sideways it shellacked the entire North side of our oak. Snow doesn't really stick to the sides of trees. Nor ordinarily, anyway. (This wasn't ordinary.) But all this, all this is somewhat evident. What is absent is just how absurd it was, the complete about-face, the full switcheroo. 

It also doesn't capture the fact that, not twenty minutes later, the sun was back, bright, full-force and shiny. 

Welcome to Spring in Ohio.

 

 

It all melted the next day, of course. 

And snowed again, Saturday. 

 

 

Spring snow is never enough to amount to anything, more spectacle than plaything. The only snowmen around here are the peanut butter playdough sort. (Yes, I know it screams penguin. it's Olaf. Trust me. That's a carrot, not a beak. And sticks, not wings. And mighty tasty sticks, too.)

And so, we've been walking that fickle little line between inside and out, as the weather whipsaws. When the highs breach freezing, the kids flow to the dirt like ants to melon, the high-summer sort. The mop water's mahogany. The laundry's a mess. The kids, pink-cheeked, aired-out, filthy, giddy. And on the "off" days, we dance our regular build/make/draw/puzzle/play tango. With the slight, seriously obsessive new diversion of this. Simple. Brilliant. All-consuming.

 

 

We're forcing Spring, when and where we can. Popcorn planted weeks ago is now well ahead of the weather, strong and growing. Sunflower seeds taped to the windows are blissfully, ignorantly, sprouting away. Nowhere to go but the garage, for now. All in due time. Knock on (snow-slicked) wood.

Last week, I snuck out for a late-night walk, hoping to see blossoms, or buds, or beginnings. There wasn't much, save the lingering light, still fading away at almost-eight. I suppose that's a beginning of sorts. Let there be light. Seems like there's precedent.

  

 

When we cleaned house, Saturday, I took time to check off a few extra chores. Tackled that enemy territory, otherwise known as Under The Kitchen Sink. Dusted the ceilings and corners and lights. Vaccuumed the vents. Didn't make a dent. The Spring Cleaning list is long....

Still. We're on Spring Break, this week, no school and three extra sets of hands! Unlike breaks past, we're here, this year, no big road trips in the works. So I've seized the moment, started the conversation about washing walls and windows and switch plates, what fun! (Who says hope isn't a plan?)

 

 

And we've pushed the Spring envelope, just a little, in the eating department. Saturday's cod shared a plate with (California) asparagus, and hollandaise, and these glorious words: "Mom, I love asparagus! As long as you always make holiday (sic) sauce for dunking!"

This, from two of my three asparagus-loathers. (It's always two out of three. Always. Though a different two, every time.) And, so, yes! You bet! Every day's a holiday! At least now through asparagus season's end.  

 

 

But notwithstanding the odd imported treat, we're mostly still eating Winter, around here, crucifers and roots and brassicas, oh my! Which for me, weird bean that I am, somehow just never gets old. This doesn't mean I'm not up to teaching old cabbages new tricks.

 

 

I've never been part of the roasted brussels booster club. Brussels, I love; but roasted? No way. They would cook terribly unevenly, I knew. Burn on the outside. Stay tough-nasty, within. The whole charcoal-harsh exterior meets strident-mean-mustard interior combo just wasn't working for me. In my imagination. I'd never actually, you know, tried it. Bad me. Don't emulate. 

Or do! New me, anyway. Because if you're one of the other twelve people who've not yet roasted brussels, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? They roast like a dream, reliably, quickly, and eat even better. A hot oven helps. As does a low rack. As does a little trick I picked up from Tara Mataraza Desmond (yes, again; that broccoli and these brussels are rocking my world): toss your sheet pan onto the cold rack, and let it preheat right in the oven. Then, when you add your oil (sizzle on impact!) and your veg, you get a head start on that mission-critical caramelization, right out of the gate. Brilliant.

 

 

They're immensely snackish, straight from the oven, melting-sweet inside; curves and flats, bronzed and caramelized. I could eat a pan as is, oiled and salted. However, if the past two months are any indication, I can eat several pans when you then drizzle the whole mess with maple syrup-spiked browned butter.

(I know.)

 

 

 

The barely sweet, deeply nutty, mapled brown butter works its way into every last cranny and nook. Darned if those little brussels don't act just like sponges, soaking up the elixir and spiriting it away. I say, let 'em have it. I can't imagine any edible place else that's more fitting, or deserving, or flat-out devastating. They taste as if each little half-head's been personally anointed, nay, bathed in the stuff. This doesn't really pencil out, seeing as there's only five Tablespoons' sauce, amortized over two pounds of brussels. The impression endures. I don't complain. Except when the platter's too-soon empty. 

  

 

I know some of you will ask after bacon. (See? You! I knew it. Smart cookie.) A few strips, good, thick, smoky, diced and tossed amongst the raw brussels, perhaps halfway through cooking time? Well, we both know you can do no wrong, following that lead.

That said, I've not yet tried it myself, because two full pounds of these brussels are always insufficient, just as is. They make me deeply, deeply happy we're not quite to Spring, not just yet. Calendar notwithstanding.

 

Roasted Brussels Sprouts + Mapled Brown Butter
adapted from Choosing Sides, by Tara Mataraza Desmond

How did I not know, until recently, that Costco sells clean, well-trimmed, two-pound bags of brussels? As to the syrup: Grade B is the darker, more deeply flavorful stuff. We use it on everything, including these.

2 pounds brussels sprouts
2 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
2 tsp. kosher salt
3 Tbs. salted butter
2 Tbs. real maple syrup, ideally grade B

Place rack 4" from bottom of oven, place a rimmed baking sheet (half-sheet pan) on the rack, and preheat oven (with pan) to 425°. 

While pan pre-heats, wash and trim your brussles. Remove any truly decrepit outer leaves; generally shabby are fine. Trim ends, then halve sprouts, quartering any that are particularly large, leaving alone any that are particularly small. Your aim is for roughly even-sized pieces, for even roasting. 

When oven is hot, pour one Tablespoon of oil on the sheet pan, and tilt to distribute. Add trimmed brussels, drizzle with remaining oil, sprinkle with salt, and toss and tumble to distribute oil and salt. Shake into an even layer, and place in oven. Roast 10 minutes, then shake pan well, nudging with a spatula if necessary to flip sprouts bottoms-up. Roast another 10-15 minutes, roughly 20-25 minutes total, or until outer leaves are crisping and caramelized, and your largest sprouts are tender and sweet to the core. (Test a few).

While sprouts are roasting, brown your butter: place butter in a small, light-colored pot, and cook over medium-high heat until butter is melted, milk solids at the bottom are caramelizing, liquid turns a rich amber, and the whole smells nutty and wonderful, 5-8 minutes. Remove from heat, and immediately add maple syrup, stirring well to combine.

When brussels are done, remove to a serving platter, then drizzle with mapled brown butter. Eat immediately.   

with real reservations

 

Once upon a time, I read. Books. Lots of books. Books which weren't made entirely of cardboard. Books with a font size South of 22; with characters whose names weren't Spot, Wilbur or Onceler; with plots which only rarely began Once upon a time...  

This time began in 2001, and ended, technically, in July of '04. I know this because I've a 3"x6" black notebook in which I wrote titles, authors, dates. The entries number 395.

 

 

395 books. In four and a half years. (I can't believe it, either.) What happened, during that brief book-hungry period, was that I had a baby. Who didn't sleep. Not long, anyway. Not alone, anyway. And so, we tag-teamed: he slept, I read. Apparently, rather a lot. This arrangement worked well, for several years, and as a side-benefit, seriously broadened my cultural horizons. 

(New parents, take note: He now sleeps through the night! Has for a good decade, actually. It happens. It really does. Those truculent stubborn resistent non-sleepers finally, eventually learn! Even the ones who wake up every hour. Twice an hour. All. Night. Long. For four years. I speak from experience. So rest easy. Or at least, grab a book, and enjoy your non-rest.)

 

 

And then, I fell off a cliff. Or contracted amnesia. Or both. Or so it would seem, to any crack historian, examining the written record, which ends abruptly and absolutely after #395 (Running with Scissors, Augusten Burroughs, 7/04). The truth is a little less soap opera.  

The truth is, I had another baby. And, moments later, a third. (That is how it seemed to me, anyway, during those soggy, semi-conscious, chief-of-tiny-human-beans years. There's a bit of the Rip Van Winkle to parenting, which I know I've referred to before. But it manifests a little differently in the area of books and TV and culture. Like: Last decade? Don't ask. Didn't happen.) Any parent of one knows that your first child complicates every last aspect of your life. (In good ways! But still.) Any parent of two (or three or five) knows that those one-child days were stupid-simple. Translation: Naps never overlapped. Days were longer. Nights, shorter. Books? What's a book?  

 

 

To wit: last month, I realized Anne LaMott had published some four books while I wasn't looking. I was stunned that anyone, even LaMott, could churn out four books in, like, two months. Until I dug deeper and discovered my last "new" LaMott title was published in 2006. Seeing as math was always my best subject, I must here confess that two months cannot, no matter which way you work them, equal eight years. This pains me (the math and abyss, both). You can help ease my suffering by letting me know if you've read anything good, lately. Since 2000, say. I know nothing. (Comments are open!)

 

 

What's weird is that, for years after 2004, after that fateful #395, I continued to think of myself as a reader. I wrote down titles of interest. Checked out promising new releases. Borrowed books recommended by friends. Sometimes, I even started them. Occasionally, I made it to page 29. Rarely past. Wrong life phase. 

This went on for years, my identity screaming Reader!; my reality, Serial Book Abandoner! My book aspirations squared with my days about as well as my cafe-managing college self squared with my high school jeans. (I.e., Not at all. Free bagels. College budget. Bad combination.)

 

 

At least not at all in the multi-syllabic, paper-paged, non-hippo-starring book department. Because of course, I was reading all the time, just a different sort of content. Out with the Stegner, in with the Seuss! Adios Kingsolver, hola Rylant! Berry, Godwin, Huxley: move it, and make way for Silverstein, Jeffers, Eager....

Reading didn't fade. It just shifted. Substantially. Semi-permanently. And once I reached a 16-hour-day's end, I had little energy and less interest for anything lacking an A-B rhyme scheme. My days were already filled with plot, climax, plenty of conflict, darling protagonists. Not to mention character development, galore. I was busy living life. I had no time left to read about it.

 

 

But I missed the cameraderie of books. The second opinion. The frame of reference. The tuning fork of well-honed fiction, and its ability isolate right notes, pure and true. The kind ear attuned to the miniscule emergencies and insignificant crises of a mundane life. The way one excellent adjective, one elegiac arc of prose, assigns honor to the rips and rumples of a day. The presence of semi-colons. The absence of talking pigs.  

 

 

By the end of 2012, I realized I'd better resolve my way out. That, or donate all my Shakespeare to charity and take out a lifetime National Enquirer subscription. So as I drew up my 2013 resolutions—bake more cakes! get more sleep! break no legs!—I added one around reading. Viz: a book a month. (I can't believe it, either.)

It was a low blow, arriving at that low, low number, and then (ouch) writing it down. The stark honesty of that paltry twelve was humiliating. And ambitious. It had, after all, been a decade since I'd seen similar levels.

 

 

So I lowered the bar still further. Kids books would count, as long as there were chapters, and as long as I read them on my own recognizance. (Tell me you do this, too? Stay up late, reading Roald Dahl? To yourself? And that you, too, find "children's" books among the the best out there, anywhere?) Also, I cheated. Well, technically, back-dated. That little broken leg business seemed the perfect time to 'pre-launch' New Years' Resolutions. So I grabbed From The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankenweiler on my way out the door, post-break, pre-surgery, figuring on a few sleepless nights. I also figured I needed all the headwinds and handicaps I could get.

I figured right, on both counts. I finished the first half while folded into my "comfort" vinyl window ledge hospital "bed". The balance, I completed in the actual New Year. In late February. Behind, already, handicaps notwithstanding. 

 

 

But that one finished book led to another, and another, and (halt, stop, start) another, the way these things imperfectly do. Progress was neither steady nor smooth, with weeks going by and nothing to show. But then, I'd spot Wild at the library, say, and bring it home, and begin it, and fed by that first small victory, not to mention Strayed's raw voice and more-raw life, actually continue. Bit by bit. Here and there. Until I couldn't help but keep on, caught up in the thrum and rush of the thing. Until I couldn't help but finish, the grit under my eyelids nothing next to the catch in my breath, the clench in my fist. I'd missed that, too. The rare narrative's magnetic pull. The fierce momentum of a tale, well-told.  

It was just so good to be back. Good enough to knock out a dozen and then some, though in truth, I lost track mid-year, more caught up in the reading than the counting. It wasn't until I cleared off my nightstand in January that I tallied: 31 books. Not the 100+ of my heyday. And at least ten, intended for the ten-and-under set. But more than twice-twelve. Not bad. And better? I paged through so much extraordinary—This. This. This. Definitely this. Absolutely this.—that I promptly re-upped my resolution, this year. 

 

 

At the moment, I'm reading The Goldfinch, which I recommend, with real reservations. If you like a plot that swallows you whole; a reality so vivid you move right in; characters so fraught with flaws and truth that you can no more bear to watch than turn away; tack-sharp language; intimate scale; epic scope; then: yes. If, however, you value sleep, or functioning during daylight hours, or keeping your reading in tidy slots of under, say, seven hours? Don't even start. You won't stand a chance. No more, anyway, than you'll stand when faced with Tom Douglas' coconut cream pie. 

 

 

We made this one, here, two Fridays back, to celebrate pi day. It's the third or fourth time I've made this pie, and every time, I mean to make note. Because hoo-boy, is it noteworthy. If you live in Seattle, or outside of Seattle, or within, say, 900 miles of Seattle, you've likely at least heard of this pie. It's a pie with a bit of a reputation, famous around town, and deservedly so. I am tempted to say you'll have eaten this pie, too, since Douglas reports in The Dahlia Bakery Cookbook that they've sold no fewer than 345,290 (!!) of these pies. Assuming eight slices per? We're talking more than enough for every Puget Sound-area man, woman and child. How I ate not one wedge in my thirty-six Seattle years, I cannot explain. I'm doing my best to make up for lost time.

 

 

It's time (and pie) well worth making up. The burnished all-butter crust, tweedy with coconut, blind-baked to pitch-perfect. The sunny smooth wobble of coconut custard, soft enough to eat with a spoon, firm enough to (mostly) respect the slice. The barely-sweet crown of whipping cream that's as over the top as it is essential. The perfect storm that is all three together, tender-crisp, cool unctuous, cloudy billow. I keep toying with the notion bittersweet ganache, slipped between custard and crust. I've little doubt it would be a sock-knocker. But I've not gone so far myself, and mention it with real reservations, as the pie as is is pretty well perfect, and it's already almost impossible to stop. Sort of like a certain book I know. Speaking of which! 'Bye. I've got another all-nighter to pull.

 

Tom Douglas' Triple Coconut Cream Pie
gently adapted from The Dahlia Bakery Cookbook

This pie is ideal for gatherings, keyed as it is to advance prep. Unlike a fruit pie, which is best served a few hours out of the oven, warm and sighing, the crust and custard must be made and cooled before assembly (take note). I love this about it, as all parts can be made a day (or more) ahead, then simply assembled, at the last. Crust dough can be made and refrigerated up to 4 days in advance; filling, up to 2 days in advance. Assemble the pie and whip the cream within 6 hours of serving. 

I have tweaked salt quantities, and ommitted the white chocolate shavings, originally showered over the top, and to my taste, too sweet. Also: Douglas lines the unbaked crust with parchment and beans, as all good bakers do, to avoid puffing. I'm not a good baker, and so bake it unlined, poking a few fork holes if needed (it rarely is). If you choose to line, remove the weights at the 20 minute mark, and return to the oven 10-12 minutes. Otherwise, this is a grateful homage to Tom Douglas' outstanding original. 

Coconut Pastry Crust

1 cup + 2 Tbs. (165 grams) unbleached, all-purpose flour
1/2 cup shredded, sweetened coconut
1/2 cup cold, salted butter, cut into 1/2" dice
2 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp kosher salt
1/3 cup ice-cold water, or as needed

Fill a 1-cup measure with ice cubes, then pour good drinking water over. Set aside to chill, 10 minutes.

In the bowl of a food processer, combine flour, coconut, butter, sugar and salt. Pulse just until coarse crumbs form. Add ice-cold water, 1 Tablespoon at a time, pulsing briefly between additions. Use only enough water for dough to hold together when pressed with thumbs, 3-6 Tablespoons. Dough will not yet clump or ball, without pressing. 

Place a large sheet of plastic wrap on the counter and scrape dough onto plastic. Pull the plastic wrap around the dough, pressing it into a 1/2" disc as you go. Chill 60 minutes, or up to 4 days, well-wrapped, before rolling.

To roll, have a clean surface ready, and dust lightly with flour. Unwrap your dough round, center dough on the floured surface, sprinkle top of dough lightly with flour, and roll gently and firmly into 13-14" round, roughly 1/8" thick. Rotate dough in 1/4 turns as you roll, re-flouring under and over dough, as needed, to keep from sticking. Run a flat frosting knife or bench scraper underneath, if needed, to keep from sticking. Once dough is roughly the right size, fold in half, then in half the opposite direction (in quarters), then lift onto a pie plate (glass, ideally), centering point in the middle. Unfold crust, adjust to center it in the plate, turn excess dough under rim, and flute edges between thumb and forefinger.  

Chill the unbaked crust at least an hour. (This prevents shrinking. In all honesty: I often skip this. See bad baker, above.) 

When ready to bake, preheat oven to 400°. Bake 25 minutes, or until edges are a rich gold, and bottom is just beginning to turn color. Remove and allow shell to cool completely before filling, at least 2 hours.

Coconut Custard (Pastry Cream)
1 cup milk
1 cup canned, unsweetened coconut milk (full-fat, well-shaken)
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
2 cups shredded, sweetened coconut
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
2 large eggs
1/2 cup + 2 Tbs. granulated sugar
3 Tbs. unbleached, all-purpose flour
4 Tbs. salted butter, room temperature 

In a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan, add milk, coconut milk, salt, and shredded coconut. With the tip of a paring knife, work the seeds from the vanilla bean, then add both the empty pod and scrapings to the pot. Heat the contents over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is steaming, with tiny bubbles gathering at the edges, just before the boil. Remove from heat.

In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, sugar and flour until thoroughly combined. Temper eggs by pouring a splash of the hot milk into the egg mixture, whisking steadily. Add another splash, and mix again. Repeat once more. Finally, add your warmed egg mixture to the saucepan. Return to medium-high heat, whisking steadily, until pastry cream thickens and begins to bubble. Continue to whisk until mixture is quite thick, 4-5 minutes, adjusting heat if necessary to prevent burning. Remove saucepan from heat, and add butter, whisking until it melts. Remove vanilla pod (rinse, dry, and place in your sugar bin for vanilla sugar!). Scrape custard from pan into a medium bowl, smooth surface, cover with plastic wrap, and smooth wrap over surface, to prevent skin from forming. Refrigerate until completely cold, 4 hours or up to two days. Pastry cream will thicken further, as it cools.

Toppings + Assembly
Find unsweetened flake coconut in the bulk bins of a well-stocked grocery, or in the bakery aisle (Bob's Red Mill), or here.

1 1/2 cups unsweetened coconut chips (wide flake)
2 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream (not ultra-pasturized, ideally)
1/3 cup sugar
1 tsp pure vanilla extract

When crust and custard are completely cool, and you intend to serve the pie within 6 hours, assemble and finish your pie.

Preheat the oven to 325°, spread coconut chips on a rimmed baking sheet, and toast until golden, 7-8 minutes. Stay close; coconut burns quickly. Allow to cool completely (move to a plate and pop into the freezer, to expedite).

Deposit the custard into the crust, and smooth the top. Set aside.

Whip the cream until soft peaks form, then add sugar and vanilla, and continue whipping, until firm enough to hold a respectable peak. For fancy poufs, fit a large pastry bag (or large ziploc) with a wide star tip, and pipe cream in swirls across the top of the pie, adding a second layer in the center, while supplies last. Alternatively, simply dollop the cream in clouds across the pie. Scatter cooled, toasted coconut over all, and recite pi: 3.14159...

every which way

 

Sunday, we threw caution to the wind, and spent a good portion of the afternoon outside. We took turns with the hand drill, boring out sticks and stumps, talking chucks and bits and summer. While we were at it, we cleaned out the old Weber, readying it for May. For spring.  

 

 

We decided Monday was close to May, or to Spring, anyway. Because by Monday, the grill was begging, and also the weather, and so we obliged. So what if I stood flipping steak in my puffer, rated at 20° below? The kids, cold hardy souls that they are, bounded about in sweatshirts alone. "For the first time all year!!", they shouted, with glee. It's a tired kid's joke, trotted out each new year. But they were correct, and we are in month three, and so it seemed fair that the joke's still got legs.  

 

 

By Tuesday, it was a rip-roaring seventy, so balmy and pleasant everyone came unhinged. Kids raced like released greyhounds on the playground. Adults peeled off layers, spoke of Spring. Drank it in, while we could.

Because Wednesday, with wind chill, we were back to ten. With snow blowing throughout the afternoon. No accumulation, unlike elsewhere. But a strong sense of pendulum, all the same.

 

 

And today? Today, we should approach sixty.

Naturally.

After all, it's almost-Spring, in Ohio, when wild swings are the only steady. I don't mind it. Indeed, I kinda like it. Lets me hold on to winter, as long as I can. And besides, the whiplash seems somehow fitting, this particular week. 

 

 

It's been one of those scattered, deeply discombobulated weeks, with every day, something new. Or six somethings. Or seventeen. Not bad things, just things, life things. Lots and lots and all unrelated. Technology wrangling. Spring cleaning. Room re-arranging. Summer dreaming (them; tools). Summer anxiety (me; everything). Infrastructure snafus. And improvements. Random errand-running. Extensive box-checking. Me, on a chair, at 10:37 p.m., touching up the ceiling paint.

 

 

Because that patch, there, came off three years back, in an over-zealous streamer removal effort. And our 2012 Christmas tree was a bit tall, and left a good gash, and why is it still there? And who even knows what happened over here, but these torn patches have glared at me for years and enough already, out with the paint brush!

(Ask anyone else in my house, and I'll bet you a cake they've never noticed. Ceiling paint patches? What patches? What paint?)

 

 

A week with lots of big grown-uppy things, the foot-draggy stuff one loves to postpone. Taxes. Filing. Long tedious to-do's. Leaky ceilings. Leaky pipes. Desks to excavate. It's so tempting to procrastinate. And so wildly satisfying to finish. If a little disorienting. (Where, the dread?)

One of those weeks when I'm wielding a power drill one minute, a calculator the next, wondering all the while what to do about water filters. And all the while dripping with handmade, ruby-hued, plastic pop bead bangles. (It's a look.) 

 

 

Inside, outside. T's and shorts, hats and mittens. Heat up, windows wide. Manual labor, mental muscles. A centrifugal week. An every which way, every day sort of week. I'm told some people live for such weeks. People who love new, and change, and different. It keeps, I'm told, things interesting. I'm also told some people get bored.

I've never been bored.

Not once. Not ever.

No surprise, then, that I'm a bit wiped, and probably pretty twirly-eyed. But I can't help looking up and back and realizing just how much got done. How thrilling that is. How productive I feel. Even if I felt a little crazed along the way. I do love a dollop of productivity. Maybe herky-jerky is the key? (Please say no?)

 

 

But variety. Variety I can do. Take this broccoli. It's so not that broccoli. Indeed, it's unlike any of our ordinary broccoli. Our broccoli, I thought, was fairly diverse, flirting sometimes with sharp cheddar, sometimes with parmesan, and just to really push the envelope, sometimes with water buffalo. If you're like me, you probably see this for the wide, far-reaching range that it is. If you're like, well, everyone else, you might notice a subtle, discrete theme. (CHEESE!!!) I'm not complaining about this cheese rut, because cheese and crucifers are heady together. It's just that I didn't notice the rut. Didn't realize all we were missing. Past tense.

 

 

Borrowing this book from the library last month was the crowbar I needed to lever us out. Inside, I spotted an entry for one Broccoli Cashew Salad. It read well. It tasted leagues better.

Here's why: You blanche a fleet of broccoli in salted water until tender-crisp, and drain it until the drips cease. Meanwhile, you whisk up a sesame-deep, miso-rich vinaigrette, with rice vinegar for tang and soy for salt and if you're me, fresh ginger for zing. When the broccoli is dry but still warm and thirsty, you toss it with this heady sauce, gently, thoroughly, patiently, to encourage maximum sponging-up. To gild the lily, in goes a cup (a cup!) of roasted cashews, a good toss of sesame, and a fistful of scallions.

Think about that.

 

 

And yes, while you're at it, grab your fork.

You'll want it, and a biggish plate, too, to chow down on what results. It's meaty with broccoli and cashews, sharp with scallions, umami-awesome with miso. The sesame seeds wind up in the florets, winkling into secret spots, the way they do. It ripples with the faint, warm bite of ginger, which appears here and there like sunlight, like Spring. There is tender and crisp and savory and soft and crunch and sweet and all kinds of crazy. It is not your calming broccoli cheese. It's broccoli, every which way. Which, as it turns out, is a way I adore. At least where broccoli is concerned.

 

Gingered Sesame Broccoli + Cashews 
adapted from Choosing Sides, Tara Mataraza Desmond 

The ginger is my add, and I adore it; feel free to play with quantities, to suit. I grate mine on a Microplane, which yields juicy, fiber-free ginger pulp that distributes evenly. Though Mataraza Desmond names this a side dish, I count it a main, and happily. That said, it plays really well with slow-roasted salmon, and I keep imagining tiny, fried tofu cubes, tossed in.  I've no doubt it would flatter roasted chicken. Shrimp, too. A tangle of rice noodles wouldn't be wrong. 

Leftovers are almost better than originals. The cashews soften slightly, the broccoli goes a bit army, and the whole thing settles into itself. Ace. Also, I think this has summer picnic written all over it. 

2 pounds untrimmed broccoli
2 Tbs. miso (white or mild)
2 Tbs. rice vinegar
1 Tbs. toasted sesame oil
1 Tbs. soy sauce
2-4 tsp grated ginger
1 cup roasted, salted cashews, roughly chopped
1/4 cup toasted sesame seeds
1/2 cup chopped scallions (1 bunch), whites and pale greens
salt + pepper, to taste

Place a large pot of well-salted water on to boil. Trim ends and rough outer stalk from broccoli, then cut head into 1" florets, and slice stems to 1/2". When water comes to a roiling boil, blanche broccoli 4-8 minutes, until cooked to your liking. (The original recommends a just-cooked 2-3; I prefer a just-crisp 7-8). Drain broccoli in a strainer; let sit 10 minutes, while you prepare the embellishments.

While broccoli drains, mix the dressing. Whisk miso, rice vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil, and grated ginger in a small bowl, until thoroughly combined. Roughly chop cashews. Thinly slice scallions. Once broccoli has drained thoroughly but is still warm, 10-15 minutes, tip into a large bowl, pour dressing over, and combine gently, thoroughly with the miso dressing, tossing with wide spoon or your hands to fully incorporate. Add cashews, sesame seeds, and scallions, reserving a few of each for garnish, and toss again. Scatter remaining nuts, seeds and scallions over all. Serve immediately, warm, or at room temperature, or cold. It's all good.   

i make excuses

 

This past week, I made six pairs of pants. Maybe eight. I've lost count. Also, I ripped out the hems on five others. They were all too long, just last fall. By Christmas, too short. By February? Where's the flood? I learned early on to build BIG hems. Those fall pants fit again. For another twelve seconds.

Now, you and I know that no girl actually needs thirteen pairs of pants. Seven's sufficient. Nine, ample. Thirteen? Well. Call me Overboard. 

 

 

In my defense, she had oodles of lovely bright hand-me-down shirts and nothing to go with. (She is a girl. This is a thing.) Also, I suspect these may be the last pants I get to sew. Kindergarten will soon (eep!) be behind us, and with more years and more school, there's more longing to blend. I get that. I totally do. There's a fine line between making a child clothes, and inflicting them upon her. A good rule of thumb is to cease before hearing, Gosh, Mom, my pants match the curtains... 

Right now, we're on the right side of that equation. I fully intend to respect that.

 

 

But image isn't the only thing. This winding down is in part logistics. I realized on this last go that we're rapidly approaching the 1-yard threshold. This may not make sense to most of you. But if you sew? For kids? You know.

You know that the day you can no longer cut pants from a clean yard is as much a milestone as walking, talking, texting. Last weekend, the last of the tub toys quietly, unceremoniously left the bathroom. We all shower now. The rubber ducky days are over. A yard's insufficient. It is how it is. (Whoa.)

 

  

Patterns follow suit. I went to make a sundress from Heather Ross' Weekend Sewing recently, one I dog-eared years ago with every intention of making soon-soon, only to find I apparently was not soon-soon enough. The sundress topped out at 4T. I have a 6T. And just ordered seven pairs of size 18 jeans.

(I'm sorry, but who here authorized my 13-year-old to grow so tall, so fast? And could you please, like, clear it with me first?) 

 

 

So it goes when you forget to learn to sew until your littles are almost big. When burp cloths and stuffed balls are history. When baby blankets and bloomers and dear tiny fat-quarter things are already irrelevant.

So as my skills have exploded from bobbin-winding 101 to bi-pedal pants, I've begun searching for sewing needs. The odd doll (and a wardrobe). A pink polka-dotted giraffe. A woolly bunny with Liberty-lined ears. And lots and lots of pj's and pants. I make excuses, basically. 

 

 

I make excuses because sewing is something new, a skill, and new skills are good. I know this because whenever I sew, I feel stupid, at least half the time. The way I see it, complacency and stagnation are the two main enemies of age. It is hard to feel complacent and stagnant and 51% stupid, simultaneously.  

 

 

I do it, too, because sewing lets me practice problem-solving, first-hand. Problem-solving, as any parent knows, is one the main life lessons we teach. And I teach it impeccably. I dish wise advice. I rationally dissect the process. I smoothly review the steps and techniques. And lose it all instantly when I've attached the bag strap the wrong way round. For the third time. 

So sewing begets humility. At least for me. And empathy. And a keen awareness of my own innate talent for human error and seriously wrong pants. You've probably got these down cold. (Well, maybe not that last one.) Me, I need reminding. I need seam ripping. I need false starts, wrong thinking, false hubris, and dazed and confused unrelenting frustration. Sewing delivers. In spades. 

 

 

And then there's the fact that sewing's like this language I meant to learn, but never quite did. The sewing vein runs so deep in my genes, it's like I'm some second generation upstart who never bothered learning to read, or write, or even understand, the mother tongue. This ignorance, it gets old. Eventually, you want to know from button holes.  

 

 

Also: that crunch sewing scissors make as they slice through cotton? *Chwooosh*. That sound. Like the smell of fresh rain on warm Spring cement. But for your ears. (Never mind.)

 

 

Also, pants. The girl actually needs pants! She's still no fan of jeans. And leggings, which she likes, especially with dresses, are great for dress-days. But not every day's a dress day. Indeed, most days are anything but. The girl needs gear for what fills those days. Rock tumbling. Snow romping. Crayon painting. Clay rolling. Puzzle piecing. Flopping down on the floor and reading. Pretend feast-making with friends all morning. Wee wooden peg doll painting. (This book!!) Anything, everything, no-excuses pants. I'm all over that. Some excuses are better than others.

 

 

So it is with these chocolate chip cookies. Majority opinion in my house does not favor embellishments, additions, or modifications of any kind to our beloved house standard. Save the addition of ice cream in summer, these cookies sit somewhere between holy ground and sacrosanct. I get that, too. The purity thing. The don't-mess-with-perfection perspective. I feel the same way about mac and cheese. I would never add lobster or gorgonzola or broccoli to cozy pitch-perfect cheese and carb bliss.  

But chocolate chip cookies? Turns out I'm a traitor. And a repeat one, at that. And oh, I do hope that you are one, too. Because although I'm no ordinary chocolate chip cookie mucker-upper, I am in this case. This case is worthy. 

 

 

I made these first for a get-together, last summer, with lots of adults, and so, an excuse. It was nothing: a tumble of walnuts, a tip of nibs, this and that to interest things up. I hoped for a little texture, and got it. And a whole lot more, besides.

I'd forgotten just how much I love the way walnuts work with chocolate chip cookies. Their earthen sweet, their buttered snap, sit so well against the underlying butterscotch that is the backbone of the breed. They're comic relief to chocolate's weight, a soft mellow answer to sugar's shrill.  

 

 

Add to this a toss of nibs, those nubs of pure, roasty, unsweetened bean. Their bittersweet brings this gravitas, these little punctuation points along the eating. And their texture, that beguiling crunch, somehow tender and taut, all at once, interjects one more layer of happy. You wind up with this triumverate of crisp, walnut, nib, caramelized dough, variations on the theme of crunch, each grand; together, better. Meanwhile, the chocolate/sugar monologue is broken up, relieved by the walnut/nib newcomers. It's like adding a blaze orange Chesterfield to an all-blue room. A really swell break in routine. And if you ask me? Better than the original.

 

 

Since last summer, I've found at least a dozen excuses to make these cookies. (Bake sales! Block parties! Because!) And along the way, I've discovered two things. They are so addictive, so good, even my nut-averse children will eat them, all the while claiming they "like (chomp chomp) the other ones (crunch crunch) better."  And two, if you look hard enough? Excuses are out there, just waiting to be found. In fact, I think I just gave you one.  

 

Loaded Chocolate Chip Cookies w/ Cocoa Nibs + Walnuts
adapted from our beloved chocolate chip cookies
Yield: 3-4 dozen cookies (18-24 sandwiches)

We usually use standard Nestle chips, but last week, faced with a rare shortage, made these with one bag of Ghiradelli bittersweet chips and 1 1/2 cups of standard Nestle morsels. Amazing. The Ghiradelli were dark and big and wonderful; the smaller Nestle chips nestled in between. Highly recommended. Cocoa nibs are available at well-stocked grocers and online. We use whole wheat flour exclusively in our chocolate chip cookies, adoring its nutty flavor and texture. And, why, yes, that IS two teaspoons' salt, and twice the chocolate most cookies call for. Because that's how we roll. 

2 cubes + 2 tablespoons (9 oz.) salted butter, sliced
1 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup, packed, dark brown sugar 
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 egg
2 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
3 1/2 cups chocolate chips or chunks 
1 cup walnuts, roughly chopped
generous 1/2 cup cocoa nibs

Place two racks in center positions, and preheat oven to 350°.  Line two heavy baking sheets with parchment paper.

Cream butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and salt on medium speed, until thoroughly combined but not yet fluffy, about 2 minutes. Scrape sides, add egg, and mix, 30 seconds. Scrape sides, add vanilla, and mix, 30 seconds. Add flour, baking soda and baking powder, and mix on lowest speed, just until combined, 30 seconds. Add chocolate chips, walnuts and nibs, and mix 10-20 seconds, until just combined. Finish incorporating by hand, if needed.

Scoop dough into 1" balls, and arrange them 10 to a tray, staggering them in rows of 3, 2, 3, 2.  Flatten each ball slightly with a damp hand, to half an inch in height, then bake for ten minutes. Remove trays from oven, rap sharply against stove or countertop several times to release air, reverse trays (front to back, and top to bottom), and return to oven for another 3-4 minutes. Cookies are finished when gloss is just gone, edges are slightly darkened, and centers are just set. Cookies will continue to bake and firm as they cool. Remove cookies from oven, allow to cool on trays 10-15 minutes, then remove to racks to cool completely, 30 minutes or so. 

that i can do

I suppose I should have retired my Bernina after the run-away train episode. 

Episode's not quite right. Phase. Phase is better. Because when my machine chose to take off; to free-associate foot pressure from sewing speed; to accelerate double-, triple-, quintuple-time, even as I removed foot entirely from treadle; it wasn't an event. It was a habit. An on-again, off-again habit. But a habit all the same. And a bad one.

 

 

Still, I hung on because this manic side was occasional, erratic. I'd no sooner come thisclose to affixing pointer finger to thumb with hot pink straight stitch, than my machine would come to, perk up and fly right, stitch speed matching pedal pressure, inch-for-ounce. This would reassure me no end, and I'd know! RAHRAH!!, that our troubled times were behind us!!!

Eventually, I learned RAHRAH!! was code for *WOOoo-wooOOOO!*, a.k.a., a runaway (Bernina) train's whistle. But only after nearly crazy-quilting my right hand. I'm slow that way. Or stubborn. Both.

 

 

This habit developed not long after the backstitch boycott that landed my lovely in the shop. Twice. Where they told me, stone-cold and straight-up, that machines like mine were only owned by ancient liquour-swilling polyester-panted land-ladies. That no one else could service such a dinosaur. I might as well bring my slingshot to knife shop and ask them to pretty-please sharpen the thing.

And those were only The Big Problems.

 

 

When it doesn't bolt like a Greyhound, it ambles. Slow. Soooo sloooow. Whenever I haven't sat down to sew in, say, a day, which is every time I sit down to sew, it balks. Creaks. Barely turns over. A-chugga, a-chugga, a-chhhuuuug-a. Like a car with it's e-brake still fully engaged. Like a two-year-old in search of The Rock. 

The backstitch, which eventually did kick back in, several months after the two failed repairs, invariably fails, again. For a week. For a month. Anyone's guess. 

 

 

And sometimes, hems are just too much. Particularly that place where the cuff's double-fold meets the side seam's same. Where four layers of fabric conspire into something more thick than thin, more mountain than plain. Sometimes, if I get up enough speed, give a running start, and encouraging words, she powers through, Little Engine-style. Often, she just groans. 

(It's not like I'm attempting brocade. We're talking quilting cottons here, people.)

 

 

The presser foot's rusty. The cord rubber's a bit sticky. The plug-in's wires are all exposed. There are no screens, LEDs, or computerized brains to diagnose its ailments.  

I should mention, here, that my mom sent a brand shiny new sewing machine, last fall. She's good that way, the person to whom I can text brief cryptic sewing SOSes, like "Blue silk. Five yards? Curtains!", or "Twenty yards elastic. ASAP!" I feel very lucky to have such a resource. We all need people like this in our lives. People who see that our windows are dressed. Who make sure our PJ's stay put. 

 

 

She's also a dyed-in-the-wool, ardent, old-school, raving all-metal Bernina fan. But she'd used Miss Runaway Train, last Christmas. She'd met the monster. Seen the wall-writing. So she made provisions. I'm ever so grateful. I'm also leaving the understudy in situ, for now. In the box. In the wings. Until I'm truly in need. 

 

 

Because, see, my Bernina—and gosh, she really needs a name. Bernice? Clementine? Hildegaard?—has character, and heft, and history, and this I love. According to the manual that came with the machine, it was purchased new by one Mrs. Frank Harbert, back when women still went by "Mrs. (Man's Name)". The delivery date was November 22, 1970, not quite two years earlier than my own. I like this about it. We're almost the same age. 

I also like that Mrs. Frank took delivery in Roswell, New Mexico. Perhaps, my Bernina spent its formative years churning out top-secret tents for alien hunters. Or helium-weather balloon mock-ups. Or eerie white masks with two pointy ovoids and one slender black slit, where a mouth might sit. Perhaps. Probably. Prove me wrong.

 

 

(I know, I know, the whole thing's been de-bunked. But—get this—the manual includes a sticker for a repair shop in California.

Mars Sewing Center.

Coincidence?

(I think not.)

 

 

So yes, her color scheme's drab dirty-putty, with accents in faded army-green. And true, the design is deeply post-war, all rounded-off rectangle meets airplane-wing. And indeed, the thing must weigh twenty-five pounds. And only if it's inhaling. Hard. Works for me.

Maybe it's the nostalgia factor. It's the machine, after all, on which I learned to sew, well past when one should learn such things. So I'm sentimental. Or a luddite. Or both. A sentimental stubborn slow luddite. Sounds about right.  

 

 

Maybe it's that there are no screens, LEDs, or computerized brains to diagnose its ailments. We've had three out of three three-year-old appliances fail in some big way, this year. (I couldn't bear to mention the refrigerator.) I like heavy metal. I love analog. (Also, any manual that instructs me "how not to hold the scissors".)

Maybe, I hope we don't all nick points for old, faded, temperamental, cranky and arthritic. Because maybe, that's me, too. 

  

 

Or maybe, I just like the idea that if we keep showing up, even after poor last performances, even in the face of uncertain outcomes, good things will (eventually) happen. As I left the repair shop that second, last time, I kept pressing for something, anything I could do to keep my Bernina limping along. "Just, USE it," they said. "Use it??" I blinked. "Use it. Machines need regular use. It keeps them running smoothly."

This was like going to the doctor with foot pain and leaving with orders to "eat more dessert". Sew more, I thought. Now that I can do.

 

 

And I have. Not often. Months still go by. But patiently, hopefully, attentively. I've learned its quirks, and work-arounds. I now know she can manage those lumpity hems if I lift the foot slightly, give a wee noodge. I'm pretty sure this is cheating. Verboten. I'm also sure it's what keeps her ticking. I've learned that that little doo-hickey dial that sits within the big doo-hickey dial can fix, sometimes, the backstitch problem. And sometimes, also, the slooow start speed. I have no idea why. But sometimes it does. Sometimes, not. I'll take sometimes. 

I'll also take what I can get in the fresh department, right now. These are the dark ages of produce in these parts, when Spring is a solid two months off, when fresh is but a fantasy. As with my machine, I've accumulated a list of tricks and crutches to get us through, one of my most favorite being regular trips to the Asian market. There, in old battered refrigerator cases, under the unflattering glare of bad neon, there is always a stunning array of glossy, cheap, gorgeous fresh herbs and greens. Even in February. Even in March. So when Henry asked, recently, longingly, after "that basil pork that you only make during summer? Please?? It's my favorite food. Ever." I totally obliged. 

 

 

We've been making this quick happy-bomb for years, ever since I picked up Sara Deseran's gem, Asian Vegetables. It's a fifteen-minute, almost-pantry affair, assuming a pound of ground pork and basil heap. Loads of garlic, a smart splash of fish sauce, soy and sugar smidges, chili to taste, are the long and short of the seasonings, and all that is needed to make the meat swagger. But what sets it apart, what makes it sparkle, is the thrilling fistfuls of Thai basil, added at the end. Purple-stemmed, narrow-leafed thai basil is sweeter, and to my tongue, more licorice-twinged than its Italian cousin. It's a lovely leaf, excellent raw in salads, or aswim in curries, or barely wilted, as here. It's a-buck-a-bag at the Asian market. I buy three. It's a screaming deal.

 

 

As is this bowl, below. Because what you wind up with is this powerfully savory, umami-packed, basil-strewn rubble of pork. It's salty and meaty and warming but bright, the rich cut with those brilliant sweet emerald leaves. Indeed, it's the first leaf Henry ever liked, reason alone to love it. (Amen.) Me, I love the little-goes-a-long-way angle, the way a pound makes a feast of one pot of rice, plus golden tofu, edamame, bok this way or that. And though Henry remembers this a summer dish, no doubt owing to the homegrown-basil batch we make each July, it is in fact, now, when I make it most. When the cold carries on. When green is rare; fresh, precious. When (yet) another storm is bearing down. These are the days, these are the dishes, to which I can say: Now, that I can do. 

 

Thai Basil Pork
adapted from Asian Vegetables, by Sara Deseran

Deseran calls for chicken thighs, finely chopped, and 3 tablespoons of oil. We use ground pork, which contains more fat (and flavor), and so cut back on the initial oil. Choose what suits. The original also includes 1 1/2 teaspoons minced fresh chili, which we omit, for our small not-so-spicy palates. Feel free to amp up the heat, as desired.

Deseran officially calls for one cup of basil, but confesses in the headnote she usually adds double. Two is our default; we often use three. They wilt into nothingness, in the heat, and add immeasurable sweetness and flavor. Thai basil is widely available at Asian grocery stores (assume one cup per package); some well-stocked groceries (hello, Central Markets!);  and grows well in any garden that suits traditional Genovese basil. 

1 Tbs. peanut or canola oil
2 Tbs. finely chopped garlic
1 pound ground pork or chicken thighs (see note above)
3 Tbs. fish sauce
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tsp brown sugar
2 dried Thai red chilis
2-3 cups Thai sweet (purple) basil leaves

Measure fish sauce, soy sauce, and sugar into a small bowl, and set aside. Strip basil leaves from stems. Have everything else chopped, cleaned, and ready. Start to finish, this is an 8-minute dish.

Heat a wok until smoking over high heat, then add the oil, followed immediatley by the minced garlic. Stir garlic continuously for 15 seconds, then add the pork and chilis, stirring immediately to incorporate the garlic. After the initial stir, let pork sit 2-3 minutes to caramelize slightly. Stir pork to re-distribute, then let sit another 2 minutes, or until no longer pink. Give sauce/sugar bowl a quick stir, then add to the pork, and stir to combine. Cook another 2 minutes, stirring regularly, until sauces concentrate into a sticky slick, and pork is cooked through. 

Remove from heat, and add the basil, tossing them through for a minute or so. The residual heat will just wilt the leaves, and retain their bright sweet. When the leaves have all wilted and gone glossy and emerald, 30-60 seconds, tip over rice, and inhale.