remedial eating

a little patch

 

Strangest thing. I just looked at the calendar and it claims it's July. So weird. It was just June, I swear. In fact, I'm fairly certain we have one or two walls that still boast May. Is this what it is to be 42? Or summer? Or alive?

All of the above, then. Fair enough. 

Hello.

How are you?

What month is it where you are? 

 

 

We are in that weird, wobbly, post-trip place, having flung ourselves to Seattle and back since last we spoke. It was good, and great, and exhausting, and wonderful, and never enough, and always plenty. And if the above and below look rather thin on the oceans-and-mountains, well. In mid-June, I plunked our week's work into this space, pending only words. Sure I'd wrap up before we skipped town. Or on the plane. Or while we were away. 

Wanna hear another good one?

 

 

My own Ju-nu-ly memories are twinkling with bright lights, the way very long stretches do. A list, then, today, of some of those lovelies that rise above the sticky floors and stealth dust bunnies:

:: Meghan Cox Gurdon's perfect piece from last week's WSJ, "The Great Gift of Reading Aloud". (No link, as it takes you to a subscribers-only page, but Google "Wall Street Journal Read Aloud", and you're IN.) Gurdon captures why I make time to read-aloud, even on the latest nights, at the end of the longest days. And over breakfast, and mid-morning, and in every nook and cranny I can find. Even to my strong, stand-alone, independent readers. Because when we share a story, as Kate DiCamillo so exactly says, “We exist together in a little patch of warmth and light.”

A huge thanks to my friend Erikka for the link. Made my day. 

 

 

:: Speaking of which, we just finished The League of Beastly Dreadfuls. Have you read it? Did you like it? We mostly did, and a little bit didn't. Plenty of offbeat humor, gothic detail, and enough oddball plot to keep up a rollicking clip. But much was undertaken at the outset, and it's hard to tie all those loose ends elegantly up. Still, I kind of can't wait for the sequel. 

:: Two books that had my 10 year old reading up past 1 a.m., this week: The Night Gardener and The Worst Class Trip Ever. (I'm not recommending that your 10 year old read past 1 a.m. Or, for that matter, mine. Just, you know, saying.) And before that: Pip Bartlett's Guide to Magical Creatures.  

:: And not one to be left out: keeping my 7-year-old up well past bedtime of late: Escape from Mr. Lemoncello's Library. (See disclosure, above.)

 

 

:: Meanwhile, I just finished A Separate Peace, which I'd somehow never read, until now. I'm still strugggling a bit with the title, having always believed it to be an "i", not an "a". But even as I come to terms with the knowledge that there's no special lego piece, no distinct slice of carrot cake, I'm basking in the afterglow of Knowles' thrumming story and exquisite, finely turned prose.  

(Related: when your kids age out of read-alouds, because try as you might they eventually do, at least you can still side-by-side their assigned summer reading. Next up: Fahrenheit 451.) 

:: I'm now in the middle of the second Flavia (!!!), a series I'm forcing myself to space and savor. No small feat, the spacing. But the savoring's a long-drawn-out slam-dunk. 

 

 

:: Every summer, we try to do the new: new field trips, new restaurants, new skills. I've a crew of same-loving homebodies (hmmm...), so summer's our chance to bust out tiptoe toward change. On their end, among other things, we've been on a pom-pom bender, inspired by the sweet, addictive Pom-Poms! (It's about those hedgehogs...)

:: On my end, this means finally firing up Instagram (@remedialeating). Yo. 

 

 

:: On screen, I believed the detractors who didn't love The Secret World of Arriety when it hit the big screen. My bad. Mary Norton's The Borrowers, brought to life in Miyazaki's signature, splendid detail? Delicious magic. 

:: Then again, I'm totally with the critics on Inside Out (she said, to the three people who haven't yet seen it.) High five, Pixar.

:: I've not watched a movie on an airplane in, maybe, ever? At least in 15 years. Travelling with kids, you know. But I caught most of Spare Parts on our return trip, and WOW.  

 

 

:: I'm reminded, whenever we're back in Seattle, of all the little, local, independent gems. Should you find yourself there, some must-stops that rank high on our list, every time: Blue Highway Games, on Queen Anne, for the most extraordinary collection of games and puzzles, anywhere, plus unwaveringly awesome staff :: Bad Woman Yarn, in Wallingford Center, where I was too paralyzed by the glory to buy myself a single skein. Stunning. :: Third Place Books, in Lake Forest Park (and Ravenna), with its expertly curated, vast selection of new and used books; its brilliant sidelines; and the adjoining Honey Bear Bakery. The latter's Coconut Layer Cake is worth the drive. Worth the cross-country flight, actually. :: Nancy's Sewing Basket on Queen Anne, a longstanding jewel of an indie fabric store, with gorgeous couturier fabrics, Japanese cottons, and more buttons and ribbons than twelve lifetimes could hold. (If you stop by, say "hulloo!" to my mom, who can sometimes be found staffing the ribbon room!) :: And of course, Trophy Cupcakes and Cafe Besalu. Beyond mention. Almost.  

 

 

:: This post, by Sarah. Don't skip the poem. Every post by Sarah, really. (Never skip the poem.) Lose yourself to the archives for two hours, and you'll not have wasted a moment. Also, I want those cookies. 

:: Stir. This book. You want to read this. And once read, you'll want copies in every friend's hand. To call Jess' book a memoir with recipes is to call Wendell Barry a farmer with jottings. More than anything, Stir is a manual in how to live, and love, and learn, and yes, eat. And how to take a life-threatening brain aneurysm at 28, and wrest from it grace, insight, cookies and wit. I suspect I'll have more to say about this (I'm looking at you, seared salmon and Hi-Rise macaroons!) But for now, just know Stir's among the best books I've read. Period. Congratulations, Jess.  

 

 

:: Seven Spoons. To fans of Tara's long-running, stunning site, Seven Spoons' glory is no surprise. But oh, what a gift it is, to have and to hold, in our hands. Each thick ivory page rings clear with the quiet beauty, merry prose, and pitch-perfect, true dishes that are Tara's heart-swelling signature. I myself have bookmarked her glazed sesame oats (p.51), chocolate zucchini olive oil bread (p.57), pakora (p.131), everyday yellow dal (p.155), and soused tomatoes (p.193). And obviously, her Dog in a Bog (p.157). But first, her hummus with white miso (!) and embellishments (!!!!) (p.112). A gem of a cookbook, through and through.

:: I think I've made Lecia's salad, which is really Erin's salad, at least ten times. Maybe more. So good.

:: This salad isn't that salad. Or from any of the aforementioned books. Or blogs. Or anything Proper or Official. Between Seattle and summer and an interesting experiment in having each child cook one dinner each week, there's been very little Proper Official Cooking. But there has been this salad, which is Wonderful Eating, which is all I ever want, anyway.

I tossed it together on a lark the day after we returned, following the traditional post-trip refrigerator purge-and-scour. I rewarded my morning's efforts with a grocery run to re-stock the barren box with my wildest dreams: two bunches of kale, beets, celery, arugula, peppers, cukes, tomatoes, apples, peaches, plums. Stuff like that. (After travelling, I generally want ALLTHEVEGETABLES, for days, because, well, see Besalu and Trophy, above.)  

It's that kind of salad, supermarket-staple stuff, arugula, tomato, corn, avocado, almonds. And I love it for that, it's ease, it's unthinking. Which isn't to say it isn't immeasurably improved by high summer fare, foraged from your backyard, or close to it. Local corn so sweet it smells still of silk, and begs to be eaten crisp and raw. Tomatoes not only red, but ripe, tasting of the season's unremitting sun. These two powerhouses team up in the tangle of peppery leaves, creamy jade cubes, and almonds' inimitable crunch, to make a little edible patch of happy in the midst of the hullabaloo. I'm hooked. I'm also out of arugula. Maybe I'll score more by August-ember.

 

Arugula, Corn, Tomato + Avocado Salad
hearty lunch for 2; side salads for 4

4 generous cups arugula
1 heaping cup cherry tomatoes, halved (or 1 large summer beefsteak, chopped)
1 small avocado, diced
1 large, juicy ear of summer corn
1/2 red pepper, chopped (optional)
1/3 cup almonds, chopped
+ oil + vinegar + salt

In a wide, shallow salad bowl, stand corn ear on end, then shave kernels directly into bowl. Break up any big bits with your fingers. Add arugula, chopped tomatoes, chopped peppers (if using), and the avocado and almonds. Drizzle 3-4 Tbs. of your house vinaigrette (or if you're me, a broken vinaigrette: plenty of sherry vinegar, a gloss of olive oil, and plenty of fleur de sel, all asunder) over all. Toss gently, thoroughly to coat. Test for seasoning, and devour. 

hello, green

 

Walking into the kitchen for water, just now, I catch a squirrel red-handed. Seedy-pawed? Whatever. Guilty as sin. And he knows it.

He's finally, after days of trying, knocked the birdseed ball from our crabapple. And he isn't shy. And he does not dawdle. His jaws and paws are working at something like light-speed, simultaneously breaking up the dense ball, ferrying the goods to his mouth, and stuffing both cheeks to bursting, besides. He's a blur of fur and seeds and suet.

 

 

He looks, for all the world, like my firstborn, on his first birthday, faced with his first chocolate cake. Alternately dazzled at his good fortune, and sure it will vanish as quickly as it came. Navigating these impossible poles by inhaling the manna, by the fistful.

I should shoo him away. (The squirrel, that is. The son's a goner, in the chocolate department.) Return what's left to the tree, for the birds.

I don't.

I can't.

 

 

I can't muster much grudge against any animal, living outside, in this weather. Though today is, in fact, almost balmy. Warm enough that I cleaned my car, on impulse. Warm enough that fluffy white flakes are falling, as I type. The sort the skies can only manage when the mercury bobbles about around freezing. So unlike the hard tiny grains that fell last Tuesday and cancelled school. The sort the skies couldn't cough up at all, last Thursday, when with wind chill, it hit twenty-two below.

All yours, buddy, I think. 

 

 

 

This picture, in other words, bears pretty much no resemblance to our days, right now.

Nor does the next one. Nor does anything that follows. 

 

 

Ferns and pines and fleece feel about as near to me, now, as saber tooths and togas. Ancient. Remote. Theoretical.

Never mind that we were ensconced on Seattle soil, not even two weeks ago.

 

 

Holidays and endings and plane travel are each so funny, that way. The way they stretch time. As if it's elastic. Or old-fahsioned taffy. Or one big funhouse mirror, ridiculously tall here, hilariously squat there. As if time is fluid, instead of fixed, a variable instead of a constant.

And maybe it is. Maybe that's the very reason we have holidays, endings, airplanes. To pause time, interrupt the inevitable. Isolate odd moments from the masses.

 

 

Maybe holidays and endings and airplanes really do distort time, exert their own gravity. Einstein in action. Physics 101. Relativity, for reals. How else to explain the vast chasm that's opened up between now and two weeks ago?

(Well, besides serious sleep deprivation. And the fact that I never took Physics. And the reality that today's the first day since before Thanksgiving that all three kids are in school. Before Thanksgiving. On the same day. Yup. That would do it.)

 

 

It was such a good trip.

Even if it's all ancient history.
 

 

What I do remember, what I can tell you, with absolute certainty, is this: that we swallowed whole the pewter skies. Inhaled the briny winds. Drank up the moss-air. Filled our eyes and minds and hearts with the one thousand greens that blanket the Northwest.

The place is like an old black and white print, all one color, endless variations. (Much like space-time, I consider green-brown one big color, on the continuum.) I once read that professional artists possess more greens than every other color, combined. Because green is so abundant, and vast. Because nature's so nuanced, on the subject of green. I suspect the author hailed from the Northwest.

 

 

I didn't know, when it was my everyday, how vital it is for me, this green. How my heart seems to beat to the tempo of green. How, somehow, it became my soul food. Even the banal, bedhead-y sword ferns. Even the unkempt Douglas firs. Even the ragamuffin jade lichen. Especially the lichen. Especially the whole lot. I kept leaving the house, and looking up, and greeting all that irrepressible green with a small, silent happy dance. The lungs seem to grow a little larger, gulp deeper, in that chlorophyll-filled atmosphere. That damp-dank air is my oxygen. I am sated. And probably mildewed.

 

 

My soul's sated, anyway. My belly's another question.  

My December diet's pretty much cookies, and I pretty much love it that way. It works out beautifully, make-sample-bake, and every year I resurrect the tradition. It naturally fades out, right after Christmas, when I plunder the produce aisles with abandon. Like clockwork, come Boxing Day, my appetite takes a fierce turn toward green. And I indulge. Mightily.
 

 

Except this year, we were traveling over Christmas, eating holiday meals well into the New Year. I don't regret a one of them, not the Dick's cheeseburger, nor the Larsen's Kringle, nor the excellent excess of Northwest cheeses.

But man, I sure did miss me my green.
 

 

And then, once we landed, that "first week back at school"? The week when that 50-pound suitcase sat open, erupted, in the middle of our living room? That week when I went mano-a-mano with the epic dust bunnies that had colonized our corners, whilst away? (I tried vacuuming them. No go. Even the Dyson balked. We're talking Ice Age epic.) The week with two snow days? And kids sick the other three? Vegetables happened. But only just barely.

I was famished.

 

 

 

Hungry, I knew. Famished, I didn't realize until I was flipping through a baking book, late last week, perusing, as I often do, and hit this wall where I couldn't flip further. 

Could.

Not.

Tried.

Couldn't.

 

 

I stood staring at the same flour-and-sugar whatever for a good five-minutes, before I realized I was whooped. Burned out. So done with the sweets.

I am told some people resolve to "eat healthy", whatever that means, in the New Year. Not so much me. I've belatedly learned to love resolutions; it's just that mine aren't so halo-shiny. (Excerpts from 2015 Resolutions: Watch more TV. Play more games. Knit a Maude. Sleep lots. You get the drift.) I couldn't define it, let alone do it.

 

 

Which is why, when I realized my baking malaise, and just as quickly, the anecdote (Shelve the bakers! Bring on the cooks!), I pored over Italian and Indian and Spanish and Japanese cookbooks with a vengeance. Indiscriminitely. Hungrily. Excitedly. Absolutely everything sounded good. Dal! Minestrone! Salad! Beans! Old socks with ceasar dressing!!! Anything and everything not-sweet. 

By evening's end, I had huge plans to cook every last kebab/stew/salad/tagine/savory I'd laid eyes on. And eat it all. Immediately.

 

 

Then, Wednesday morning, I woke up to this, compliments of David Tanis, and dropped all aforementioned intentions to whip up a pot, pretty much instantly.

Hello, green. Hello, savory. Hello, soup. Hello, happy.

 

 

This soup is similar, in principle, to our beloved 5-ingredient (salt and water included) potato leek. This one, though, has more leek, less potato, meaning more sweet, less stodge. There's a genius hit of fresh nutmeg, which is warming and subtle and absolutely brilliant. Also, and you probably didn't catch this, there's a bit of spinach. Blended right in. A 10-ounce bit, if you're Tanis. A 16-ounce bit, if you're me. Either way, a big enough bit that the whole thing goes silky and faintly mineralled and beautifully, beautifully spinach-sweet.

Beautiful, anyway, in the eye of this beholder. My kids' eyes saw different adjectives.

 

 

I made my first vat for lunch, on a day when Zoë was home sick. When she saw the bowl I set before her, she despaired. More than a little. I explained it was our old favorite potato-leek soup. But better! She was, as we say in polite company, "dubious".

The bowl was empty, ten minutes later.

 

 

When Henry came home from school, a few hours later, he immediately zoomed to the stove, to investigate. He's always game for hot soup as afterschool snack (LOVE that in a kid), and so peered eagerly into the pot. He is also the most expressive person I know. His face went from hope-filled to outright-devastated, faster than you can say "soup". Like I'd offended him.

Things went downhill from there, when Zoë "helpfully" explained, in the way of small siblings everywhere, that what he was scowling at was, in fact, his favorite potato soup, plus spinach! Out with offended. In with betrayed.

 

 

But then, bless her heart, she added, "But Henry! It only looks green! It tastes just like potato soup!" (Love THAT in a kid!) Whereupon he dared a small taste. Whereupon he proceeded to eat three bowls. Each topped with silvery sardines. And declared it just about the best thing ever.

(You could argue he was just freezing; fair. You could argue he was famished; likely. You can't argue the fact that, not three hours later, all warm and cozy and arguably barely hungry, he downed another three bowls for supper. Topped with smoked mackerel. To, you know, shake things up.)

 

 

Actions speak louder than words and all that, and I can't really top six bowls of action. I would only add, though, that the glory of this soup (in addition to being cheap, stupid-simple, rejuvenating, warming, comforting, and delicious), is in the wide band of toppings it welcomes. Henry's addition of smoked fish is grand, especially augmented by crisp sweet corn. A generous knob of cold butter, set atop the hot soup, is very nice also. As is a heap of ribboned chard, flash-fried in coconut oil and ginger. An Indian-style tarka would be wonderful: ghee, chili, coriander, cumin. Brown rice or quinoa plus toasted nuts: ditto. Bacon! Definitely.

But my favorite combination, the one you see here, is this: generous lashings of whole milk yogurt, toasted coconut flakes, and still more nutmeg. Crunchy, creamy, hot, cold, sweet, oxalic, easy, excellent. Hello, green. Hello, happy. 
 

Swamp Soup (A Soup of Spinach, Leek + Nutmeg)
adapted from David Tanis, The New York Times

I used 4 immense leeks, a fat 1" across, with at least 10 edible inches of stalk. Use the 6 called for below if yours are more moderate in scale. Water is perfectly fine here, and my default, though of course you may enhance with stock, if desired. I love cream in soup, but here, prefer the distinct pop and wallop of drizzling it over, vs. stirring it in. Add cream wherever suits.

Finally, this soup will go from emerald to army green, in fairly short order. It tastes divine in both shades, but a heads-up. So it is with green soups.

4 Tbs. salted butter
6 medium leeks
2 tsp. kosher salt + freshly ground pepper
2 medium potatoes (8 oz.), peeled
16 oz. spinach (fresh or frozen)
8 cups water, chicken stock, or vegetable broth
1 1/2 tsp. nutmeg, freshly grated
1/2 cup cream (optional)

Prepare veg: Trim roots and stiff, dark green ends from leeks (leaving as much of the pale green as is tender). Slice leeks in half, lengthwise, then run under brisk water, fanning leek layers like magazine pages, to remove any reclusive sand. Once clean, slice leeks cross-wise into 1" chunks. Peel potatoes, and cut into 1/2" slices.

In a medium stock pot, melt butter over medium heat. Add leeks and salt, toss to coat with butter, and cook until wilted and transparent but not brown, stirring occasionally, 10 minutes. Add potatoes and water, bring to a strong simmer, then reduce heat to low. Simmer gently for 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender (a knife pierces a thick potato piece easily). Add nutmeg and spinach (still frozen, if from the freezer; in batches, allowing to wilt in between, if using fresh), and allow soup to return to a burble, 2-3 minutes. Carefully, blend soup thoroughly, 2-3 minutes, until smooth and creamy. I do this with a stick blender, directly in the pot, my favorite method. Soup can also be blended in a stand blender, in three batches, with stem vent ajar, to prevent blow-outs. Return to pot (if appropriate), and taste; adjust seasoning, to suit. You will likely want more salt at this point, and if you're me, more nutmeg.

Choose toppings from the list below (or your pantry), embellish decadently, and enjoy.

Toppings
This soup is all about the add-ons. Following are some combinations we've tried and loved, and others I can't wait to give a go:

**smoked trout + corn kernels
**toasted coconut flakes (unsweetened) + whole milk yogurt + additional nutmeg
**coconut cream + chopped salted almonds
**ginger + ground coriander + greens barely sizzled in coconut oil
**ghee + chili + coriander + cumin + ginger + cardamom
**knob of cold butter
**crème fraîche
**bacon

what i mean when

 

I forgot to mention, on the subject of looking forward, this one other thing.

 

 

The earth's edge.

 

A place where summer equals long sleeves, a slicker and fleece, and not for decoration, either.  

A city where, days later, 90° qualifies as a "SUMMER HEAT WAVE BLASTING THROUGH!"  Without a shred of irony.    

 

A landscape, lit from within.  The wild, raw pageantry of the Pacific.  Greyscale skies.  The forest electric.  All that reckless, rampant green.  This, this is what I mean when I say home.  

We are here, now, and for a few days more.  And I'm off again, to go drink up the last drops.

Back soon.

xo,
Molly

chock-a-block

Don't believe a pixel of it.

Those masts have approximately nothing to do with our lives, at present.

 

 

Nor does the Virginia V.  Nor the salmon fry.  Nor Gasworks at sunset.  

Ditto the next however many.

 

 

Our actual days are buzzing with all that back to school brings.  Did I mention that classes have begun?  That we've already completed Week One? Will soon begin Week Three?  These August start dates still catch me off guard, raised as I was on a post-Labor Day academic year.  

Still, it feels good, on this holiday weekend, to have a foothold in the new year.  

 

We've spent these past weeks re-orienting ourselves to the weekday/weekend division.  Re-acquainting ourselves with our alarm clocks.  Adjusting to new schools, schedules, routines, rigamarole.  Re-learning how to make and gobble pancakes before eight.  And ideally, acquire lunches, clothes, tied tennies, along the way.  Remembering to brush what needs brushing.  

(Extra credit for keeping hair and tooth brushes straight.)  

Our evenings are thick with meetings.  Our afternoons, field studies in de-compression.  The calendar is suddenly as dense with graffiti as a Seattle NO PARKING sign.  Though what it shares in over-crowding, it lacks in character. I'm considering switching up my chicken scratches to pictograms.      

Homework is still mostly on the horizon, but it won't be long now.  Wish us all luck.  

We have gone through the annual fall shoe Q&A, which always seems more like a comedy routine:

"How do your shoes feel?"

"Fine, fine.  Just great.  Fine."

"But you've had them a year.  Shall we measure, just for kicks?" ... "Would you look at that!  Two sizes too small!  Are these (elevens-twos-eights) any better?"

"Yup.  Fine.  Just great.  Fine."

I'm grateful, to be sure, to have dodged those skipped sizes.  Still and all, I think I'd be feeling somewhat pinched in the toes.  Then again, maybe I'm just overly sensitive.

Cubbies have been cleared.  Dressers, exhumed.  Counters buried in paperwork, more times than I can count.  Entire Saturday evenings have been given over to excavation.  Another one (or three) evenings are still owed. The piles remain fierce.  And deeply unkempt.  And so it is that these last Seattle snaps will have to do.

For while I haven't seen a seaplane in weeks, haven't walked Lake Union since mid-August, haven't had a kayak invade my frame in recent memory, they're all more appealing than untamed forms and folders.  Besides, Suzzallo got me off on the right school foot more than once.  I see no reason not to let it work its magic, once more, settling a little calm over our chock-a-block days.

They'll settle down, soon enough.  This salad will not.  It's full-to-bursting by design, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

This is what we, here, call Chop Chop Salad, a name I almost hesitate to drop. Does "chop" preceding "salad" make your spine shudder, instinctively, severely, the way it does mine?  Chopped salads sort of swept the restaurant scene, ca. 1988, and settled in for the long, lackluster haul.  As a rule, I avoid them all.  (The restaurants and the salads, alike.)  But once upon a time, before kids, before degrees, we would on occasion patronize a hip new Italian eatery.  It was a wildly edgy, progressive affair, the sort of place that prefixed pizza with "goat cheese", mushrooms with "wild", and garlic bread with "whole roasted".  

Remember when Wolfgang Puck was a California chef?  

Remember when Justin Bieber was, like, not even born?

Anyhoo.  Said spot made one knock-out chopped salad, a bright, vivid number I could eat by the vat.  It was equal parts greens and "bits", a knife-and-fork affair if ever there was one.  It was salad as meal, and meal as salad, every flavor and texture wrapped up in one bowl.  It was the first chopped salad I'd ever encountered, and the last one I ever enjoyed.  Within months, we began making it at home*.  We've never stopped.  It's some salad.  

The bits themselves are a jolly assortment of sweet red veg—soft ripe tomatoes, crisp peppers—and protein in all its many guises.  There is diced provolone, sharp and beguiling, plus tender chickpeas, nutty, earthy, toothsome.  Sometimes, there's leftover roast chicken; sometimes, honey-roasted turkey; sometimes neither, pictured here.  The white meat is nice, but optional; I never miss it when it's gone.  The salami is otherwise, excellent, essential, a rich deep confetti, threaded throughout.  

You might imagine all these bits are the best part, an antipasto party in a bowl. You would be close.  Also, wrong.  Because the greens are something special, here.  Half the roughage is ordinary lettuce, albeit uncompromisingly crisp. Romaine hearts are nice.  Iceberg will do.  Right now, a fresh local fall [fill-in-the-blank] head is grand.  It just must be crisp, crisper than crisp, in order to stand up to those bits and that basil.   

About that basil.  Basil comprises the rest of said greens, a full 3-4 cups of loose, fresh leaves.  Like the lettuce, the basil's chopped into fork-worthy slivers, and tossed willy-nilly right into the bowl.  Imagine.  Basil as salad green.  Rubbing shoulders with tomatoes, chickpeas, salami, peppers, cheese. It's a little like a caprese, gone berserk. Berserk in the very best possible way. And finally, sensibly, tamed to the fork.  

The whole mess is tossed with a straight-up vinaigrette of red wine vinegar, olive oil, plenty of S and P.  The end result is a salad of stunning contrasts, sweet, tender, piquant, winy, crisp, fragrant, bright.  Every bite has a bit of the party about it, merry veg, vivid greens, some fantastic tidbit.  It gives chock-a-block a very good name.  Must remember that as I sort through the stacks ...   

Our Chop Chop Salad
inspired by Cucina! Cucina!, ca. 1990

*Not until tonight did I ever think to look up the recipe for this salad's ancestor. It seems my version, evolved over years, veers sharply from the original, in everything from greens to dressing.  Who knew?  More to the point, who cares? These proportions, these ingredients, listed below, will forever be to me Chop Chop Salad.  Heretofore amended, "Our..."   

No one does tinned chickpeas better than Goya.  As to cheese, I love provolone, here, but any sharp white number (manchego, romano, smoked mozzarella) works well.  

3-4 cups crisp salad greens (romaine, iceberg, local fresh crisp lettuce), washed, well-dried, and chopped into 1" bits
3-4 cups fresh basil, washed, well dried, and chopped into 1" bits
1 cup red bell pepper, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup firm, ripe tomato, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup chickpeas, tinned or homemade
1 cup salami, chopped into 1/2" bits
1 cup roasted turkey or chicken, chopped into 1/4" bits (optional)
1 cup provolone, grated, or chopped into 1/4" bits
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
25 turns of freshly ground pepper
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Place all solids in your biggest salad bowl, then drizzle with oil and vinegar, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Toss well, preferably with clean hands, until every bit has met the dressing.  Taste a few bites: you want bright, sweet, crisp, salted, peppered.  Vivid.  Jolly.  A balance between them all.  Add a bit more salt, pepper and/or vinegar, to taste, toss again, and serve right away.     

it never gets old

My camera broke last week.  Last Thursday, specifically.  Two days after we returned from Seattle.  It was not a particularly spectacular break.  No "camera overboard!" cries, off a Washington State Ferry.  No minute-long falls from atop the orange Needle.  It was all rather dull, in the event, one photo of a flower that sounded a little odd.  Less *click!*, more *cli-grrrrr. 

And then, nothing.

Well, not nothing, exactly.  The small screen displayed ERR, where the f-stop once was.  I think, technically, ERR stands for Error.  But ERR seemed spot-on, no elaboration necessary.  As in, "If you think I've any intention of snapping another, you ERR, you silly, silly girl."

(Camera humor.  Dark, stubborn stuff.)

(Seattle public art.  Wacky, wonderful stuff.)

But after the usual Fudges and Fiddlesticks, it occurred to me to think, oh, thank goodness.  Thank goodness it didn't break, say, two days earlier, while we were wrapping our Seattle stay.  Or worse, two weeks earlier, when our trip had just begun. 

And then, approximately 9 seconds later, I thought, what would it have mattered?  Really?    

It wouldn't have. 

Mattered.  

Really. 

Because every trip we take back is very much like the other, and each very much like the life we left behind, and not very much like I think most see Seattle. 

It dawned on me, this time around, that Seattle has grown up (again).  Has become (is becoming) ever-denser, -bigger, -hipper.  Not as hip as Portland, say.  (Far too few food trucks, far too much traffic.)  But hip enough to have this weird caché, that perplexes and amuses me in equal measure. 

Seattle, to me, is that stellar friend, successful, smart, funny, fun, witty and good, whom you've known since before all that.  Since really bad hair cuts and truculent pimples and that truly unfortunate neon biking short phase.  Since you were just you, and they were just them, and the both of you were plain old vanilla nobodies. 

(Before vanilla was loaded with bean flecks.  Or fancy prefixes like "Premium" and "French".)     

That's the Seattle I know, love and crave, the one I long to return to each year. The slug-studded hikes through old neighborhood parks, where Banana versus European Red counts qualify as entertainment.  Concrete-colored beaches, barnacled, treacherous, driftwood-rich, pebble-generous.  Utterly marvelous. The still-thrilling rush of a ferry's front deck.  Whiskery air, salt-prickled and crisp.  Honey Bear chocolate peanut butter layer cake, four stories high, four star-worthy.

(Man does not live on Voxx coffee alone.  Close, very close.  But not quite completely.)

The hush and the dense and the weight of those forests, stippled with sunlight, achingly green.  Those forests where Sasquatch seems not only possible, but probable, perhaps even perfectly normal.  Where the colors are muted and the hues, so hushed, it seems someone turned down the dimmer switch.  (I've never been much one for jewel tones, which I've always chalked up to my pale complexion.  It occurred to me, this recent visit, that maybe it was just my native surroundings.)  

Except for those days the blue's bright, the sun blinding.  Seattle struts its stuff, come August.  

Building epic sand cities with whatever's around.  Imagineering ships from root balls on empty beaches with new friends.  Crashing kitchens and couches of friends known forever.  Taking in science, seals and Molly Moon's with Mamo. (Re-)acquainting the kids with the joys of terriyaki, two minor mountains, the ubiquity of hills.  

(Best quote of the trip, from a walk with Henry:  "Now here's something you don't see everyday: HILLS!") 

Same stuff as last time.

Same stuff as always. 

So similar, the camera was superfluous.  

But, the thing is?  It never gets old.  

I could say the same of the following steak.  This steak is The Steak, the only steak I make, or at least the only one I return to.  Steak is a special guest in our home, stuff of friends, gatherings and celebrations.  Years ago, after botching several precious cuts, I stumbled upon Mark Bittman's grilled marinated flank steak.  It was simple, and excellent, and worked like a charm, so much so I've never seen fit to look farther.

That was before my oldest was born.  He turns twelve (!!!!!!!!!!!!) this coming week.  Even eaten occasionally, that's a lot of steak.    

What we're talking about, here, is flank steak, steeped in a bath of lime, soy, garlic and ginger.  I've adjusted a bit over the years, upping the aromatics, pinning down the salt and pepper, portioning the meat to better soak up its drink.  Lately, I've taken to using strip steak, another flavorful, well-marbled, grill-friendly cut.  Also, I've increased the marinating time slightly.  Bittman suggests 30-60 minutes.  I prefer 12-24 hours.  

Soused.

After spending the night in this heady brew, said steak is arranged on a medium-hot grill.  A lacquering-caramelizing kind of thing happens, the marinade's salts and sugars getting jiggy with the meat's ordinary Maillard. Meanwhile, the interior gently cooks/smokes, taking on that incomparable grilled beef goodness. 

(An aside:  I've broiled.  I've seared.  I've shaken my head.  I wish it weren't so, but it's just not the same.  Grill or bust; stove and oven won't do.  I now consider this late-spring-through-early fall food.)  

The finished steak is fluent in lime, its citrus squinch counterpoint to beef's buttery point.  Ginger's sweet warmth is felt throughout, as is garlic's rich, nutty baritone.  The soy does double-duty, seasoning the meat, while cheering on the beef's inherent umami.  

All of which is to say, this is no shy steak.  If marinade-as-veneer is what you are after, gauzy flavor, whiffs and hints, then this is not the path for you. If, however, you take your steak gutsy, schooled in sparkle and zip and oomph, then may I suggest one fine candidate?  It may not forever be your one and only.  But if you're anything like me, it may be a few decades before you tire of it.     

(Oh, and the camera?  

After days in the dog house, a dedicated googling/trouble-shooting session revealed a likely jammed shutter.  Flip, toggle, snip, snap, and she roared back to life, *click!*.  

Here's to happy endings. ) 

Marinated Grilled Ginger Lime Flank Steak
adapted from How to Cook Everything, by Mark Bittman

I almost always double this, as leftovers are nearly better than first-overs. Think cold slices stuffed into sandwiches, or scattered throughout salads, or fried up with peppers and onions, fajita-style. (Completely excellent.)  Or eaten, standing, in front of the fridge, fork in one hand, smile in the other. Besides, the grill's already going, and when did anyone ever complain about "leftovers" when suffixed with "steak"?

I grill on a standard-issue, charcoal-fueled black Weber kettle.  Please adjust grilling times and techniques to your chosen kit.  

Please allow 4-24 hours to marinate.

4 tablespoons lime juice, freshly squeezed (from 1-2 limes)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, minced 
1 tablespoon garlic, minced
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt per pound (2-3 teaspoons, total)
freshly ground pepper, 10-15 grinds
2 pounds strip steak OR 1 flank steak, 2 - 2 1/2 pounds

Combine all ingredients, except steak, in a shallow casserole (I use an 8 x 13" Pyrex), and stir to dissolve sugar and salt.  If using flank steak, slice into 3-4 pieces, each 4-6" across.  Set steak in marinade, swoosh around a bit, and flip over, such that both sides have met with the marinade.  Refrigerate steak and marinade in the casserole, at least 4 hours, ideally overnight.   

The next day, 30 minutes before dining, fill a chimney starter with charcoal, and light.  Remove steak from refrigerator, and set aside, to take off the chill. When charcoal is gray and smoldering, 15-20 minutes, empty onto one side of grill, banking coals to create hot and moderate zones.  Return grate, replace lid, and let grate heat until hot, 5 minutes.  Carefully, using tongs, arrange steaks on the hot side of the grill, then let them sit, undisturbed, 3-4 minutes. After 3 minutes, check the undersides: you're looking for an easy release, good color, and respectable grill marks.  (If steaks begin to char or flare up, nudge them toward the cooler zone.)  When steaks release easily and show color (3-5 minutes, depending on size and thickness of steak), flip steaks and sear the other side, another 2-3 minutes.  I tend toward a medium-well steak, and so at this point, move steaks over to the cooler zone for a few minutes, to finish cooking.  Your choice.  

When steaks are done to your likeness, remove to a platter, and cover with foil.  Allow to rest, 15 minutes, then thinly slice, against the grain, and plate with their juices.