I’ve always been pretty proud of my ability to think on my feet. It’s a skill that has served me well at my day job, but it has proven to be invaluable since I became a mom. You just never know what the day will bring.
We’ve been lucky – Julian has been extremely healthy and robust, but yesterday he just wasn’t feeling like himself. He had had some immunizations at his 15-month checkup late last month, and his doctor warned us he might show some delayed symptoms about a week after; right on schedule, he was cranky and fussy and spiked his very first fever Sunday morning. We tried time and again to put him down for a nap in his crib, but he wasn’t having it, so I nestled him close to me in the big bed, and read while he drifted off, staying with him for nearly three hours.
He slept deeply and well, his fever broke, and he woke with a smile on his face, but I had to shelve my original plan for dinner. Something brothy and comforting seemed like just what we all needed, so I put a small pot of beans on the stove and got to chopping while Mike took over tending to our boy.
I was inspired by a beautiful pot of minestrone I saw on Pinterest, so I cobbled together my own version, rich with alliums and fennel, carrots and parsnips, cabbage and kale, good canned tomatoes, fresh rosemary, thyme, and bay. I added a dash of Worcestershire for savoriness and a splash of Sherry vinegar for brightness, the cooked beans and their broth for heft, and a parmesan rind for the wonderful richness it imparts. I didn’t have any soup pasta around, but I did have a bag of par-cooked whole wheat spirals in the freezer left over from a previous meal, so I thawed them and stirred them gently into the soup until they were just warmed through.
I also had a bunch of leafy celery in the crisper, so I pulled off a big handful of the leaves to make a quick gremolata of sorts, chopping them fine and combining them with garlic and lemon zest and coarse pink salt, plus a little bit of olive oil to make a chunky paste, which I swirled on top of our soup bowls.
We settled in at the table, passing a tray of cheese-dusted, garlicky toasts for dunking, and even Julian ate with gusto. I guess a good pot of soup really is the cure for what’s ailing you.
Mike posted the following on Facebook the other day:
“2012: two surgeries for baby and a huge move for all of us. Plus first words, first steps, first foods. I mean, really, what a year.”
And that really sums it up.
The three of us have enjoyed a pretty low-key Christmas holiday, filled with plenty of good food, and more importantly, lots of togetherness. A little calm is so welcome after the year we’ve had.
I have no idea what 2013 will bring, but I’m so glad to be ringing it in right back where we belong. I’m looking forward to settling in, to a year of growth rather than big change. We’ll see what fate has in store for us this go-round.
And to all of you, we wish health, peace, and happiness in the coming year. Our heartfelt thanks for sharing this wild ride with us.
Our apartment juts up against a part of Brooklyn that’s often referred to as “Little Pakistan.” There’s a nearby stretch of Coney Island Avenue that’s dotted with Halal butchers and take-out joints, fruit markets and ethnic grocers. The aroma of grilled meats and spice as I walk home from the subway each night is intoxicating.
I’ve only recently begun to scope these markets out in earnest, as I strategize how best to spend every cent of our weekly food budget. At one market, you can get a 10-pound bag of onions for $2.89, a fact I file away for the next time I need to know how to feed us on next to nothing. I think of soups and tarts, and that panade I made recently that was a massive pain in the ass to assemble, but seriously delicious, all worth it in the end. Stale bread and a pile of onions cooked down until tender, with greens and a little good cheese and a lot of rich broth, truly greater than the sum of its parts. I hoard the bones from every chicken we cook at home, stash them in the freezer to turn them into gold, bolstered with a package or two of cheap feet and neck bones. We’ll always have good stock around.
Just months ago I spent $8 on a dozen eggs from some handsome young farmers at Union Square, laid by pampered, pastured chickens. A lot of people would be scandalized at that price tag, but I have grown to appreciate really great eggs in recent years, and they’re still a cheap source of protein at nearly a buck apiece. These had taut, perky whites and saffron yolks, and they were worth every penny, but our reality doesn’t allow for such frivolity right now. I’ll still pay $4 or $5 for our eggs at the farmers’ market, though, for as long as our budget will allow. A really great egg is a treasure, a small luxury I’m not yet willing to deny us.
I’ve learned over the last few years how to carve a 49 cent head of cabbage into fluffy ribbons, and cook them down into silky submission. I toss them with long strands of pasta, a mountain of finely grated, sharp-salty cheese, and plenty of black pepper, a recreation of a long-ago restaurant meal shared with a visiting friend the first time we lived in New York. If we have bacon around, I’ll add that, too, crisp little batons studding the tangles of cabbage and spaghetti. A little goes a long way.
I am especially grateful, these days, for those little fruit markets and ethnic grocers along that stretch of Coney Island Avenue near our apartment, with their cheap sacks of onions and aromatic rice, their 4-pound bags of dried beans and legumes, their dense cabbages and bright bundles of hearty greens just waiting to be turned into a simple, but delicious meal. So long as we have our beans and greens, our broth and bread and a dozen great eggs, we have plenty, and we will eat well.
Back in April, I received an email about the JC100, the online celebration of Julia Child’s life and work on what would have been her 100th birthday. Like most of what lands in my blog-related inbox (especially since our little guy arrived), that email was read and left unanswered, forgotten until yesterday, when I started seeing remembrances posted nearly everywhere.
Julia’s show was the first cooking show I remember watching, and though it would be many years before I ever cracked open a copy of Mastering the Art, I feel that she was a big influence on me as a home cook. She was large and loud and kind of endearingly dorky – all of which I could relate to quite well – but she had this incredible self-confidence, and in watching her cook, I felt that I, too, could take even the humblest of ingredients and turn them into something both delicious and elegant. She did what she did with love, she seemed to get such true joy from feeding herself, her family and her friends, and she never seemed to let a little kitchen mishap get her down.
Mike has almost certainly cooked more recipes straight from those iconic books than I have; I’ve never had the patience for classic French technique. But every time I step into the kitchen, set a cutting board in front of me and pull my knife down from the wall, I can’t help but feel that Julia’s spirit and influence is guiding my way.
Happy birthday, Julia, and thank you.
In the last few weeks, I learned that two good friends have been diagnosed with breast cancer. Two young, vibrant women I care deeply about are in for a fight, and while I’m confident in their ability to beat this, they’ll need all the help and support they can muster.
Over the last several years I’ve become very aware of how powerful food choices are with respect to health and wellness, and with Amie and Jenny in mind, I created this vibrant soup. It’s loaded with healthful ingredients – beets, cabbage, ginger and turmeric, to name a few – and it’s enriched with a bit of cream at the end, because in my mind, balance and a little indulgence are important to a healthy lifestyle. Plus, it takes the soup from red to deep pink, a hue that is very much in vogue in October.
Roasted Beet Soup
1 lb. red beets
3 large garlic cloves, unpeeled
Extra virgin olive oil
1 cup shallot, peeled and diced
1 tablespoon freshly ground coriander
¼ teaspoon grated fresh ginger
3 cups shredded red cabbage
¼ cup raw, unfiltered apple cider vinegar
4 cups water
½ cup heavy cream
plain yogurt or crème fraiche for garnish
Note: If the beets have their greens still attached, remove them and reserve – they’re great sautéed in a little olive oil.
Scrub the beets and cut them into halves or quarters if large. Toss with salt and olive oil, place on a sheet pan, add the garlic cloves, and roast in a 400 degree oven for about 40 minutes, until they are tender when pierced with a fork. Set the beets aside until they are cool enough to handle.
In a deep, heavy bottomed pot, warm the olive oil over medium heat until shimmering. Add the shallot and a pinch of salt, and cook until just soft. Add the coriander and ginger, stirring through, and cook for a minute or two before adding the cabbage. Pull the skins from the beets and add the roasted beets to the pot. Remove the roasted garlic from its skins and add to the pot. Add the vinegar and water, reduce the heat to low, cover and simmer for 45 minutes to an hour, stirring occasionally and tasting to adjust the seasoning.
Puree using your favorite method (we use a stick blender), then stir in the cream off the heat. Ladle into bowls and add a dollop (or ribbon) of yogurt or crème fraiche. (You can, of course, make this dairy-free, omitting the cream/yogurt/crème fraiche, and adding fresh chopped herbs for garnish instead – cilantro, dill, parsley or fennel fronds all work well.)
Boston peeps: Amie’s husband Brad, one of my oldest and dearest east coast friends, put his musical mojo to work to arrange a benefit to take place at The Middle East on Saturday, October 17th beginning at noon. Live performers include Kristin Hersh (Throwing Muses/50 Foot Wave), Bill Janovitz (Buffalo Tom), Travels, Drew O’Doherty, Colin Clary (The Smittens/Let’s Whisper), and Adam Brilla (The Broken River Prophet). Kids under 12 get in free, and those of us who are a bit older can purchase tickets here.
Not in the Boston area? Please sponsor Jenny as she walks in the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk in NYC on October 18th.
I didn’t get out of bed until 9:30 this morning. When I did, I bypassed coffee and breakfast, and instead headed downstairs to clean the kitchen. I scrubbed every nook and cranny, polished every surface until it gleamed, and spent 45 minutes on my hands and knees until the floor was so clean you could, as the saying goes, eat off of it. I do this from time to time, get this drive to purge and scour, make everything as fresh and shiny as the day we moved in, and though I am now so tired that my bones ache and my right hand is so cramped that it’s painful to type this, I feel lighter.
The sun is shining outside, for the moment. I showered and dressed and then I made butter, and to my delight I think I’ve finally nailed it. I promise I’ll tell you all about it soon, but now, I’ve got some cooking to do.
To those of you in the States, have a safe and happy holiday weekend, and I’ll catch up with all of you next week. And thank you, so very much, for your kind and encouraging words.
When I was a girl I danced. I took years of ballet lessons, then moved on to jazz and other forms. I loved it, and I danced freely and unselfconsciously. Then, as many girls do, I got a little older and grew uncomfortable in my own skin. I developed performance anxiety. I’ll never forget the day that I stepped onto a stage for a dance competition, and every step I had so carefully choreographed was lost, gone from my limbs and my memory, the minute the music started. The stage was so vast, and I felt so incredibly small and clumsy, with no right to be there, that I panicked.
I’ve been feeling a lot like the halfheartedly gothy teenager I used to be, lately, who refused to pose for photos and hid behind long bangs and eyeliner. Maybe it’s the weather, the relentless grey of the skies, the heavy fog and rain-soaked days, or maybe it’s performance anxiety, the fact that as wowed as I am that this site has been getting so much attention, and has even been mentioned in the same breath as some of the food blogs I most admire, this feeling of “don’t look at me, don’t look at me, I don’t belong here” is rising.
This has been so hard for me lately. I feel flat, uninspired. Monday’s dinner was fine, if rather ugly. Tuesday’s dinner was great, but it was another rendition of a chicken and bread salad dinner we’ve talked about here plenty of times. I have a fridge full of beautiful summer produce, but I have absolutely no clue what I’m going to make for dinner tonight, or tomorrow, or beyond that. I feel like every step I knew so well, every improvisation, has been lost. My head is full of little grey clouds, and I don’t have the foggiest idea how to get my rhythm back.