Monday, February 28, 2011

birth stories

Six years ago, the snowiest coldest night.  Our midwife, Kathy, came down from her house on top of the mountain, and we waited.  And the snow stopped, and at four in the morning, Joey and I went out for a walk.

It was just a yard walk, and the next day, we would see the circle in the snow where he tromped and I shuffled alongside.  It was a little circle, and it started out with a perfect arc, four feet through the deep snow.  The track showed exactly where I stopped, looked at Joey, and said, "Inside, now."  Then the tracks went right back to the house.

Then next morning there were hello kitty shaped waffles for breakfast, and baby Rose was a few hours old. Sadie, not quite two, wrote a poem as she dipped her waffles in syrup.  My mother had woken her up to see her sister coming into the world, and she recounted the whole adventure to us.
                                    
Kathy here!
Grandma's arms.
Mommy Ow!
Baby head.
Hello Kitty Waffles!


I had no idea that I would love that baby enough to try to learn how to make frosting roses.  But there I am, six years later, trying to craft sugar and shortening into flora.  Thank the sweet god of frosting for Marya, who had trucked her daughter down to the entire expanse of the county even though she was supposed to be making an Oscar themed cake for her sister-in-law.  She patiently led me through the frosting roses process, and then when I could make nothing better than a clumsy carnation, she made those roses herself, and of course she taught Molly who was far better at it than I.  And so my sweet winter night baby got those frosting roses that she wanted so badly.


Both of the girls' birth stories have become such a integral part of their own personal narratives. And every year, we celebrate them. Sadie on her spring day, the baby who just wouldn't come until the sun hit that perfect pink setting point.  And Rosie with her full moon snowy walk in a circle.  Over the years I tell the stories, and I forget that they weren't quite here yet for them.  I forget that what I'm really talking about is those last few moments before the world existed without them.  It's almost unthinkable to imagine, but somehow by repeating the stories over and over, I bring them into that world too.  They know just what happened, so they must have been there. 

This year, the winter baby wanted a dinner party.  With salmon.  And kale (so she could have cake, of course). And popovers.  And chocolate cake with vanilla frosting.  And yes, frosting roses. She was so polite about it all, and she would check in with me every few days.
"Have you figured out how to make my cake?"
Her friends dresses up in their finest and they each took a seat at the fancy table for two minutes.  And then they got up and nearly shook the whole house with laughter for the rest of the night.



We made trays and trays of popovers, and Sadie took care of everyone.


Oh, Rosie.  It's so easy to celebrate you.  Even with the frosting roses.


Again, Sadie recited a poem as everyone sat down to dinner.  She had been working on memorizing it for the last few days.  This time it wasn't hers, but A.A. Milne's.


When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six,
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.


Rosie's Birthday Cake
(loosely adapted from the King Arthur Baker's Companion, morphed and changed over the years)

makes 2 9-inch cakes that come together to make 1 beautiful double decker cake

For the cake:
1 1/4 cups sugar
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon cornstarch
1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
3/4 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup canola oil
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup hot (almost boiling) water

For the frosting:
16 ounces (2 bars) cream cheese, softened
4 ounces (1 1/2 sticks) butter, softened
1 1/4 cups powdered sugar
pinch of salt
Optional: 1 tablespoon rose water

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Butter 2 9-inch round cake pans, line the bottoms with parchment, and then butter the parchment.
In the bowl of a stand mixer, whisk together the sugar, flour, cornstarch, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Add the eggs, buttermilk, oil, and vanilla, and beat with the flat beater attachment for 2 minutes.  Finally gently stir in the hot water.  The batter will be quite thin.  Pour it into the prepared cake pans and bake for 30 minutes, or until a cake tester comes out clean. Allow to cool in the pans for 10 minutes--then turn out of the pans and cool completely on a wire rack before frosting.

Make the frosting: Combine the cream cheese, butter, powdered sugar, salt, and rose water, if using in the bowl of the stand mixer.  Beat with the flat beater attachment until smooth and uniform, about 30 seconds.

To frost the cake: Set one cake on a plate or cake stand over strips of parchment, like this.  If your cakes domed a bit while on top while baking, set it domed side up.  Use a silicone spatula to cover the top of the cake evenly with about 1-inch of frosting.  Set the second cake on top of the first, domed side down (so the tops of each cake are against each other).  Use your spatula to top the upper cake with frosting.  If you have an offset spatula, use that to spread the frosting, otherwise, continue to spread the frosting over the cake with your silicone spatula, spreading the frosting over the sides as well.  Top with raspberries, or... frosting roses.


(Many thanks to Aurel for grabbing my camera and taking all of these lovely pictures.)








F

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

chocolate meringue pie

I'm feeling a new dream creeping in, one more exciting future to think about.
Oh yeah.  Time to open a pie shop. And while I might carry the token fruit pie to make people (and my husband) happy, I'm thinking we're all about cream and meringue pies around here.
It's the reaction, the pure joy and love and excitement that people seem to feel just looking at that crisped and airfilled sweet hat of meringue, the knowledge that whatever is under there is going to be good- is it lemon?  key lime? or....chocolate?  Maybe this is the way I can bring joy to the world: chocolate meringue pie.

  
Desserts are more complicated around here than I wish they were.  As much as Joey and I have tried to restrain ourselves from using sugar for the girls  as a reward for eating other things more green and nutritious, we've done it anyway.  I know that it is the wrong thing to do, but when I can see that Rosie will gladly eat a pound of kale when there is a cookie thrown into the deal, I can't help it.  There have been times when she will go a month without a green vegetable, and at that point, I start to feel a little (okay, I'll say it, even if I'm not proud of it)...desperate.  I try to take my own advice ("Relax!  No kid ever died from too much noodles and butter--better to relinquish control.  They'll come around!), but then of course I lose my resolve, and before I know it, I've opened my mouth.  And while I should just be filling it with kale and modeling all that good eating behavior (which I'm doing too!), I have to go ahead and speak.  And there it is.
"4 more bites, and then you can have a cookie."
Ughh, is that really me?
And then dessert becomes something else, something to want and desire and...NEED. 
The main reason why this is hard to watch and participate in, is because there's something else about dessert, something I love so much.  And in a lot of ways, this thing has very little to do with how it tastes.  It's about the excitement of a frosted cake on the counter, or a perfect whoosh of frosting on a cupcake.  It's about the joy we take in something that we eat not because it's good for us, but because it's wonderful. 



I made this pie the day before Valentine's day.  Joey and the girls were hard at work on all their valentines for school and I felt like I wanted to make something too. That week, I'd found this dainty green pie plate on sale due to a character-building tiny chip in the side, and it was calling to me.  And watching Joey and the girls make all their beautiful art, I was determined to create art with that pie plate.

We were going to my parent's for dinner (the last time before they move in!) and I let that pie sit on the counter for a while.  The whole room was littered with scraps of paper and gluesticks, rubber-banded piles of tiny notes in alphabetical order.  Like a mantra those class lists were repeated all day. "Alice, Brianna, Bryce, Conrad, Flora...and on and on."  In the center of it all, the pie held court, cooling gently in its dainty green plate.



When we drove over to my parents', the girls oohhed and ahhed.  There was no talk of how much they would have to eat before they got a slice--it seemed the magic and the beauty of that meringued top inspired them.  It was a good moment for dessert in that car, and the girls thanked me for making something so pretty, and they remarked over and over, "That looks so yummy!".  I added one more resolution to my growing list of things I hope my girls learn about food-- that dessert is about joy and beauty and specialness, not about guilt or need or reward or punishment.  Oh, the food lessons- if we can only let the foods to the teaching.  I'll try to step back.
Leave it to the magic and beauty of the meringue.

 
Chocolate Meringue Pie
from Moosewood Restaurant Book of Desserts

1 10-inch prebaked pie crust (You can use a straight crust here, or a graham cracker crust is nice too.  Here's my favorite straight pie crust, or for a graham cracker crust, combine 2 cups of graham cracker crumbs with 7 tablespoons of melted butter.  Press the mixture into your pie pan, then refrigerate for 20 minutes, then bake at 375 for 15 minutes)

For the filling:
1/4 cup cornstarch
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups whole milk
3 large egg yolks, lightly beaten (reserve the whites for the meringue)
4 ounces unsweetened chocolate, roughly chopped
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

For the meringue:
3 large egg whites
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup sugar

In medium saucepan off the heat, combine the cornstarch, sugar, and salt.  Slowly add a bit of the milk, first making a smooth paste, then adding the rest of the milk.  Whisk in the egg yolks.  Add the chocolate to the milk and place the saucepan over medium heat.  Cook, stirring constantly, for about 15 minutes, or until the pudding thickens and the chocolate melts entirely.  For a long time, the chocolate will be all grainy and it will seem like it just won't come together--it will look like this:
 

Remove from the heat when the pudding is thick.  Even if the chocolate is not absolutely smooth, it is okay--it will continue to melt off the heat.



(don't worry, you're crust will look better than mine.  I had a few graham cracker issues, and I didn't make enough to spread to the edges of my dainty pie pan, so it shrunk.  But if you're following my recipe, you'll have plenty.  And if this does happen to you, the meringue is pretty enough to cover it all)

Stir the vanilla into the pudding.  Spread the pudding into your prebaked pie shell. Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Using an electric mixer, whip the egg whites and cream of tartar on high speed until soft peaks form.  Add the sugar and vanilla and beat until you have stiff and glossy peaks, about 5 minutes.  Spread the meringue over the chocolate filling, making sure to extend it to the edges of the crust.  Bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until the meringue is golden brown.  Cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.



Tuesday, February 15, 2011

turkish breakfast, revisited


The other day I was at work, and a woman came in and ordered breakfast.  She had her New York Times with her, and she knew exactly what she wanted.
Half a baguette, toasted, with butter.  And a few slices of gruyere, topped with a an equal number of slices of prosciutto.  And four or five olives.  She filled her coffee cup from the pot as I started cutting the first baguette of the day.
I created her perfect breakfast, slightly off the menu as it was.  I created it with love as if it was going to feed one of my very own children.  She knew what she wanted, and I wanted her to have it, to start her day with the accomplishment of her ideal breakfast.
I wouldn't be honest with you if I didn't admit that I was a little jealous.


These days the morning starts off at breakneck speed, and it just continues on from there.  On the weekdays it is 6:30, and Sadie is still in her pajamas sneaking another chapter of her babysitter's club book, and Rosie is just buried under her comforter emitting an occasional meow when I suggest that she emerge.  Then it is 6:40, and I am throwing apples and cheese sticks into patterned lunchboxes, and maybe one girl streaks through the kitchen in underwear only, and I try to find out what that girl might want for breakfast, and lately they are just cruising down to the table at 6:58, exactly 2 minutes before Joey will drive the Subaru to school ("with or without you young ladies!")
Lately it's toast.  And that's it.  Today we snuck in an egg, as there was an extra minute or two.
Then they are off. And I keep moving at the same speed.


But I've been thinking lately about leisure.  About time.  About slowness.  I've been thinking about the little things that make all of that feel possible.  And I have been obsessing, yes obsessing, about Turkish breakfast.

It's been almost a year since I went to Turkey--since my loveliest friend Lissa and I got on a plane and showed up at Molly and Aurel's little brightly painted apartment in Istanbul.  That trip was like a life outside of life, and I still don't quite know how it happened, or rather, how we made it happen.  It was one of the moments of my my life where I felt like I was on the verge of everything, and somehow wandering those streets in search of the next slice of sticky baklava evoked the sensation that I was wandering through my life in the best kind of lost way, and I was finding exactly what I was looking for.

And like the baklava, life was tasting pretty good to me.  That, I suppose, is why I travel whenever I get the chance.

So almost a year later, I'm thinking again about those cold and upwardly winding streets.  Even after all this time, that trip stays with me, and I'm thinking about the buzzing of all of my cells when I got home. And about how breakfast says so much about the culture that eats it.

I love the French breakfast that I get to serve at work.  Whatever the variations, I love the luxury and sheer joy of that buttered baguette, maybe with a tang of cheese and a salt of thinly sliced meat.  It's all about the bread, and that's wonderful.  And in the same way that that baguette is so French, so lovely and so something that feels like breakfast in another place, Turkish breakfast makes me actually be back on that trip--it makes me start my day with slowness and perspective in a way that granola just wont do.  It's that I care enough about what I am about to eat to actually chop some parsley, to pull together so many elements onto one plate, just because I want to.  It is like I am making myself a little piece of art.  I am worth a little piece of art, especially in the morning.  After all, on any given day, you never know what might be ahead.


So what is this Turkish breakfast? Luckily, it's an improvisation of sorts.
From what I know, I can say with utmost certainty that there must be an egg--just one, and most likely soft boiled.  Then a hunk of bread is a good idea.  And there must be olives. Because you are in Turkey (even if you're not, you must pretend).  Beyond that, it would be a good idea to include a few dates to jolt your day into existence and to give a perfect balance to the olives.  Make a little salad with a few greens and whatever herbs you have just lying around or growing on your Turkish terrace.  A little olive oil and salt gets tossed about with that.  Soft cheese- feta or some perfect slice of something.  And if you have some, you might as well have a little bit of really good honey in which to dip your bread, or some sort of interesting spread.  
That is all.  But you can add anything else, as long as it is wonderful and you really want to eat it.  This is a meal for pure enjoyment.  

I would travel all the time if I could.  But I am thankful for breakfast, so that I can travel right here.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

on civic participation

Oh New England.
This week we had a town meeting, and it was the first meeting that I have attended that I have sat up on the stage of the high school auditorium with a little nameplate in front of me.  It was a special town meeting, not the regular annual meeting in May, and there were only two articles on the warrant, that is, only two issues to vote on.  Usually special town meetings don't draw much of a crowd, but in this case one of the issues was of particular interest to a lot of people, and so we had nearly 300 people.  That's pretty close to the numbers that usually attend the May meeting, although sometimes there can be closer to five or six hundred, depending on what is on the warrant.

When I was in sixth grade, I wrote a play for a contest--it won, and the play was performed at a local theater along with several other kid-written plays from the county.  My play was about 10 minutes long, I think, and it was called "The Town Meeting." It was filled with all sorts of New England personalities- caricatures of people who I imagined stood up and fought with each other at town meeting. It turns out, the real thing is actually even better.  Usually in the past I have sat in the back, and honestly I have attended town meetings as much to observe and study people as I have to participate in the process myself.  Miraculously, a whole room of people really can get things done, but the conversation that takes place in the mean time is better than anything that could be on TV that night. 

What is amazing about the town meeting is that it offers so much power to those who choose to use it.  Every year there are contentious issues that draw people, but the items that are always on the warrant are equally, if not more important.  Every year the town is given the opportunity to vote on the budget, and in the process, their tax rate.  And with all that at stake, attendance still hovers around 10% of registered voters around here.

I'm the last person to guilt anyone into attending their town meeting.  I have certainly not attended every town meeting in the nine years that I've been living here as an adult--and for a long time it never would have occurred to me to get a babysitter and go tromp up to the high school on a Monday night.  And so, other people, people who chose to go to town meeting, made the decisions.

I also understand the tendency towards apathy when it comes to government.  Everyday I listen to the news--my listening almost borders on addiction, really, and I check the New York Times on my phone.  These days especially I'm worrying about where our country might be going, and my only hope comes from the fact that I know how easy it is to get stuck in the process--I know that democracy moves slowly, and so I hope that the tone will shift before NPR gets unfunded and before the word "rape" is redefined. Sometimes I sign petitions when they come to my email box, other times I just mean to.  It just all feels big, and being one among hundreds of millions of people is so, so small. But still (and I say this to remind myself too), there is power to be had if you are willing to take it.  Especially at the local level, you might have more say than you think, and all it might take is a little self-education and the courage to speak up or raise your hand at a meeting.  I spoke to a fair number of people who attended their first town meeting this week, and they each confessed in their own way that it was a rush to participate.  Somehow, sitting in a room filled with people, listening and being part of deliberation, raising their pink or green cards or putting them in the little wooden boxes by the doors, and deciding in an issue right then and there--even if it is a long night, or you have had to listen to people you really, really don't agree with, it's hard not to walk out of there feeling like you've been in a room filled with democracy.  It's real power.

It's been a big week for democracy.  Around here, and in the big world, too.  Like any system that is put into action in real unpredictable human society, it is full of challenges.  I watch Egypt with the rest of the world, hoping and worrying and biting my nails to see what will come next.  But this week I've been thinking about the strength of democracy, and about how I think that the more we use the power that is granted to us within the system, the stronger the democracy gets, and the closer to its ideal form where we all have a say.  It's when we don't participate that a smaller group of people end up making decisions for us.  And I find that watching other people fight so hard for their voices to be heard, even thousands of miles away, makes me speak louder here, makes me want to use my power of participation even more.  It's a gift that I'm doing my best to accept.

Monday, February 7, 2011

sweet irish oatmeal


It is possible that I write about oatmeal more than I should.
I mean, oatmeal?
This weekend, I made a traditional French Pastry with a name that escapes me at the moment. The dough was soft and not stiff as was prescribed, it did not rise under a sunlit farmhouse window as was illustrated in the cookbook, and in the end, although I caught it just in time to be able to make it taste like caramel, it burned.
I couldn't write about that one.
Then, I every intention of making Boston Cream Pie.  We were off to my friend Amy's for dinner, and the dessert bar is quite high at her house, and it seemed like the right day to make my first Boston Cream Pie.  Except that we moved the bedrooms instead, and I spent the day throwing out silly bands and assembling Ikea furniture (and swearing in the Ikea language), so I couldn't write about that one, either, since in the end I brought 2 pints of ice cream (yes, from the store) to Amy's.

But I wouldn't want you to think that oatmeal was the fallback, the "Oh well, none of my fancy desserts turned out, so I guess I'll just write about boring old oatmeal again--maybe no one will notice as long as I photograph my trusty orange Le Creuset" kind of post.  Because there is nothing boring about this one.  Nothing!

Yes, I know we've done oatmeal plenty of times.  Remember that butter toasted oatmeal with sticky apple toppingOatmeal steamed pudding?  And of course, if we widen the category a bit, there's apple honey oat snack, slow cooker porridge, and if we're going there, granola.  Yes, we've done oatmeal.

And every time, I'm glad we did.

Joey is not an oatmeal fan.  I used to make slow cooker porridge all the time, and he used to eat it, and then he said, honey?  I'm can't do this anymore.  The girls, on the other hand, would eat bowls and bowls of it, and so the oatmeal prevailed.  Then Rosie stopped eating it, and I lost momentum.  And then I didn't really want it either, and so Sadie was left begging for oatmeal.
Poor child.
But then oatmeal changed it's clothes.  It became a weekend thing.  A sweet and fancy takes-a-while-to-make breakfast.  Yes, it seems that the problem was not enough butter, and not enough sweet.
Isn't that always the way?
I'm not speaking against slow cooker porridge--I still think it's a lifesaver.  But you know that feeling sometimes when you sit down in front of a bowl of steel cut oats, and brace your hands on the table, and you say, "This is going to be good for me."

This oatmeal is entirely different.  It's still good for you.  But it's like waffles or pancakes or whatever you like to make when you have more time in the morning.  Rosie ate her sweet Irish oatmeal yesterday, and she looked at me, and she said, "Mom. This is so good.  I'm going to need more."  Only Sadie had already scraped the pot for her seconds.  So when I say this serves 4, be warned, it's not the oatmeal that you're used to.  It might actually serve 3, or 2, or just be prepared for people to be fighting over that last bits in the pot.



Sweet Irish Oatmeal
adapted from Moosewood New Classics

4 cups whole milk
2 teaspoons butter
1 cup steel cut oats
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup roughly chopped dates
1/2 cup water
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Melt the butter in a small skillet.  Add the oats, and toast them in the butter for a few minutes until they become a bit darker and more fragrant, about 2 minutes.  Remove from heat and set aside.
Bring the milk to a boil in a medium saucepan, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching.  Add the oats to hot milk and cook uncovered at a medium boil for 20 to 30 minutes, or until the mixture thickens.  Continue to stir occasionally to prevent the milk from scorching. 
Meanwhile, combine the dates, water, and cardamom in a small pot and bring to a boil.  Cook over medium heat for 10 minutes, or until the whole thing becomes a gooey sauce.  You can add more water if it becomes too thick.  Add the vanilla, and remove from heat.
When the oatmeal is ready, add the salt.  Then stir the date mixture into the oatmeal.  Serve immediately.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

kitchen


I'd like to introduce you to the new kitchen.
Everything is still shifting around.  The drying rack isn't mounted to the wall over the sink yet, the counters are temporarily (yeah right!) made of plywood, and there are no pulls on the drawers. 
I have far more spices than anyone should ever have, and I can't quite figure out where to put them.

 But I am really really happy in this kitchen.

It occurred to me that I've never quite gone into the general state of things in our house-- why we keep moving from room to room, and why this is the second "check out my new kitchen" post in a year.

This is the story of our house.

Over six years ago, we bought this little house with my parents.  It was a ranch house up on a hill, with fields and forest behind it.  I was pregnant with Rosie and Sadie was 18 months old.  We all came to the decision that we wanted to find away to make a house together.  My sister was six then, and in the end we knew we would be 4 parents and 3 kids, and that if we combined our space and our resources, we would be able to support each other, and Joey and I would be able to stick around in this town that normally we would never be able to live in due to high house prices and property taxes.
So we bought the house, and Joey, Sadie and I moved in.  We knew that we would be renovating soon, so we didn't really change anything about the house.  We didn't paint any walls, and we didn't take out the kitchen sink that was so small you couldn't even fit a pot into it to fill it with water. 

My stepfather is an architect, and we started all working together on the design for the new house.  A few years later, we invited a few friends over and demolished the garage.  Then, we started to build the new side of the house. It was on pretty much the same footprint as the garage, but it was two stories high.

Chris did a lot of the work himself, and so many people came in to help.  Two years later, the new side was done.  It would eventually be the side where my mom and Chris and Maia would live, but Joey and the girls and I moved in so that we could renovate the old side.  That was last year. 

In the last few months, the work has been more constant.  There's usually at least one cussing contractor around, and the hum of the saw has become as comfortable as summer cricket chirping.  It's all been good, because the end has been in sight. 

The end is still in sight, although I'm sure this one will never be quite finished.  We moved into the kitchen this weekend, and in the next week or two, we'll move into our new bedrooms which are right where the old bedrooms used to be.  Then my parents and Maia will move in, and then we'll get this party started.

Oh who am I kidding?  This party's been going on for a while already.

 There are so many questions that come when people hear the story and the future of this house. I'm sure that this will all continue to be quite an adventure, and I'll share it with you along the way.  How could I possible choose to live with my parents?  Well, the short story is that I like them quite a bit.  And my sister just happens to be the best big sister to my girls that I could ask for.  She's 12 now, so that means we have a prolonged future of teenage girls in the house.  All fun--all the time.

But after so much transition and so much telling myself that this room will change and this wall will come down, it's fantastic to actually create what we want and what we need.  It makes me feel grownup and settled, but more than that, it just makes me feel like I'm really home.