what we eat after dark

 We walked all the way to the ferry building again, just for the coffee. And without too much searching, there was a sandwich with fresh mozzarella and hard boiled egg.

 The other night we were walking through Chinatown in search of noodles. And we stopped at a store that sold little silken shoes and shiny chopsticks, and we asked, "where can we get a good bowl of noodles around here?" The girl in charge pointed us to a little place up Clay Street called Capital Restaurant.
"I don't know if it's good. But we get every single meal there."
That seemed like enough of a recommendation. And so we hiked our way up the hill, and we walked into Capital Restaurant. Everyone turned around and looked at us, and that seemed like a pretty good sign.
We ate wonton noodle soup with barbecued pork. Every bit of it.

Then last night, we ate Burmese food at hands down the most recommended place in this city, a little clean and coconut smelling joint called Burma Superstar. We met family we haven't seem in a long time, and we played it cool and kept track of our own worth. We worked out of love, and remembered that this is our work.

On our way home, we went to Maria's pastry and we sat with a napoleon and coffee. It was dark as we made our way back.

 I am eating with my mother. And tonight we went to Zuni Cafe. My friend, Andrew, was working the chicken station and so that's what we had. And I sat there, happy, eating, getting drunk while my mother drank bubbly water, us, watching Andrew make chicken at the wood fired oven. He is a friend who feeds my soul. And when I had sobered up with quince sorbet and coffee, he took me downstairs to see the walk-ins.
 
My mother and I walked into the night, and, unsure of what bus might take us home, we hopped on the trolley car with the late night tourists, all abuzz with meals and city walks. The road was steep, and the air was clear, and as we passed California Street, my mother said, there! That's where I lived with your father. We slept on blankets.

I was born here in this city, you know.

I have been away from the girls for nearly a week now. I'm thinking of their cheeks and their hugs, and their asking everything of me. I want to go home. I want to answer everything for them.

And Joey. He went home on Sunday morning, after our sweet friends were married, but before my mother came out so that we could do the family work we came to do. He's waiting for me at home as the snow falls. California's got nothing on an October snow. I can't believe I'm missing out on such weather. I'm ready to go home to him, too.

Tomorrow is our last day. I think we might go back to the ferry building, for coffee and cheese. And California will do it's thing, and then we will say goodbye.

we made it

Dear fabulous woman on the flight from Hartford to Dallas,
I know that you'll be curious to know whether Joey and I made our connection in Dallas. You were so great to prepare us for what direction we should run, and to give us the hint about taking the skytram. Unfortunately, the tram was broken, and we had to run much longer than we originally thought. I was wearing my boots, and carrying a bag that was too heavy for it's own good, and so, well, I'll tell you that at one point I broke down, and I crumbled, and Joey had to drag me to the moving walkway and talk me through it a little. And by the time we got to the gate, I couldn't even see a thing except the flight attendant cheering me on. He was bald, and he had glasses. And they didn't even check my boarding pass- there was just, I think, a fair amount of jumping up and down, and shouting "You can do it!" until we took a running leap onto the tarmac. Or at least, that's how I remember it now.

So yes, we made it.
And thank you for talking about your parents who don't have electricity in Alberta. And about work and politics and, most of all, the carrot soup that you made. It's rare that strangers will talk to each other about so many important things, and I don't know about you, but it makes me feel more optimistic about the world as a whole. Because we might have all sorts of differences that could stop us from talking, but if you made soup last week and I made soup last week, that's a whole lot we have in common.

Thank you.

That shared enthusiasm for soup started us of on such a good foot. And we made it to our funny white rental car, and we drove to the ocean.
We really did make it.

And you know what I've been doing since then? I'm been talking to strangers a whole lot more than usual. You gave me that idea, really. And now, this week in the city, I'm talking to people when I order my coffee, or waiting for the bus. You've upped my optimism, to be entirely truthful about it. I am just a little more open this week. A little bit, but it can feel boundless.

Thank you.

beets and leeks

I'm packing.
I have that strange feeling that I get when I'm about to go on a trip. Like everything is different already, exciting and ungrounded at the same time.
I'm going to San Francisco.
First, to be honest, I'm going south of San Francisco, to Carmel, so that I can be there to watch my friends start their marriage. I'm excited for that. Joey will be with me then, and after that he flies back home and basically changes places with my mother. She meets me on Monday in San Francisco.
We'll be there for the week. We have some family business there (that's the short story), and it's been a long time since we've taken a trip together. Since I was little, really. I'm excited for that, too.
It's also been a long time since I've seen that city, and I'm ready to go back. I was born there in a little house on Willard Street, and I've gone back for long stretches a few times in my life. I've somehow felt like I've failed San Francisco in the past. I've lived there at times when I wasn't so happy, and wasn't so...well, the only way I can think to say it is, I wasn't so me, and I've blamed it on the place, on the fog, on so many things. But at the same time, I think so longingly of it, and I can't wait to be there. It's been 10 years since I've been there, and I'm very me now.

I wanted to leave you with a little something, and so we come to beets and leeks. Nice to say, isn't it?
Kind of like as if Dr. Seuss got going about his farm share. 

Years back, I had a friend, Emily, and she was in town and came to cook for us right after Sadie was born. She's an opera singer now. She made us beets and leeks, and many other wonderful things I'm sure, but those beets and leeks had lasting power for for me. I've done it so many times, and it always feels special. It's the leeks, I think. Magical.

This is a roasting the beets recipe, and I know everyone has their own method. As much as I hate using all that tin foil, this is how I do it:

Cut the greens off the beets, leaving about 1 inch of stem. Leave the tail on. Wrap each beet individually in tin foil, putting a touch of olive oil and a dash of salt and pepper on each one before sealing the foil up. Roast in a 375 degree oven for and hour or so for medium sized beets, or more or less for big or small ones. Then take them out of the foil, and let them cool for a bit so that you can touch them. Slide them right out of their skins. Your hands will turn red. But I like that.

Cut the beets in bite-sized pieces and put them into a bowl.

And then, there are the leeks. For a bunch of about 5 beets, I use 2 leeks, but one would do if that's all you have.  Cut the bottom root and the very top off the leek. Slice the whole thing in half lengthwise, and then slice both halves into 1-inch pieces.  Transfer them to a bowl, add a touch of white or apple cider vinegar, and swish them around. This will release the dirt. Lift them out of the water into a colander.

Melt a few tablespoons of butter or olive oil in a skillet.  Add the leeks and cook, stirring often, until they are just starting to brown and your house smells like heaven. Pour the leeks over the beets, and add a glug or two of the best olive oil you've got. Then salt, then lots of pepper. Then it's ready.

I'll keep you with me in my travels, if that's good with you. I've got my camera, and I'll be looking for new things. New things! Aren't they wonderful? I'll let you know what I find.

how to freeze kale

Six kale plants.
A six-pack of kale starts will run you about $2.50. Kick in a little more for a bag of compost and you're on your way.
Those six plants can be packed into a tiny garden bed in the spring. Nurtured. Watered. Even sung to, if that is how you roll.
They will start to feed you by the end of May, in little fits and starts of delicate, baby kale. Any by July, you will have trees, a jungle of green leaves that grow faster than you can eat them.
But that's not even the best part.
Because long after the rest of everything has frozen and withered away, there is the kale.
It is better after the frost, sweeter and worthy of eating it raw, even if you're not the kind of person who does that kind of thing.
And, depending on the strength of the winter, the kale will feed you long after the world has bundled into its cold envelope, and you can trudge out through the deep snow to pick a few leaves for dinner. Even if it feels frozen, it will warm on the counter after a few minutes, perky and ready as it was in October. And after that? There has been extra all along, enough to freeze in little bags to get you through February, March, and April. Powerful stuff, this kale.

I've been thinking about revolution lately. A withered word in itself, I think, and sometimes I wish that I'd been there to make a difference in the decades before I was born, back when revolution was revolutionary. Back when there just seemed to be more conviction in the power of revolution.

A year and a half ago, when I decided to run for office in my little town, I was sick of feeling like I couldn't make a difference. I felt fed up with apathy and anger, and I decided that I would strike out and do something I had never considered. I would participate.

I'm not sure that the experiment has entirely been a success. Most days when I walk out of meetings at town hall, I feel less empowered and more hopeless than I ever did before. I feel like there is such a divide between people and government, and I somehow I feel it more profoundly from this side, the government side. Local government and national government are different enough that it's hard to make accurate comparisons, but in someways, I think the comparison is fair. And this divide between the people and government? It undermines democracy itself. If the people don't participate, there really is no democracy.


But I'm still plugging along. And I think, in the end, that participation really does create change. I think that the decision to be there, to go to a local town meeting, to run for office, to write to your representative, to stand on the street in New York or just your own home town and to say what you think--I think that each one of these actions strengthens democracy and (depending on how you feel about the present state of things) brings it back to life.


Which brings me back to kale.
Six plants. $2.50. If you've got a tiny bit of space and you're thinking about turning it into food, I'd start there. And every time you take your food production into your own hands, you are participating. If you believe you can make change, it's a self-fulfilling prophesy.

This is my mom, Jamie, and my stepfather, Chris. Last weekend, I was heading out for the day, and they offered to demonstrate (for you!) how to freeze kale.

They asked for a quick refresher on the method, and so before I left, we went through one batch. They put on some Steely Dan, and I took that as my cue to get out of the kitchen.


And so, (with thanks to Chris and Jamie for documenting the experience),

HOW TO FREEZE KALE
(or, revolutionary food preservation)

1. Soak the kale in the sink to remove dirt and bugs.

2. Take the leaves off the stem by holding the stem at the base and running your hand up the length of the stem. Chop the leaves roughly.
3. Bring a large pot of water to boil.  Set up a large bowl of ice water on the counter. Next to it, put a large colander inside a pot or bowl.

4. In batches suited to the size of your pot, submerge the kale in the boiling water for 30 seconds.



5. Use tongs or a slotted spoon to transfer the kale to the ice water. Keep it in there for a few minutes, or until it is fully cooled. Replenish the ice as you go, so that the water stays cold.
 

6. Then, transfer to the colander, gently squeezing the water out as you do so.

6. Transfer the kale to small freezer bags. Press the air out, seal, and flatten out the contents so they will stack nicely in the freezer.

Use in soups all winter. You can defrost first, or just stick a kale-sicle in a pot of soup as it cooks.

joe beef's jerusalem artichokes with ketchup

All last Fall, when we were working on the photos for the book, Jennifer May was so wonderful to work with that she made me feel like I was the only book she was working on. She spent endless hours with us, played with the girls, played with the cat, and of course, she took so many beautiful photographs. 

The other books that she was doing at the time came into conversation here and there. I knew that she was spending many of her days with artful cuts of sustainable meat. And I knew that on the weekends she wasn't hanging out with us, she was living it up in Montreal with the Joe Beef cookbook.

I was quite aware that her weekends with us were the quiet ones, the rural and family friendly ones, the days where she ate homemade crackers instead of foie gras sandwiches. And I was okay with that! I knew that Jen loved her time with us, and that her other needs were satisfied by her exotic time in Montreal with the other woman, er, I mean, cookbook.

A few weeks ago, the book arrived in the mail. I did not ask for it, but it showed up, beautiful, hip, both feminine and masculine at the same time. And if this book was the other woman, she was wearing clothes I would never think to try to pull off, and man oh man did she pull them off! She knocked on the door (at least, UPS did), cigarette hanging from her mouth, and in a faint Montreal accent, she greeted me and pushed her way in. And just like that, after Jen had been seeing us both, separately, for so long, we were there in the same room. And I fell for it. I fell for that cookbook.

This book has some recipes I can't wait to make, and some that I know I will never attempt. The photos are (of course!) stunning, and the writing is wonderful and witty.  And, true to its name The Art of Living According to Joe Beef, the book conveys an entire atmosphere, a way of relating to food, yes, but also time, and love, and communication. The recipes are sexy, but in the way that Montreal is sexy. If you have been to Montreal, I'm guessing you know what I mean.

I have never known a city to be filled with more beautiful people than Montreal. But unlike some other cities where I feel outside of it all, there seems to be no standard, no model of beauty. People are all shapes and sizes. Fashion is all over the place, and always fantastic. And it is contagious. When I am in Montreal,  I feel so beautiful, exactly as I am.

I'm looking forward to my next trip out there. I want to go to Joe Beef.

In the recipe for bagna cauda and aioli, we are instructed to "sit down in a garden chair with a bottle of rose or pastis, a cutting board on [our] knees, and good paring knife. Throw the peels straight into the garden."

I know! Sighs, blushes, and an ever so slightly shaking hand.

I wanted to tell you about one of the simpler recipes in the book. It deals with jerusalem artichokes, those strange little tubers that grow beneath what you might think is a bushy sunflower. They look like ginger, but they taste like something between a potato and an artichoke. And no one quite seems to know what to do with them.

This was my first year growing jerusalem artichokes. I did it against everyone's advice. "They'll take over!" people said. "You'll never get them out of your garden!"  That's okay with me. While the weeds strangled everything else, that jerusalem artichoke grew taller than me. The deer ate it every day, and every day it grew anyway. That's my kind of plant. One that can survive anything.

And so, in the way of Joe Beef, I roasted those indestructible tubers. I flipped them over, and then I roasted them some more. And then I popped a jar of the special occasion peach tomato ketchup, and Joey and I ate them in the garden, as we were meant to.

Jerusalem Artichokes with Ketchup
adapted from The Art of Living According to Joe Beef, by Frederic Morin, David McMillan, and Meredith Erickson (with photos by Jennifer May)

8 large jerusalem artichokes
a handful of coarse salt
butter, for greasing the pan
more coarse salt (or pretzel salt, if you have it)
a few sprigs fresh thyme
ketchup

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Smear a baking tray with a good layer of butter.

Put the jerusalem artichokes into a heavy duty freezer bag with a handful of coarse salt and a few tablespoons water. Seal the bag, and shake it several times. This will clean the jerusalem artichokes.

Rinse off each tuber, and cut in half lengthwise. Lay them cut side down on the prepared tray. Sprinkle with salt, and then with the leaves from the thyme sprigs.

Roast for 45 minutes, then flip the jerusalem artichokes over and roast for 30 minutes more. Allow to cool slightly, and then serve in the garden, with a side of ketchup.

pear, kale, and sorrel salad

Last week, I came into the small fortune of 20 perfect seckle pears.  Those pears were so beautiful, we almost missed their ripeness because we were so busy admiring them. The first one spouted a few tragic snowflakes of delicate mold, and then it became clear that we had 24 hours to eat the rest of them. We did it. We rose to the challenge, and at any given moment of that day (and into the night), there was a pear attached to someone's face. There was juice running down arms, and there were pears in everything. 

And so we found this happy combination, well-timed, I think, as we are waiting patiently for our first killing frost. Still, still waiting, and then the plants, and more importantly, the weeds, will wither and keel over, and the site of them will stop making me feel... well, I'll just come out and say it, like a failure.

I know that this is the second post in a row in which I've talked about failing my garden, and I know (or at least I'll go ahead and imagine) that you're saying, "lay off it, Alana! We're all there- we've all given up, the weeds have taken over!" Or, even, "garden! I don't even have a garden! Stop being so hard on yourself!" 

But those who have sat in my "garden" this summer while I try to distract them with cocktails know the truth. I never had a chance this year. My friend, Brandee said it best sometime in early July, as I hacked at the thistle in order to get at the mint for her pimm's cup. 

"Oh, honey. You need some help out here."

But there have been successes.  A proud number of green zebra tomatoes. 3 crimson lee peppers. Very happy jerusalem artichokes (always happy, of course).  Enough tomatillos for a damn fine bowl of salsa. 6 stalks of brussels sprouts that just might be ready by December.  And 4 vigorous kale plants that only have more sweetness ahead of them when the frost comes.

Hooray for kale. It makes me feel like a winner in every way.

Pear, Kale, and Sorrel Salad

1 small bunch curly kale
2 seckel pears (or 1 larger pear)
6 leaves sorrel (You can, of course, leave these out if you don't have them, but they add a delicious tang to the whole dish)
juice of 1 lemon
2 T olive oil
1/4 cup toasted almonds, roughly chopped
peeled parmesan
salt and pepper

Tear the kale off the stem, and chop it finely. Do the same with the sorrel. Cut the pear into 1/2-inch slices and toss with the greens.  Squeeze a lemon directly over the whole thing. Then spoon the olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and toss to combine. Finish off with the toasted almonds and parmesan.  This will serve 4 as a side dish, or you alone if you bring it out to the back yard to watch the sun set as you reflect on the beauty of things. 

fall clean up, and a few announcements!

I have a few things to tell you! (don't you just love a good announcement?)


The first... is that this site is getting a bit of an upgrade and a makeover. My outrageously talented friends Aurel and Molly de St. Andre are working on it as we speak, and I can't wait till the whole thing goes hoppin' live. I'm just telling you now! I know that change can be a little jarring, and so consider this a gentle preparation. It will look different, but it's still me, just with a bit more lipstick on, shall we say.  Soon! Soon!

Also, for you who are in the area, I am so excited to announce that I'll be teaching a food writing workshop this fall.  We'll meet over the course of four Thursday nights around that big lovely table at Rubi's Coffee and Sandwiches in Great Barrington- reading some great food writing, writing some of our own, and talking about ways to get our writing out there. And the best part? Plenty of wine and cheese is included in the cost of the workshop. (How can we talk about food writing without getting hungry?) We'll meet November 3, 10, 17, and December 1, and the cost of the workshop is $225.  Just send me an email through the contact link up there if you are interested in registering.

And... one more for the locals! Berkshire Grown is hosting a pretty fantastic (and FREE) series starting tonight. They will be showing 9 videotaped lectures from UC Berkley from a series called Edible Education in the lecture hall at Simon's Rock College in Great Barrington. You can go here to learn more about the series, but just to entice you, here's the line up:

October 5: FOOD AS CULTURE- Peter Sellars
October 12: THE POLITICS OF FOOD- Marion Nestle
October 19: PERSPECTIVES ON RACE, PLACE, AND FOOD- Alegria de la Cruz, Rebecca Flournoy, and Yvonne Yen Liu 
October 26: NUTRITION, HEALTH, & DIET-RELATED DISEASE- Patricia Crawford and Robert Lustig
November 2:  CORPORATIONS & THE FOOD MOVEMENT- Jack Sinclair and Michael Pollan
November 9: SCHOOL LUNCH & EDIBLE SCHOOLYARDS- Ann Cooper
November 16: FEEDING THE WORLD- Raj Patel
November 30: AGRICULTURE AND SOCIAL JUSTICE- Eric Schlosser, Gred Asbed, and Lucas Benitez
December 7: WHAT IS AN EDIBLE EDUCATION?- Alice Waters

That's all for today, friends... Happy Wednesday! 

what to do when the jelly doesn't set

It seems that although jam making is on the rise, jelly making is making a slower comeback.
Perhaps it is the sweetness that puts people off? The slight jello-ness that undermines its sophistication? Or for some, perhaps, it is the fear that the jelly won't set.

I have always used pectin in my jams, and I never feel the need to experiment outside of my beloved Pomona's Pectin. This gives the jam a good set with minimal sugar, and I don't have to think too hard about it. But when I get my hands on a basket of really high pectin fruit, I can't help but envision a delicate and clear jelly, and these are the few times in my canning career that I mess with gel points and thermometers.  Last year, I made quince jelly, and the fruit was so high in pectin that it hardened as if thickened with gelatine. It was pink and smelled like flowers, and I hoarded my few little jars of it all winter. This year I made red currant jelly, and the little bit of precious juice overflowed onto the stove when I boiled it with sugar. I ended up with one prized burgundy jar, and it was perfect.


I thought that we'd go through the jelly making process here, in case it is a new one to you. Except this time- with this recipe, I didn't end up making jelly at all. I had to confront the moment and figure out what to do when my jelly didn't set. The day comes for us all, and all we can do is be prepared.


The process of making jelly starts with the process of making juice.  The fruit must be clean, because you will use every bit of it. Pectin, that magical stuff that makes the jelly gel, is more densely in the skin, core, and seeds of the fruit. So cut the fruit roughly, and throw it all into the pot. Then we add water, and cook it all until it it is soft.

 
 You might have a special tool called a jelly strainer- this is basically a mesh bag suspended over a plate. You can rig up your own with a piece of cheese cloth. I tie it to opposite ends of a colander, and then put the colander over a bowl to catch the juice. The key is to suspend the cloth- this will get you clearer and more wonderful juice.


 Pour all of the softened fruit (along with the liquid) through the cheesecloth. Let the whole thing drain for at least 3 hours, but up to a day.  Let it drain on its own without squeezing or poking it. I'm serious about that- one good squeeze will give you cloudy jelly.

 
When the fruit has finished draining, you now have juice. Combine the juice with the sugar in a pot, and boil until the mixture reaches 220 degrees F. You can also keep a plate in the freezer, and when a drop of the mixture solidifies on the frozen plate, you know that you have reached the gel point.  Then the jelly goes into jars, and sometime in the next day, it gels, and it doesn't slosh around in the jar when you nervously pick it up to see if it has turned firm and lovely.

Except when it does slosh around. And when and if this ever happens to you, you have 2 options. Crying and dumping out the contents of your jars is not one of these options. You don't have to. You can make this better!

The first option is to unseal your jars and re-cook the jelly.  Add more sugar, add some pectin, and you'll get your gel. Resterilize your jars, top with new lids, and process again.

I know. It sounds a little exhausting, right? If so, this is your path. When the jelly doesn't set, it's time to make cocktails.

In my case, I know exactly why it didn't set. I was living dangerously and laughing in the face of well-established science. One thing you might notice about jelly recipes is that they have so so much sugar. Enough sugar to make your teeth hurt when you eat it. And so every time I make jelly, I mess with the sugar. This time, I went too far. But sometimes the mistakes taste better than the goal. And so, I present you:

Apple Mint Syrup

Mixed with gin or vodka in a shaker with a little ice, this is pretty fantastic. And, (need I say it), paired with a ribbon and a little bottle of booze? It's a DIY apple-tini holiday gift bag.

makes ten 8-ounce jars

7 pounds apples
1 large bunch mint (stems and leaves)- I used a variety called apple mint that seemed quite fitting
6 cups sugar

Coarsely chop the apples without peeling or coring them. Put them into a large pot with the mint, and just barely cover with water. Cover, bring to a boil, and lower the heat to medium low. Continue to cook until the apples are very soft and breaking down, about 45 minutes.

Set up a large piece of cheese cloth over a colander and a large bowl. Pour the mixture through the cheese cloth and let it drain without poking or squeezing it. Let it drain for at least 3 hours, but up to a day.

You should have between 12 and 14 cups of juice. Combine the apple mint juice with the sugar in a large pot. Bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Let the mixture cook at a rapid boil for ten minutes. (If you want to make jelly instead of syrup, increase the sugar to 10 cups, and make sure that the mixture reaches 220 degrees F.)

Pour into sterilized jars, top with lids, and process in a water bath for 10 minutes.