corn and nectarine salad with basil

So I've written a book!

A couple of years ago, when I thought about the possibility of writing a book, I thought of it more as an exercise than a reality. I was absolutely sure that it would never go anywhere, but I thought it would be good for me to follow through and see what I could make of it. At the very least, I'd have the experience of writing a book proposal, and even that seemed glamorous and exciting and fulfilling. Even more, I was realizing how much I loved the process of writing, torturous as it was, and as someone who has always put great stock in real, bound books made of paper and glue, I did feel like I'd love to try to create one. 

For a few years before I started working on the book, I was a personal assistant to a filmmaker. She is a pretty remarkable woman, and she and I had a conversation once that helped all of this along.  I had just picked her up from the airport, and we were somewhere on the Taconic Parkway.  She was telling me about her trip and her meetings and then she changed the subject.

"When are you going to stop working for me and start doing what you love?"

Now the real truth of it was that there were parts of that job that I really did love, and it was actually in those few years that I had the chance to eat some of the most remarkable meals of my life.  This inspired me to no end, as did the interactions that I had with actors and filmmakers who had made so much out of nothing, and who continued to be humbled and surprised by their success.

But she knew that my heart was in this next step for which I was gathering my courage. And when I asked her how she did that thing, that is to jump in and to know that she could start with a spark and keep working and working until it was something, and then something big, even when the task seemed impossible and the world around her even said as much, she gave me a piece of advice that is with me every day. She told me to think about the next step, and the next step only.  She said that if I looked to the end result, I'd risk getting overwhelmed and losing the whole process, so I should just go step by step. Most importantly, I should believe that the next step was possible, and to put all my work into that. So that's what I've tried to do. I've put all of my energy into envisioning and working on the next step.  I'm one of those people who thinks so big that the results can feel impossible, and so I've had a lot of plans that I've abandoned early on.

So when I thought about writing a book, I thought about the beginning of the process.  I went to talk to a friend who I worked for when Sadie was  just born. She's worked in publishing for a long time, and I asked her where to start. And so on from there. And every accomplished step felt like a milestone, and I kept saying that if I didn't get any further, I'd still feel so good about making it this far. About writing a book proposal. About finding an amazing agent who wanted to work with me. About getting the proposal to the point where it could go to publishers. About selling (!) the book to a publisher. About actually writing (!!) the book, and learning about the process of working with an editor and a team.  About finding a photographer to work with, and working together on creating the images. Every time we get to a point, it feels like the peak of a mountain, and I can't help but jump up and down and holler into the air.

A year ago, it all started to feel real enough to tell you about, and with sweaty palms and a dry mouth, I introduced you to "untitled cookbook." The book is not totally done, and we still have a while until I can put it in your hands, but I wanted to make another introduction, because whereas that book was still a bit of a dream, it's now more of its real self. So, palms even sweatier, heart beating faster than it was a minute ago, I'd be honored if you'd allow me to make the introduction again.

This past week, I saw it all for the first time. Pictures and recipes and stories all designed into real pages of a real book. And I'll share more of it over the coming months, but today, I wanted to show you this page. Because when I saw it, I started to shake and there was a lump in my throat and a lot of other reactions all ran around inside of me. Because I think I've been steadily making my way through each step, and I still don't believe that this could be real. I still don't believe that my girls will be able to have this book about our life and our food and our granola.

The parts of this process that feel big keep surprising me. Months ago, I finished the manuscript and I sent it off, and then I made some dinner and put the girls to bed, and mentioned it to Joey, and he said "What? You did it?" and he let out a cheer. It all surprised me by feeling quiet and orderly. But the other night, Joey confessed that he'd been curious and checked on Amazon. He put the computer in front of me, and I typed my name into the Amazon search box.  There's no cover image, no author page or anything flashy, but there it is,

The Homemade Pantry: 101 Foods You Can Stop Buying and Start Making

To be published April 3, 2012, and available for preorder now!  Coming in at #1,960,623 in books, which is pretty good I think, considering it doesn't exist yet.  Yeah!

So here's to envisioning each step, and to the possibility of impossible things. And here's to you, friends, my favorite company in the kitchen.  As nervous as I am (and man am I nervous) about these coming months when I have to keep exercising my sell-myself muscle (advice anyone?), as long as we can keep talking here, I think I can keep a level head. It turns out that it's not the writing that's the scariest for me, it's the asking people to read it. I'll keep working it, but thank you for helping me out with that one.  It's an understatement to say that none of this would be possible without you.

And speaking of you, what are you making for dinner? I've got this salad that I've made over and over this week--I've got to say that it's one the only things I'm interested in eating right now. Maybe it's the combination of summer in a bowl that does it, maybe it's that I'm holding on to the season? I'm not sure why it took me 32 years to eat raw corn, but better late than never. Did you know about this secret? Why didn't anyone tell me?

So this is corn, nectarines, scallions, lime, salt, pepper, and basil. That's it. It's sweet and sour and crunchy and slightly reminiscent of a cocktail that I have yet to try. And it's especially excellent on the potluck picnic table, so if you've got one of those this weekend, maybe it could make an appearance. Or if you've got a suggestion for what I could make when I've had enough of this, I would be eternally grateful.

Corn and Nectarine Salad with Basil

serves 4-6 people, or just me if there is a bowl of it in the fridge all day 

4 ears corn, kernels removed
2 nectarines, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 large scallion, whites and a bit of the green thinly sliced
6 leaves basil, sliced thin
juice of 1 lime
salt
pepper

Combine the ingredients and stir to combine. Taste to adjust for salt, pepper, and lime juice.

rhubarb pop-tarts

This weekend, we made a video.
The thought of this has been hanging around for a while now, between my wonderful agent (who I do my best not to disappoint) and my also wonderful publisher (who, also, I do my best not to disappoint), everyone was excited for a video. This has been one of those things that wakes me up in the night for the last few months--I am deep in dreams and then my eyes open and I see Ina or Giada or Aida well dressed and primped at their butcher block kitchen aisles, and I think, "Shit! How am I going to make a video?"



We gave it a try a while back, and my friends Bruce and Amy came over and Joey and I made pizza crust all day while we tried to keep a straight face. We got some great footage of Rosie torturing the cat in the background, but the sound didn't quite come through, and none of us had any idea of how to edit those hours of pizza kneading and stretching (not to mention cat torturing). And then one day I was talking to my friend Luke who makes movies about how I had to get off my butt and learn how to edit, and he suggested that I focus on the cooking and leave the editing to him.  And so this weekend, his friend and movie making partner Ethan came up with his camera and we shot some footage.


I would like to tell you that I was entirely calm, prepared, and on my game. I would like to tell you that I was totally confident that I would know what to do and say.  I would like to tell you that I knew I would be able to cook and talk at the same time without falling over.


And then I would say, "and so, in honor of how fabulous I am on camera, why don't you make these rhubarb pop-tarts.  Here is the recipe."


Or I could tell you the truth, which, like truth tends to be, is a little more complicated.

For weeks, I've been practicing. I've been making attempt after attempt at bringing my mission and my hopes for all this into a few clear, perfect, and inspiring sentences. I've been talking to myself as I cook, and I've been searching for original and exciting ways to talk about food. I've been staring at my closet hoping that it might spit something out at me besides an old and stained black tee shirt. I've been contemplating buying concealer.  And I have been watching the Food Network, at least as much as the 5 minute clips on their website will allow me.

In short, I've been driving my family crazy.

Between the food network, the cooking channel, and all of the little indie food videos out there, there is definitely a show for everyone. Simple French cooking in 10 minutes? Yes. Hip in Brooklyn with all day to cook? Absolutely.  Midwestern locavore who eats the weeds in his garden? I love him too. Mom in a stained shirt who makes imperfect looking food while her children complain that she's not letting them do all the steps?
Here I come.

This was the project for the weekend: make three different segments--two in the kitchen and one interview. Each would be peppered with shots of me in the garden, me at the market, me out and about.
Ethan showed up on Friday morning as I was arranging bowls on my shelf in a panic, purple circles under my eyes from the sleepless night before filled with phrases that would be the perfect and authentic intro to my recipe. "Today, we are going to make perfect, satisfying, homemade, yellow, astounding butter in your very own satisfying perfect home!" My room was strewn with friends' clothes that I had gathered after my closet refused to offer up anything of use, and I was already shaking from my third cup of coffee. Reality show? Maybe. But I was having doubts about my cooking on camera potential.

At one point last week, I ended up in the kitchen muttering and searching for my lost measuring cups, and when my mother asked me how it all was going, I had to say it out loud:
The more I tried to pin down what I wanted to say, the harder it was to remember what I was trying to say in the first place.

And after all that, with the circles under my eyes and the nervous tummy and the over thinking, Ethan walked into the house and everyone relaxed. The girls fell in love with him, I started to breathe again, and Joey took a nap. We made butter, we walked all over town with the camera, and then,
well, you know what comes next, right?


Then we made pop-tarts.



Like making a video, pop-tarts may be prone to over thinking. It is entirely possible to get caught up in it all, to convince yourself that because homemade poptarts are so amazing and impressive and novel and likely to raise the eyebrows of anyone to whom you might casually drop that you happened to make pop-tarts, because pop-tarts are POP-TARTS, that maybe they are hard to make. It is easy to get tired and overwhelmed before you even begin, because maybe you feel that you are not skilled enough to be someone who makes pop-tarts.  Maybe it seems like all those people on food network have very shiny hair as they lean over their butcher block islands, that they are wearing shirts that never seem to get dusted with flour or smattered with oil, and that they actually would cut these damn rectangles all the same size without having to take out a ruler.  Maybe you're not up for all that.

 

How about we work on this together. How about if we just give it a try. What's the worst that can happen? Your pop-tarts might ooze a little. Maybe they won't be shaped quite right. Maybe I'll look silly on camera.

Hell, at least we'll get a really fantastic snack out of it.

It is almost always easier to do something than to think and plan for and worry about it. Sometimes the ease and (let's go all the way here) pure awesomeness of actually making something, be it a video or a pop-tart, will amaze and astound you. And before you know it, you've done it. You've made something that seemed so hard.

Rosie and I made these pop-tarts because she wanted to practice before we did them on camera. We  filled them with backyard rhubarb, muscovado sugar, and lemon.

They oozed rhubarb, and they were far from perfect.
Although, I guess it depends how you define perfect, right?

 

Rhubarb Pop-tarts
(yes, incidentally, I did write about pop-tarts last year, and looking back at the post, I also wrote about how imperfect they were. But I have to say, these are looking a bit prettier than last year's. Next year? Perfect pop-tarts.)

1 1/4 cup chopped rhubarb (1-inch pieces)
3 tablespoons muscovado sugar (can substitute dark brown sugar)
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon butter
flour for the counter
1 recipe pie crust for a double crust pie (divided into 2 discs)
1 egg, beaten with a teaspoon water

Combine the rhubarb, sugar, lemon, and butter in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, cover, lower the heat, and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb is entirely broken up. Let the mixture cool.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Roll the first disc of pie crust out on a floured counter, trying to get as close as possible to a 9x12-inch rectangle. Cut into 6 rectangles and transfer to a parchment lined baking sheet.
Paint each rectangle with egg wash. Spoon about a tablespoon of filling down the center of each rectangle, leaving lots of space on all sides.
Roll out the second disc, cut into rectangles. Lay the second set of rectangles over the filling.
Paint the tops with egg wash. Use a fork to crimp the edges together.  Then prick a few holes in the top of each pastry to allow steam to escape.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the tops are golden.

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let's start now (that's right, a giveaway!)

I feel like celebrating.
I'd bring out the champagne, except that I'm not actually quite finished with the book yet.  I'm waiting for the girls to get into pajamas so I can get settled in for the night, but in the last twenty minutes, Sadie has managed to take only one arm out of her shirt.  Rosie succeeded in taking all of her clothes, but then she put them back on again backwards and is calling them her pajamas.
We're getting there.
But even though I've got a few more days of work on this thing, I'm ready to celebrate now.  I'm almost there--I'm just checking for commas and spaces and making sure that I wrote "farmers market" instead of "farmer's market" every time.  I'm so close. Let's start now.
Because I'm thinking the secret to these days might just be more celebrating!  There are plenty of excuses.  Like, it's Thursday night!  And less than two weeks until Spring!  And my parents and Maia moved in and it's working out wonderfully!  Even the cats are getting along!
Any good celebration involves a present or two, so I asked my friend Caroline if she she would help out.  She's an artist, and she makes some of my favorite jewelry. She's doing some pieces with bakelite right now that might just have to be my end of book splurge.  Last year, Joey bought me a Caroline necklace for my birthday, and it's the only necklace I wear.  It's a little pearl that looks like a bird on wire, and it's up there in that photo on top of my draft.  I thought they'd like to pose together, that necklace and that draft. They're celebrating together.
So the good news is that Caroline said Yes! She said that she would love to give a $40 to one of you to spend in her etsy store.  She's always up for a celebration, that Caroline. 
So if you're up for one too, let me know! Are you celebrating?  What's your excuse?
I'll keep the comments open until, Tuesday March 15 at midnight.  I'll finish my book by that night, and then I'll announce the winner.  So let's do it! Let's get started!

tomato pie

This is the last time I'm writing about tomatoes this year.
I'm serious. It's snowing, and it's time to move on--I get it.

This week I'm thinking about books.
Remember books?

I think in all this wild and crazy change, it's good to remember books.
Sure, I've been plugging away at my own, and as I get deeper into the thick of it, I can't help but imaging the physical feeling of what that book will entail. I like the feel of a book in my hands.

I had a dream last night. It was the first one I remembered in a while. It was a pregnancy dream, which I must admit I've had a few of since I started writing this baby, I mean book. It was my due date, and I looked at myself in the mirror and I thought, "well, I don't really look pregnant! That just looks like I ate too much for dinner!" (And anyone who has been around me when I'm nine months pregnant knows that that there is no mistaking my pregnancies--I am a watermelon with legs) So I looked a little closer, and I lifted up my shirt, and at that moment, the light came into the room in a certain way that I could see through the skin of my belly, that I could see a clear and beautiful face of a baby right there. It was actually pretty awesome. And I felt calm, and I said to myself, "Okay, let's do this then."

This week I was fortunate enough to get to have my editor from Clarkson Potter in my very own kitchen. I hardly got to feed her at all because we were so busy taking pictures, but I snuck in a homemade graham cracker here and a little bowl of soup there, and she indulged my Jewish mother instincts by eating everything I put in front of her in between shots. There I am, in the kitchen with my editor and my photographer, and I cannot stop marveling at this team of people who are working on this book--I have no idea how I became so fortunate to be part of a team like this one. These two women who just love food and love books and do what they do so well... and there are more too--the people putting their love and work into this book just blow me away. I could just sit in a room with these fabulous people forever--just loving food and books. But of course, I need to sneak away and write the thing so that we've got something to work on.

I dropped my editor off at the train, and on the way home, driving through the changing-every-five-minute outrageous October weather, I wrote a love song in my head to the book itself--I mean every book that's been bound and hangs out for someone to find it. I was thinking about older food books that are still around that I love, that I am so thankful to be able to hold in my hands. Julia Child and MFK Fisher and Calvin Trillin. Elizabeth David. My friend Andrew just insisted that I pick up Patience Gray, and I am so thankful. I love to think about the teams behind these books--editors and illustrators and testers and everyone who put their mark on those pages. All of these books have been handed to me at one point or another--usually stained, old paperback versions. I know we'll all be on kindles and ipads someday, but I don't know if I can live in a world without old beat-up books.

So I'm driving back from the train station, and it's a funny drive that takes you through three states in 45 minutes--first New York, then Connecticut, then Massachusetts. And I'm driving through Salisbury, CT, and I pass by a little place I've never been called Chaiwalla. I have meant to go 100 times for many reasons, but of course the main reason is that Laurie Colwin writes about Chaiwalla in More Home Cooking, and of the famed tomato pie from that little tea shop. I am always hurrying here or there from the train, or I have stopped at the other lovely tea shop, and I still have not gone. As I came into Salisbury, and the wind was blowing and there was the slightest bit of hail I thought that this would be the day, I would taste the tomato pie, because of course it would be there and it would be wonderful. I don't get so excited about celebrities, but I have a serious dorkiness about places where writers wrote or wrote about--I've been to Melville's house and Edith Wharton's house and many others where Joey and I were the youngest people on the tour by forty years.
Alas, I tore my eyes from the blustering leaf swept road, and a glance a the clock revealed that today wouldn't be the day. There were children to gather from school, dance classes to make it to on time, and of course a list on from there. I drove on, and I think that really I was a little happy to still have it to look forward to, someday.

And of course when I got home, I had the book in my hands, and I could still have tomato pie.


This is the last of the tomatoes, really. I picked them a few weeks ago from the farm on the day that the frost was threatening to kill them all. I walked through the plants, looking for any fruit with a hint of red, and Elizabeth cheered me on. Take them! Fill buckets! We're done!
It was a good tomato year.

And so these tomatoes have been ripening in the closet, and I nearly forgot about them. Laurie Colwin uses canned tomatoes for this recipe, and I nearly opened a can of my precious tomatoes before the thought of these red and lonely fruits in the closet struck me. Blanched to remove the skins, sliced thin...it was a good end to a good season.

How do I describe this pie? I ate two slices for lunch, and I'll have more for dinner. The crust is like a biscuit, and so, slicing through a piece with your fork, a bite is really the best of bread and cheese and tomato--it is grilled cheese and tomato soup without all the extra dishes. It's a keeper, and with canned tomatoes? All winter long, baby.

Bring it on, snow. I've got pie, and tea, and a stack of books to get me through.


Tomato Pie
adapted from Laurie Colwin, More Home Cooking

2 cups all purpose flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 stick of butter, cut into 1-inch cubes
pinch of salt
3/4 cup buttermilk (milk will work too, if that's all you've got)
2 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes, drained, or 2 1/2 pounds fresh tomatoes, blanched and dunked in ice water to remove skins
1/3 cup mayonnaise (homemade or storebought)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 1/2 cups (about 6 ounces) grated cheddar cheese
fresh herbs, whatever is available, but chives, basil, and parsley are especially good here

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Combine the flour, baking powder and salt in the bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse a few more times. Add the buttermilk slowly, pulsing until the dough comes together. It will be fairly wet. This dough also comes together well by hand if you prefer. Rub a 9-inch pie dish with a bit of butter and sprinkle it with flour. Roll out half the dough on a floured surface, adding additional flour to prevent your rolling pin from sticking. Lay it into the prepared pan. Slice the tomatoes thinly and layer them in the crust. Scatter with chopped fresh herbs, then 1 cup of the cheese. Combine the mayonnaise with the lemon juice, and pour over the cheese. Top with the rest of the cheese, roll out the remaining crust, and lay over the cheese. Pinch shut and cut steam vents. Bake for 25 minutes, or until crust starts to brown. Let cool a bit before cutting, or, as Laurie Colwin recommends--cook in the morning, refrigerate, and then reheat for dinner.