scrambled eggs with morels and violets

I've been shortening my to-do lists and I've been lengthening my to-do lists. I'm torn between the two, and so I spend a lot of time thinking about how long my to-do lists should be.

First, they are short.  I follow those columns in all of the magazines that I am now buying in order to see if I can write for them. They say, go easy on yourself! Know that you are doing your best and that you should set out only as many goals as you can actually accomplish in the day. I say, yes! I love going easy on myself.  So I take out "make croissants".  Those have often been on my to-do list, and I still have never made them. Life is long! I won't stress it. I take out "make orange marmalade that you froze forever ago for that exact purpose". Didn't happen yesterday, and I'm guessing it won't happen today. Buy Sadie new shoes? One more day of squeezed toes won't do her in, and she's so indecisive that we really need an entire afternoon at the carpeted shoe warehouse where everyone walks around with their hair sticking up because of the mysteriously excessive amounts of static electricity. We'll do that one tomorrow. Soon enough, I am down to three or four agenda items that I actually have to do, usually write this, cook this, write that. Thank you Good Housekeeping.

But then I am tempted to lengthen the list just so I can have the deep belly-tingling satisfaction of crossing things off the list. Eat. Change the toilet paper roll. Make the bed. Pencil goes to paper, and I cross, cross, cross! At the end of the day, there are those familiar items still left: write this, cook this, write that.

I think I might be going about this the wrong way.
In the last few years, I have started being late to things. I have started speeding more often, running into meetings or to pick up the girls with an automatic "sorry!" as I careen into the room.

I know that it doesn't have to be like this.  I say, I will slow down! I will stop taking on new jobs! I will take walks. I will drink more cocktails (this one, I'm doing better with). I will fold the laundry right away. I will finally get the girls to clean the bathroom. I will (someday) have the wisdom not to run for public office. I will read novels again. I will breathe several times a day, and I will chew my food.
There I go with the to-do lists again.

I absolutely positively know that I can shift the rhythm of the day with my attitude. The crazier I feel, the crazier I am. It might seem backwards, but I think that's how it works, at least with me. So in my best moments, I exercise my patience muscle, and I take an extra few minutes. I sit out on the porch, or I read a book to Rosie, or I go see how the radishes are growing.

I am pretty sure that the life I want to live is happening all around me.  As soon as I slow down, there it is. And instead of eating crackers and cheese in the car as I speed to a meeting, I'm picking violets in the yard to add to my lunch. Little, little things.

I don't know what it is about foraging, but it makes it all feel a bit enchanted around here. Even if the day is a flurry of craziness and impossibility, finding food in the yard or the woods puts us into a page of My Side of the Mountain, and it makes the day follow a different time. We cooked up Rosie's morels in butter and garlic for dinner, and then in the morning, my mother suggested that  the leftover morels go into eggs with violets and greens. She was off to work and I was off to a meeting, but for the 10 minutes we sat together with our enchanted eggs, it felt just a bit slower and fancier. I'd say that eating wild mushrooms and flowers for breakfast can only make for a better day ahead.

 

Morels are all over New England right now. Some people have secret places to find them, but a search in the woods might reveal a little city of perfect caps. Make sure that the morels are are not false morels--there is a good description of both here. Soak the mushrooms in salt water to clean them, and chop the tops and slice the stems.

Scrambled Eggs with Morels and Violets
(an enchanted breakfast for two)

4 eggs
1 tablespoon milk
salt and pepper 2 tablespoons butter, plus more if needed
1 clove garlic, minced
2 to 3 morels, cleaned and chopped
1 cup spinach or other green
1 handful violets

Beat the eggs in a bowl with the milk, a pinch of salt, and a few grinds of pepper. Set aside.
Melt the butter in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic, and cook until it smells good, about 30 seconds. Add the morels, salt and pepper, and cook until they are tender and just beginning to shrink, 3 to 5 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and set aside.
Add the greens to the hot pan and cook in the butter and mushroom liquid just until wilted. Transfer them to the mushroom bowl. Pour the mushroom liquid out of the pan if there is any left in there.
Add a bit more butter if the pan seems dry. Pour the beaten eggs into the pan, and as soon as it starts to solidify around the edges, add the morels and greens. Use a silicone spatula to scramble the eggs around the mushrooms and greens, shuffling the mixture around the pan. When the eggs are cooked (but not brown), sprinkle the violets over the eggs, turn up the heat on the stove to high, and watch the eggs plump up and the violets wilt. Transfer to a plate and add additional salt and pepper, if needed.

millet muffins

 

We have three cats now, and our one handsome cat who came to us last summer has been joined by the feline siblings who journeyed over with my parents and sister when they moved in. There was one tense hour of hissing way back, and then Artie (that's mine) and Leo (that's the tiger-y boy sibling) became friends and Artie fell in love with Isis (the grey princess-like girl sibling), who bats him away and breaks his heart every day. I only mention this because now since we have decided not to be afraid of the bear who is roaming around up here, and since we put the bird feeder back up, all three cats sit at the window all day long and pretend to hunt the birds and chipmunks at the window. They sit there in a row, and their tails bat against the windowsill with rhythm and force. They make little growls and squeaks, and their eyes are just bursting, and watching them like that all together all the time--it makes me laugh out loud, over and over. And I feel silly sometimes, laughing by myself, but then I feel silly for feeling silly and I laugh some more.

I finally put a few seeds in the ground, and then I watched the chipmunks dig them up. My nails are dirty, and the wind is whipping, and I am drinking so much black tea. And I finished the book, really this time. (I hope!) Yesterday I went to New York and I had a meeting in the Random House building.  It was only the second time I had been there, but that building hums with all of the activity within it, and the great front room is filled with so many books.  It was raining, and my umbrella kept flipping inside out on my way, and walking into the building and showing my ID made me feel like I feel like I am two people at once, and going up in the elevator I looked at the dirt from my garden under my nails, and I thought "shit. maybe I should have scrubbed my nails."
I guess I am really just one person, both in the garden and in the Random House building.

 
 This is Heidi Swanson's new book, and I would say that it's the favorite book on my shelf these days, except for the fact that it doesn't ever make it to the shelf. It has been on the counter since it came home with me, and I've cooked so many things from it. The recipes are great, but there's something else about this book, something I can't quite explain, but I'll try.
This book just feels good.  It is the right size, and the pages make me hungry.  The design of each recipe on the page feels like the layout of a moment.  And in that moment, I think, yes, perhaps I should make millet muffins.  Sometimes I wander for a minute as I'm trying to figure out what's for dinner, and without knowing it, I have picked up this book and I am carrying it under my arm.
It's a good book, and I'll bet you have too many cookbooks and you've said you're going to stop buying cookbooks, but even if that's the case, this one will do some good under your arm and on your counter.

And one more thing while were talking about this and that--Rosie lost four teeth last week.  Four teeth. Three of them were in one afternoon, and then there was another a few days later.  I only bring that up, because I also can't stop laughing every time I look at her.  And between the cats and their incessant imaginary hunting and Rosie's all-of-the-sudden lisp and total lack of teeth, I don't get a break. And this morning, she jumped on me in bed, and even though it had only been a few hours since I'd gotten home from New York, I cracked open my eyes and there was her gummy smile, coming towards me for a kiss.  And even then, I laughed.  And if it hadn't been 6 in the morning, and if I hadn't just gotten home from New York a few hours earlier, and if I had been able to keep myself awake long enough to do it, this is what I would have made for my sweet girls.

Don't let the millet, whole wheat, and honey fool you. Think of these as healthy if you want to, because they are, but really the most overwhelming thing about them is that they're so good, and their texture is perfect.

 

Millet Muffins

from Heidi Swanson, Super Natural Every Day

2 1/4 cups whole wheat pastry flour

1/3 cup raw millet

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1 cup plain yogurt

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1/2 cup melted unsalted butter

1/2 cup honey

grated zest and 2 tablespoons juice from 1 lemon

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Butter a 12-cup muffin tin or line it with liners. 

Whisk together the flour, millet, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. In a separate bowl or liquid measuring cup, whisk together the yogurt, eggs, butter, honey,  and lemon zest and juice. Add the wet to the dry and stir until just incorporated. Divide the batter among the muffin cups and bake for 15 minutes, until the muffin tops are starting to brown.

cinnamon buns, part 1

Sadie and Willow were born 12 hours apart.

 

We met Willow's parents in birth class, when both girls were in the belly, so the girls extend the length of their lives by 3 months, and they say, "we have known each other for that long."

They have celebrated almost every birthday together.  Sadie and Willow have joint birthday parties where they fight over the guest lists, or they plan grand voyages, and then they settle for a day in New York.  This year, the request was dinner out together with the 2 families, then a sleepover, and then Sadie asked for cinnamon buns instead of a cake.

A simple request, really.

Oh, Mommy, won't you make cinnamon buns?

I was a little off this weekend.  Blurry in the eyes, short on patience, and I kept telling myself to get it together.  I perused the cookbooks and softened the butter.  I had to work on Sadie's birthday, so it was essential that the recipe benefit from sitting in the fridge all night before I could bake it in the morning before work.  But my unmerited crankiness and impatience got in the way.  And my unmerited crankiness and impatience made me even crankier and more impatient with myself.  And that's how I found myself in the kitchen far too late on Saturday night, squinting at a recipe and cursing at my yeast (always always a bad idea! living thing!) while Joey tried to stay awake in front of an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in order to keep me company. 

This, in truth, is my least favorite kind of cooking. The kind where I think I should be one way, but I can't quite be my best self. The kind when I am trying to make something fabulous for my kids, but I have gotten in my own way.  The kind where I realize that the recipe actually calls for 12 more hours of rise time (no!!!!! how could I have missed that!)  than I have allowed for. And new-agey as it might be, you know and I know that bread above all other things takes in the emotions of the person creating it.  It just does.  And no matter what I did, I couldn't change my attitude.

It was strikingly similar to the same day 8 years earlier.  

I'd like to think that I do what I need to with grace and patience and calm, but really, that is more of an ideal that I strive for.  And as I sat 8 years ago, so so pregnant, I was convinced that I would never give birth, that my body wouldn't behave--in short, I was overcome with crankiness and impatience.  I had been in and out of labor for weeks, and it seemed to me that my life would just continue like that forever.  But more than all that, I was annoyed with myself for being so cranky and impatient--I felt like I should be able to calmly embrace the reality--that I would have a baby soon, that my body would come through, and that I should enjoy these last days before my life changed forever.  But I couldn't. I was trying to be a patient earth goddess, but in truth,  I was pissed and ready for birth. 

You know how the story ends.  The baby came, I became a mother, and life changed forever.  But this weekend as I tried to change my attitude, I couldn't help but see the continuity of it all.  I was mad that I hadn't asked for the day off from work, that I had botched the cinnamon buns, and that I was just feeling so off.  But the world worked it's ways around me, and it took care of Sadie.  Willow kept her laughing for nearly 24 hours, Rosie showered her with gifts and privileges, and Joey kept the day running smoothly.  Sadie's auntie (fairy godmother) Eilen came up from Boston and took the girls out for a whirlwind pizza and toy store day.  Joey came in to see me at work, and I sat with him for a few minutes, and I realized that 8 years ago that very moment, I had finally called him at work to tell him that my water had broken and it was really going to happen this time.  We were quiet, and we just sat there at the table for a minute.  And by the time I got home and started rubbing herbs on the chickens for Sadie's roast chicken birthday dinner, my mood had shifted.  Sadie came home and showed me all her birthday bootie, talking a mile a minute about every single thing in the day. We sat around the dinner table and we were exactly the group of people who were in the room when she was born--me, Joey, my mother, stepfather, Maia, and Eilen (and Rosie of course!) And when we finally tucked Sadie in, right at the moment that she was born 8 years ago, the calm that I had been waiting for all weekend really came to me.  Because again, again I realized (why does it always take so long!) that I do what I can, but the world takes care of these girls, and the girls take care of themselves!  Sadie is strong, and smart, and so capable.  And she has such a support system of people who love her--they carried her through the day.  Eesh, mothering.  I am just not everything, and once we get them into the world, the world will take over. Thank whoever is looking out for that.  I don't know that it takes a village.  I think it takes a universe.

And the cinnamon buns?  Well, I don't know what took over, but they were fabulous.  I botched the recipe so many times throughout, I have no idea how I made them. I'm going to go through and see if I can reconstruct what I did, so that will be part 2.

Happy birthday to my sweet girl. And thank you to the world that holds her. 

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.

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 topping?  Oatmeal 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.

32

When I was little, I remember birthdays being a bit emotionally complicated.  There was expectation, and sugar, and all sorts of other things thrown in.  A birthday wasn't complete without tears.

Things are different now.  Now there is coffee, and it always comes in bed, and there are cards that say, "I love you MOM!" and other people cook for me--and do the dishes too.  I love being a grownup.

This is the thing.  Every year is better than the last.  Every year. 

Joey took these pictures.  I haven't actually gotten out of bed yet--But I have eaten two scones with butter and blackberry jam, and a big cup of coffee.  There are crumbs in my sheets. 

I see no reason to keep the day for myself.  Why don't you take a piece too?  And I think to celebrate, you should have scones in bed.  And coffee.  Slip your special someone this recipe...and they'll be out in a jiff.


Scones
from Amy Cotler, The Secret Garden Cookbook

2 cups flour, plus extra for dusting
2 tablspoons sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces
2/3 cup milk

for the glaze:
milk
2 tablespoons sugar


Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.  Whisk the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt together in a mixing bowl.  Mix the butter in with your hands, until it is rubbed into the flour.  Add the milk and mix gently with your hands until it is just starting to come together.  Turn the dough out on a lightly floured surface and knead just a few times until it holds together in a ball. Pat the dough into a disc about 1/2 inch thick.  Cut into 12 wedges, and transfer to an ungreased baking sheet.  Brush the tops with milk-- then sprinkle with sugar.

Bake until just starting to brown, 10-12 minutes. Serve immediately.

buttery polenta with parmesan and olive oil-fried eggs

 

I haven't been cooking.  

Well, I've been boiling pasta a lot, if you count that.  It's been rice pasta because Sadie's all off wheat again.  Rice pasta is good, but just a little bit less good than wheat pasta.  I've been making dinner in a few minutes because that's how the days have been lately.  I have made no plans.  I have not defrosted the meat.  6:00 will often find me standing at the shelf in the corner of the kitchen looking at a can of sardines and a jar of tense raisins, trying to figure out what to cook for this hungry and grumpy family. It would be omelets, but Sadie's off eggs too, and she asks so sweetly that she not have to eat something else for dinner than the rest of us so usually it's pasta.  With stuff.  Olives and parmesan.  Frozen swiss chard that inspires Rosie to reject the whole dish. Honestly, the whole thing happens so fast that I barely taste a thing.

It's okay.  I'm getting my kicks out at breakfast.  

Joey and the girls tumble out of here in a wave of backpacks and lunchboxes by seven.  The cat runs outside, I gather him up, and then it's just me, the green bathrobe, and the last few sips of my coffee.  

I love me, my green bathrobe, and the last few sips of coffee.  

Dishes washed, bags of goldfish and odd seaweed snacks swept back into the pantry, and this is the time before the day begins.  Sometimes it is quiet enough that I can actually close my eyes and imagine what I want to eat for breakfast.  Often  it is a perfect croissant and I am out of luck.  In most other cases, though, I can bring it to fruition.

I just got my copy of Melissa Clark's new book from the library, and we had breakfast together this morning, me and the book.  I can tell that this one is going to pass the "if I get it out of the library 3 times, then I'll buy it" test.  The recipes?  Yes.  But the headnotes?  They wander around her life and her refrigerator until you just want to give a little nudge, and say, "what were we talking about again?" Then she says, "Oh yeah!" and she gives you her recipe for coconut fish stew with basil and lemongrass.

I really love that.

Because there are four bazillion cookbooks.  Because there is a recipe for anything you could ever want.  Because there is google, and epicurious, and a reliable Martha Stewart book on every single thing.  

But a conversation is a unique experience.  And there's only one of those.

Melissa Clark's book is filled with all sorts of lovely recipes--I'm going to cook my way through this one.  But she also shows us how she cooks; she takes the day and her mood and her leftovers and her cravings and what's in her fridge  and she makes something of the whole lovely mess.  This is a book that you could stand in front of at 6:00 searching for something to make for dinner, and while you might not have all of the ingredients for the recipe that you open up to, you will have Melissa Clark cheering you on.  She's aiding the narrative in your hungry head.  You don't have basil?  No problem.  Isn't there some parsley in the fridge--use that instead.  And if you don't really want the bacon tonight, that's fine, but add a little paprika so that you still have the smokey flavor.  She's hopeful that you'll figure out what to make for dinner, and there's nothing like a hopeful friend to get you going.

So breakfast this morning was buttery polenta with parmesan and olive oil-fried eggs.  This is as good of a dinner as it is a breakfast, and you could, as she suggests add some garlicky sauteed green for a true thrill.  I made use of what I had and what I wanted, and so for me, it was a bit of sausage on the side.  

Buttery Polenta with Parmesan and Olive-Oil Fried Eggs

from Melissa Clark, In the Kitchen with a Good Appetite

(I made this just for me, but I'll give you her recipe for four servings, just because it would be a lovely dish to share.  But quarter it at your own pleasure)

4 1/2 cups water or broth

1 1/2 cups polenta or grits

3/4 teaspoon salt

2-4 tablespoons butter

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more, to taste

1/4 cup grated parmesan

2 tablespoons olive oil

8 eggs

coarse sea salt

Bring the water or broth to a low boil.  Whisk in the polenta and continue to whisk until entirely combined.  Switch over to a wooden spoon, lower the heat, and stir frequently until thickened, about 15 minutes.  Stir in the butter, salt and pepper, remove from heat, and cover. 

Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a large skillet over medium high heat.  Fry four of the eggs until the white is cooked but the yolk is runny.  Transfer to a plate and repeat with the rest of the oil and the other four eggs. 

Divide the polenta into four bowls and fold the parmesan into each of them.  Top each with two eggs, and garnish with salt and pepper.

maple oatmeal steamed pudding

I know it's October and everything, but New England's got me, and I'm starting to think I might be set in my ways. There was controlled rebellion for so long, trial separations in the Southwest and California and even Europe. In the past, New England just was never other enough for me, essentially for that reason- it was not other at all. But I think I just might be older.
I'm starting to call myself a New Englander, even when it's unnecessary. All of these red and orange trees reaching into the crispest blue October sky, and three people this week have said to me, "If we go over to the tea party-ers, let's go to Canada."

Hell no. I love Canada, but I'll fight for Massachusetts. There's spirit in the ground of this place, I swear it. If things go poorly this week, I'm sticking around anyway.

I'm not saying it's easy. If there's one thing I'm learning as a local politician, it's that when it comes to money and property, the word "victim" gets thrown about a little too loosely, and the compassion and empathy are the first to go. I wrote a play about a small town selectboard meeting when I was in sixth grade, and it won a contest and actors put it on. The characters shook their fists at each other with silly threats. I thought it was probably an exaggeration--but it wasn't. Turns out I was dead on.

Sometimes all I can do is say, "eesh. I hope you're happier in other moments." I go home and I recommit to optimism. I read Amos and Boris to my children. I insist on believing in altruism.

New England will live on. We'll help each other through the winter--we'll share our last meal with our neighbor. We can make anything grow in the rockiest of soil. We can.

There is a New England thing called a steamed pudding. There are all sorts of them, but I must admit I'm often scared off by the descriptions of molds that need to be made involving coffee cans and wires. A steamed pudding is made in a mold which must be slightly submerged in a vessel of water where it mustn't touch the bottom. Easy, I think, when you have some special pot hanging over the hearth, but I just couldn't figure out how to do it.

But then I took another look at my canning pot. And I realized that it was more than just a canning pot. It was a steamed pudding pot. Reason number 47 to love your canning pot.


Sadie woke me up last weekend by gently hitting me over the head with Marion Cunningham's Breakfast Book, which incidentally is one of those books that makes me happy just to hold it in my hands.
"What are we making for breakfast?"
I grumbled something about how she should figure it out and I would join her as soon as I finished my dream.
And that is how we came to make maple oatmeal steamed pudding.

If you like oatmeal but don't like how sticky and glutinous it is, this is a revelation. It is steamed oats, really, so every oat holds its shape, and the maple syrup blends into the fiber of every single oat. It's a little custardy, and really quite wonderful and simple.

I can take these late night meetings filled with fist shaking. I can take them, as long as there's an optimistic breakfast the next day.

Maple Oatmeal Steamed Pudding
from Marion Cunningham, The Breakfast Book

4 cups rolled oats
3 cups milk
1/2 cup maple syrup
1 teaspoon salt

Butter a 1 1/2 quart souffle dish or mold or even a small cast iron dutch oven. Set the wire rack in your canning pot, and fill with enough water so that it will come up about halfway up the sides of the interior dish. Bring to a boil.
Meanwhile, combine the oats, milk, maple syrup and salt in the dish and stir well. Cover with a lid or a piece of foil. Put the dish on the wire rack in the canning pot, and lower the heat to a simmer. Cover the canning pot and cook for 1 hour.

shirred eggs with fresh herbs

I have been to Paris exactly three times.
The first was exactly as it should be, Eighteen, tormented lover who was, in turn, tormenting me. March, dismally gray, and all of our money on a disgusting hotel. We lived on bread only, with the occasional can of tuna fish for sustenance.
The bread was a revelation.
The second was eight weeks later, at the end of the same trip. This time too was exactly as it should be. Lover gone, and I, free and newly tattooed from my wanderings in Eastern Europe, had money this time, and the sun shone every day. A whole week with Sarah, who was staying with a friend who had a bathtub in her kitchen. There was wine that we bought on the corner, and several croissants a day.
As hard as I've tried, I'll tell you those croissants have not been forgotten.
My third visit to Paris was just last year, in the middle of my work trip, when I was, it seemed living someone else's life for a bit. I was only at the airport, so I wouldn't normally count it, except that I take my Paris visits where I can get them. And I flew into one airport and had to fly out of another, so technically I did drive through the city. And of course, right before I got on the plane, there was a croissant.
It was hard, with not flake in sight. That one's not sticking with me, though. It was the exception, I know for sure, and I forgive it entirely.

Despite these three limited experiences, France hangs around here in my own fabrications. Less than original, I know, but more and more, I find myself using France as an adjective rather than a proper noun, a word to emphasize the goodness of things.
I guess the word would be French.


Luckily, I have a few French people around to give it all a bit of authenticity. But either way, on good days these moments of France have their delicious ways of working their way in. When there is good cheese, and it is just at the right temperature, it is French, even if it was made right here in this part of the world. In fact, its localness might make it even more French- because it is local just like if I were in France. The verveine in my garden? French. Children in lovely unstained dresses? (as if!) French! Late dinner after the little ladies have gone to bed? Of course!


Using a country in my vocabulary without adequate experience of the place makes me feel like I've never left this country, like I've never left this town...like I'm smoking fancy cigarettes in my little kitchen just to bring in the exotic.

My passport has many stamps on it, after all. But sometimes I feel this way anyway. It is August, and I like to yearn a little.

As the moment came again to ponder my weekly summer fest offering, this month of missing led me to France. And for me, the most French place in my whole yard is the middle of my overgrown herb garden. And so I thought about herbs, and about what herbs want--about what I could eat to bring France right here. It had to be simple and effortless, perfect but able to be cooked in heels--chunky Julia heels. It had to be eggs.


Eggs and herbs have the most natural and romantic affinity for each other. Eggs hold herbs with strength and support, and for one like me who will eat fresh herbs all day long directly from the ground when given the chance, eggs are the perfect excuse. Really, I am not one for subtlety when it comes to herbs. And in the hope of really doing it, and really closing that bridge between me and my semi-imaginary France, it had to have cream and butter, and roughly ground salt and pepper. You might know it as shirred eggs, but today, we'll call it oefs en cocotte.

Oefs en cocotte are eggs baked in ramekins or gratin dishes or any little thing you might use that's, you know, French. They are sometimes over ham, but here over cream, and showered with a blizzard of herbs.
I know. When it snows it Paris, I'm sure it's snowing tarragon.
Sometimes they will be baked, but today we're putting them under the broiler because I am impatient. Impatience is not very French at all, but I'm working on it. More time sitting in that overgrown herb garden of mine should just about do it, I think.

Oefs en Cocotte (or, shirred eggs with fresh herbs)

serves one (while staring off at the distance)

3 eggs (make 'em good ones- it really counts here)
1 tablespoon heavy cream
1/2 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh herbs- any combination of parsley, rosemary, tarragon, thyme or basil
1 tablespoon freshly grated parmesan
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
salt and freshly ground pepper

Preheat your broiler to medium high. In a small bowl, combine the herbs, parmesan, and garlic. Crack the eggs into a ramekin or tea cup. (They must be ready so that you can act fast). Put the butter and cream into a large ramekin, small gratin dish or other oven safe dish. Put the dish about six inches under the broiler until the butter and cream starts to bubble and sizzle. Watch it carefully--it will burn quickly. Remove the dish from the oven, and pour the eggs into the hot dish over the bubbling cream, taking care not to break the yolks. Sprinkle the herb mixture over the top, and add a bunch of salt and pepper. Put under the broiler and cook for 3-4 minutes, or until the whites are cooked but the yolks are visibly liquid.

And oh, can you believe it... another week of deliciousness? This week we're talking about herbs, beans and greens, and it's going to be a good one. Here's what's cooking:

White on Rice Couple use fresh mint to make homemade mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Nicole at Pinch My Salt features Green Beans with Balsamic Browned Butter.
Margaret at A Way to Garden stores a year of herb and makes one-pot Farinata a polenta dish with greens.
Food Network UK is on the edge with herbs and greens.
Caroline at the Wright Recipes is cooking up Wax and Butter Bean Herbed Salad.
Jennifer and Mark at Gilded Fork have a virtual garden of recipes
The Best Bean Salads and a French Take on Greens, Beans and Herbs from the Cooking Channel
Top 6 Herbs from Healthy Eats
Leftover Herb Solution (Pesto!) from Allison at Food2
Recipes for The "Other" Summer Greens from the FN Dish
Kelly at Just a Taste -Makes Fresh Herb Ricotta
Caron at San Diego Foodstuff talks about Kale and Feta Empanadas and roasted Romano beans.


And you? What are you bringing to the pot luck this week?

ginger peach muffins

I was a very stubborn 13-year-old.
You know the type- you say one thing and they do the opposite. Searching anywhere (anywhere!) for originality. Determined to see the truth, and be the first to do so. Convinced that no one else understands. When everyone else lived for New Kids on the Block, I scorned those boys and became the first in my class to have the Nirvana album. As time went on to tell, I was right.
Being only five and a half years away from having a 13-year-old of my own, I can only say that remembering how I was at that point strikes the tiniest bit of fear in my heart. Tiny now. I'm sure it will grow in the coming years.
To be fair, I wasn't all bad. I was mature, maybe overly responsible and independent. I could carry on a conversation with anyone of any age about anything. But through it all, I was, well, to put it mildly, an eye roller.

That part of me has been a little hard to shake. I know that often popularity is a sign of quality, but still, I'm dubious. I'm trying to get better about this.

All Spring I kept reading about Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain. Maybe it's the moody rhubarb tart cover or maybe it's the editor who we all know and love-- this book has been a hit. I held off on taking a look for a while, and then finally a few months back, I was in my friend Paige's kitchen.
"Okay, lend me the book."
And despite the slight roll of my eyes it was in my hands. And man oh man. This is a beautiful book. Simple, with a lot of class, and photos all taken on concrete counter tops on a rainy day. Everything in mason jars and regular old measuring cups.

Despite it's beauty, I didn't cook from it. I looked at it all the time. This book is so stunning- It made me hungry and lusty after the Pacific Northwest. But every time I went to think about a recipe, I never had all of the ingredients or it just didn't quite happen.


Today, I made ginger peach muffins.

I'd been thinking about these muffins for days. I'd been guarding the not quite ripe peaches on the counter from the little ladies around here who love peaches. "Hands off those peaches! I have a plan for those beauties."

It turns out these muffins might be just the muffins for me. They are Nirvana muffins. Not New Kids on the Block muffins. They are a little grainy, a little spicy, and they puff like crazy. I grumbled a bit as I stirred and sifted--they take ages to make, and twice as many pots as your basic muffin recipe.

I know- I'm really selling them, right? But the thing is, I'd say I had you at the title of this post or I didn't. I think that ginger peach muffins either made you say yes! or eh. Am I right?

These muffins make such huge tops that you can only fill every other muffin cup. I messed with the recipe a bit, lessening the ginger a touch and adding buttermilk, because I had it. And the recipe only makes nine muffins. And you better have a really big nob of ginger.

Okay, okay, I like the book. Make the muffins.

Ginger Peach Muffins
adapted from Kim Boyce, Good to the Grain

2 tablespoons grated ginger
2 peaches, firm but ripe, halved and in 1-inch slices
1 stick butter
1 tablespoon honey
1 cup oats, blended in a food processor or blender
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup buttermilk (she calls for whole milk)
1/2 cup sour cream
1 egg
3 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized ginger

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter 9 cups of two muffin tins, so that only every other cup is buttered. Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a medium skillet. Add the honey and a teaspoon of grated ginger. When the sauce starts to bubble, add the peaches. Remove from heat, and coat peaches thoroughly in sauce.
Sift all the dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl, pouring any grain left in the sifter into the bowl as well. Melt the remaining 6 tablespoons of butter, and mix with the buttermilk, sour cream, egg, and crystallized ginger. Add the whole mixture to the dry ingredients, and then stir in the rest of the grated ginger. Stir just to combine.
Fill each muffin cup so that it is slightly rounded over the top. Put two or three peaches on each muffin, pushing them into the center of each muffin as well. Bake for 25 minutes, rotating the pans half way through baking. Cool in the pans for five minutes before turning them upside down to remove muffins.

bacon hash with breakfast salad

I think, really if I look back, I was once a morning person. I have hazy morning light memories of getting up early to write and to walk and to gather myself for the day.
Although really, I might just be making that up.
Whatever came before, I just can't seem to get there now. Dragged out of bed by the kids, or by the day or by whatever force decides to start hollering at me to wake up, I am just not a morning person. I wish for more hours in the day, for the quiet morning light to welcome my hours of writing, my hushed kitchen for cooking, but as the day would have it, I'm just sleeping.
That's why Joey is the breakfast maker around here.
On the best mornings, he pulls me out of bed with the smell of coffee. That's really the only thing that works. And then, there's breakfast.

Sadie still can't eat eggs, and Rosie has decided not to like them. So we've given up- and most mornings it's granola or yogurt and jam that they have foraged for themselves in the wee hours of the morning. That frees us up for breakfast, and by the time the first cup of coffee is over, there is often something cooking on the stove.

I love to be cooked for. I love it! Especially in the morning, if I can sit and drink my coffee and watch someone else bustle at the stove, the day has started out well.
This one pulled me off the couch here and there to help out, and while Joey chopped up the bacon and potatoes, I poached the eggs and whipped up the salad dressing.

The hash was so good--herby and substantial and enough like the hash at Pasqual's in Santa Fe that fed us through the first months of our relationship. The salad was based on the hope that I could recreate the little side salad from our magical French breakfast on the cape, and it seems that luck was with me.

As for the morning, someday I might be able to reclaim it. But as long as Joey is willing to get up first and make the coffee, I'm staying in bed for that extra 20 minutes.

Bacon Hash with Breakfast Salad
serves 2

For the Hash:
1 pound potatoes, cut into 1-inch cubes
3 ounces bacon, roughly chopped
1 medium onion, diced
1 tablespoon paprika
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley
salt and pepper to taste

4 eggs

For the salad:
1 large handful frisee, ripped into bite sized pieces
fresh dill, in large sprigs
fresh tarragon, in whole leaves
fresh parsley, roughly chopped
(the amount of fresh herbs is up to you, depending on how herby you would like it)

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon red wine vinegar
salt and pepper

Make the salad. In a small bowl, combine the olive oil, salt, and pepper. Whisk in the red wine vinegar. Combine the frisee and herbs in a mixing bowl and toss with the dressing. Give a few additional grinds of the pepper mill over the top.
In a medium skillet, fry the bacon until crispy. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and reserve. Throw the onions in the skillet and cook in the bacon fat, adding additional oil if needed. Cook until translucent, then add the potatoes and paprika. Cook until the whole thing is browned but not burned, and the potatoes are tender. Remove from heat, and add the reserved bacon, parsley, and salt and pepper.
Meanwhile, set a pot of water to simmer on the stove. Poach the eggs (for directions on that one, go here).
Serve the hash with the eggs on top, and the salad on the side.

pannekaker

I love a recipe that comes from a grandmother.

It seems that every day at some point I think about my grandmother at night in her kitchen with yellowish light- getting batters together for the next morning's breakfast. I'm turning the sifter with a squeak, squeak and she's trying to get the dough out of her wedding ring. I loved that ring that squeezed her swollen finger. It was just old, and that was so refreshing to me as the child of the new age 80's.
It's been almost 15 years since I've baked with her, and I just can't seem to stop hanging out in those memories. But as I spend more time in my own kitchen, I notice a subtle but definite shift. Even at 31, I have a hard time believing in my own adulthood. I'm not sure when (if ever) it will ever sink in. But I can't ignore the fact that now it's my wedding ring encrusted with dough. Now it's Sadie with the sifter. Shirley might not be here physically, but it seems that without even consciously trying, I'm reenacting those memories. I'm playing her part in it all, and the girls have stepped into my old role.

This past week, we had a happy and spontaneous visit from Sarah and Jefferson. Usually we camp out up at their place in Portland, but this time they took hold of our guest room for a while. The night before they left, Sarah spied our little crepe pan and announced that we'd all be eating Norwegian pancakes the next morning before they hopped in their little car to head back up north.

As she whisked the batter and swirled the pan, Sarah started talking about her Norwegian great grandmother Volborg who passed this recipe down. I've known Sarah since I was two, and I'd never heard about Volborg.
In Sarah's family, these pancakes are reserved for Christmas and other special occasions when someone really needs a good pancake. They call them Norwegian Pancakes, but I'm pretty sure one might find them under the name of pannekaker. They are eggier than french crepes, and perfumed with cardamom. They were so fantastic that I begged her to let me share her family recipe. Of course! she said...Take it! If I can just get it down on paper...


And so, like most family recipes, this one might need a grandmother whispering in your ear. But Sarah has filled it in with as much advice as she could, and the experimentation will be up to you.

Norwegian Pancakes, or Pannekaker
(from Sarah, and Lyra, and Volborg)

serves four

4 eggs
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 stick butter, melted
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
whole milk (see directions for amount)

Whisk together the flour, salt and cardamom. Beat the eggs in a separate bowl. Add the eggs to the flour mixture to create a paste. Slowly add melted butter while whisking. Add milk slowly until the batter coats a metal spoon- not too thick, not too thin.
Heat a crepe pan or small skillet until medium hot. Start to swirl the pan in a circular direction before you even pour the batter into the pan. Maintain the motion while ladling about 3/4 cup batter into the pan. Do not stop the swirling motion until the batter is evenly distributed. Return pan to burner, and flip when the underside is golden brown. Cook on the second side for 30 seconds, and then fold in thirds and transfer to a plate in a 200 degree oven to keep warm until serving.

Finding the right consistency of the batter will take a bit of experimentation. If the batter is too thin, it won't adhere to the pan. Sprinkle a little flour over the batter and whisk in. If the batter is too thick, it will look more like a pancake than a crepe. It should be so thin that you are worried that it will break- this is the texture that you are going for.

Serve with butter and maple syrup, on Christmas, or really any day that you need them.

buttermilk popovers

I feel like you either know about popovers or you don't.
I guess, like most of this stuff, it could be a bit more complex. Maybe your mom made them when you were little, but they feel like a mystery to you now. Or maybe you've had them and loved them, but you've never made them, and they seem like they might be to hard because of all that puffing up.
Or maybe you've made them. Maybe you really know about them, and you make them all of the time. Because when you need to make something bready and eggy to serve with your soup or to top with your jam, what else would you make?
If that's your category, then hooray for you. If you're checking in for a minute here, procrastinating from whatever work you actually have to do on the computer, then go over to update your facebook status or tweet something or whatever. I've got nothing for you here today.
Except, actually, maybe I do, come to think of it.

The thing is, popovers might actually be one of the foods that Joey and I both make. They're just that good, that it's a skill we must absolutely both possess.

So this morning, as I stumbled grumpily into the kitchen reaching both hands in front of me in search of coffee beans, Joey announced that he was making popovers. And as I grunted and ground some coffee, he peaked in the fridge and noticed that we were suffering from an overwhelming supply of buttermilk.

What can I say. I've been doing a lot of experimenting lately.

The gears in his head started turning, and by the time I'd had my first sip of coffee, he finally had out with it.
"What do you think buttermilk would do to a popover?"
The sip of coffee finally gave me the gift of speech, and I said I thought it would do wonderful things to a popover. After all, buttermilk does wonderful things to everything.

And so it did. Astounding things, really. What this is is really the ultimate breakfast popover. This is not your lentil soup popover or your strawberry shortcake popover. It has a touch more body and whole lot more twang than those. This is the popover that sings with jam, that dances with butter, and that hoorays with coffee.
This is tomorrow morning, on a plate, and it's going to be a good one, friends.

Buttermilk Popovers

3 eggs
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 ounce butter, melted
scant 1 1/2 cups flour

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Butter a 12-cup or 6-cup jumbo muffin tin. (go jumbo if you've got it) Combine all of the ingredients in the blender and blend on high for 30 seconds.
Fill the muffin cups nearly to the top with batter. Put in the oven.

THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART. DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN UNTIL THE TIMER BEEPS. DO NOT LET ANYONE OPEN THE OVEN. GUARD THE OVEN DOOR WITH YOUR LIFE.

Bake for 20 minutes, then lower heat to 350 degrees. Bake for 10 minutes more. Remove from the oven, and poke each popover with a fork. Let cook for a few minutes and then serve immediately.