why i plant marigolds

The spring of my junior year at St. John's in Santa Fe, I moved into a little house with my friend, Eilen.  We had lived together before in a big house filled with cranky roommates and lots of conflict, and we were eager to set up on our own where we could cook and sing and do anything we pleased.  We found a house on Cortez Street, which was just slightly on the wrong side of the tracks, enough so that there were fireworks exploding in adjacent yards all summer, but not so much that it was too far away from school. The house was a perfect little square with a front stoop, adobe of course, but newly renovated by a St. John's graduate who had stayed in the area, and there was new paint and fresh tile in the bathroom, and the back room had a washer and dryer with a tiled laundry folding table built on top. It was small, which is to say that it was exactly big enough for us, and there was a guest house that shared the property about 20 feet from the back door. That space served as a house and workshop to a crazy old guy named Elliot, and he and his huge and poorly behaved dog made leather goods and drank beer through most of each day.  We would sit in our dusty section of "yard" and he would sit in his, and we would listen to the fireworks explode around us.

I miss Santa Fe.

Diagonally across from the house was one of my favorite restaurants, a greasy green chile spoon called Dave's Not Here. The story, as I remember it, was that the owner, Dave, ended up getting busted on drug charges and going to jail.  The restaurant stayed open, but as an answer to everyone's question when they noticed Dave's absence, they changed the name of the restaurant. The food wasn't particularly good there, but it always tasted good anyway, and the decor reminded me of some kitchen or other from my childhood, and so I always felt so at home there.  Dave's Not Here lived in that space for over 20 years, but now the place houses The Tune-Up Cafe, which I hear from many people is hands down the best restaurant in Santa Fe.

I'm thinking it might be time for a trip back.

Eilen and I lived  happily in that house on Cortez Street. That was the year that she really started writing music, and she had some of her first little shows at the Cowgirl. I met Joey that year too, and even though there was all sorts of drama around the start of us together, enough time has passed that I only remember the happy parts. There was a big plum tree out front, and for some reason we never made it to the fruit on time, but there was a silly satisfaction in stomping all over the rotting fruit on the driveway. Eilen planted tiny tomato plants in the dusty back plot that got munched by the misbehaving dog and never made it to fruition. But in the dry front bed, right between our own section of stone wall and the width of sidewalk, she planted marigolds.

At first I thought that marigolds were not my kind of flower. Spindly and orange, the petals lacked delicacy, and the smell of the plants was acidic and strange. Eilen showed me how to coax the roots out of their ball, and we put compost in each hole and tucked the plants into the bed. It seemed a little mean to put them into such a desert where nothing else seemed to be able to grow. We were in the most extreme level of drought at the time, and we weren't allowed to water.  But Eilen seemed to have faith that they would make it anyway, as long as we gave them what we could from our leftover bath water and water bottles.

They lived all summer, and they filled out the bed with greenery. Every so often, the flowers would get so dry that we'd figure they were done with. but we'd pour our cooled pasta water or some other thing over their parched roots, and they would come back to life. By the end of the summer, I thought they were so beautiful, and I have planted them ever since.

Some marigolds are edible, and others are used for pest management in the garden. If you plant them in the midst of your vegetables, they will protect them from a whole host of bugs.  In Mexico, marigolds are essential for the alter for the day of the dead, and in India, they are considered a holy herb, and festivals are filled with marigold garlands. I love them for their usefulness, but I also just love them for their humble little petals. I love the way the sun seems to shine from them instead of on them.

And with Memorial day weekend comes the green light to plant anything you want, even if you are in New England! Is there any thing you are especially excited to plant this weekend? Tell me! I still have room in one bed...

Tweet

white bean soup with garlic, kale, and sausage

 

There was a bakery in Santa Fe that I used to go to when I was in school, a place called Sage Bakehouse. It was all concrete inside, big and cavernous and always warm from the ovens.  They had a few little tables and a counter up front, and I loved to sit there and eat a muffin and just inhale the smell of it all.  They had fantastic coffee, and this was before there was wireless everywhere, and you wouldn't bring your computer- and their muffins were good enough that you didn't even need another activity besides enjoying the muffin.

The primary draw of Sage Bakehouse was their bread, and they made big mushroom-top shaped loaves of sourdough, not with a crunchy crust that would cut the roof of your mouth, but with a soft crust that sliced well, and it was so good for sandwiches and even better for toast.  If it wasn't a day for a muffin, there was always a toast basket, and they would give you three kinds of toast with a little ramekin of strawberry jam.  It was a princess breakfast.

I went there a lot over my four years in Santa Fe, and I almost always went alone.  It's one of the only places that I used to go in that wonderful town where I don't have a memories of being with other people. It was college, and most places hold some undertone of a dramatic conversation or a heartbreak or something.  But I went to Sage Bakehouse to smell the bread, and that is all I ever did there.

 

For lunch there were also sandwiches, all ready made, and always the same kinds.  They were on these big ciabbata type of rolls, and there was a tuna with pesto, and some sort of ham and cheese. They were great, but I usually had the soup.

There was a day when I was there, alone before an afternoon class, and the soup was white bean with garlic and rosemary.  I had the soup, and it was a revelation.

I only mention it, because it struck me that as I made a big pot of this soup this week, altered with the variations that the week required, that this soup is the first thing for which I ever asked the recipe.

I finished the bowl of soup, and I mopped up the creamy white broth with my sourdough bread, and when the bowl was absolutely empty, I stood up, and I walked to the counter, and I said, "Please tell me how to make that soup."

And the the lovely woman with the apron and her hair tied back in a kerchief said this:

"1 pound of dried cannellini beans, covered with water that extends at least 4 inches over the top of the beans.  Bring them to a boil, then cover and simmer, along with 5 peeled, unchopped garlic cloves, 1 bay leaf, 3 sprigs of rosemary, and a whole lot of salt and pepper.  Cook for several hours, or until the broth turns creamy. Add more water as you go if it seems to need it."

That's it. That was the recipe.

 

And what happened then was that it became the first soup that I made that my mother had never made.  It became a soup that I made for dinner, and then people asked me for the recipe.  It was the recipe that made me feel like I might be able to cook.

Over the years, there have been endless variations, but the basic soup is good enough to make over and over.  But this week, there was a half can of crushed tomatoes added to the cooked beans.  There were several chopped leaves of curly kale.  There were three garlic sausages, chopped in little slices.  And instead of rosemary, there was fresh chopped sage. 

There could also be chicken broth instead of water.  And olive oil drizzled on top is a good idea.  And parmesan cheese, too, if you've got a nub of it around.

And that, friends, is the entire recipe.  Until you add something else, that is.

Happy Spring.  Judging by the two inches of snow on my car, we still have a good amount of soup weather left.

russian potato salad

I've got a serious flaw, and if I don't do something about it, I'm going to give myself an ulcer, or high blood pressure, or one of those stress-y issues.

I'm a big party thrower. I just love it. We had over 100 people here on New Year's, packed wall to wall, and although it was so loud that no one could actually talk to each other, it was the best way to bring in the new year. You know how I feel about dinner parties, and I'm always looking for excuses to feed groups of people.
But I'm not actually so good at it. Channeling Martha is not a talent of mine. Oh, sure, the party itself always works out--one thing I love about parties is that people are usually just happy to come and eat and have a good time, and they don't tend to be so picky about the details. But the real issue is that I'm never prepared.
I have a good friend who throws a few very lovely parties a year. There is always Prosecco and tapanade and classy square plates. Her parties are calm and wonderful, and she has a friend who she hires every time, just so that there can be a kitchen master to handle all the plate gathering and drink getting. The idea of hiring someone to help out took me a few minutes to adjust to, until I realized that she, unlike me, actually has a moment to talk to her guests.
So yes, bringing in someone to help is a good idea that I haven't yet utilized. In the mean time, I must go through several hours of party monster me. I dictate, I cry, I sweep. I chop, I spill, I break things--I think from the outside it must be pretty entertaining to watch. And by the end of it all, the food is literally thrown on tables, I'm still running around trying to find the wine opener, and someone has mercifully shoved a cup of Sangria in my hand. I inevitably haven't eaten or drunk water in hours, and most likely I have to pee. Of course, I didn't get in that shower that I so carefully planned, and I have dirt smeared on my face for trying to put geraniums in the planter five minutes ago. Odds are pretty high that I'm still wearing some part of my pajamas.
Welcome to my party. I'll be your hostess.


I threw one such party this weekend, a little backyard burgers and beer affair. I was determined to tame the weed jungle beforehand, and as there was a threat of rain, the house had to be picked up, the children scrubbed, the ice cream bought (realized that morning that NO! You should not make ice cream today!), all in what felt like about 20 minutes. In the end, of course, everyone was happy, well, fed, and forgave us when we ran out of beer (consenting to drink cheap white wine instead). But sometime in the future, I vow that I will figure out how to throw a party without hyperventilating for some part of the last hour before everyone arrives. Luckily I think potato salad is key, as it needs to chill and can be done well ahead (which I did not, hence, a bit more hyperventilating).


Potato salad. Maybe one of the most fantastic summer foods when made right. The distance between well-made, homemade potato salad and mayonnaise-y supermarket deli potato goop is like from here to Hawaii, and the goop gives the whole dish a bad name. In its summery essence, potato salad is the canvas for all of the things you secretly like to stir in together- pickles, eggs, fresh herbs, capers- it really says yes to all things. This isn't the first time that potato salad has made an appearance around here, but this one is so exciting, and it is almost Memorial Day weekend and all, so I had to tell you about this one too. There is a lot that I love about this particular incarnation of the picnic staple, but maybe the best thing about it is that it's pink.
Pink!
You are going to have to trust me on that one, because of course, as I was sprinting around the kitchen, I neglected to photograph the finished product. Typical party monster me. But here- let's go back to that half way made salad to give you a sense, and with the spoon in your mind you can stir this around, add a little mayo, a little dill, some chopped pickles...do you see it?

This potato loveliness is from a cookbook called Cooking with Cafe Pasqual's. For those of you who haven't passed your way through Santa Fe on some adventure or another, I will tell you that Cafe Pasqual's is simply one of the best restaurants in which I have had the pleasure to dine. I have eaten there many times, although only for breakfast, because their incredibly classy corned beef hash (classy yes! I kid you not!) is so good that it is difficult not to swoon right there at the mosaic table. The red chile hot chocolate revives you from the partial swoon, and gives courage to carry on. Breakfast at Pasqual's is a soul-feeding experience, and I've heard that dinner is even better, although my wallet never allowed for it. A month or so ago, we received the most spectacular care package from our friend Naya, who had tucked this book right in the top. I have shed tears over the beauty of the recipes in this book, real joyous tears.

I started the process of this salad in the morning, peeling potatoes, roasting beets, and then by the middle of the afternoon I had handed the entire recipe over to my mother, who on principle does not touch beets. Sometimes it is good to push one a bit beyond their comfort level, and she made very nice work of it indeed. The beets might seem like a bit of extra work for a potato salad, which they are, but everyone will ooh and ah ask for the recipe- I promise.

Russian Potato Salad
adapted from Katherine Kagel, Cooking With Cafe Pasquals

serves 8, and can easily be doubled (which I did) if you have many hungry mouths to feed

1 pound beets (can be a combination of red and gold, or just red)
3 pounds russet potatoes, peeled
4 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 1/2 teaspoons freshly ground pepper
4 eggs, hard-boiled and peeled
3 dill pickles, finely diced (got any left from last summer?)
1/4 cup chopped chives
1/2 cup minced fresh dill
1 cup mayonnaise

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Wash the beets and separate them from their greens, leaving about 2 inches of the stem attached. Do not disturb the roots or peel the skin. Wrap each beet in tinfoil, place in a roasting pan, and roast for 1 1/4 hours, or until fork tender. Cool, slide each beet out of its skin, and cut into 1/4-inch cubes.
While the beets are cooking, place the potatoes in a large pot with 2 teaspoons of the salt and enough water to cover them. Boil until fork tender (about 20 minutes). Drain, cool, and cut into 1/2-inch cubes. Mix the cut potatoes in a large bowl with the olive oil, remaining salt, and pepper.
Grate 3 of the hard-boiled eggs on a box grater, and add to the potatoes. Slice the remaining egg and set aside for garnish. Add the beets, pickles, chives, and 1/4 cup of the dill to the bowl. Add the mayonnaise and combine. Adjust the salt and pepper to taste. Garnish with the egg slices and the remaining dill. Chill thoroughly before serving.