elderflower vodka

Well, it's been a bit of a weekend, really.
Let me just say right off the bat that I have a few nice things in jars to tell you about this week. It is, after all, the time to put food into jars, and I'm excited to show you the new additions to our shelves from the last week.
And also, I'm not cooking this week.
I am in bed, looking longingly at the sun outside. I am permitted one slow walk around my garden per day, and it is torturous not to be able to bend over to weed. It's like looking at the Sadie with snarly hair and not being able to brush and braid it, which I am also doing.
I'm okay though- I'll be good in a few days, and really I'm happy to be recovering so quickly.
But I get ahead of myself.
Here's the thing. If ever you get stuck with a stomachache, and it feels different than other stomachaches, like your actual muscles hurt, and it hurts to move- and if you think to yourself, maybe I should go to the hospital, even if everyone thinks I'm a weenie for going to the hospital for a stomachache?
You should go ahead and go to the hospital.
Friday night I was begging Joey to go out an get bubbly water for my aching belly. I thought I had food poisoning. Saturday morning I drove myself to the hospital, and I told Joey and the girls I'd be back in a few hours. By lunchtime, I was in surgery. And the whole time, at least while I was awake, I kept making Madeline references. I couldn't help it! I learned as a child, from Madeline, that it was cool to have my appendix out. And now, I have finally joined the club!

And that's the story. That's why I might be moving a bit slowly around here for the next few days, and why there might not be so much, well, active cooking.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's get back to the jars.

I have these elderberry bushes in my yard. A few years ago, my friend Jen dropped off two little twigs and told me to plant them, and of course I said yes. Now I have huge bushes and right now, they are covered with the most exquisite snowy flowers.

Before we went to the cape, these flowers were causing me a bit of anxiety, because I'm irrational enough to have anxiety about flowers. I was so excited to do something with all these beautiful flowers, and I was afraid that they were going to come to their perfect, just-open moment when I was away! I have a pretty ridiculous habit of absolutely needing to do a project in the very second that we are loading up the car for a trip. I don't know why it always happens this way, but it does. At least this time it wasn't wedding cake. But as I was worried that the flowers would be past their prime before I returned, there I was as Joey was buckling the girls into the stuffed car, snipping elderflowers off the bush. Luckily, it is so easy to make elderflower vodka, I slid into the car in no time, and with a loving roll of Joey's eyes, we were off.

Elderberries are native in New England, and a forest walk will often bring you to a flower laden bush. Pick the flowers before noon when they are most fragrant, and ideally when they are just open. By late July or early August, it will be all fancy drinks for you. I don't know about you, but I could sure use one of those.

Elderflower Vodka

Pick as many elderflower heads as you can find- between 15 and 25 medium to large flower heads. Remember that if you want elderberries later in the summer, you must leave some flowers, but the plant will most likely push out more flowers after you have picked them. Pick off the larger stems from the flowers, and make sure that there are no bugs in the blossoms. Pack the flowers into a large mason jar, and cover with decent vodka. Cover with lid, and place in a cool, dark spot for 4-6 weeks. The vodka will turn a buttery yellow color.

Set out a clean large mason jar, and top with a strainer lined in cheese cloth. Pour the contents of the jar into the new mason jar, straining out the flowers. Add 1/4 cup sugar and shake to dissolve. Taste, and add more sugar if you would like it to be sweeter.

Serve with bubbly water, or in any sort of creative combination, or of course, if you are in my backyard...

straight, with maybe an ice cube or two.

Oh, the waiting. Soon enough friends, soon enough.

the french part of cape cod

A good 10 or so summers ago, I went on a little trip with my mother, my stepfather, and my sister who was maybe two at the time. It was, all in all, not the best of trips. We were voyaging to Canada to see my stepfather's homeland, and there was a lot of car and humidity and boiling city involved. My parents were practically newlyweds, and the trip ended up being something of an experience of adjustment for our new family. I am, as you can probably tell, tiptoeing around the mess of it all, but the truth is that when a woman raises a child by herself for eighteen years, falls in love, gets married, and has another child, the first family vacation may not be all smiley pictures and happy memories. Luckily, there have been better trips since, and we are all grown up (or teenage at least, in the case of my sister), and successfully continuing to find ourselves as a family since then.
There was, however, a distinct bright spot in our stormy Canadian odyssey. On our first day in Montreal, we stumbled on a magical little cafe in the old part of the city. It was called something like the Gallery Cyklamen, and it was owned by the most beautiful painter, a sort of Quebecois Willem Defoe with a messy ponytail and an actual painter's shirt. It was on the corner of the block, and there were two walls of open windows that created the most astounding refuge from the heat. The place was filled with plants, and he served mostly just bowls of velvety creamy coffee and pastries from a shop down the street. There were a few additional options available as well--perfect bread with soft and character-filled cheese, a little fruit salad, maybe a bit of cured meat like they do so well in Montreal. The real beauty of it all was that everything tasted better there than it did anywhere else- each bite was unique and luxurious. There was always some non-cliched world music playing, and there was another man who worked as the sole employee, wiping tables and running out when the bread supply was low. He was younger than the owner, although equally beautiful, and the two men both had paint on their hands and shared, I thought, charged looks between them that made me want to write short stories with the pair in the lead. We went there every day that we were in the city.

The place was, I can say, a gem. And when I returned to Montreal a few years later for my little honeymoon with Joey in the frozen heart of January, it was nowhere to be found.

It was there when we needed it, like the answer to a magic wish. Places like this always seem to materialize during travel, and it never feels less than an enchanted thing.

Don't you love to find these places? To walk in, and to be able to say with disbelief, "what is this amazing place, and how can I imagine the reality of this day if I had not found it!"

This past week, friends of ours invited us to Welfleet, a little town in the forearm of Cape Cod. The inviting couple were friends of mine from high school with whom I have been recently and blissfully reunited through that website of mixed affection, Facebook. Things have changed since the dramatic high school relationship that I remember, and now they are married and parents to two very sweet little ones. This week we had four days of that special loveliness when vacationing with another family really works, and all involved just have more friends to play with, children to love, and parents to care for them. It was a good few days.

Several times over the course of our time there, croissants would show up on the kitchen counter. Jon or Joey or both would have run out to the new little French bakery across route 6 (perhaps as a joint trip to the town dump- I swear those men are long lost brothers in their deep affection for town dumps), and then there were croissants. "I can't wait for you to see this place," Joey kept saying, and I couldn't wait either. The croissants were good, and I mean French good. I was only in Paris once if you don't count airports, and although I was so broke I lived on cans of tuna fish for the week so that I could afford a disgusting room in which to eat it, I was smart enough to also splurge on one croissant a day, and with this I was happy. These were the best croissants I had had since then, and believe me- I've been searching. So when we went to the bakery for their first morning of breakfast service, I was ready.

Some of you may be traveling down the friendly and congested arm of the cape this summer, and if that is that case, I insist that the PB Boulangerie and Bistro be the site of at least one meal for you. There is a bakery that will supply you with smelly cheeses and bread so beautiful it make you cry (if you are one of those people who cries at food- that is me, as opposed to Joey who cries at previews), or there is a restaurant with fancy chefs in tall hats if that is what you prefer. I suggest a mix of the two, as I think that you'll want to go more than once.

Breakfast isn't cheap, but it's not expensive either, and for five bucks you can have a croissant with jam and a lovely French bowl of coffee, which I think is breakfast fit for a queen. Or, for a bit more, you can eat this:

which is what Joey would recommend. Most entrees come with a little side salad of frisee, tarragon, parsley and dill tossed in the perfect amount of red wine vinaigrette. The food, at least on my table, was perfect. And I'm no one so special, so I'm guessing that most of the food would be that way.

And so, on the last morning of our trip, we all sat around the big fancy booth that would fit 12 if it needed to. We shared our smoked salmon and our blueberry pastries and our yogurt parfaits with thin and perfect nectar-y honey. It was exactly what we needed.

And in this day you never can be sure, but I'm guessing that this one isn't going to disappear. But just in case it does, I'd get yourself down there this summer, and it will probably be just what you need too.

off to the beach for a few days

Don't forget to eat your greens while I'm gone.
I'll be back later in the week with tales of fried fish and wave tossed children.
Happy summer....

kohlrabi fries

I sort of wish I could have fries every day.
Joey mourns my infrequent cooking of potatoes... "more potatoes!" he cries.
Yeah, I don't feel so bad for him. He eats pretty well for a guy who was raised on taco bell with a side of pizza. When we met, I cooked a lot of tofu, and now I don't. Now I have a half a pig and a whole lamb in my freezer. I'm open to input, especially when it keeps the marriage smooth (er).

But fries might be one of my favorite things- good fries- fancy or cheap as long as they are hot and not rubbery in any way. And really, I don't cook so many potatoes because...well, really, what ever it is, I just think about how it should have been fries.

Are you with me on this one?


So the other day, I'm staring this beautiful bunch of kohlrabi in the face, or, in the weird UFO-like purple tendons, and I start thinking that you might be looking for something to do with your big beautiful bunch of kohlrabi. Yeah?

There are a lot of possibilities here--this is a vegetable that will treat you well. Eat the greens like collards, and peel the pretty outer layer off of the bulb. Peel it all off, and even a little bit of the flesh to make sure that you've got ever last bit of the tough skin. From there, you can go raw, you can shred it in a slaw, you can put it into a soup, mix it with mint and puree it- I mean it- this one is happy with all your variations. It has an apple like taste, but more savory and mild.

All that said, I had fries on the brain. And although I'd never heard of kohlrabi fries, I thought it had a pretty good ring to it.

Potatoes, shmatatoes. I have found a new love.


Kohlrabi Fries

1 bunch (about 4 bulbs) kohlrabi, purple or green
olive oil
salt

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Separate the kohlrabi bulbs from the greens, and save for cooking later. Peel thoroughly, until you have a white orb of kohlrabi. Slice into rough fry-like slices. Toss with a glug or two of olive oil and a pinch of salt. Spread onto an oiled baking sheet and bake for about 40 minutes, or until brown and tender. Serve hot, with a bit more salt to taste.

monterey chevre

Going somewhere new can be a little scary. It's like walking into the first day of kindergarten, and you're not quite sure where you're supposed to hang your sweatshirt or what shelf you are supposed to put your lunch on. You think you remember where the bathroom is, but you're not entirely sure and so you hold it all morning.

I know how it is. Even after you find out that you can get your favorite goat cheese for so much less money and with so much more pleasure if you just stop by the farm, it's just hard to make the first visit alone. What if you walk in the wrong door? What if you go at the wrong time? What if you just don't know the secret handshake?

So let's do it together.

This is Rawson Brook Farm in Monterey, MA. They make only one product, that is, really fantastic goat cheese.

They are tucked in right off New Marlborough Road, which is the right hand turn just a bit after the Monterey library, which is never open except on Saturday nights and a few other odd hours. The road is paved, and then it is not, and it goes over a little bridge and veers to the left and then you are there. Park in the first little parking area. Do not drive up to the cheese shed, because it pisses off the goats.

You may say hello to the goats, and they will very likely be happy to see you, although fairly laid back and non-committal about it, as goats tend to be.

Follow the road up towards the little cheese shed. On your right you will see lots and lots of chives and garlic and thyme. Think about which of those you are most excited about, because you are about to be forced into a decision. That is, unless you have been wise enough to bring enough money for two containers of cheese.

This is the shed. The second door is yours to open. You will know that you are in the right place by the shiny refrigerator.

Open it up.

And it is time to decide. This is a very personal decision, but if you are the type who likes a little input, I'll tell you that I never buy the plain. I like herbs with my cheese. I always buy the big container, because it is a better deal and the little one will be gone before the day is out. And as for whether I go for the olive oil and thyme or the garlic and chive...

it really depends on the day. You're good either way, I promise.

Don't forget to pay for your cheese. Leave money in the basket.

And you are on your way.

Now you have done it and you know just where to go. After a visit or two, the newness will have faded, and you will know the goats' names. Hell, the goats will know your name. You might even have a secret handshake.

But even better, you will have cheese.

pasta with greens and prosciutto

My own unwillingness to do the things that I know that I should and want to do continues to amaze me.
Every day, I feel like I have to start again. I walk through the work and interactions of my day, and, for the zillionth time, I gently remind myself of those aspects that someday, maybe possibly will become habit.

Think before you speak, honey. Weigh the meaning in your words. Make every interaction meaningful. Remember that everyone is going through their own stuff today. Have compassion, and even empathy. Don't talk too much when you get nervous. And don't be so hard on yourself either. We're all going through it.

When everyone is complaining in the kitchen at 5:00, give them all kisses, especially the husband.

When the girls ask to be read to, say yes. Time is not there, it is created by you when you decide it is needed. Don't worry about the mess in the living room. Take a walk. Then, lie down on the floor for a few minutes.

Tell people how much you like them. Don't use the word "but" in the middle of a sentence. Stand up straight. Don't speed. Be on time because you made enough time to get there. Don't even touch your cell phone when you are driving.

Eat greens for breakfast. You don't need coffee at 1 in the afternoon. Plan meals. Take meat out of the freezer two days ahead of time so that you don't have to soak it in water. Make pie for dessert.

There is time to make real food. Roll out pasta, regularly. It's better than the boxed stuff, and a lot more fun.


I guess if there wasn't so much work to do, life wouldn't be so exciting, right? As hard as I work, I seem to be heading more and more towards utter imperfection. Let's call it something else. Let's call it rustic! That sounds a little better, I think.

You wouldn't know it to look at those hard little "noodles" in the box, but pasta making in itself is a messy and imperfect process. Pasta making is the finger painting of cooking.

Chasing an egg around the counter with a bench knife--now that is a mess. As long at it doesn't hit the floor, you're golden. And as you cut the egg into the flour, the miraculous incorporation will soothe and amaze. But the kneading of the hard and impermeable dough? All your strength will be needed to soften that one. As you toss that dough against your counter, be rough on the dough but not yourself. Pasta dough is never perfect. Don't even try.

So, flour in my hair and dough encrusted in my wedding band, I roll the pasta through my pasta roller. Every sheet is a different length, and I hang them all over the kitchen, wherever I can find a perch for them.

My friend Eilen bought me this shiny little pasta roller for my birthday a few years back. Here and there in the midst of her travels, we have had the opportunity to make pasta together. She really is the one who taught be about the joy of a messy moment in the kitchen in the first place, and I like working this machine with her. She is one of those people who plans a dinner party with 17 different courses that she picked out of the latest Bon Appetit, and then she starts cooking at 4, and just laughs when she looks at the clock. By the end, it's 10:00, and it's just soup and homemade rolls and some little fancy thing to start--everything else has been abandoned over the course of the afternoon. Eilen stays calm and full of laughter and she's my hero for that.

The mess always turns into something that tastes good.

So, I keep reminding myself to laugh when I look at the clock, and to discard the menu items that just aren't happening. If at the end of all this, I've got soup and homemade rolls, that's enough.

Pasta with Greens and Prosciutto

For the pasta:
1 3/4 cup (9 oz) all purpose flour
scant cup (5 oz) semolina flour
pinch of salt
4 medium eggs

For the topping:
4-5 tablespoons olive oil
4 cups thinly sliced onions
1 cup dry white wine
1 pound kale or swiss chard, cleaned, de-stemmed and thinly sliced
4 oz. prosciutto, in 1-inch strips
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
salt and pepper, to taste
parmesan cheese

Make the pasta dough: Mix the flours and salt and make a well directly on the counter. Pour the eggs into the well, two at a time. With a bench knife, incorporate the egg into the flour. When you have a loose dough, knead firmly for 10 minutes, or until the dough becomes smooth. It might seem like this won't happen, but stick with it- you'll get there. With the bench knife, cut the dough into 6 or 7 balls. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and allow to rest for 30 minutes.

In a large sautee pan, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil. Add the onions and cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally, until caramelized, about 30 minutes. Remove the onions from the pan and add the white wine. Bring to a boil and scrape any lovely brown bits off the surface of the pan. Let boil for about 3 minutes, then pour liquid over the onions.

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Set up your pasta roller and make your pasta. Add the greens to the water and boil for about 4 minutes- then remove with a slotted spoon, squeeze out excess water, and add the greens to the onions. Add the pasta to the boiling water and cook for 2-3 minutes or until just cooked. Drain and rinse. Toss the pasta with remaining olive oil in a large bowl. Add the greens and onions and a bit of salt and pepper to taste. Top with prosciutto, shavings of parmesan, the red pepper flakes, and a final drizzle of olive oil.

radish dip

Dip.
Yuck. I don't do it. I don't throw the contents of my fridge in to my food processor with a random dairy product and serve it with carrots. I avoid those anonymous bowls of creamed elements at parties because double dipping grosses me out. There's always random crumbs of things in there, and I peek in the bowl and slowly back away. I'm not a dip girl.

Except there's something else. Do you have foods in your life that you think that you don't like but that you actually do?

Of course I feel that way about dip. Especially when there is radishes involved.

You know how deeply I am committed to my love for the radish. And after the last six weeks of eating them every day, of gently yanking them out of the garden and of stacking them in luxurious mountains at the farmer's market, I am so not sick of radishes.

But other people seem to be getting there. And so at the market this weekend, instead of relying on the fact that people would eat their radishes naked and immediately (the radishes are naked! Really! Put those dirty thoughts away), we put a nice little bowl of radish dip on the table in the midst of the mountain of radishes, and we gave people bread with which to dip. There was a fat stack of printed radish dip recipes, and I had to swipe one myself before every last copy was taken with excitement and anticipation. Because the truth is... people love a good dip. The thrill of publicly sanctioned finger food, the ubiquitous desire for all substances swirled into cream cheese, sour cream, or (the always healthful and optimistic) yogurt--these perhaps American, perhaps just plain human attributes draw people to that bowl like a fancy mighty strength magnet to an All-Clad stock pot (yes, I'm still fixated on that stock pot) and they are pulled in, little piece of bread or tortilla chip clenched in hand, to dip in.
Go for it. You know you want to.

Radish Dip
adapted from The Farmer's Market Cookbook, the Indian Line Farm's radish table
(and yes, as my picture suggests, this is absolutely the best thing you could put on your bagel)

1 8-ounce package cream cheese, softened
2 tablespoons prepared horseradish, drained
1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
2-3 bunches red radishes, tops removed, quartered, or about 3 cups
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste

Mix all ingredients in the bowl of a food processor. Blend until creamy with some pieces of radish still present in the mix. Taste, and adjust for seasonings. Store in the refrigerator for up to 4 days.