eating off the grid

 Oh California.

 I don't even know what to say. Do I laugh? Cry? Tease you?

Or do I jump in with glee? (my mug filled with blue bottle coffee and the sriracha mayo on everything)

 You, my friend, are serious about your pickles.

 Of, course, so am I.

 And the cynical New England in me, the one that knew that I'd be sitting in 2 feet of snow in 24 hours, could not help but laugh, and say, California!

Every Friday night at Fort Mason, there are food trucks. Lots of food trucks. It's called Off the Grid.

It's kind of like a Grateful Dead show, but for hipster foodies.

I was happy to play the part. If only for the fish tacos with pickled red onions.

And for pork buns with pickled daikon.

Oh, California. You and me, we go way back. And although you make me laugh and feel a bit silly about your best-of-all-possible-things-are-here ways, I'm always happy to come back to your kitchen.

Till next time, friend.

we made it

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

Thank you.

saffron and cardamom panna cotta

Joey bought me a new pair of boots over the holiday.  They are red, and they have a bit of heel to them, and we are coming to call them the ass-kicking boots.   Not ass-kicking necessarily because they are lovely, which they are, but because ass-kicking is literally what I'm needing to do these days.  Because any thought I might have had of shrinking off into the corner and fading away for a little while (which is sometimes my habit) is totally not possible.  Because every time holds an education, and my education for now seems to be about standing taller and speaking louder and being very very clear about what I'm trying to get across.

I've been singing in the car a lot, just to practice my loudness.  I've been singing really, really loudly.

Last night I was walking out the door to a selectboard meeting.  It was before six, and pizza was just coming out of the oven, and the kitchen was feeling so warm and so full of Joey and the girls. I stuffed a bit of mozzarella cheese into my mouth, called it dinner, and put on my coat to make my way into the cold. "Your boots are over here."  Joey pointed to the my boots in the special corner of the kitchen.  But I was tired, and feeling quiet, and I left the ass-kicking boots at home.

In the 8 months since I started working for the town, there have been several issues that have come up.  Each time, there are people with concerns--always justified, and they rages or politely express their concerns depending on the person and the issue, and I listen and I research and I try to figure out the closest thing to the right answer on where to go with the issue.  Then I agree or disagree with those who are raging, and I work and work to compose my thoughts into some sort of answer as to why I came to the decision that I did.  In every case so far, it feels like these decisions will make or break everything--that if I make the wrong decision, the world will crumble around me.  And then the issue passes, decisions are made and the world moves on.  I am looking forward to having some perspective on this process, to having the time behind me that helps me to take a breath and understand that all of this is simply a process, that all I can do is make sure that I am educated on an issue and that I make a decision that I can stand behind.  And because I am elected, that I make a decision that others can stand behind as well.

People ask me how I like this job--and if I'm sorry that I ran for the board.  I always answer that it is the hardest thing that I do,  and that no, like is not the word that I would use.  When money and property are the topic of discussion, the most difficult part of a person seems to emerge, and it is this part of the person that I am talking to most days lately.  But I am also happy to be where I am, and if this is a way that I can contribute to my community, then here I am.

It's been a little rough lately though.  The boots help.  And of course, I've been making puddings and panna cottas a lot.  Because they are the antithesis of all of this.  Pudding is a warm and quiet corner and no need to say a word.  There's no responsibility there--only smooth and milky sweetness.



And then there's the saffron.  Oh the saffron!  Monica Bhide says that if you can taste the saffron, it's too much saffron, but I disagree.  The feel, the smell, this color--it all transports me in the most wonderful way.  Last year in Istanbul I stood in a little spice stand trying to decide how much real saffron to buy, and 18 dollars seemed like a lot to spend on such a little vial of spice.  There was cheaper saffron, but this squat man in a sweater vest made us tea from the good saffron, and I wanted to bathe in it--it was that good.  And now, in January, so so enmeshed and snowed in in this town, 18 dollars is nothing, and I'm glad I spent it.  Those 18 dollars bring me to another altogether, and that's a whole lot less than a plane ticket. 

Spice and pudding.  My favorite combination for today.

Saffron and Cardamom Panna Cotta
from Alice Medrich, Pure Dessert

3 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of salt
5 cardamom pods
slightly rounded 1/8 teaspoon crushed saffron threads
1 cup whole milk
2 1/2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin
1 cinnamon stick

In a small saucepan, heat the cream, sugar, and salt until simmering--stirring to dissolve the sugar.  Remove the pot from heat and add the cardamom pods and saffron.  Cover, and let it steep for 25 minutes.  Meanwhile, pour the milk into a small bowl and sprinkle the gelatin over it.  Don't stir--set aside and let it sit for 10 minutes.
Add the milk and gelatin to the cream mixture and reheat until simmering, stirring to dissolve the gelatin.  Strain the mixture into a bowl and discard the cardamom pods.  Set the bowl over a bowl of ice water and and stir until the mixture cools.  Keep adding more ice as it melts until the mixture registers right around 60 degrees on a thermometer, or is cooler than room temperature if you are testing it with your finger.
Divide the mixture between 6 small bowls or ramekins.  Cover with plastic wrap and chill for at least 4 hours.  Grate a bit of cinnamon over each dish before serving.

charlie the butcher's

In so much as you might like to hear all sorts of idyllic stories about the first annual camping trip of my not always so idyllic family, I cannot please you. I can tell you this. There were smores. And we did stay dry within our tent.
Even though there was plenty of rain outside of the tent.
And although when the weather report teased and threatened with severe thunderstorms for a straight 48 hours, we panicked and tried so desperately on my failing cell phone battery to find a hotel in which we could dry our sad non-outdoorsy little selves, there was, alas, not a hotel room to be found in all of Ontario.
No problem! We stayed dry within our tent. And of course, as usual, the weather report was wrong.
And so, non-idyllic as we might be, it was a success!
In other news, we saw our dear friends well married, we went to Niagara falls and could not find a parking spot (and so did a drive by), and we fed our children far too many Canadian candy bars so that they would stay quiet, which they of course did not, which you know if you have ever fed your children too many candy bars as a coping mechanism for a 10-hour car ride. As one who grew up as an only child, I felt like I was living the American dream. It was truly glorious. Joey and I jumped into some sort of scripted parent language, universal enough to be the stuff of all family odysseys.

Rosie: Sadie! Oweeeee! Sadie hit me!!!!
Joey: Sadie! Don't hit your sister...that hard!

and, just an hour or two before we finally hit home again,

Sadie: Rosie! Mommy, Rosie took my pen! Rosie took my pen! Ahhhhhhh! Rosie took my pen! Make her give it back! I hate you Rosie! My pen! My pen!

Me: Sadie, if you don't chill out and stop hollering, I swear I will never give you a pen again for the rest of your life. Ever. Pencils for you!

And you get the idea.
But we made it. I'm sure you're all very relieved. And of course, I have a few little food items to share with you.

The first night of our little trip, we camped in Ithaca, NY. It was a little out of our way, but I insisted. I wanted to go to the Moosewood Restaurant.

I know. I know. But I wanted to! I've been cooking out of Moosewood all my life- looking at those little black and white photos of the wooden tables in the utopian collective restaurant. I'll say now before I go on, that I will always love every single Moosewood cookbook. My experience in the room where it all started will stay entirely separate from my love of spinach ricotta pie and buttery onion soup.

Of course, it was bad.

The menu changes daily, which is usually a good thing except when there is nothing you want to eat. The featured appetizer was sliced bread with pesto. Or you could have some olives. And for dinner, it was either noodles with butter and cheese and cream and a little bit of sliced carrot and zucchini, or some sort of eggplant stew, or something wrapped in Filo (should have gone with the Filo! Always go with the filo!), or overcooked bluefish in some tasteless chopped tomatoes and sad drowning leeks. Joey got the pasta, Sadie and I shared the fish, and Rosie got plain noodles and butter. Rosie really summed up the collective response when she had a few bites of her never-fail menu choice and looked up at me in confusion. "Mom, I don't even like this!" Sadie tried to love it- she cooks from Moosewood too and had been looking forward to the meal the whole day. She passed over the rubbery bluefish after a few attempted bites, but swiped the roasted corn from the plate before I could get a bit. "The corn's good!"
I know that the Moosewood collective isn't known for it's inventiveness, but it was a little heartbreaking how entirely uncreative the menu really was. The ingredients did not taste fresh, or at least if they had been earlier that day, they had the life cooked out of them. The place smelled like dirty mop water. I figure this is one more example of something you really can do better at home.

I guess you can tell that I'm slightly heartbroken. I was the kid who had been dreaming of Disneyworld and then got there to a swearing actor under the Mickey Mouse costume. I know it makes sense- they really don't have to work for it anymore. People will come to Moosewood even if they serve McDonald's and call it a McMollieKatzen. But why go to all the trouble of seeming so fabulous, just to serve noodles dripping in melted butter for 14.95? Maybe it was an off night. Maybe if I were there today, I would melt with joy! I guess I'll never know.

I will say that our waitress was lovely, and that the dessert, a Moosewood Brownie topped with local ice cream, was flawless. So, if you too are on a pilgrimage to Ithaca, I suggest that you make sure that you get the waitress with the big flower pinned in her hair, and just skip to dessert.

The real joy in all of this, I must confess, was that although I dragged us hours out of our way to eat bland and overpriced food, Joey smiled through the whole thing, and never made fun of me once. You see, if anyone understands the food odyssey, it's Joey.

We don't get out to the nicer restaurants so often. But when we do, it's usually when we're traveling and I've heard something that makes me feel like we've just got to go there. But I'm not the one who usually leads our travel eating. That job belongs to Joey, the road food master.

And so, the day after our dinner at Moosewood, Joey pulled off at a random exit near Buffalo, and he drove towards the airport. "Oh, this is going to be good," said to me, but even more to himself.
It seems that we have an agreement when we are out in the world and searching for a meal. As long as our hearts are in it, we will follow the other around. And as Joey said as we ate the lunch that was about to occur, it all works out. Because sometimes the places are bad, and we have both been responsible. As he said in Buffalo, for every Moosewood in Ithaca, there is a Caiola's in Portland. And for every Teo's (what is that on the chili dog? That's not..no..it can't be...it's too gross to even say!) in Pittsfield, there is Charlie the Butcher's.


Way back, we stopped in at another Roadfood success, All Star Sandwiches in Cambridge, MA. I had a beautiful thing called a Beef on Weck, a perfectly cooked roast beef sandwich on a soft kaiser roll sprinkled with coarse salt and caraway seeds, smeared with horseradish. It was one of the best sandwiches I've ever had, and we learned there that the Beef on Weck hails from Buffalo, and it is in that northern and desolate city that it finds its perfection. When we finally reached Buffalo, Joey had of course done his research, and so we found ourselves at Charlie the Butcher's.

Charlie the Butcher is an actual person, and you can identify him by the hard hat he wears while carving roast beef. There are many branches of his restaurant at this point, but only the location on Wehrle Drive can boast that Charlie himself is doing the carving. He's been doing it for quite a few decades, and I sure hope he's teaching the secrets to others. This is an art that should not be lost.

What is a beef on weck? Well, quite simply, it is the exact opposite of a plate of overcooked bluefish in tasteless tomatoes and drowned leeks. It is the thing that might save you on a long long drive. It is your turn off to the airport, even though you are not going on a plane.

And so, as we return from our travels, wet tent spread out on the lawn, I can say that although I cannot offer so many idyllic outdoor family stories, I can tell you that we are damn good at finding lunch off a random highway. I'm fairly sure that there will be a whole lot more family camping in the future, but I am even more sure that we will always be up for a food adventure, and the sad buttery noodles will be always be worth it for the hidden beef on wecks.

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.

tools from the bazaar

I'm really back now. The details of day to day life require my presence, and I mean really require it, so I've stopped leaving pots and the stove and daydreaming of little cups of Turkish tea. I'm moving at full speed.

Which, I admit, is not that fast. There is a lot to keep up with. Sadie had her first piano lesson, it's almost time to plant radishes, and I'm working on some, well, let's just call them big projects.

And then there are the lawn signs. I never thought I'd see my name on the lawns of Great Barrington, but the signs are about to be in the mail, and if you have a prominently located lawn in this town, you could be the proud owner of one.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I've been talking about the town budget and the future of the library all day. I know some people think I'm a little nutty for this, but I really like thinking about these things. But at the end of the day, I'm needing a break, just for a few minutes. I need to talk about that thing that makes my heart soar, makes my soul sing.

That's right. You know where I'm going. Let's talk about kitchen gadgets.


Today, it's not food processors or yogurt makers. I want to show you a little assortment of kitchen tools that I found at the bazaar in Istanbul. I know I've been back for a while, and I promise that once I get this out of my system, I'll stick to the goings on in my own kitchen. It's just that when I was wandering the tiny paths of the spice bazaar, the grand bazaar, and the wood bazaar, I kept seeing things that I wanted to show you. These are just the treats I stuffed into my suitcase. I wish I could show you the home smokers in the metal bazaar, but I couldn't take one back on the plane. I've got some pretty good ones, though.

This beauty is called the limonmatic. It screws into a lemon, and then you squeeze the lemon and pour out the juice. The most lovely thing about it, I think, is that you can squeeze a little bit of juice, snap the top on, and put the lemon back in the fridge. It basically turns a fresh lemon into one of those little plastic lemons that you can take a bit of juice out of here and there. Brilliant, isn't it? I know! But that's not all!


I have never seen so many beautiful wooden spoons in one place. I came home with a small variety, but this is my absolute favorite. A wooden slotted spoon! I love how the holes are so randomly placed, like the person who made it really wasn't paying attention. This spoon makes me smile every time I look at it.


This is a sieve. I haven't used it yet, but I look and it and adore it every day. If I don't use it soon, I'm going to have to figure out how to wear it. I don't know why things just aren't as pretty in kitchen shops over here.

And then there is the the rolling table. I saw this in use at the organic bazaar, and I told Molly that I was taking one of them home. Normally they are used by old Turkish grannies to make several traditional kinds of flatbreads. Lissa and I each bought one, and we carried them around Istanbul for the better part of a day, along with two extraordinarily long rolling pins. We got the best looks, and even some comments about the how funny it was that the tourists had bought grannie tables. I like to think that we got a lot of respect that day, but more likely people thought we were a bit crazy. Most Americans bring home rugs and silks from Turkey, but we went for rolling tables.

And here ends my career as a travel writer, for now at least. Thanks for taking this trip with me- I promise there will be more in the future. But back to the kitchen now, and to this little town.

turkish breakfast

I'm liking this place I've come back to. Cheeks as soft as I dreamed them, crocuses poking out of the dead grass, and a general temperature about 25 degrees warmer than the bitter chill of Istanbul. I came back with a duffel bag full of presents, and there might not be anything better than giving presents.

I'm missing the food though.

I've gotten a few inquiries as to why I went to Istanbul. I'm happy to answer, although it's not so neat and clean, I think.

I went to Istanbul to drink tea and find the right baklava, to visit my friends Molly and Aurel, to see old and round buildings. I went to Istanbul to travel with my friend Lissa, the closest person I have to a big sister. To travel just to travel for the very first time since I went to Europe drunk and depressed and looking for a tattoo artist. Because when we talked about it, Joey said, "go!" I went to Istanbul because travel makes my cells hum, and I had just enough for the plane ticket with a little more to pay for Sadie to go to camp this summer. I went to hear the call to prayer as I walked down the street. But mostly, I went to Istanbul to come home again.

I'm not religious, although I have my moments. But when I go other places, I see the connection of things more than when I am home. People are always kinder than I think they will be. When I travel I complain less, because awe takes over. Other languages and patterns make me feel part of something bigger, and the world takes on, well, I don't know how to say it, but something like a different color.

I travel so rarely, but it stays with me for a long time, and for that I am so thankful.

I ate very well in Istanbul. Over the next little time I will ask you to bear with me as I try to recreate some of the treats that I dissected with every bite. I just have to try, and we'll see how it goes. But I think my favorite thing might be Turkish breakfast.

Lissa and I arrived in Istanbul in the morning, and after a tumultuous and dramatic cab ride, we pulled in to Molly and Aurel's, and Aurel put together a little plate of foods. It seemed random; an egg, some wrinkly Turkish olives, chunks of cucumber sprinkled with salt and pungent oregano. There were a few dates, I think, and slices of soft smelly cheese that we would come to love over the next week. There was bread and a little bowl of honey. It was perfect, and as I was falling asleep on the couch after breakfast, I wondered why I had never thought of that particular combination.

As we saw these arranged plates day after day on every Turkish table, I learned that Aurel had not created the idea. There were variations, maybe a spread for the bread or a bit of radish, and there was always parsley. But with every Turkish breakfast, I grew more convinced that this is the best breakfast...ever.

Yesterday, in my jet lagged stupor, I tried to make dinner. I forgot about what I had started, I almost started a fire, and I ruined my favorite pot. So I abandoned my original plan and boiled a few eggs. It seemed that it was time to have our first of many Turkish breakfasts, for dinner.


Turkish Breakfast

Like most good things, this one is up for interpretation. But as far as I have been able to learn, there are a few necessary elements:

1. an egg. just one- probably soft boiled, but maybe hard boiled, or even fried if that brings you more pleasure.

2. olives. luckily, I came back with some. but any good olives will do.

3. soft cheese. if you are not in turkey, the most authentic would be feta, sliced.

4. cucumbers. i know that they are expensive and out of season. but if you can do it, do it.

5. parsley. not just garnish. eat it.

6. a bit of bread, not too much, with honey to dip.

Optional elements are endless, but a little arugula salad is nice, or a few dates. Tomatoes if you've got them. A dolmas if you are in Turkey or innovative. Some sort of spread made of carrots and dill and walnuts and feta that I am trying to figure out.

And tea. Coffee comes after.

wednesday

Here.

A little tired. A tiny bit overwhelmed. Happy.

Fish Chowder

I'm still thinking about Maine. I've been shuffling the girls around since I got back, working and trying to do the laundry late at night. I'm a bit fixated on one reason I would really like to live by the ocean one day.

Oh wait- there are a couple more.

I am only three hours from the ocean, and somehow the fish here is all expensive, bad, or both. But in Maine, we had a poor man's feast- fish chowder.


Lucky for us, we were not the only visitors at Sarah and Jefferson's last weekend. Sarah's friend Christine was there, along with her three fantastic children. That last night, we all had our fish chowder, and then we took in a play, "The Runaway Princess".




Who do you think got to be the princess?



Sarah's Fish Chowder

1 large onion, chopped
3 ribs celery, chopped
6 red potatoes, skins on, cut into chunks
2 pounds cheap white fish (such as cod)
3 T butter
approx. 2 cups milk, or more as needed
1 cup water
1/2 cup chopped parsley
salt and pepper

In a medium sized heavy bottomed pot, melt the butter. Add the onion, then celery, then potatoes. Saute until the potatoes start to soften, about 10-15 minutes. Add water, cover and continue to cook at a low heat for another 15 minutes.
Put 2 large scoops of cooked potatoes into the blender. Cover with milk. Blend. Set aside.
Put the piece of fish into the soup and cook until it is cooked through and flakes apart. Add the milk mixture and salt and pepper to taste. Add more milk if you prefer a thinner soup. Add parsley. Serve with oyster crackers if you are lucky enough to have them handy.