yeah!

Look at my radishes! I grew these!

This morning, Sadie hopped into my bed, and said, "Mom? Welcome to June!" I couldn't resist welcoming you to June too.

Oh, and there's a new mix up today. I hope you like it... download here.

rhubarb ginger soda

Ah, Memorial Day weekend. Starter pistol to the summer.
Up here in the Berkshires, Memorial day marks the beginning of traffic, and hour long waits for the pizza place, and a dazzling schedule of thrilling cultural events to which I am either too busy or too poor to attend. A few years ago, our town toy store put up a massive sign in their window on Memorial Day weekend that read, "Welcome Back to the Berkshires!"
"Welcome Back? Where have we been? We'd been in there all winter, calming our children's tantrums because they could not have this or that, repeating the toy store mantra, "we're here to buy a present for your friend, remember?"
So yes, as a Berkshire resident, I grumble. But secretly, I kind of love it.
I love to walk around at 9:00 at night and weave through people on the streets--kids up too late, ruining their shirts with dripping ice cream, couples entirely dressed in white linen, musicians with a night off from Tanglewood. I like to feel that little bit of city- not another city imposed on our streets, but our own version of city-what it is when there are simply more of us here, and we all stay up later.


This weekend I'll work at the market, and finally when people ask if they can put their tomatoes in, we will say "yes!" Happy gardeners will line up for their sungolds and prudence purples and early girls, and after shoving the change that I've given them back into their pocket, they will race across the parking lot balancing their flat of tomatoes, unable to bear the wait before they can gingerly release the roots from their little ball of dirt, and with a loving but firm hand, pack those plants into the raised bed that has been waiting for them.

I like Memorial Day weekend for this too. I like saying yes to planting tomatoes.

With the warm soil that makes so many of the plants happy, we start to say goodbye to the lusciously prolific rhubarb. Maybe you're ready, but I'm not. I could do a whole other round of rhubarb cake and rhubarb pandowdy. I'd cover everything with rhubarb blueberry compote if I could. I'll keeping picking that rhubarb as long as it will stick around, but I know that our time is coming to a close.

Last week, I was working on a project, typing as fast as my fingers could carry me. I was supposed to have tea with my friend, Janet, but I ended up calling her at the last minute. I left a panicked and incoherent message on her cell phone..."can't meet. must finish..type." and went back to work. Shortly after, she snuck in the kitchen carrying the most lovely pink bottle in one hand and a bottle of Poland Spring in the other. "I'm not here," she said, digging around in my freezer for ice. She grabbed a glass, poured some of each bottle into it, and held it out in front of me.
"Drink."
She is not a woman to be argued with.

And oh, if the summer could come in a glass, I can now say that it would be pink and full of bubbles, spicy with ginger and cooling with lime. I drank the whole glass down, and then I had another. Funny that such a spring creation like rhubarb would give way to such a summer drink, but it does, and on this warm and sunny weekend, this is how I am using the last of the rhubarb. I never can make anything quite as good as Janet, as she has a special magic that I have yet to find, but my batch was almost as good, and there will be another tomorrow. Straight with sparkling water, it is the most exotic homemade soda, and if you are feeling the need, a touch of vodka makes quite a cocktail. Here, I've given you the recipe..I'm pouring it into a glass, and I am holding it out in front of you.
Drink.


Happy weekend all... I hope the summer kicks off on a slow and thirst-quenched note.

Rhubarb Ginger Soda

2 pounds rhubarb, cut into 1-inch pieces
8 cups water
the juice of 2 limes
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, peeled and roughly chopped
1/2 cup sugar or more to taste
Optional: a few sprigs of fresh thyme OR a handful of fresh lemon balm OR a handful of fresh mint

Combine the rhubarb and the water in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and cook for about 20 minutes, or until the rhubarb is almost dissolving. Strain out the rhubarb (and eat it with a spoon!). Add the lime juice to the rhubarb water, along with the ginger and sugar. Allow to cook at a low boil uncovered for 20 to 30 minutes, or until slightly reduced and thickened. Remove from heat, add your herb of choice, and cover. Let steep for 5-10 minutes. Taste and add sugar if needed. Strain and cool. Store in the refrigerator, and mix with bubbly water one drink at a time.

zephyr pancakes

As the wife, I do not put together furniture.
I do not grill.
I do not mow the lawn, except on very rare occasion when my husband has a migraine and the neighbors are complaining.
And (unless I absolutely have to) I do not make pancakes.


I am not particularly proud of these "do nots," and to this day they continue to puzzle me. My friends who have little boys have all expressed the same sentiment- "I raised him just like his sister (or I tried not to focus on gender), and yet it's all trucks and balls all of the time." In a similar fashion, I often feel like I have adopted these random wifely qualities without the intention to do so. Although I was not an adult for long before my marriage, I did live alone, and every job was mine to do. I never imagined that I would hand the drill over to my husband and put on an apron.

But here I am.

And it works. After all, the kitchen is the center of my life for so many reasons. I just happen to be very happy with my apron on. And although sometimes Joey and I seem to be so clearly stuck into our husband and wife roles, at other times there are nuances that help me to see that as a pair, we are entirely unique, as all pairs are.


I don't know where my ideas of what a man is come from. Really, I had no father of my own until I was eighteen, and the men who served as models for me were as varied as ice cream flavors. But there are attributes in Joey that drew me to him in the first place- not unmanly qualities- just aspects that seemed so unexpected from a 22-year-old man. Extreme artistic talent untainted by ego. A dream of having kids, as well as teaching them. Goofy spaciness. Uncanny mix-tape making ability. And although those qualities are still going strong, like me he has slipped into his husband role too. In our family, he is the one who drills, mows, and grills things.


I am okay with all of this, most of the time. Sometimes I fixate on the jobs that I don't do, and I feel frustrated with myself. But for the most part, if I want to do them, I do, and in that moment I can see that the role is only as fixed as I shape it to be.

There is also another side to all this. I think that part of a partnership is a division of labor, because as partners we are not just there to love each other; we are working together to create our life and make it run in a way that works for our family. So it makes sense that he would take some jobs and I would take others. We are good at different things.

I birth, nurse, feed, worry about, and try to create a safe and loving space for our kids. He plays with them, teaches them things, takes them out for adventures, shows them how to make art, makes it possible for them to go to a wonderful school, and helps them to see how fun life can be.

I do the laundry, and Joey does the dishes.

I plant the garden, and Joey mows the paths for me.

I make dinner, and Joey makes breakfast.

And by breakfast, I mean pancakes.

Somewhere in the last several years, Joey gained the ability to make the best pancakes in the world. He swears by this one recipe, but I think that he is also quite handy with the spatula, which certainly helps. His pancakes are cloud-like and perfectly flavored, with the tiniest bit of crunch around the edges. I can eat 20 of them if he keeps handing full plates to me, which he has certainly been known to do. While he and Sadie flip the pancakes, I throw some frozen blueberries in a pot for fruit sauce, and we eat them piled with the sauce and spoonfuls of yogurt. This is my favorite way to eat them, but they are also quite perfect in hand, right out of the pan, naked of all adornment. Joey eats them this way as he cooks them, and by the time he sits down with one little token pancake on his plate, he's already had a full breakfast's worth and then some.

As for the division of labor around here, I think that it will keep evolving, and so I try not get stuck in it. Odd as it may sound, my sense is that Joey and I both play the role of husband or wife at times, and then we spontaneously trade. Sometimes I feel more father than mother, and then, again, I am all mother. But as changeable as all this can be, I'm counting on Joey to keep making pancakes. I know I can make a decent stack, but I'd rather sit back and leave it to a real pancake artist.

Zephyr Pancakes
adapted (by Joey) from The King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion

2 cups (8 1/2 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour
2 1/4 tablespoons (1 1/4 ounces) sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 large egg yolks
2 cups whole milk
1 1/4 cups buttermilk
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking bowder, baking soda, and salt. In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, milk, buttermilk, melted butter, and vanilla. Whisk the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients. The batter will be lumpy.

Preheat and lightly oil a cast iron skillet or griddle. Scoop the batter onto the skillet with a 1/2 cup measure or large spoon. For some reason, pancakes are rarely a success- so don't get frustrated if the first round doesn't turn out so well. Make sure the heat is right about at medium. The pancakes will puff up. When you see bubbles on the top of the pancake and the edges are a bit dry, flip it over. Cook for a minute or two on the second side. Taste when done, and you'll get a feel for the timing. Serve with maple syrup, or fruit sauce, or eat plain right out of the pan.

the foraging explorers

The ladies have a new activity.
When they have read too many books, and art seems boring, and we have said "enough PBSkids.com!", they put on their backpacks and go exploring.

From what I can tell, the contents of the backpacks are strictly defined. There is a water bottle, a notebook in each, and a pen or pencil. One volunteers to carry the bundled up potato chip bag swiped from the shelf, hopeful that she will have control over who eats what is inside. Sometimes there are random articles, some useful, some not-- a magnifying glass, a doll's sweater, a book to read together in case they find a place to rest, a few random pieces of jewelry. Sadie wears her watch and lets me know that they will be back at precisely 3:00. I know that they'll be back in 20 minutes, but I nod at the 3:00 deadline. I remind them of their bear safety (there is news of a mama with cubs hanging around the neighborhood), and they are off.

Right after Sadie was born, I started to imagine the most horrible things. I couldn't drive a car without envisioning another car plowing into the door that protected her little car seat from the rest of the world. As firm as I held her, I saw her fall to the hard floor in my mind, and in every corner there was an imaginary spider or some other monster waiting to bite her translucent baby skin.
By the time she was a month old, it was getting out of control. I was happy, and I didn't seem to have the postpartum depression that was plaguing so many moms. But in these isolated moments, I was terrified, and I was convinced that she wouldn't make it to her first birthday. I went to see a therapist who had helped me through a hellish year before college, and I only needed to see him once.

"Of course you're terrified," he said, gesturing to Sadie sleeping with a wheezy snore in my arms. "Look at her. Have you ever been responsible for anything so valuable? Have you ever held anything more perfect?"

I had not.

"By dreaming up these horrible fates," he continued. "I think you're praying. I think you're saying, 'Bring it on. I can imagine your worst, world. I am ready for it, and you can't surprise me."

With his assessment, along with the passage of time and the lessening of post-birth hormones, I began to trust that Sadie would be okay. Those waves still come here and there, and it remains to be the case that the fear that I feel as a parent is a powerful and overwhelming thing.

Regardless of my quiet fears, they've got their backpacks on, and they want to go exploring.

I think that we keep our children on a tighter leash than that on which we were kept 25 or 30 years ago. I am pretty sure that the world has not gotten any more dangerous; it's just that we have more ways to hear about the bad things. I have such clear memories of lying out in the middle of a field with my friend Sarah, far behind the house that our single mothers shared. We would run out there naked, and we would split open the milkweed pods and spread it over our little limbs, pretending it was sunscreen. We were three. I don't know which part to be more shocked about, that two three-year-olds were running around alone so far from home, or that two three-year-olds were running around naked without any actual sunscreen. Either way, it's clear that the rules are different now than they were then.

Far before 3:00, the girls tumble in the front door. They are sweaty and flushed and there is a wilted dandelion tucked behind Rosie's ear. They show me their little sketches of buttercups and the plant specimens that they found in the field. They report, with a bit of disappointment, that there was no bear to be found. The bag of chips is empty, and in addition, they have come back with some greens for a salad for me. Sweaty and wrinkled from Rosie's hand, there are lamb's quarters and a few leaves of baby lettuce.

The lettuce was intentionally grown, but the lambs quarters are a gift from the yard. Edible plants are always part of the adventure, and the girls will eat anything they pick themselves, especially if it is a weed. We are very careful that each plant has been carefully identified, and there are only two or three that the girls know they can munch without checking in with us first. Clover flowers, and those little sour bursts of green leaves we have incorrectly named lemon grass, the invasive but tasty garlic mustard; they graze on these here and there and fancy themselves in their own version of My Side of the Mountain. I watch them cross over from our yard into the field, and I take a little breath through the fear in my stomach. A lot has happened since that first month of mothering, and I now trust that the girls will make their way back home. They are learning the rules of things quickly, and with every new piece of knowledge, they help me to let go of my fears. They laugh at my anxieties, but they answer my charges nonetheless.

"If you see the bear?" (my heart beats faster even to think the sentence)
"If it doesn't run away, I lie on my belly and play dead." (they giggle at the words "play dead")
"And what can you eat?"
"Chips from the bag."
"Very funny. You know what I mean."
"Garlic mustard. No berries. Lamb's quarters."
"Did you sunblock your sister?"
"Yes! We're going!"

I know that I should savor the simplicity of what they need to know right now. Right now they go just beyond my sight, not so much further. I test their knowledge on edible plants and bear safety. In ten years? First relationships and designated drivers. Now that scares the hell out of me.

Luckily, there's some time for us to learn how to have those conversations. For now we practice with our lessons in weeds and bears. In ten years, I'll be older and (I'm hoping!) wiser too, and these talks and lessons will help create the format for the harder ones as their adventures take on different forms. They'll keep learning how to move through their world, and maybe I'll get better at letting them go.

Today? Let's just stick to the greens.



Lamb's quarters are a lovely spinach-y weed, easily identifiable by their goose foot-shaped leaves and the odd lavender powder around the center stem. They are especially good to recognize if you are a city forager, as I always seem to find them in abandoned and lonely window boxes and planters. If you are hungry in the city, you may just be able to make a salad on the sidewalk.


Lamb's quarters are best this time of year, when they are under a foot in height, and they are mild and light and ridiculously good for you. Both the leaves and stems are edible, and they are perfect in all places where you would normally use spinach, especially just sauteed with butter and a bit of garlic. Like the girls, I get a thrill from sitting in the yard and eating what I find right there, so I usually eat them raw. If they make it into the house, I'll grab a handful of lettuce and a few herb sprigs, and there is my explorer's lunch.

Lawn Salad

1/2 cup lamb's quarters leaves
1 cup baby lettuce leaves
1/4 cup parsley
a few sprigs of dill
1 teaspoon olive oil
salt and pepper

Combine the lamb's quarters, lettuce, parsley and dill in a salad spinner or a bowl of water. Dry thoroughly. Toss with the olive oil, salt, and pepper.

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.

lemon balsamic chicken

I don't know what you did, but thank you!
Just minutes after writing my last post, I got to work on dinner. And from the moment everyone got home from school to the 7:00 bedtime click of the girls' door, there were... (are you ready for this?) NO TEARS.
And hopefully I can say this without cursing myself...last night and tonight were also tear free. Whine free. Scream free. In all honesty, as I was making dinner tonight, I heard Sadie say to Rosie as they were working on their tag sale score of the day (American Girl Paper Dolls!), "Rosie! I just want to sh-argh. rah. AHHHHHHH! STOP!" But I put on the earmuffs, turned up the music (New Pornographers new album! Get it!) and the situation seemed to resolve itself with minimal bloodshed.
So what is it? Did someone out there work some wild dinner time magic? Or maybe it was just the power of writing it down? (amazing what that can do, really) Whatever it is, I won't question it. Although when I really delve deeper, I guess it is possible that just a teeny weeny bit of the dry eyes at dinner time might have something to do with what we ate that night. It might be the chicken.

I'm not a big chicken parts kind of girl. I like a nice buttery roast chicken, and I like chicken soup. But chicken parts with stuff grilled/broiled/baked in? I'll eat it without complaint, but I don't leap for the recipe. Honestly, chicken is a little too cooked for me. I like a good steak, maybe some duck or lamb. I like a piece of meat with some life in it, and by life I mean blood. If chicken bleeds is likely to make you sick, and I hold that against it.

But something in this recipe made me pause. All that lemon zest was enticing, and mostly I made it because Tammi told me to.

Tammi has a blog that you should be reading. I've never met her, but every time I'm in her kitchen by way of her writing, I laugh. I really laugh. I snort, and I spit out my coffee. She's funny, but she's so real and full of heart, which makes it even easier to laugh. She's also really on it when it comes to food. So when she told me that this was the best chicken ever, I said okay then- the best chicken ever is good enough for me. Bring on the chicken parts.

The whole family was coming over- that's us plus my mom and stepfather and sister, and I got a lot of chicken parts. I stuffed handfuls of green beans into a bag at the store, threw a little sack of orzo in the cart, and dinner was only a few zests of the lemon away.

And the chicken? Yes, I think it was perhaps the best chicken ever. It was one of those dinners that we couldn't stop talking about as we ate- "wow. good chicken. yeah. this is good chicken." Although I have to say that cold the next day, it might even have been better. This would be a damn fine picnic chicken, if your the sort who brings cold chicken on picnics (which I am not, but that might change after this one).

Because I really mean it about Tammi, I'm not even going to give you the recipe for this one. I'm going to send you over there, so you can take a peek around. Just make sure if you are drinking coffee that you aim away from your laptop if you are prone to snorting when you laugh. With a mouthful of coffee, a real laugh can be the death of your keyboard, so aim at the wall.

wild rice and leek soup

Lately, dinnertime has been a little, well I don't know- let's see how I could frame it. It's all in the way you look at at, right?
Lately, dinner time has been a little...loud.....tear-filled......almost humorous (and I say almost!) in the regularity of the crying......challenging........did I say loud?
I haven't quite figured it out, except to remind myself that these things come in waves. Yes, life's been a little busy, and the girls respond to that of course, and maybe dinner's been coming out a bit later. Maybe they're tired, and they're definitely hungry. But it never fails to surprise me. They come home in good cheer, and I gloat to myself, "aren't these girls just so happy!" They put on their adventure backpacks and go draw some flowers in the yard, or Sadie reads to Rosie on the couch, or on maybe there's some time on PBS kids. We pat ourselves on the backs and feel like such good parents! But whether it's five minutes before dinner or when we sit down or when I bring the food out, I end up holding my hands over my ears.
Usually it's complaints about the food or who had to set the table or some random thing. But I don't think we've had a dinner without at least a teeny weeny bit of screaming in weeks.
It doesn't dominate- it passes and the night goes on. Girls are tucked into beds and kissed and sang to. The ringing in our ears fades. We try to figure out what we're doing and what we should do tomorrow. This will pass, I know. But I've got to tell you... I'm not tasting my food.

I am a dinner table advocate. I love family dinner- it is what we do! But these last few weeks, I'm really enjoying eating the food the next day, alone. I made this soup the other night, and it went down like a quick shot of energy and warmth. In the midst of the noise, I thought, hmm, decent soup.

But the next day, alone on my bench in the back yard with nothing but the birds and someone else's hollering kid down the street, the soup was divine. Simple, with a whole lot of soul and even more nurture. It's so easy that you could put it together with a screaming kid on your leg in the kitchen- but I'd suggest you take a bowl outside and eat it in silence.

Wild Rice and Leek Soup

8 cups chicken stock, or a combination of stock and water
2 large leeks, sliced in ribbons (all of the white and about 1/2 of the green)
1 1/2 cups wild rice
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 bay leaves
2 dried chiles
2 large ribs celery
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper, to taste

In a large saucepan, melt the butter. Add the leeks and cook, stirring often, until the leeks soften and shine, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and celery and cook for 3 minutes. Add the stock, rice, bay leaves and chiles. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for about 1 hour. Add salt and pepper to your taste.