Tuesday, August 30, 2011

grilled beets

This was our day.
We woke up to the rain, windows closed the night before in preparation. It was a rainy morning almost like any other, and we sat in our pajamas and watched the rain fall.  The water pooled in both the front and backyards. The basement leaked. The radio talked. The phone rang all morning--were we okay? What was the path of the storm? When would it get bad?

Mid morning, we got a call from friends of ours we hadn't seen in years. They were at a wedding nearby, and although they were supposed to get back to New York that day, there was no way.  Could they come? The house filled with friends, and we all watched the rain. The power stayed on, we waited for it all to come.

When I was six, hurricane Gloria hit. We were living with my mother's boyfriend out in a log cabin in the woods. I don't remember where he was, but she and I played cards all day, declaring War or yelling Spit! and the day is so clear for me. We walked out onto his deck that extended into the trees when the eye came. I think the sky was blue, at least I remember it that way. The air was still and clear and we marveled and looked into the forest. Then the wind came again, and we went back to our card game. I remember that day- I remember that my mother and I were such partners in the world, and we weathered that storm. I don't remember if we lost power or whether that day was more or less dangerous than this day just now, but I remember that, being six, I loved that day, and I loved my mother.

We didn't know what would happen on Sunday. We filled jars of water and we had flashlights and candles ready, and we had plenty of fuel for the grill.  I thought about what we could grill if our power was out for days and days. I thought about what would happen if our whole world changed because of this storm. You never know when the world will change, what event we'll look back on and say that we thought we were solid, and then the power went out and the telephone lines came down and life shifted completely.



We sat through the night in our house while the wind did its best. At one point, something big hit the window, and we admitted that it was better that it was finally dark so that we didn't have to watch the trees bend and sway and lose their limbs. We could stay in the warm room with our dinner and our scrabble board and hope that the walls would hold. I made up couches and beds for our friends, and then we went to sleep.

In the morning, we learned more of what had been happening all around us. The girls and I drove to the next town to buy new school shoes, and each little river we crossed was fuller and more vigorous than the next. One neighborhood along a river had taken in the river itself, and water extended to each house's back door. Even strangers were talking to each other, sharing the same sentiment. We escaped it this time. It could have been worse. I am so thankful.

Thankful, but heartbroken for those whose main streets are filled with water, whose houses are ruined, who lost so much in the storm. Oh, New England. You are strong and beautiful and bursting with life.

There is nothing like a storm to make us stop for a moment, and to think thoughts that don't always make their way in. I could lose all of this, and as long as the kids are okay I wouldn't care. Who of my neighbors needs my help? Yes, it is rough out there. But I will come and save you, if need be. We have enough, and more than enough to share.

Had we lost power, I had beets ready. It would have been sweet, earthy beets on the grill to sustain us through whatever was to come. But as the power stayed on, we cooked on the stove, and saved the beets for a sunny day.

Grilled Beets

Cut the greens from the beets, and trim the tops and tails. If the skins are thick, peel them.
Cut the beets into 1 1/2-inch thick slices. Brush with a bit of olive oil and tamari or soy sauce. Grill the slices for 10 minutes on each side, or until they are sweet and soft inside.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

my favorite

This is it.
These last weeks of August leading into the first weeks in September--I could live in this time forever.
 
In New England, the shift always comes in one day. Wednesday, it is summer, and the air is hot, and the fan stays directed at the bed all night. Cooking means watermelon, because who could actually decide to add heat to the world.
Then it's Thursday, and all of the sudden the air moves instead of stands still, and for the first few hours of the day, you've done it. You've worn a sweater. Here, this change is always accompanied by mist that rises from the ground in the morning, and that's what I remember from every late August that I ever got ready to go back to school. Standing in that mist waiting for the school bus to come, cold earlobes, new notebooks.  It still feels the same. And every late summer blends together in a wave of mist and corn and books and tomatoes, and every year at this time, I miss every other year and memories hit me with astounding clarity. It must be in the air, because it always happens.
10 years ago, I think maybe to this very day, I met Joey.
I had seen him before and maybe we'd said a few words to each other, but on this day we stood side by side watching the new freshman nervously make their way through the opening ceremonies of college. We were about to be seniors, and we stood in the back with the amused superiority of those who think they have put in their time.

 Joey critiqued the the freshman girls' fashion as they walked across the stage and the college president took each of their hands in his, one at a time. I laughed, and then we compared schedules (identical), agreed on the benefits of living off campus (neighbors!), and then we walked out into the cool, 5 o'clock air. We have spent nearly every day together since then.

I have finally come to terms with the fact that I love to miss things. I love to miss people who might be far away, and I love to miss other times in my life. It makes me feel more here, and alive, and when I close my eyes and imagine what I miss, I remember again that my imagination is that good, and that all the things I miss can be almost with me if I try hard enough.

My friend Lissa taught me how to use this sense in the kitchen. More than anyone I know, she can close her eyes and know what she misses. In her imagination, she can taste it and smell it and decide that it is exactly what she needs.  Then, she knows what to make for dinner. Just get her started talking about cold blanched greens with scallion dressing on some hot July night.  You'll end up going home and making them yourself.
 
I've been getting more "I'm so uninspired in the kitchen- what do I do?" questions lately.  I think that that feeling too is dependent on the time of year. In this last chance at summer, there is so much to do and eat and see and finish before the kids go back to school and the routine starts again. Around here, we have produce bursting out of every seam.  Some of it is tragically rotting already, but the rest is perfect, and in the absence of time to think and dream and chop and cook the most marvelous dinner, we end up snacking through the day on tiny golden cherry tomatoes and salted cucumber slices and wedges of sinfully juicy peach.

Of course, sometimes dinner actually has to be made, and the goal is some vehicle that can hold the produce that would normally get shoved in the mouth, juice running down the arm. Pasta always works, as does the trusty galette.  Platter salads of any variety will will never get dull, as long as there is a mix of cooked and uncooked vegetables all tossed in a good vinaigrette. But a few weeks ago, Lissa brought a tomato tart to the little lake where we all swim. It was on puff pastry, and the tomatoes were thinly sliced so that they could dry out a bit. There were dallops of goat cheese throughout, and a few different herbs that I'm guessing she had on her counter. It was beautiful, and delicious, and when we oohed and ahhed over it, she said that of course it was easy, and that earlier that day she had started dreaming of it and she knew it was exactly what she wanted to make.


I have a silly habit of sometimes not buying the foods that I know how to make from scratch. I'll think- why buy it? I'll just whip up a batch! And it will be better, and cheaper, and, well, you know the drill. In the case of some foods, like ricotta cheese or granola, this is an entirely logical train of thought. But puff pastry? It took Lissa's tomato tart to convince me to stop saying that I was going to whip up a batch of puff pastry and just buy the damn stuff.  And it turns out that on a night when you don't know what's for dinner, a box of puff pastry in your freezer might just be the secret weapon.

On this particular night, I wanted my tomatoes to keep their juice.  That was what I tasted when I closed my eyes and imagined the taste of my dinner. So I cut the tomatoes thick, and I scattered a little olive oil and parmesan and the herbs that I had on my counter. This tart had a bit of basil and a scatter of my favorite herb right now, summer savory. But the beauty of it all is that it could of been anything on that pastry, and dinner would have been perfect. I know that this is all simple and easy enough that you know it! But I needed a reminder from Lissa, and so I pass it on to you. And if you're not sure what's for dinner, close your eyes and see what you taste. It might be easier than you think.

Vegetable Tart

2 sheets puff pastry, thawed at room temperature for 30-40 minutes
Olive oil
Cheese: parmesan, goat cheese, ricotta, mozzarella, or none at all
Vegetables: sliced tomatoes, sliced and sauteed zucchini, sliced and lightly roasted potatoes, caramelized onions or fennel... (the list goes on!)
Fresh herbs, chopped
Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Lay the puff pastry sheets out on baking sheets. Brush a bit of olive oil on each sheet. Top with vegetables, leaving 1 to 2 inches of space around the perimeter of each square of puff pastry.  Then the herbs, the cheese, and the salt and pepper.
Bake for 25 to 35 minutes, or until the crust is golden.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

peace flags

Sometimes I laugh at myself for loving my laundry line so much. Little pleasures.

Happy Saturday, friends!

Monday, August 15, 2011

how to freeze corn

Joey was supposed to take the girls camping, and they've stuck around after all.  After changing his mind over and over for 24 hours, obsessively checking the weather on the internet in a fashion that rivaled my own, he put the tent back in the basement.  Up till the very end he thought perhaps they would rough it, he thought that a long stretch stuck in the tent next to the stormy ocean would be adventurous and somewhat thrilling, and then when the forecast turned to 100% rain mixed with the occasional thunder storm, he couldn't lie to himself any longer. 

 
I'm relieved, because of course I love them, and I'm glad to have them home and all that. But really, honestly, I just don't know how I would have shucked all this corn by myself.



I had come into the lucky fortune of 80 ears of sweet corn, and my goal was to transform those guarded and husked pods of gold into freezer bags full of corn for the winter. Corn for burrito nights, for corn chowders and shepherds pies, corn for this dish that can perk us up on any February night. I was concerned that the girls would rebel, that they would take the exchange of camping with Daddy for corn husking with Mommy with sour disappointment, but they came through.



Rosie has recently inherited Maia's little ipod shuffle, and Maia loaded it up for her with Lady Gaga and Abba and all the music that she asks for.  Joey found these tiny speakers at the dollar store, and now Rosie walks around most days with the speakers in her pocket, singing through the house, in the garden, or on the swing that hangs from the tree out front. She grabbed the iPod and found some Lady Gaga, and while the rain poured all around the perimeter of the roof over our front walkway, those tiny speakers boomed (okay, actually tinkled) with music. Sadie and Maia industriously husked while Rosie cheered them on by picking up ears of corn and using them like microphones, swinging her hips and belting out the lyrics. Occasionally, when prodded by the other girls, she would actually husk the corn, and then a new ear would become her microphone.


Inside, Joey was listening to Herbie Hancock. He had the big pot of water going on the stove, the little sink filled with ice water.  We had a system going, and I'd walk the husked corn in to the kitchen and put it in the steaming pot. Joey would transfer it to the ice, and then he shucked the corn. All along, I kept messing up my verbs, and he'd remind me:

Husking takes the husk off.
Shucking takes the kernels off.

He used a little tool that I'd borrowed, an actual corn shucker. Pretty simple really, except that where a knife takes off most of the kernel and loses all that wonderful creamy juice, the shucker takes off the whole kernel. More corn. More cream. More delicious.



And so we worked like that, me going from Lady Gaga in the rain to Herbie Hancock in the steam. And when it was so dark outside that we couldn't see the corn, it was time for bed.


The girls each ate an ear of corn. Joey said he never wanted to see corn again. I filled the last freezer bag, and then we cleaned the corn off the floor.  I told the girls they would be rewarded for all their hard work with sweet corn through the winter.  They laughed at me, as if winter was just a story that I had made up.


How To Freeze Corn

1. Husk the corn. Remove as much silk as you can.
2. Bring a large pot of water to boil. Prepare a sink or tub with ice water. Have extra ice ready.
3. Boil the corn for about 1 minute. Then transfer directly to the ice water. Keep the corn in the ice water for at least 5 minutes, replacing the ice as it melts. You want to chill the corn all the way through the cob.
4. Shuck the corn, using a shucker or a knife.
5. Transfer the corn to freezer bags in quantities that make sense to you. I ended up with several 2-cup bags (good for most recipes), as well as a few 6-cup bags (corn chowder).
6. Flatten out each bag and stack. Transfer to the freezer.





Monday, August 8, 2011

tortillaville


 Okay, so some of you might be in cities all filled with food trucks and exciting Mexican Food, and really the only question for you is, "What fantastic fish taco will I eat today?"

That's not quite where we are. But last week, the family hopped in the car and drove to Hudson, and we got our fill.


This is Tortillaville. Nothing fancy. Really good tacos.  A very welcoming front door.


We had exactly 17 bucks on us, which fed us all.

We live in a small town, and it's easy to get in a rut. It's nice to be able to hop over the state line and see different scenery. And I'd give this place all my stars (however many I have to give) if you happen to be passing through Hudson, NY.  Which you should, I might add, for many reasons.

And I have to ask, have you discovered any fabulous little places lately? Something around the corner? Or down the road?  No need for it to be around me... maybe I'll be passing through one of these days.

Friday, August 5, 2011

where to put your blueberries

Yesterday, four of us picked 18 pounds of blueberries in 1 hour. It was Joey, Maia, my friend Lissa, and I.  We tromped through the fields up at Blueberry Hill in Mt. Washington, buckets hanging from our shoulders. There was a few minutes of merciful cloud cover to get us started, and we each took a row.

There were more blueberries on those bushes than I have ever seen in my life--more blueberries than there were leaves. I'd pick, and then I'd find myself moving on to the next bush even through I hadn't made a dent in the first, just because it seemed like I should be moving somewhere. We were chatty for the first little while, shouting at each other over the rows, and then like that, we all shut up. Everything just hummed, and we picked, quiet, quiet, quiet.

There are some pick your own farms that feel good, but not great. Sometimes they're packed, or they're set up like little fairs and there's too much going on. Sometimes the fruit is so beautiful, but it's sprayed with chemicals that I have to tell the girls not to eat the berry right off the bush.  Our hands smell funny and we change our clothes when we get home. 


Blueberry Hill is the other kind of farm. Where it feels like you've snuck into someone's backyard berry haven, like you have discovered the mother of all berry discoveries. The bees buzz and cars drive in here and there, but when it all comes down to it, you can pick a row and it's all yours.

Although I aspired to make jam, these berries went into the freezer. Frozen berries make jam as well as fresh, and some day, some other day, the jam will happen.  I was too tired to make dinner, and so we ate some corn and other random vegetables that were tragically wilting in the fridge.

I was not, however, too tired to make dessert.


Have you had a white peach? They're more delicate than yellow, and so they tend not to be the supermarket variety.  They might be at your farmer's market, tucked into the rest of the fruit at someone's table. What's the difference between white and yellow peaches? Don't waste time asking.  Just go for the white! Trust me on this one.

White peaches are floral, as if the blossom of the tree reshaped itself as a fruit then and there without losing its perfume. I can smell a ripe white peach across a room.

So there were white peaches. And fat, perfect blueberries.  And with the last of our energy, we baked them into a cobbler. I enlisted Maia to cut the butter into the topping, and we smelled it for dinner, and we ate it for dessert. 

Maybe it's that you can't go wrong with such good fruit. Maybe it's the magical combination of blueberries and cornmeal. Maybe it was that we were hungry from just eating vegetables for dinner. But oh my.
Make this.



Blueberry Peach Cobbler with Cornmeal Biscuit
adapted from Corey Schreiber and Julie Richardson, Rustic Fruit Desserts (Oh, how I love this book!)

 For the Filling:
1/3 cup sugar
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1 1/2 pounds (about 5 1/2 cups) blueberries
2 medium peaches, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

For the Biscuit:
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup fine cornmeal
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
1 cup cold heavy cream

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees, and butter a large baking dish.
Combine the sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a large mixing bowl. Add the blueberries and peaches, gently tossing to combine, then add the lemon. Transfer the mixture to the prepared pan.
Whisk the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, and salt together in a mixing bowl. Add the butter, and toss it in the mixture, gently rubbing the butter into the dry mixture until the mixture is more uniform. Add the cream, and, with a few quick stirs, bring the mixture together.
Scoop the batter onto the fruit in 6 or 8 portions. Bake for 40-50 minutes, or until the filling is bubbling and the biscuit is golden.