The clouds of malady lifted. The restorative gift of sleep. Water. Food. In convalescence, reconnection. Quietness, stillness, eating slowly, feeling our own body heal. I had some pain and discomfort during the week which abated by Friday.
Saturday morning was somewhat unusual. First, we had an cold snap with measurable rain fall, a first that I can remember in August in the Bay Area. I went out during a break in the morning rain, and made my way up 18th St. As I approached Church St., I saw a beautiful gold with black spots butterfly. As I walked under her, she seemed to flutter and falter until, suddenly, she was perched on the tip of my right index finger. It was like Snow White. I walked carefully over to a little bay tree and set her on a branch. She folded and opened her wings slowly, like she’s waving. An interesting little moment.
And so begins another week. Fresh peaches and figs and raspberries on the counter. OOh, here’s something delicious I tried: Whole Foods Forbidden Rice Bread. Absolutely amazing! eat. I used it to make breakfast skillet. See, if I ever had a diner, I would make this a sort of centerpiece, Breakfast skillet, a Midwestern type of deal. Three strips of bacon at the bottom of a small cast iron skillet. Cook it, remove it, turn up the heat to smokin, put in a slice of that bread and sizzle for 1 minute a side. Take the pan off the heat and let is sit for one minute. Toss in a couple of eggs. When they’re done sizzlin, get rid of the remaining fat in the skillet, put the toast in, eggs on top and surround with bacon. That’s basic. Then, you can add all sorts of other toppings like grilled vegetables, hash browns, baked apples, pico de gallo, turkey tetrazini, hot fudge, Newman’s Own salad dressing, fingernail clippings, you name it. And now, another product endorsement, I’m not ashamed.
Shopping for eggs can be hard. Not as hard as laying them yourself of course, but still. They are expensive, you don’t want to break any, yet you realize you can’t break any eggs without eating an omelette. I don’t want to go into the details, but the highest quality eggs I find in the grocery store are Vital Farms Eggs. They are the freshest, the have the darkest yolks, and the firmest whites of any store bought egg. There you go, good information, end of preaching.
I recently saw a video of presidential candidate Kamala Harris cracking an egg with one hand. Of course, she said, something to the effect of, I told you I was a serious cook. Before I went to bed that evening, I looked in the mirror. I thought I was a serious cook, yet I can’t crack an egg with one hand, what does that mean? Since then, every egg crack attempt has been a one handed one. Ultimately, the other hand did have to swoop in and save the day, so it is a work in progress. I think it’ll be one of those skills that once you get, you’ll never unget. I can’t wait for that to happen to me.
In a tale so boring and off-topic it would be only insulting to you, faithful audience, I find myself laid up in bed with illness. That’s why I’m not in the kitchen chopping veggies and whistling a merry tune. But, like so many times when the body doesn’t feel great, the spirit gets all the more restless.
In case I’m like Pepys and people read this way in the future, I’ll remind y’all that tonight we the people watched Michelle Obama begin a new era in American History on tv. It was very exciting. Then, I watched a man butcher and dress an ostrich (I suppose I should add for future readers this didn’t happen at the Democratic National Convention, I’m watching another program now), immerse it in a plastic garbage can filled with salty water and spices, build a clay oven, gather sticks, shake down a lemon tree, pull carrots and turnips from the earth, cut milky kernels of corn off the cob with a little scythe, and well, I’m all riled up. He does it all on his farm in Azerbaijan, a backdrop of majestic tree covered mountains, a sweet flowing river with natural springs. Chickens, geese, grouse, guinea hens, pea hens, and at least one ostrich.
OK, so he dug a well-type deep oven, tons of crackling and logs and got her all ablaze, set in an enormous pot of rice and vegetables, that put the ostrich on a rack on top of that, covered in foil. And oh, now it’s beautiful thick chunks of fatty-skin ostrich meat, coarsely hacked, and thrown into the rice.
I got a burrito.
OK, next day, it is now the 21st. I forgot to mention that last night I de-iced the freezer, which was thrilling. A fun project when you have a “walking” disease. Tonight, I got nothing. Wiped out, watching the Democratic National Convention seems to be the thing. But still, a man needs to eat. I found in the fridge a large pot filled with chicken broth, so I made chicken noodle soup, nothing exciting. The kind of thing you make and eat when you’re not feeling super.
Well, not quite. I need something a little extra today. A little something sweet. For tonight’s rally, I will enjoy some homemade dark chocolate chunk cookies with a glass of milk. Yes, I am doing this. I made these with melted butter, which will supposedly make them chewy.
OH I am so looking forward to my little piece of heaven. Watching ABC news heartthrob David Muir talk about what Michelle and Barak said last night, me licking hot molten chocolate from my beard.
And I forgot to mention that I got a new little cookie scoop that made the cookies uniform. I had no idea of course, they would spread quite so much.
But spread they did. And they are absolutely delicious. This is a great one-bowl chocolate chip cookie when you need cookies impulsively. A lot of what slows cookies down is letting the butter come to room temperature, then creaming with the sugar. This recipe has us whisk the sugars together with melted butter. That, plus only one egg and a little baking soda, and bang!! you got yourself a flat, spread, super chewy cookie in your mouth. I used whole chocolate bars from Ghirardelli, dark chocolate, 80 something cacao. It’s a good cookie.
I feel like I’m fourteen years old!! I’m eating chocolate chip cookies, watching Bill Clinton talk on TV! I hope they don’t pre-empt Seinfeld. Oh wow, now Oprah.
In fact, I think most revolutions happen in an instant, it’s just the aftermath that takes so long. No sooner had I hit publish on the last post, I began my beloved shopping list. I love making shopping lists. It runs in our family.
I did a pantry regroup. I knew I needed star anise, but what else? I looked at the large bulky spice racks and thought, you all need another purpose. I took all the little bottles off and arranged them differently, first putting them at unusual angles, like a modern sculpture garden you see in Europe so I could still see all the bottles and read their labels. I kept one rack, the revolving one. I put all my curry spices on it and dubbed it the Curry Whirl. Isn’t that clever?
The Garden of Spice
Curry Whirl
I was shocked, in a word, that I have so much curry powder. I have two Indian blends, one a Garam Masala, the other a fiery curry blend one can use for many different things, including chili. And lots of Japanese curry powder. I think I’ll give a try to Chicken Katsu Curry.
A thought about our Halibut party- serving Ceviche and Caddy Ganty at the same meal is not a great idea. I’m leaning more toward Ceviche, Mexican grilled corn with a few salads and tortilla chips, and Caddy for another time, perhaps Friday. Sorry, Caddy.
Ceviche (halibut, lime juice, olive oil, purple onion, cilantro), elotes (corn on the cob, lime juice, cotija cheese, , chili powder), and Mexican chopped salad (Romaine, black beans, cherry tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, lime cilantro dressing) Tortilla chips. Dinner. A guest is bringing dessert, and I haven’t asked what it is. I like surprises sometimes.
Sunset at Land’s End. How must the first Easterners, having traveled through deep river valleys, wind swept prairies, daunting snow-capped mountains, and sweltering arid deserts, have felt beholding the sea, the journey’s end. I’m glad they did it and not me, it takes twenty minutes in a Lyft from my apartment.
The last few weeks have been staple repertoire, nothing new that you haven’t read about before, assuming you read this little blog at all. I made a ham and spinach quiche, a cheesy cornbread casserole, polenta with poached eggs, Tomato Basil soup with grilled cheese. Oh yes, there it is.
One of the things I am not so great at as a home cook is repeating recipes to the same standard as the first time. It’s like somehow because I’ve done it once it magically doesn’t require as much effort or attention. Both things are wrong. I am making an effort to not cut corners or be careless. So, have I learned anything as a result of these repeats? Yes. What?
I came up with this one myself, I think. At least, I hope. I’d love to get just one good quote into the mainstream culture, maybe this is the one. Ready?
“Simmering is not the beginning of boiling, it is the end of heating.”
Now, think about that. “Simmering is not the beginning of boiling, it is the end of heating.” That could be my big quote, right? Or my first big quote. I mean, it will need some time to catch on, and you could be a big help in that area. You could work it into a few conversations with various friends, and really get something started. I recommend you begin several conversations about poaching eggs. You can do that, right? It’s not hard.
It’s also true, and a great think to have in one’s mind just before one adds a shelled raw egg to simmering water to be poached. The white should be so delicate and tender, holding its mass yet undulating as it is tilted from the spoon.
Soak polenta in cold water for a while before heating the whole pan with the original water when cooking. I never see this step in Italian cookbooks, so maybe it is sacrilege. Whisk the polenta vigorously to make it softer and well emulsified. Add butter, then cheese, then salt. For some reason, adding salt earlier gives the polenta a slightly gray color.
OK, now onward to new and bright things! First a sneak preview of this week’s offerings from Chez Me:
That’s right kids, it’s local wild caught halibut season. This week, we’ll be “having our way with Halibut”, featuring fresh ceviche followed by a quick culinary trip to Alaska for a heapin helpin of Caddy Ganty. What? WHO? What in the world is Caddy Ganty?
Well, it turns out Caddy Ganty was the wife of some guy, Mr. Ganty I guess, who got sick and tired and just fed up, literally, with dry halibut. Did she give up? Did she sit in the corner and sulk? Did she scream into a pillow? Well, maybe, there is no historical record of that. But she did come up with a dish for our noble friend the Halibut, and ensured her niche in history by naming it after herself. Thing is, it sounds delicious. Halibut marinaded in wine, covered in a mixture of sour cream, mayonaise, dill, lemon, paprika, topped with breadcrumbs and baked in the oven. I will serve it with herb rice.
Thar she blows! It’s Caddy Ganty, and boy, is she thrilled with her catch!
That’s a Halibut. They are huge, ugly, and have strong teeth to bite you with, so let’s be happy about killing and eating them.
Wednesday, we Go East, young man! with Salt and Pepper Fried Chicken Wings, Garlic and Ginger braised Broccoli. It will also be Farmer’s Market Day, so hopefully Peach Pie too! Also, Chicken stock making day.
First, it is 6 months to the day to Christmas, and that’s not too early to begin thinking about what we may like to do. In fact, I should really start the pudding today if I intend to serve on Christmas Day. Well, a day or two won’t hurt. Will it?
What is your first memory of Pho? I think I remember mine. I say think because it seems that Pho exploded, metaphorically, on the scene, whatever that is, world wide at around the same time. Or, I encountered it twice in a short period of time in two different cities. The first Pho I remember eating was in London. I was with a couple of friends on a rainy evening, we’d spent a few long hours at the public house, we were hungry. London must be the best city in the world for late night dining. So many streets, so many choices. Have I had Pho? What? Pho? Oh, we must go you will love it. It’s noodle soup!
We ducked in to a lively, well lit open floor restaurant, with large glass topped round tables and tanks filled with little fish. We were enthusiastically seated and handed heavy, plastic matted menus. There is only one thing to get here for sure, I am told. Beef Pho. There was a lazy Susan on the center of the table, which had dishes of mung beans, Thai basil, lime wedges, and hot peppers. I ordered the soup. Thinly sliced beef, broth, spring onion, and the additions from the Susan. Heavenly beyond description, yet I must describe it. Could there be any place in San Francisco that serves such a dish?
It turned out there were many places. Some of the were great. Some of them were meh. I’ve never had a truly awful one, but. But……
Last week, my whole family came for a visit. One night, we decided to have a chicken version of Pho. I got home from a day of pounding tunes on the piano, arms full of chicken backs and tootsies for the broth. Next, oven roasted onions and ginger fingers, two cinnamon sticks, six star anise, ten cardamom pods, a small palm full of black peppercorns, salt. Simmer and simmer and simmer, but not as long as you’d think. Maybe two hours, three, allowing the house to fill with the nourishing scent. Tenderly chop some chicken bits and Gai Lon, which I describe as a mostly spinach like green, with a little nod to broccoli or broccolini. Strain the stock, throw in the bits, stir for about twenty minutes and spoon over some cooked rice noodles with lots of broth in there. Get that broth in there! Lots of crunchy mung beans, the lime juice. Oh, the wonderful tastes and textures.
Now, when I eat Pho, I make it at home.
A little note: This morning, I finished off the Pho. There were no more noodles, a few greens, and a few little bits of now dried out chicken. I ate the greens and few bits of chicken. Then, I strained it again into a large coffee mug. I drank deep into that mug of the most healthy and healing substance on this whole earth, brothers and sisters etc. Drink deep at dawn, and you will be rewarded with a most pleasant morning.
Sounds like the title of a great comedy of manners, from the early 1930’s say. The son of a wealthy railroad magnate falls for a girl from the other side of the tracks. He manages to hide this fact from his folks until a festive society breakfast when she orders her eggs in a way not recommended at finishing school. Gasps are heard, pearls are clutched. Hilarity and mis-identities happen until the last five minutes of the film when suddenly and for no other reason a man in a pith hat appears and announces that our gal is actually a direct descendant of the House of Hanover, she’s worth billions and the problem is over.
But the problems are just beginning. After the reels are back in the can, Mr. and Mrs. will share a lifetime of awkward breakfast orders. Now since the permissive 60s, people can order their eggs any style, without shame. So, I can ask this question without hesitation, How do you like your eggs?
Most people who make eggs at home scramble them. Many take the position that if you destroy the yolks on purpose, it will save the heartbreak of watching them break on accident later. For some reason, I am very picky about the quality of scrambled eggs. First, they must be a uniform pale yellow. If you can see the lines of white and yolk separately, it means the preparer is weak and apathetic. If the eggs are overcooked and bounce on the plate, the preparer is worrisome and apathetic at the same time. If some of the eggs are overcooked and some of them are raw, the preparer is not interested in cooking and is trying to teach you you’re not worth it. You are worth it, and all of the above can hit the road. We can learn a lot of subtly annoying things about our partners, families, and friends by the way they screw up their eggs. Paradoxically, scrambled eggs are easy to goof up in the cooking, whereas another technique that is regarded as “difficult” is actually hard to get wrong. I am talking about poaching.
I have even been to diners here in the city of San Francisco where they will not allow you to order poached eggs because the cook doesn’t make them. Is that nuts? There are all sorts of gadgets and tools meant to help you poach easier which I don’t understand because making poached eggs is one of the easiest things to do. In addition, it is the most healthy way to eat eggs as there is no added fat in the cooking process. Hard boiled eggs I don’t consider eggs in a way, not like you know, breakfast eggs.
Too much, much too much in fact, is made of egg poaching technique. It’s simple. A pan of simmering water, a slotted spoon, an egg. Crack the egg into the slotted spoon to get rid of the excess water, tip the spoon into the simmering water about three minutes, then remove.
There are two poached eggs cooked exactly as I described, peppered with pepper atop a glistening mound of polenta. It’s funny, the line of polenta between the eggs looks like a little nose. If this were on a menu, I’d called it Martian’s bowl.
It was really meant to be a joke, a little excuse to get together on a Thursday. An invitation-come over, we’ll watch the debate, have a drink, have a nibble, roll our eyes have a laugh. Order pizza? Nah, I’ll make something easy and fun and bring it over. OK, how bout this? I’ll make one dish for each of the candidates. It’ll be a riff on their names or their eating habits or something silly goose like that. Hmm…….There are numerous puns and plays for Joe, like a cup of Jo, Jojos, and of course, Sloppy Joes. For the other debater, I had a harder time. I did some careful thinking, avoiding fast-food related dishes and full-out low brow mockery. I allowed my mind to wander, and I reflected on colors and shapes, themes and ideas that characterize the other debater.
Dough Gods. A perfect metaphor for the other debater. The color on this snapshot is a little muted, but they were deep orange. They were amorphous and rotund. They were loaded with cheese. They were essentially cornmeal and cheese biscuits from Sally Schmitt’s Six California Kitchens, and describe their resemblance to dough gods, which is an euphemism for a pile of cow shit. Again, perfect.
So, there it was. Sloppy Joes, Dough Gods, and as I described it, a green salad will tomato and herb vinaigrette for healing, hope, and peace.
It’s been a long time since I had a sloppy joe. My combo: ground beef, onion, celery, green pepper, ketchup, Worcestershire, Tabasco, salt and pepper. Simmered, served on a bun. Little did we know just how apt my choices would be.
Bullshit and cheese. Sloppy meat sandwiches. Yes. Well, this is not a political blog, it’s about food. This will be important to remember in the next several months. Something that brings friends together to have good food can’t be all bad can it? Maybe next time, we’ll do it in a fallout shelter.
Come on now kids, up at at ’em, a brand new summer just begun, just for you and me. Feeling relaxed, feeling renewed, feeling inspired, dreams are pursued. Let me take a little time and tell you a few things I’ve either learned or re-learned in the last two weeks kitchen-wise speaking, just in time for summer:
Chop your onions, chop your herbs.
Clean them well and chop with care. The shape, the size and the moisture of the herbs can change a dish, and ultimately, your life. It says a lot about one, really. Don’t use herb processing as an expression for your dormant rage, wildly hacking them to a pulp. Herbs lose their flavor this way and taste like grass clippings. Save your rage for mowing the lawn. Rinse and dry your parsley and cilantro thoroughly, and again, as soon as you get them safely home. Rinse, and I like to take them outside and shake vigorously and let em sit out for a bit. This time of year, everything is parsley and basil, tarragon and savory. How much spring onion is too much spring onion scattered on a dish? Has anyone ever discovered the answer to this question? This is the best time of year for fresh garlic too.
2. Little tomatoes are here.
Find a new way to dress them. Getting a salad dressing right really makes me feel like a man in a way few other things do, and my new favorite right is Miso dressing. Mirin, neutral oil, miso paste, sesame oil, soy sauce, sesame seeds, white pepper. Oh and yes, a little pinch of sugar. I was recently complimented on my salad dressings, and I was surprised how deeply I was moved by the words. I spent several minutes in silence.
3. Straighten up and fry right.
It’s the details in our work that can make a huge difference. This is my new thinking about deep frying. For thousands of years and across many different cultures and for many different reasons, grandmothers have been feeding their loved ones fried foods, like the salt and pepper chicken wings pictured above.
It is widely known now that deep frying is a unhealthy way of eating., which doesn’t sit well in the stomach with the notion that grandma’s cooking ways were best. Why did grandma do this? She hate us? Did she have a choice? Was there a way of frying that minimized the health downsides? Do yummy things just kill us quicker and that’s all there is to it? And what isn’t killing us, ultimately? Is it twisted logic to remind that more people have been killed across time from drinking water than from Nana’s Fritto Misto?
As far as I can tell, and this is not an academic paper, the fear of deep-fried foods corresponds with their presence in our every day lives vis-a-vis fast food and its numerous kissing cousins. Cheaper oils cooked at lower temps tossed in salt but never dried and tightened up caused many to lose their daddies earlier to early morning driveway heart attacks. So, naturally, bad. Cooking the materials at a higher temperature keeps the food from absorbing the oil, and drying on paper towels or some such thing after words removes any oil from the surface.
I toasted my spice mix, which is a personal variation of Kenji Lopez-Alt’s from The Wok cookbook. You can look that up yourself, but I’ll tell you I increase the amount of Sichuan pepper and cloves, and that’s basically my variation. I toasted them with the other ingredients (look it up) in a dry wok and carefully, so no one went running into the streets with burning eyes, you had to be there. Good times!
The temperature of the oil is paramount, and keeping the oil at the ideal temp is not something you can’t pay attention to. You can, you must. Don’t crowd the pan, cook a minute or two longer than you think you should. The food should be a dark golden brown. Then, dry it off with paper towels completely thoroughly. It tastes so good and has no grease on the outside, it’s dry and light crisp and salty spicy.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
4. Make the most of everything while we may.
I’d cooked a chicken and saved the carcass. I wrapped it in plastic, popped it in the fridge, and promptly forgot about it. When I noticed it was there too many days later, it was horribly useless, like an ancient rotting barn of dry grey planks you see from the highway. There’s no saving you baby!
So when I made my weekly chicken several days ago, I didn’t wait. I put it in the stock pot while my guests were still here! Next, I came into a glut of fresh summer basil that was clearly not going to survive the night. So, I made several jars of fresh pesto. Last night, dinnertime arrives, the wolves are gathering in the tummy. I heat some of the stock and I swirl in several tablespoons of pesto. This dish is profoundly delicious, maybe one of the most wonderful things I ever tasted.
It was the summer solstice. Windy cold grey in the outside. I took a warm bath, drank a large bowl of this deeply satisfying soup, and decided to pop on a movie. My app recommended in its featured classics, Don’t Look Now, starring Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, who died yesterday. It is one of the most creepy strange movies I’ve ever seen, and I think for the time being at least, I won’t be able to eat pesto without thinking about this film. Most of the film takes place in Venice, so it was fitting that I had something Italianate on the tongue.
A really nifty cake from a really nifty gal called Grandma Rose, who had a cafe in Portland Oregon in the 60s-80s I guess, and she put out a couple of cookbooks that are real dandies. I made the Fresh Plum Sour Cream Cake with Streusel topping, which was more desserty than breakfasty type-a coffee cakey type-a thingy. It was served with a thick whip of creme fraiche. The only word that I could describe that wonderful consistency of creme fraiche is clabber. Clabber clabber clabber it’s the sound of the cream and sour cream slippity slopping around the bowl until it comes together in a noble emulsion of strength, gentility, extravagance, and humility all at once. This lightly tart cream on top of the sturdy cake, tart fruit, and toasted cinnamon caramel streusel made for real good eating. OK kids, stay cool out there, and remember, if you get hungry, eat something.
Let me tell you kids, it’s another scorcher by the bay. There is a pleasant breeze off the coast and the sun is at her blazing best. The sky is so perfectly cloudless I think I can see into deep space. It is a good time to be and do the simple. It is Wednesday, my special day to feel like a French woman, to saunter around the farmers market and be dismayed that the peaches are not quite ripe or the tomatoes have no scent.
This week has been a parade of yummy foods and happy meals. Fresh strawberry banana smoothies, baked chicken swaddled in cream and tangy mustard, fresh cherry tomato dressing, crisp salad greens, risotto. Rice in fact, a few times. Asparagus, height of season. All sorts of lemony things.
I must tell you I have always hated the word smoothie. It is a horrible word for a wonderful food stuff. Smoothie is a word that, to me, describes a con artist, or some young man that courts rich elderly widows.
Ha! I just looked it up. In British English a smoothie refers to a person who is polite and persuasive. Also, that He’s A Smoothie was the name of some kind of award-winning Canadian horse. In other words, it doesn’t uniquely describe a food, and these nifty not-just-for-breakfast drinks deserve one!
What could we call a smoothie instead? Something two syllables does seem appropriate. One syllable is too short, too sharp for the silken texture of the thing, like Slump or Grunt or Oat or Loaf- another horrible word. Too many syllables make it seem less serious, portmanteau that are almost as bad as smoothie. Fruigurtwhirlly. Yogwhispies. Fruipwhirls is OK. Yogswhirls? That’s better. Or just Yogu or Guyog or Gooyug. Go You! You Go, Gurl!! I guess smoothie is OK. I doubt even if I came up with a good name that anyone would start using it. I would need like, at least several million more subscribers and faithful readers to coin a new term, no?
Another classic from another time: James Beard’s amazing recipe for chicken breast baked with mushrooms, parsley, and dijon mustard. A naughty splash of cream, a little lemon juice at the end, and you got yourself one tasty dish there. Add some fluffy “dirty rice”. I put that in quotes cause it is really only partially dirtied.
Dirty rice, as it is called in Cajun cooking, is rice that is cooked in various organ meats and vegetables and of course, stock, and don’t forget the hot sauce! My dirty rice was meant to accompany a highly and singularly flavored dish with Dijon Mustard, and I didn’t want anything to interfere with that taste. In fact, in my original source material (The New James Beard 1981) the author specifically wrote that the chicken should be served with only plain boiled rice. Thing was, I already had a couple o’cups of chicken stock with some giblets I intended to make a gravy with a few nights before. The gravy never got made, in a story too boring to even mention. So, it was dirty in just that one way, like Uncle Gary.
Freshly boiled green beans, frantically tossed in black pepper and butter and lemon juice and a very interesting Cyprian lemon zest sea salt type thing make for a lovely salad. If Beethoven says “only the pure of heart can make a soup” then I’d assert that only the truly nervous can make a salad. It inspired me to write this poem:
I’ll tell you what June means to me,
She means green beans.
I means to tell you what me June,
this afternoon.
Again, the ole Forty-Nine bus whisked me off to civic center. Today, pretty standard fare. Fresh young golden potatoes, big fat leeks, perfect for the soup. Beautiful, tight heads of broccoli for a beef stir fry. Two enormous heads of Romaine, spring onions, garlic, and the amazing cherry tomatoes i found last time. I didn’t get any strawberries, I didn’t want to tempt fate with the bus on this particularly hot day. You know what heat does to strawberries? With people, it’s even worse! And another thing-the Civic Center Farmer’s Market is in the middle of an open area with absolutely no trees. Even at 8:30 in the morning when I was there it was full sun exposure. Merciless.
My Apartment has basically a north- south orientation, with the rest of my building to the east and the building next door to the west. This means that I get interesting slivers of sunlight both in my parlor (morning) and kitchen (afternoon) but that everything in-between is in permanent twilight or gets no sun at all, like my hallway. It’s nice to lie down on the floor there on really hot day like today.
Oh the heavenly scent of leeks cooking in butter! Is there anything better? I feel another poem coming on:
Amidst the fevered foodie freaks,
and even grander gourmet geeks,
Some Italians, many Greeks
humble peasants, fancy sheiks,
could expound for weeks and weeks
about undying love of leeks.
So, if your heart is feeling weak,
and your figure’s less than sleek,
and the prospect’s pretty bleak,
and your life-style needs a tweak.
Here’s the answer that you seek:
I suggest you eat a leek.
The first recipe in Mastering the Art of French cooking is for Leek and Potato Soup, or as the French call it, Potage Parmentier. Dear Julia explained that this dish is everything wonderful about French cuisine. Very few, simple ingredients cooked carefully to velvet emulsion with butter. It is so delicious that is surprises people when they ask what’s in it. Leeks, potatoes, water, butter, salt, pepper.
Here are some fun leek facts you can share with your family and friends. You could even make a fun leek trivia.
What do the French call leeks, informally? Because leeks grow plentifully in damp soil and swamps, it was called asperges du pauvre, asparagus of the poor.
Where does the word leek come from? It is an old English word that originally meant garlic.
What is the only vegetable that has a major city named for it? The leek.
What city is it? Chicago, an Algonquin word meaning striped onion or wild leek, which once grew in the enormous swamp on which the city is built.
Enough. Play the game, eat the soup, have a good time.
Author Rachel Simon writes “Happiness, I have grasped, is a destination, like strawberry fields.” Thus I find myself on the trusty Forty-Nine bus rolling towards our noble Civic Center, home of the San Francisco Public Library, and on Wednesdays, the Heart of the City Farmer’s Market. There’s an added treat: the Friends of the Public Library sale tables they set out once a week. I dropped my book into the return minidumpster looking thing, looked at the sale tables, and made my way to the market.
I like to walk around, amble really if I’m honest and look at the various fresh produce and etc. very carefully and deliberately. I love showing people that I am not in a hurry. My tote sack over my right shoulder, I accept a slice of fresh nectarine, a shiny red cherry, I nibble each and nod thoughtfully and approvingly, the way I imagine a French woman might. That’s it friends, going to the farmer’s market allows me to pretend to be a French woman who knows a lot about vegetables. Sophisticated.
Small and squeaky purple onions, check. Crisp heads of baby lettuce, bingo. Plump and pleasant first of season cherry tomatoes, you bet. Then, at the mouth of the market where the sidewalk meets the street, a vendor tent with one item and one item only. There, in large flats, glistening in the spring sunlight, a chorus of large, ruby red and picture perfect strawberries, their heads pointing toward the celestial conductor awaiting the cue to open in song. Like a bunch of Audry 2s from Little Shop of Horrors, they seem to be calling out to me, beckoning me forth. I imagine I’d have to open a vein or at least a capillary to feed these little guys, keep them ruby red, but no. The vendor was calling out to me, fruit in hand. I tasted the fruit. Perfection.
It was a little later in the afternoon, when farmers start to worry they will have to take some produce back to the farm (which they don’t want to do), so bargains are struck. One flat? $5. Three flats? 10. I was offered six flats for $15. So, I took my huge flimsy cardboard box of delicate strawberries back onto the Forty-Nine filled now with screaming teenagers, and got them home, an achievement on its own.
Another achievement- A new fridge is in place. An old fridge has been retired. It took a minute, but all is well and right and good. Then, I got ill. So, I convalesce. Chicken noodle soup.
New fridge interior. Exciting, I know. Regard the strawberries, bottom right.
BingoFest 