sprouts in the kitchen

hello

2011-11-04T12:09:00.000-07:00

i'm thinking maybe about maybe trying to write again. maybe.

don't hold your breath, but do click away here to my first little post if you're curious:

http://muddlingmama.blogspot.com

I made these

2010-12-09T19:50:00.000-08:00

I am in awe of myself.

And that doesn't happen often, so when it does, I feel like I should throw myself a party. Maybe I should. But we'll get to that later.

For now, I'm happy with throwing Jules a party. I can hardly believe it myself, but in a few weeks, my baby will be turning FIVE YEARS OLD. There are days when I feel like walking around, jaw on the floor, in complete amazement that he's passed the crawling, babbling, pooping-and-peeing in a diaper stage. Then there are days when he seems to me to be wise well beyond his years. I wonder if I will always feel like this. Will we be having a conversation when he's 40 and I stop myself and say, "man, how did you get to be so smart? Those are words that should be coming from the mouth of a 60 year old and YOU'RE NOT THERE YET, my child." I hope. to. god. that we can have that conversation. That he'll still be amazing me. I'll still be a spry 74 year old, after all. And, even more importantly, I'll still be his mama, in love with him and all he has become (and has yet to become). Oh, I hope. I do hope. And I believe...

But back to the present, because it is here, right now, where we're having a lot of fun, where we're driving each other crazy, where we're living. Here. NOW. This is the place, the reason, for writing this damn blog, however sporadically. So back to the dolls.

Let me start by saying that I am really invested in these dolls. Too invested, probably, but I'm fine with that.

The doll on the right? Pippi Longstocking. Faceless. For now. And the doll on the left is Mr. Nilsson, Pippi's little monkey sidekick. I learned to sew to bring these dolls to life. As I type this, I realize how crazy boring domestic that sounds. But it's true. So let's back up.

About a month and a half ago, I took Jules to the kids section of our neighborhood video store and told him he could pick out a movie. For whatever reason, he was drawn to this random, 1990s, animated version of Pippi Longstocking. We rented it, he watched it, and he was hooked. Of course I was thrilled. Growing up, I'd had a very very vague notion of Pippi Longstocking, that she was something weird, something European, a girl about my age. But beyond that, nothing.

Then 30 years pass, and I have this almost five year old, a very spunky, very irreverant, somewhat bilingual, somewhat eccentric (in a good way) child who is, oddly to me, "turned on" to Pippi. It's like my lost childhood flooding back to me.

It helps, let me say, that Pippi is a little nine year old girl who has the strength of 10 men, that she flouts gender stereotypes, that she thumbs her nose at "tradition." And it's strange, I'll admit, that at 39 I am finally falling for Pippi, too. At nine, I was just not ready for her. At almost five, I am amazed to see, that my son..........is. Maybe not completely. Maybe he's just drawn to the lewd, crude bits and pieces of Pippi and doesn't get all of her nuances. I don't care. I am celebrating the fact that she caught his attention at all. And she grabbed mine along with it.

So when, four weeks ago, Jules asked for a Pippi Longstocking doll for his birthday, I was all over it. I first scoured the net, looking for something suitable, sure there would be something I could charge to my credit card and have waiting at my doorstep in a matter of days. Pippi Longstocking dolls exist, yes they do. But they're either outrageously expensive ($100 or more) or........... crocheted. Don't get me wrong. Crochet is fine for scarves and sweaters and potholders and such. But for dolls? I'd rather buy a macrame plant hanger with an owl ornament. So I knew if I were to make Pippi a reality for Jules, I'd have to make her myself.

My only problem, of course, was that I'd have to teach myself to sew.

The last time that I'd sewn anything (besides a ragged hem on a pair of pants) was when I was 13 and my step-mother was pregnant with my baby sister. I was in home economics, everyone else had chosen to sew a beach towel, and I presented my teacher with a complicated cloth doll pattern that I just "had" to have stitched by the end of the quarter. My sister was a December baby, born a week before classes ended for Christmas break, and I stayed up late into the night before our assignment was due, hastily stitching on a patchy bald yarn hair ponytail at the last minute so I could bring her to my baby sister in time, not knowing back then that a newborn baby couldn't even see, let alone hold, let alone 'ooooooh' and 'aaaaaaah' over the doll I'd labored to make.

Flash forward 26 years later, to an even more "urgent" sewing project.

Lucky for me I have a friend (thank you Sloan!!!!!!!!) who loves me and will make time for me and has tremendous patience AND knows how to sew. So I bought my fabric and felt and thread and ribbons on the faith that, if I tried and failed, or if I didn't even have the energy to try, she'd bail me out. She's the kind of friend who, on the eve of your son's FIFTH (or fourth, or third, or...) birthday party would stay up until 4am faithfully sewing whatever little project you'd already practically killed yourself on just to see a smile on your kids' face. She loves you, and loves your kid, that much. Luckily, I only stole a few hours of her blustery afternoon, learning to thread (wind? fill?) a bobbin, thread a needle, troubleshoot a snagged thread, backstitch, etc. etc. She ironed, ironed, ironed. Gave me well-timed advice. And I? I RAN WITH IT.

I started with this doll (by Larissa, at Mmmcrafts) a Lauren Child-inspired version, made from this video tutorial/pattern of a black apple doll. Halfway through making the doll, we realized that she had no neck and had to snip-and-improvise to give her one. I'd bought red felt and stiff red Christmas ribbons to make Pippi's braids, knowing that the wonkier they were made to look, the better, and Sloan gave me tips on putting them together. She was amazing--my cheering squad, my mentor, my best friend all rolled into one.

But I was the one who, ultimately, pulled it off. And for that, I am proud. I will, of course, be CRUSHED if Jules is not beyond thrilled with his present, and am trying to steel myself for inevitable disappointment now. But I am determined not to let any negative response on Jules's part diminish the pride I feel right now for having pulled it off. Bravo to me! Hip hip hip!? HOOOOORAAH!

For the rest of my story, I need to back up once again. So after I "finished" Pippi, I got bold. Jules was also enamoured of her little monkey sidekick, Mr. Nilsson, so I wanted to bring him to life, too. But not for Jules. I have a nephew, Aiden, who is just 18 months older than Jules. He is a bright, happy kid who loves to read, has boundless energy and imagination, just like his cousin, and who lives just far enough away from us for us to feel really disconnected. I'd drawn Aiden's name for our family Christmas drawing and thought, "what better way to create a connection between Aiden and Jules, between Aiden and I, than to share with him something that we are just now discovering, that we are just now starting to adore? So I made Mr. Nilsson for Aiden (based on another of Larissa's designs), from a pair of brown corduroy pants I have not fit into since I gave birth to his cousin, an old pillow case, and a stripy shirt that I've also, quite depressingly, outgrown. But c'est la vie. Life goes on. I'll be sending him Mr. Nilsson along with a Pippi Longstocking story book and a very fun Caspar Babypants CD (the lead singer of The Presidents of the United States of America) that we're all listening to, as his Christmas gift. I hope he loves all of it as much as we do.

And in the meantime, I'm cooking up another story. This one has to do, again, with a certain kid's fifth birthday party, and a pirate theme. But that's still in my future (this Saturday). Wish me luck.

wheat free and me

2010-11-11T10:43:00.000-08:00

Johan's out of town on business this week, so I decided, heck, why not make life extra hard and use the opportunity presented by his absence to give up wheat? I've been wanting to take on this little experiment for a while because I've been feeling chronically, anemically tired, and feeling just generally unwell off and on for, oh... forever. I mentioned this to my regular doctor and I get the feeling she thinks I'm borderline crazy (or a full-fledged hypochondriac) to think it could be diet-related. But I also know from experience seeing a naturopath, and from friends who have gone down that path, that one of the first things they suggest when a patient comes in with the sort of general malaise that afflicts me is to cut out wheat. Oh, and sugar, and caffeine. But I figure, why not just start with wheat and see where that leaves me?

So here I am, on my fourth day of wheat-freeness (third, actually, if you count the stale hot dog bun and beer I cheated with on the first day--so NOT worth it in case you were wondering). I feel no better. But it's still early. What I do feel is a little like someone who is giving up some other, more "serious" vice, like smoking, drinking, or hard drugs. I stare at the cookies I'm handing to the kids and wonder if my will power alone can get me through the moment, or if I will break down and then scarf down half a dozen when they're not looking. It's unbelievable, really.

I'm guessing that, regardless of whether or not I'm actually gluten-intolerant (or have a gluten sensitivity), I WILL be feeling better because, along with cutting out the wheat, I'm also cutting a lot of the crap that goes with wheat out of my diet. I had no idea just how many foods containing wheat I was putting into my body every day. I ate wheat at every meal. And for just about every snack. And I feed my kids even more wheat than I consume myself. It seems a little... unnatural.

At the moment I'm doing double duty preparing meals and snacks. The kids still get the standard: bread, pasta, crackers, muffins, cookies. I get none of that. Their meals are easy compared to mine. Buttered bread and sliced fruit for breakfast, for me a bowl of oatmeal with yogurt, fruit and nuts. English muffins and eggs for them, and huevos rancheros for me. The other night, they ate tortellini with bacon, peas and cheese, while I filled up on beans and rice. I keep telling myself that in Mexico I ate beans every day for weeks at a time, and I liked it. Still, I'm going to need to expand my repertoire soon.

It feels a little indulgent, being a short order cook for myself. Of course it will do my energy level no good in the long run to keep this up, but for now it's kind of fun.

On day two, feeling more curious than deprived, I made a loaf of gluten free ricotta potato bread in our bread machine. It was seriously vile-wet, spongey, with a strong aroma of glue. And the kicker was that I had to buy about $35 worth of ingredients to make something that ended up in the compost bin. It turned out to be more of a failed chemistry experiment than an exercise in baking. But practice makes perfect. Soon I'll work up the courage to try again. Or I won't. Who needs bread, anyway?

ME. Oh, really, I do. And cookies, and scones, and muffins, and those lovely buttery pastries they make at the bakery down the street. Deep down, I'm hoping that I won't feel immensely better after this little experiment, because a wheat-free life is immensely more complicated. I'll have to be very conscious of every morsel of food that passes my lips. And that sounds exhausting. But the idea of being (even more) purposeful about what I eat also feels a little freeing. Of course I can take that lesson with me either way.

I'll let you know how it goes.

boo. chuckle. grunt. sparkle. shazam

2010-11-04T20:51:00.000-07:00

Today we stripped our house of all of our Halloween decorations. It feels a bit like the end of Christmas to me, doing this. I always have such a hard time saying goodbye to Halloween. At our house, we've turned it into a month-long celebration that starts with raiding the storage boxes to dislodge skeletons and witches and ghostly garlands, continues with a parade of spooky drawings and lots of talk of creepy things (and even creepier talks about death and decay and mummification), and ends with another parade: of costumes, as Jules and Kasper (and their mama) decide what to be for each party, carnival or trot down the block we've signed them up for.

It fills me with glee to say that Jules shares my enthusiasm for Halloween, though keeping up with his racing imagination was a little exhausting for me this year. A lot of my energy these past few weeks was consumed in trying to gently steer him into not being a pirate, or a knight, or some other manlier-than-manly-man that I thought my little four-going-on-five year old had no business wanting to be. Why couldn't he pick a cute little animal? A bumbling clown? Even a creepy skeleton or a dragon or dracula would have been better than the sword-wielding characters Jules kept throwing at me.

In desperation, I took him to a local costume store, just in time for the crush of Halloween crowds, with the only rule being that he could NOT choose a costume that accessorized itself with a weapon. I'm pretty sure he hated my guts that day. But he ended up choosing a glittery crown (which resembled, no doubt, pirate treasure) and cheesy "velvety" robe and dubbed himself a king. He loved that costume for all of half an hour. We tried to convince him that it was good to be the king, that kings were the bosses of knights, the looters of pirates. He wouldn't buy it. He wanted that sword. He even tried cutting a picture of a dagger out of one of his pirate coloring books and taping it to a pencil. Confiscated. We have a "no weapons" policy in our house, mostly to protect the eyes of Jules's little brother, but one that has eroded enough to allow floppy cardboard cutout swords from time to time.

A few days before Halloween, we lost the royal battle (but not the weapons war, which still rages). Jules announced he would not be a king and instead scrambled upstairs to hi-jack MY Halloween costume. "I'm going to be a pot-bellied gnome," he decreed. Brilliant, I thought. And so worth giving it up to my pint-sized pal. I'm good at sharing. Sadly, this gnome was anything but jolly. But he warms my heart just the same.

Kasper, in the meantime, spent a total of twenty seconds in his costume, a hand-me-down from his brother that I'd bought in what can only be described as a Halloween-induced moment of shopping insanity. A ridiculous full-body gorilla costume. There's a gorilla-head hat that goes on top, but he ripped it off in a fit of rage before I could snap the photo.

To our great astonishment, Kasper decided that it WAS good to be the king, if only for the fact that he got to carry around a big whackable stick, er... royal scepter. Too bad Jules hadn't thought of that, eh??

And, quite naturally, I suppose, just minutes before we needed to leave the house on the spooktastic day itself, Jules and Kasper teamed up to perform one last last minute costume switch: presto change-o: superheroes x 2.

I am slowly, ever so slowly, giving up my attachment to being the kind of mom who spends a month hand-crafting her childrens' costumes, the one garnering the "oooohs" and "aaaaaahs" of all her friends. I love her, that mom, but she most certainly does not have my kids. And my kids? Well, I love them most of all. Which is why next year, I'm thinking of being a bowling ball for Halloween. Maybe then I'll really be able to roll with it.

hot bread

2010-09-17T13:10:00.000-07:00

About three weeks ago, I bought a bread machine.

There, I said it. Now it's out there for everyone to read.

For some reason, I feel shame about this. Maybe it's because of the fact that it was a "one-click" impulse buy on Amazon.com (and now you know that I did not support my local community by shopping local--just more shame heaped on shame in this post). Maybe it's because I feel like delegating my bread baking to some "machine" makes me less of a cook. Maybe it's because our new Breadman Pro takes up two feet of counter space in our already cramped kitchen. Maybe it's an impossibly complicated amalgamation of all of these. It doesn't really matter. What really matters is that I have, in the last three weeks, not purchased a single loaf of squishy sandwich bread from the grocery store. And for that, I am proud.

I'm especially proud of the fact that I know what's going in to each loaf I make. I now get to be the one who decides how much fat, sweet, whole grain, whatever, our family is ingesting in each slice. I'm not sure exactly how I morphed into the lady who doesn't bother much with checking the labels because there are no labels, who poo-poohs as much processed food as possible. If you'd asked me a couple of years ago, I'd have told you that THAT lady was C-R-A-Z-Y paranoid and, most definitely, had way too much time on her hands. In fact, I know for a fact that I passed judgment on THAT lady plenty of times, back when SHE was not ME.

But here I sit, munching on hot bread, just pulled from the machine minutes before, steaming and dotted with butter. And I'm smiling.

Not only can we have fresh, hot bread whenever we want it, but we can devour dinner rolls and make pizza that rivals some of the best take-out places around. In fact, Jules told his babysitter, who has become accustomed to popping a frozen pizza in the microwave for the kids on the nights she watches them during dinner time, that he no longer wants the frozen stuff, and that he prefers "fresh" pizza now. I've even considered making a couple of extra "fresh" pizzas and then freezing them to have them on hand for situations like this. Maybe things are getting out of hand...

But I think I've reached the point of no return. It's been a slow metamorphosis, after all. But I find myself getting really comfortable with the idea that yes, most of the jam we eat will have been made by me in the summer months, that we'll always have a vegetable garden, and that it will only get bigger as years pass.

And that's all got me smiling, too. Smiling because fresh bread, fresh jam, fresh-from-the-garden fruits and veggies taste better, but smiling, also, because I'm starting to learn things about myself and how to manage busy days with busy little people and still feed us all what I now believe is "proper food." Some of this requires cutting corners, coming to terms with the fact that baking my own bread from scratch, kneading it with my own hands, while an immensely satisfying tactile and olfactory experience, will no doubt turn me into THAT (crazy) lady I so envy but am so loathe to become. So my bread baking is now pretty much restricted to the "whir-whir-SHAKE" and (very obnoxious) "BEEP----BEEP" of the Breadman Pro.

Seems like a small sacrifice to make.

apricot jam's back in town (oh, and so am I, I think)

2010-08-02T22:49:00.000-07:00

So it took an apricot to get me back here. And I don't even like apricots. After Durian, they are possibly my least favorite fruit in the world.

But last year I made the brilliant discovery that cooked apricots are sublime fruits. Cooking an apricot (and adding sugar in the process, no doubt) does something to the texture that makes a mealy, mushy, chewy, tart lump of orange something tantamount to a nectar of the gods, at least for me. That year I gorged on apricot cake with fresh cream and made my very first successful batch of jam. And the apricot won my heart in the process.

This year when the signs went up at our corner produce stand announcing apricots for cheap, my heart actually started racing. I started thinking of all sorts of ideas on how to get myself there so I could fill the biggest basket I could find. This is no small feat for me these days. I've tried to pop into the store with Kasper a few times this year and it's always ended in disaster, with him tossing baskets of fresh berries on the floor, fondling every soft stone fruit within reach, and, finally, screaming his head off as I restrain him so I can just get to the cash register and pay for the one thing I've managed to grab while fending him off the cherries.

my naked chef (no, he didn't touch any actual jam fruit)

I have to stop to tell you that, while I'm typing this post, I can hear the gorgeous *pop*of jam jars sealing next to me. It's quiet in our house, save for the buzz of the exhaust fan and the murmur of the TV in the other room. Both boys are asleep. Neither went tonight without a fight. Some things just don't seem to change.

And of course one of the things I'm happy to see stay the same, forever if you please, is the return of the apricot. After another failed attempt at making strawberry jam this year (it didn't set, but at least I didn't burn it this time), I can't tell you how satisfying it is that something's going right for me in the kitchen.

Cooking these days has been a real struggle, and to do it right I'm finding I have to do it when both kids are asleep, which is usually in the evenings or the weekends now that Jules no longer naps and Kasper's only averaging an hour a day. As you can might be able to tell from the light in the photos, what started as an afternoon project took me well in the evening to finish. Such is my life these days.

But all things considered, I'm pretty proud of what I've been able to do. One of my biggest feats so far has been getting rid of the majority of food like substances in our diet. So for the most part we're eating stuff in it's whole state. No more (ok, not much) pancake mix, boxed cookies, pre-packaged frozen meals (except for the occasional pizza), boxed mac and cheese, etc. etc. I've even started cooking up pots of dried beans and freezing them. This is a big deal for me. Needless to say I'm a little tired trying to squeeze this in to our schedule, but I persevere...

What I do love about this (for us) new way of eating, though, is knowing exactly what we're putting into our bodies. If we're eating cookies, they might as well be a batch I baked myself. I even made a batch of homemade ice cream a few weeks ago. Next up, frozen yoghurt.

But back to the apricots. Or even better, back to the jam. The beauty of jam is its simplicity. Fruit, sugar, lemon juice. That's it. What I think I've finally learned now (on jam batch #4) is not to be afraid of sugar. Of course, that's something that's hard to do with two small kids in the house, but I keep telling myself that jam, in small quantities, is nothing less than a glorious thing and certainly not yet another fount from which my mommy guilt must gurgle. So I'm at peace with it. I have to be.

Welcome back to me. I'll try to stay a while this time.

whale's up

2010-04-14T22:48:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting here now, after the kids have gone to bed, after hitting "submit" (or "e-file" or whatever, my mind's a gelatinous mass) on Turbotax, thinking about the day as the quiet settles in around me and begins to clear my head.

I took the kids to the beach today after picking Jules up from preschool. This was our second beach trip in two days and I feel SO LUCKY to live in a place where we can skip down to stick our toes in the soft sand whenever we feel like it. Yesterday it was Jules's idea. The sun popped out just as I popped in to his school to get him. "It's such a beautiful, sunny afternoon, Mama," he said. "The perfect time for a trip to the beach." So that's just what we did. We dug, we dumped, we tossed rocks in the water, we searched for buried treasure and hidden sea creatures. It was so much more fun than what I had planned--watching the kids play in the back yard while I cleaned the kitchen. We had such a good time, I promised them we'd be back again the next day if the weather held up, and it did.

Today was a different day. Today Kasper raced past two boys his age (around 18 months) who were standing a healthy distance from the water, tossing in rocks, and tossed HIMSELF in. He was so over yesterday's placid stone plopping that he decided instead to treat the entire Puget Sound like his own personal mud puddle. I thought I came prepared, having brought his rain boots this time, but no. He sat right down in the water, prompting me to drag him out by his jacket (like the scruff of his neck), then went back in for more, the second time doing a face plant. And back again. And again.

The parents of Kasper's little peers looked on all aghast as our scene played out : me dragging Kasper time and again out of the water while his big brother Jules waded in knee deep (yes, waaaay over the very unnecessary rainboots he was also wearing) with a big mason jar trying to catch another sea animal. At one point Jules was sure he had an eel in his jar and, freaking out completely, tossed the jar five feet further into the water. Well, unlike the egg carton boat I waded knee deep into murky Greenlake water to rescue the week before, there was NO WAY I was going in after this little casualty. Yes, we littered, yes we did. But only because I had to make the choice between holding Kasper at bay (or out of the bay) and rescuing that jar. I chose my child. You would, too.

So then, while all of this madness is unfolding around me, someone starts calling out, "look at the whale, boys" in our general direction. I look back, not sure if they're talking to my boys, snatch Kasper out of the water again, scan the beach for Jules, finally look out at the water. By this time it's gone. Apparently, a whale had surfaced right in front of us while my back was turned to it (or my face turned to Kasper, or Jules, or to a stick I'd hoped to snag to fish out that damn mason jar). Everyone on the beach saw it. Right there in front of us. Everyone, except us.

I guess we have another reason now to get back to the beach (as if we needed one).

okonomiyaki: dishing the chicken

2010-04-09T11:31:00.000-07:00

sweet potato okonomiyaki with sesame peanut noodles

As a follow up to my last chicken post, I thought I'd share one of the photos of what became of our roasted bird. The top photo, of Sweet Potato Okonomiyaki with Sesame Peanut Noodles was part happy kitchen experiment, part tried and true recipe.

Okonomiyaki is described by some as a sort of Japanese Pizza, though it's closer to a pancake than a pizza in my opinion. I first had it when friends of mine came home from teaching English in Japan, and since then it's become one of my favorites, though making it at home requires some special ingredients that I don't often have on hand, so okonomiyaki only graces our dinner table maybe once a year. The beauty of okonomiyaki, though, is that once you have the batter (flour, potato, water, salt or dashi, shredded cabbage and egg), whatever else goes in/on it is up to you. Onion, ginger, shrimp, pork, chicken, kimchi, mochi, cheese, Sea Monkeys, stale marshmallow Peeps (OK, not really those last two), you name it. When Jo and I were in Hiroshima, we ate at a place that served theirs with soba noodles fried right in, a regional thing, apparently, called "Hiroshimayaki". So whatever you're hankering for, toss it on. Fry it up, squirt it all over with some thick, tangy okonomi sauce, some Kewpie mayo (or Kraft, if you, like I am, are always out), a few bonito flakes that will do a jiggly-wiggly-I-dare-you-to-eat-me dance for you and you're all set.

The 'official' version of okonomiyaki calls for grated "mountain potato" or yama-imo, which looks like mush, but provides a glutinous component to the batter that okonomiyaki purists (can they exist for a dish like this?) would argue is essential. I had none in my kitchen, but I did have a bunch of mashed up sweet potatoes that I'd used for another recipe, and the idea of sweet-potato-flavored okonomiyaki sounded plausible (and tasty, really) to me. I also had no okonomi sauce, and didn't feel like making a special trip to our Asian market, but I found this recipe for both the pancake and a homemade approximation of the sauce. Dinner was cooking.

While frying up our okonomiyaki, I tossed together a really simple "salad" of soba noodles, peanut sauce, some shredded chicken and veggies (cucumber, red pepper and green onion) (recipe, more or less, here). Jules picked and poked and prodded at it for the most part, asking for yoghurt about 20 minutes in, but Kasper, Kasper was amazing. He slurped and sucked up his noodles like the best of them, and even poked a finger in his pancake a few times before taking a few bites. I'd call dinner an overall success, especially because it's spurred me on to put (this, admittedly highly bastardized version of) okonomiyaki on my table more often.

I'm not going to share my own personal recipe with you for this, mostly because I wasn't paying attention myself when I tossed it together. But I do encourage you to try okonomiyaki for yourself. Let the improv begin!

hippity hop

2010-04-07T13:40:00.000-07:00

and away goes Easter...

little chickies

2010-04-07T12:02:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you, but four days after Easter, we're still hunting for eggs at our house. Jules got so into Easter this year, he hasn't been able to let go. He started a few weeks before the big day drawing pictures of the Easter Bunny carrying baskets of eggs around, spent hours cutting out and decorating eggs we drew together on construction paper. As Easter drew nearer, I'd run out of craft ideas to feed his Easter urge. I am not a crafty person. I am jealous beyond belief at all of you crafty people out there. But I try. I really do.

Maybe it's the emotional scarring from my 7th grade art class that I've never completely recovered from. I remember Mrs. Zimmerman like it was yesterday, sucking all the fun and creativity out of every project she assigned, belittling the meek, sculpee-challenged among us. I think I cried making my color wheel. Needless to say, I was delighted when some not-yet-but-soon-to-become stoner kid nailed Mrs. Zimmerman in the nose with an eraser one day. Sweet, sweet justice, really.

With kids of my own, I'm now reliving some of my childhood anxieties around art, and hopefully working through them at the same time. Some of my little experiments have turned out great. Others, not so much. But I push on, mostly because I have amazing friends whose own projects I can't resist drooling over, coveting, and so then ultimately, I attempt them myself.

So in honor of Jules's bizarre fascination with Easter, I give you these (mangled) baskets and (sadly, hideous) fuzzy chicks.

We made them out of egg carton cups and tissue paper (the baskets) and cotton balls, yellow and black markers and construction paper (the chicks from Hades). If you'd like to see the gorgeous renditions of these (chick-less) baskets that inspired our little project, do not delay, and instead go visit my friend Sarah here. (And I won't tell you that Sarah's five year old did most of the work on these, while I was mostly responsible for mangling ours because the tissue paper kept getting stuck on my glue-y fingers). While you're at it, check out some of her other projects. You'll be just as ~~jealous~~ inspired as me soon.

If, for some reason you are still reading and have not fled over to Sarah's (like you should have), well then I have one more thing to share with you.

This would be the "home" Jules designed for his our new baby chicks after we'd hatched them. He dictated the signage, which reads, "FEED the tropical chickens that have really sharp beaks, as sharp as a blade. Do NOT give them water," followed by another sign that warns "Don't Put Fingers in Cage."

I guess creativity runs in a different direction in our family.

chew (and chew and chew) on this chicken

2010-04-05T13:27:00.000-07:00

So I realized after uploading this photo to my computer just how obscene it looks. I'm sure there is some tutorial on food photography that bars photos of stuffed birds from this angle, but hey I didn't know. And it seemed like a good idea at the time. All fowl lewdness aside, this was one of the most properly tasteful specimens ever to spring forth from my oven. So the picture stays.

I'll come clean, though, and tell you that I have only ever attempted to roast a bird a handful of times, mostly on Thanksgiving. I've always been too intimidated by it. The washing and patting dry, the fishing out of the giblets, the sickening paranoia of cross-contamination I always get when handling a whole animal in my sink.

And had a friend of mine not sent me the link to this set of recipes by Kristen over at Cheap, Healthy, Good, I probably would have been content to buy my chicken in pieces shorn neatly by someone other than me. But this little cooking challenge I could not resist.

It starts out with roasting a 7 (or so) pound chicken and ends with using the meat to create five different dinners, most with at least one meals' worth of leftovers. Kristen claims to have made 17 meals (well, 17 servings, 5 separate meals) for $26, total. Sure, it seemed a little gimmicky. But the recipes looked GOOD. These were no chicken noodle casserole with a can of cream of mushroom soup and some frozen broccoli thrown in kind of meals. They were varied in flavor, a little Italian, a little Southwestern, a little Asian, and a whole lot of good.

So I roasted a bird. Stuffed it with a lemon which made for an oozy juicy sauce-y meal with roasted purple potatoes and carrots that had to get used up in my fridge. Day two we made White Chicken Chili and Trader Joe's Corn Muffins. Day three it was Sesame Soba Noodles with chicken and a load of crunchy veggies. Day four had us eating Cook's Illustrated Chicken Curry in a hurry with an added bunch of spinach, served with curried potatoes and homemade Puri (my Dad's favorite Indian fried bread, recipe courtesy of Manjula's Kitchen).

I have no idea how much I spent. But I'd guess less than $50, which is not bad considering all the extras. And most of the meals were even a hit with the kids.

So I will leave you with no recipes, but there are enough links above to get you started. Go check out Cheap Healthy Good for yourself!

longevity

2010-03-07T12:43:00.001-08:00

Last month, Jules's preschool teacher had to put her 14 year old dog "Hamlet" to sleep. He's been a fixture of the school that Jules's teacher runs out of her home since Jules has been going there. He was the school doorbell, greeting our footsteps on the path up to the house with a one-dog chorus of barks, and its a mascot, a gentle creature who put up with small children tromping all over his house and never really seemed to mind. And now I sound like I'm eulogizing for a dog I barely knew, but that's where I head, I guess, when something like this happens.

Jules is not really a dog person. In fact, for whatever reason, he's actually mildly terrified of them. But he tolerated Hamlet like Hamlet tolerated him. They coexisted, peacefully. Hamlet's death prompted a slew of new conversations around death and dying, most of which I was not prepared for, mostly because I'm not myself prepared for losing anyone I care about. It's brought me to a place where I can no longer be the all-knowing parent, just a good story or a Google search away from the answer my kid seeks. Explaining death to a four year old has made me confront my own uneasiness around it, and ask myself some really hard questions. Am I really OK with not knowing for certain what happens after we die? I'm not, if only for the reason that I want to provide comfort and certainty to Jules (and later, to Kasper) when they want to know.

Jules has a peculiar (to me), but totally appropriate to his age, understanding of death. He seems to get that plants, animals, and people die, and is hugely fascinated with fighting, killing, and dying, but he doesn't see death as a permanent state. He wants to know what happens to his body, does it stop moving when he dies? When does it move again? What about his head? He's made up imaginary friends who he's said have died, but then later they did something special to make themselves alive again. For days we played "Hamlet in Heaven," a game where Jules took a little plush Texas Longhorn I brought back from a recent Dallas trip and named him "Hamlet" and used him as a sort of emmisary from heaven, taking his friends (us) from the land of the living on a tour of his new celestial digs. At the end of the day, when Hamlet has to send us home, he just waves goodbye nonchalantly. We'll be seeing him tomorrow, I'm sure.

So we've talked about (and role-played) heaven and reincarnation, and about what other people believe happens when you die, because I want him to be exposed to different ways of thinking about this (and about a host of other things) so he can make up his mind about what he does and doesn't believe, but I've yet to give him my position in a way that satisfies me. Though he seems satisfied, for now.

But until that time comes when I'm forced to confront this again, I'll leave you with my very escapist (perhaps) way of dealing with death: trying to prolong, or at least enhance this one life that I know we do have with a good, healthful, tasty recipe for soup. It's also a nice warming, earthy meal on a cold, sloppy day like the one I find myself writing in today. Serve it with buttered (yes, REAL butter, just don't go overboard) bread.

Spinach and Leek Soup with White Beans and Fresh Tomatoes
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 large or 2 small leeks, white and light green parts only, sliced thin and rinsed well
2 cloves garlic, minced
6 ounces baby spinach
4 cups vegetable (or chicken) broth
1 (15 oz) can white beans, drained and rinsed
a handful of fresh (I prefer cherry or grape this time of year) tomatoes, chopped
plain yogurt or grated parmesan
salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil and butter over medium heat in a large soup pot until butter begins to foam. Add leeks and a little salt and saute until soft and translucent, about five minutes. Add garlic and continue cooking until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add chicken broth and bring to a simmer, then add spinach and continue cooking, stirring, until spinach is wilted. Puree the soup with a handblender and then add the beans, cooking just until the beans are warmed through. Ladle into bowls and garnish with chopped tomatoes and a dollop of yogurt or grated parmesan, salt and pepper to taste.

if you're not hungry enough to eat an apple...

2010-03-07T12:34:00.001-08:00

then you're not hungry.

Over dinner the other night with friends, someone brought up this handy catch-phrase from Michael Pollan's book Food Rules: An Eater's Manual. I'm thinking about making it my new mantra. Or one of my new mantras. One thing at a time, I say.

Lucky for me, I now live in a world where "apple" means more than the bag of mushy Red Delicious apples we had rotting in the fridge when I was growing up. Those were anything but delicious. I still can't eat the things. But bring on the Fuji, Honeycrisp, Pink Lady. I can even enjoy a Granny Smith from time to time.

Some of my other favorites from Pollan's book:

"Don't ingest foods made in places where everyone is required to wear a surgical cap."

"The whiter your bread, the sooner you'll be dead." -- catchy, no? Eeeeesh.

"Eat all the junk food you want, as long as you cook it yourself."

"Spend as much time enjoying the meal as it took to prepare it."

a cake for mijn koning

2010-03-03T13:20:00.001-08:00

Jo asked for a Black Forest Cake, "just like the one they made in Switzerland" when he used to go there on ski vacations, when he used to be European, for his birthday this year. Well, I'm ashamed to admit I've never been to Switzerland, but that did not stop me from, well, improvising, as I am wont to do with birthday cakes.

So I give you the Macrina-recipe chocolate bundt cake that's not a bundt, with chocolate cream glaze, (Italian) Mascarpone cream and (German) Marello cherries. A little Italian, a little German, and a lot of decadent chocolate, just like the Swiss. We served this warm because the thing had to bake for close to two hours and we could not wait for it to cool down if we were going to have it before dinner, which was imperative. It was delicious, though next time I think we'll need to invite at least 20 of our closest friends to help us polish it off in one go since it's best when fresh.

Happy Birthday mijn lieve spekje.

chipper up

2010-02-10T12:48:00.000-08:00

I've been feeling blue lately. Not sure why. Could be the weather (though our glorious sunny days don't help that argument), the cold, creeping boredom and anomie that will hopefully dissipate with Spring and more time outside.

What I do know is that I'm restless and have writer's block. Nothing seems interesting, nothing seems worth sharing. So the silence. I've retreated to my own private cocoon, and tucked Jules and Kasper (and sometimes Jo) in here with me. I can't wait for a warm, fresh breeze to bring its glow inside, and force me to pop my head out and live out loud again.

But until then, I have cookies to cheer me. And I hope they might cheer you, too. I swiped this recipe, like many others, from Orangette, who swiped it from some guy at the New York Times. There is nothing like a chocolate chip cookie and a cold glass of milk to put a temporary stop to my whining, and I've been on the hunt for a good, simple recipe for a few years now. Something every parent should have in their arsenal. Orangette and the Times guys' recipes both call for "marinating" the cookie dough in the fridge for 36 hours before baking, something which I have absolutely no patience for, but which, they both swear, imparts a complexity of flavors unlike any other chocolate chip cookie you've ever tasted.

The Times guy uses a combination of cake flour and bread flour in his recipe, which he claims aids the texture of the cookie. He also uses fancy chocolate, while Orangette more sanely opts for Ghiradelli 60% dark chocolate chips. And for a finishing touch, these cookies are sprinkled with sea salt, the height of dessert fashion these days.

I followed Orangette's recipe exactly the first time around and the result was a really good, very thick but chewy cookie. But then months and months passed and, while I wanted to make the cookie again, I steered clear of it because I lacked the will power to let that dough sit for days in cookie purgatory. Yesterday, though, I NEEDED that cookie. So I cheated. I used all-purpose flour, and less of it than the recipe called for because I only had two sticks of butter and not the requisite 2.5 that the recipe called for, which forced me also to cut back on the sugar. I'd almost say it was a "healthier" version of the recipe, had I not settled on the bag of Nestle's chocolate chips shoved in the back of my cupboards instead of the antioxidant rich dark chocolate. The one thing I didn't mess around with was the sea salt. This step was NOT optional for me. There is something about adding just a little extra salt to sweet baked goods that kicks up the flavor, in a very good way, that I am now addicted to. I did let the dough marinate in the fridge for an hour while I went to pick Jules up from preschool. Then I slapped those cookies on a sheet and popped them in the oven.

The result? These cookies were just as good as my first batch (I write this with eyes rolling emphatically back in my head as I shake my head and my fists at the foodie cookie bakers who, ultimately, I have to thank for arriving at this recipe). And I was cheered for an afternoon while I shared my chewy gooeyness with my favorite boys. Now I'll share it with you.

Best fast chocolate chip cookies (seriously)
16 ounces all purpose flour (about 4 cups)
1 ¼ tsp. baking soda
1 ½ tsp. baking powder
1 ½ tsp. salt
2 sticks unsalted butter, softened
1 cup light brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract
12 oz chocolate chips (whatever you find in your cupboard, but I prefer semi-sweet)
Sea salt

Whisk together flours, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and set aside.

Using a handheld mixer, cream butter and sugars until very light and fluffy, about 3 to 5 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, and mix until each egg "disappears" into the dough. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, then add the vanilla. Reduce the mixer speed to low and add dry ingredients, mixing just until combined. Fold in the chocolate chips. Chill dough for at least 60 minutes, and up to 72 hours.

When the dough is chilled and you're ready to bake, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Scoop out a heaping tablespoon of batter for each cookie, spacing cookies 2 inches apart. Flatten mounds into 3-inch rounds using the wet bottom of a measuring cup, then sprinkle with a little sea salt on each cookie.

Bake until golden, about 15 minutes. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool and keep on baking the rest of your dough on cooled baking sheets, stash the rest back in the fridge, or freeze the dough after forming it into cookie-sized balls. Keeps in the fridge for up to 72 hours or in the freezer for about a month.

I resolve...

2010-01-29T23:08:00.000-08:00

So it's taken me almost a full month to settle on a couple of New Years resolutions, but I'm not one to rush willy nilly into these things. So here you have it. I resolve...

1) to spend LESS time with my kids. I have already made good on this by taking a 4 day kid-less trip to Texas to visit friends, and by joining a choir that feeds my creativity and keeps me out of the house one night a week. Btw, the choir is very relaxed and welcoming and, in case anyone is interested, in need of male voices. Oh, and I joined a gym, which, while I refuse to make any health or weight-related resolutions, I am glad to have in my life as yet another place for some solo work and reflection (physical and mental).

2) to make the time that I DO spend with my kids count by dropping everything, pouring my heart into playing, reading books, indulging their fantasy worlds, making them laugh, and really really listening and engaging them.

3) to spend some time outside each day, no matter what the weather.

4) to start each day asking myself the question, "what one thing would make today a good day?" and then doing my damndest to make that one thing happen.

Wish me luck.

the ants are marching

2010-01-29T13:43:00.000-08:00

Jules has a new pet. Several hundred new pets, to be exact. Jules loves his ants. Well, maybe not the ants, but he loves to watch me squish them between my fingers when I find them, and he loves it when I use the word HATE when I talk about them.

If you haven't surmised it yet, let me spell it out for you: we have an ant problem. It started about three years ago with a tiny trickle and, over the last few years, has grown positively unwieldy. They started out simply coming through the front door, and the very old and very drafty windows. I kept them at bay by sprinkling baking soda along these openings, but ants do climb, and the crafty little bastards were soon coming in through the tops of our doors and windows. Not wanting to spray some nasty birth-defect-or-worse causing insecticide, I opted for the next best thing: ant bait, which coaxed our new pets into neat little trails in and out of the house, and then on to certain death.

They've returned sooner than they usually do this year, and have already gotten craftier, coming into the house through the vent in our bathroom, a place un-bait-able. And three times now I have had to fish them out of my pants. MY PANTS! I've had enough. Really. Enough.

So I called a couple of pest control companies and one of them came out to my house this morning. The nineteen year old guy that inspected our house assured me that the insecticide they used (Cloraphenapyr) was perfectly safe for humans (even of the small variety). He even told me that he considers it so safe he's stopped wearing much in the way of protective clothing when he applies it. They've sprayed the Ronald McDonald house with it, for crying out loud, so it must be safe. He encouraged me to do the research on it myself, and if I was happy enough with what I found, to call and schedule an appointment. So I Google'd and, of course, found reports that found it mostly safe, except that it may be carcinogenic. Stop.

So I contacted another "ecologically sound" company and asked about what they used. Their brand of insecticide (Bifenthrin) got similar reports. And because they're supposedly eco-friendly, their services cost approximately three times as much.

So what's a mother to do?

Some days I wish I could move to a simpler age, where I was not required to play the role of EPA agent, personal chef, nurse, vocational counselor, the list goes on and on and on... to my children under five. An age that looked more like this:

Yes, that's right. I wish I could just slap up some DDT-treated wallpaper in the kids' room (because ants carry disease and not merely because they're annoying), convinced by the ad that it's perfectly safe and oh-so-handy, and kiss my ant problem goodbye. Sure, my children might be diagnosed with malignant cancerous growths 57 or so years on, but by that time I'd be dead, or at least too far gone in my dementia (no doubt brought on by the aluminum in my deodorant, but that's another vocation) to even realize it. Ahhhhh, simpler times.

the meal we missed

2010-01-05T23:22:00.000-08:00

I just finished looking at all the photos from Johan's family's New Years Eve celebration, sent to us via email, and I can't decide whether to be jealous, sad, exceedingly grateful, or all of the above about them.

Don't get me wrong. We had our own kind of fun in a snowy cabin in the woods that friends of ours invited us to, eating Tostadas de Tinga and catching up after the kids went to bed. But the pictures, well, you'll see. They made me miss New Years, Belgian-style.

A big New Years Eve gathering has been the tradition since well before I joined the family, and this year was no exception. Every year the menu varies, from stewed rabbit to a "koue pla" (spelling in dialect is always tricky) of cold meats, cheeses, spreads and slimy (OK, just to me) smoked fishes. This year the family settled on "tapas," small plates, spread out over the entire evening, that ended, as usual, with a truly beautiful smorgasbord of desserts. I can think of nothing better than an evening full of fancy small plates and family (especially this one), and am yes, OK, very sad about not being able to be a part of their celebration this year. I miss Belgium, the food, but most of all, I miss the people who have become such a big part of my life there, and hope we'll be getting back to visit soon, very very soon. To all of you in Belgium, please save some 'toostjes' for me. And to the rest of you, enjoy some of my favorite photos from that night.

Gelukkig nieuwjaar.
*mwah**mwah**mwah* (3 kisses, don't forget)

four

2009-12-27T23:15:00.000-08:00

My baby's four years old today.

I'm noticing that, as he gets older, his birthday becomes more and more about celebrating who he is, fulfilling his wishes, his desires, sloshing and splashing around in the glorious mud puddle of his excitement, than it is about that almost incomprehensible moment when he left my belly and really, fully, entered my life. And this is a good thing, though letting go, little by little, of my baby makes me sad.

We spent a nearly perfect day together. I took him ice skating in the morning and was amazed at how fearless he was. Before he slid out onto the ice, leaning on the little walker they give to younger kids, I worried. I thought he'd end up frustrated, clinging to my leg. Instead, he pushed me away when I offered to "help" him skate, insisting that he wanted to skate by himself. So I circled round and round, keeping him in view, checking in now and then, and leaving him to the fun of figuring out how to make his ankles work for him. He loved it, and by the end of our skating session, he was ready to try skating on his own.

Then we took a ride on a carousel, and I watched again, flabbergasted, as he scrambled onto a horse, something that just a few months ago he was too afraid to do on his own.

We ended our day with a big birthday bash at our house with a bunch of his (and our) friends, complete with ice cream cake. I'd sent a warning out to parents that we'd be doing our party Jules-style, which meant eating the cake first. For some reason, just the idea of the promise of something sweet, especially at parties, can be so distracting to Jules that he will not be able to focus on eating a meal. So occasionally, I find it easier to let him eat his dessert along with his dinner. I don't think I've ever seen him fill up on the dessert and not eat the dinner when we've given them to him side by side. But he WILL refuse to eat dinner at all when we hold dessert over his head as a reward. Is my giving in to him wanting the sweet stuff FIRST a sign of bad parenting or a sign that I know my kid best? Most days, I'm pretty happy to defend the latter position. And today was one of those days.

I DO know my kid, though my big fear has always been that with each passing year I will know him less and less. I try to remind myself that his pushing me away on the skating rink or not begging to sit on my lap on the carousel are not signs that he needs me less. I think he just needs me differently. He needs me to be there, proudly watching him as he tries new things, sharing his excitement, celebrating the beautiful, amazing person that he's becoming right in the middle of him becoming. And this I can do. This I hope I can always do. This is my birthday wish for my baby boy. And for me. For the "we" that I hope we'll always be.

Happy Birthday to my sweet baby.

in defense of an old geezer, dressed all in red

2009-11-19T12:33:00.000-08:00

Please forgive me. I'm tired of writing about food. Don't worry, we're still eating it. I just feel uninspired by it at the moment. So please indulge me while I move on to other topics...

I feel like I should be writing in to "This I Believe" instead of posting this on my blog. But they'd never publish me anyway, so I'll have to settle.

I believe in Santa. Passionately, with a few reservations. With Christmas season upon us and few of us ready for it, I too am dismayed at the gobs and gobs of crap that started popping up in the stores even BEFORE Halloween's ghosts started haunting our doorsteps. Yes, the materialism of Christmas is sickening, and Santa has, and always will, be a part of that.

Yes, Santa is a part of Christmas that encourages a lot of the greedy "gimme gimmes" from good little girls and boys all over North America. And for this reason, or perhaps due to the cynicism of my generation, a lot of people I know with young kids are choosing to forgo the Santa myth, saying they don't want to lie to their kids. They'd rather craft their own family holiday traditions, and leave the materialism of a Coca Cola crafted Santa out of the picture. I get that, and I respect it. But I'm not choosing that for my kids.

So why do I love Santa? Simple. He's magic. I love that giddy excitement he brings out in kids, that "I can't sleep, but I HAVE to sleep, oh HOW CAN I SLEEP when there could be a fat man in a red suit tiptoeing in to leave candy and presents for me in the next room?" craziness of Christmas Eve, that look of wonder, eyes wide when we talk about how reindeer can FLY, find nibbled carrots, cookie crumbs and an empty glass of milk (or bottle of beer) on Christmas morning. I love the reverence Jules has for the bearded guy as he walks up to him carrying a book for the two of them to read while I snap photos. I even love, sadistic as it sounds, the souvenir photos of my crying babies on Santa's lap. And I'm willing to bet that they'll love it, too.

I can tell you that I did not have the easiest childhood, but I did have Santa, and I will always be grateful for that. Santa got me through some pretty rough Christmases, otherwise marred by things like divorce, poverty, alcoholism and sometimes worse. And when I grew old enough to "know better," promoting the myth of Santa for my younger siblings was its own little bit of magic for me.

And now, having young kids of my own, the magic is back for me, full on. Before having kids, Johan and I had pretty much stopped celebrating Christmas. Sure, we bought a tree more years than not, I baked a batch of cookies every once in a while, we attended holiday company parties, went to friends' houses and drank gluhwein, and tried to inject as much holiday cheer as we could into our DINKy lives without, you know, going overboard. So we bought a few presents for family members, but stopped giving gifts to each other, instead spending our money on one "big" item like a piece of furniture for our household, usually in February. Christmas was a much more sober affair for us. Kids changed all of that.

First, we found ourselves in the position of having to choose between Christmas traditions. In Belgium, Santa isn't much more than a hokey theme park-like character, dubbed Kerstman (Christmas Man), who makes appearances in shopping malls and grown-up parties and such. Nobody believes he's real. All the kids get giddy over Sinterklaas instead, a more regal character who brings his presents on December 6, with the aid of his little black helper, Zwarte Piet (Black Pete). Right after Jules was born, we celebrated both Sinterklaas and Santa, but after attending a holiday party for Jules's Dutch preschool when he was just shy of two and seeing him shake with fear as all the black-face Zwarte Piets entered the room, I just didn't have the passion for promoting what's always been to me a blatantly racist stereotype that should have been ditched long ago.

I know many (maybe most) of Johan's friends and family think I'm my own version of Scrooge, since Zwarte Piet, despite his black-face, gold hoop earrings, big red lips, curly black afro and threats of stuffing naughty children in his sack and bringing them back to Santa's home in Spain (SPAIN? Really?!), is really jovial and sweet. But I just can't go there. And I'm probably being extremely hypocritical in this regard, since my own Santa and his origins are suspect as well. But there it is.

So bring on the toys, bring on the stockings, bring on the candy, cookies and sweets and treats. I choose my Santa, and con my kids into believing in him, and my Belgian partner into backing me up on it, even though it's foreign to him, and in the end, I inject (at least I hope I do) a little magic into all of our lives, just when we need it most in the bleakest days of winter. And for me, that's enough of a reason to believe in Santa Claus. Maybe now I'll go bake a cookie for the guy.

muffin me morning glory

2009-11-06T13:28:00.000-08:00

This recipe is a knock-off of my favorite bakery muffin, made by the bakers at Macrina in Seattle. They make luscious desserts, killer sandwiches, the tastiest bread in Seattle, if not on the planet, but whenever I make it in there, I find myself ordering the same thing: morning glory muffins. If it weren't for the trek out in the rain to get to them, and for my pocket book, and, well, for the satisfaction of mixing something up with my own two hands and smelling its sweet smells wafting from my oven and filling my house with cinnamony goodness, or for having a big stash of them in my freezer, then I would be perfectly content to just let the bakery provide them to me. But I'm not content. So yesterday, I made my own. And while they weren't as good as a Macrina muffin, they held their own. Be sure to dice, and not grate, your apple. That way the juices save themselves for you, popping open and streaming out when you chew. A delightful eating experience.

Morning Glory Muffins
1 cup white flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
3/4 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
3 large eggs
2 cups grated carrot
2 small apples, cored, peeled and diced
1/2 cup apple sauce
3/4 cup vegetable oil

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease muffin tin with cooking spray.

Whisk first 8 ingredients (through cinnamon) together in a large bowl and set aside.

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and oil together, then add the grated carrot, apples, apple sauce and oil. Pour the wet ingredients in with the flour mixture and stir until just combined.

Fill muffin cups about 3/4 full. Bake for 20-25 minutes until a toothpick inserted into the center of the muffins comes out clean.

Remove from the oven, let stand a few minutes and then place on a wire rack to cool.

Makes 12+ muffins.

the chicken died for our sausage

2009-11-06T12:29:00.000-08:00

Jules has become extremely curious of late about where his food comes from. For the most part, his concerns are meat related. When we eat bacon, he wants to know not only IF the pig died so we could eat it, but HOW he died. I've tried to brush him off with a quick answer, like, the farmer cut the pig's throat, or broke the chicken's neck, or something like that. But Jules is never satisfied with this amount of information. He wants every gory detail, and if it's not provided, he manufactures it himself. "I think the pig was shot in the head. He lived on the farm and one day the farmer decided to eat him, so he got out his gun and..." -- you get the idea. While Jules 's curiosity has made me contemplate becoming a vegetarian, he is unphased. The fact that meat comes from a dead animal is just a fact to him, like hail comes from the sky, or Kuku is a baby.

The line from last night's meal was priceless. We were eating chicken sausages, roasted over delicata squash (no, I can't get enough of the stuff), and served with what turned out to be a putrid chanterelle mushroom risotto (I blame the white truffle oil, a last minute splurge that the recipe called for). When told the sausage came from a chicken, Jules became quiet and thoughtful for a moment. Then, quite matter-of-factly: "the chicken died for our sausage..."
Then a bite. Then another, until it was all gone.

And I have to admit, it was great sausage. And the sausage drippings over the delicata squash? Yum.

The chicken (that) died for our roasted sausage over delicata squash (adapted from this recipe from Orangette)
6 chicken sausages (mild Italian, or other)
1 delicata squash, seeded and sliced into 1/2 inch crescent moons
olive oil, for drizzling
salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 475 degrees. Heat a heavy skillet over moderate heat and cook the sausages until browned all over, about 8-10 minutes.

While the sausages are cooking, seed and slice the delicata squash. Place in a bowl and drizzle about a tablespoon of olive oil over, salt and pepper to taste, and then transfer into a baking dish big enough to hold the squash and the sausages.

When the sausages are browned, place them on top of the squash and slide the baking dish into the oven. Roast for 20-25 minutes, turning everything about halfway through, until sausages are cooked through and oozing some of their juices. Serve hot.

fast food lunch

2009-11-04T22:10:00.001-08:00

Not a burger. Not a sandwich slapped together, quickly. I've been throwing together a lot of these kinds of lunches lately, trying to get more of the good stuff in my diet. Good for me, good tasting. Better than a burger, if you want to know the truth. My kids wouldn't touch it with a 10 foot pole (I'm working on that), but I enjoyed it very much.

Onions, sauteed until very very soft, add thin-sliced garlic, halved cherry tomatoes and cook until tomatoes begin to pop and release some of their juices, then add just as much baby spinach as you want and cook, stirring, until just wilted. Salt, pepper. Top with a gooey fried egg. Would also be good with a little shredded cheese, or a squeeze of lemon, but tasty all on its own.

What was in your lunchbox today?

happy birthday, little frankenstein

2009-10-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

Kasper turned one last week, so we celebrated with a small family dinner on the day and a little brunch party with some of our closest friends on the weekend. When Jo suggested we pick up champagne to serve mimosas, I countered, "he's only ONE. We don't need MIMOSAS at this party!" I'm sure, quite sure, there were mimosas at our older son's first birthday brunch, so I'm not quite sure why I reacted this way this time around. I guess I had the urge to make sure everything was about the little ones. And everything WAS about the little ones, with perhaps the exception of the squash and greens strata I made, which was the main course of the meal. Big people have needs, too.

Kasper's just learned how to walk, and is wobbling around like a little frankenstein, so I couldn't resist the idea of making these cupcakes. No recipe. Just know, it's chocolate cupcakes, chocolate frosting, marshmallows dipped in thin green icing, a little white frosting for the eyes, green for the hands, black for the rest. I should have added bolts, but after all that monster-making, I was tired, so I guess I'll just have to plead for his forgiveness when he points it out to me on his fourteenth birthday.

On the subject of monsters, this is very off the subject but, heck, it's my blog and I'll say what I want. For some reason I've been thinking a lot about children, just on the edge of sleep, and how the very small ones seem like the monsters you see in horror films. You know the scene. Just when you think that monster is down for the count, dead as a doornail, still beyond still, he jumps up, grabs your ankle and attacks. Getting my kids to sleep often involves a rendition of that scene.

So back to the birthday. He's one. I can hardly believe it. I'm glad the day has come and gone because I have a really difficult time with birthdays. It has nothing to do with sadness at the passage of time, getting older, etc. I've just come to realize that birthdays, for whatever reason, are hugely important to me, and I always enter into them with the highest of expectations. I'm inevitably disappointed when those expectations aren't met. And not matter how hard I try to make it not so, I am always like this. I tried this time to relax, to just accept it for what it was. Jules and I made our monster cupcakes together, and that went over with only a small amount of tensing up on my part, since I've long let go of the need to control just how many times he dips his fingers into the mixing bowl.

I'd wanted to make a special breakfast (Jules had homemade waffles and cream on his first birthday; we ended up having pancakes from a mix), go on a special outing (I'd planned a trip to a tot gym, but we ended up spending most of our time baking, so a ride in the car to look at the fall leaves and get the kids to fall asleep was what actually happened), make a special dinner. Dinner, I pulled off, because I made it simple.

I figure that since turning one is really more a rite of passage for the mama than it is for the baby ("I can't believe you've been out of my belly for a WHOLE YEAR"), I decided to mark this one by eating the meals I ate one year ago. Pagliacci pizza and salad while I was in labor, and eggs, sausage and toast as my first meal after pushing Kasper out. In the process, I discovered that Kasper LOVES cheese pizza. He ate it like I'd been starving him all day. Well, maybe I had. I was so busy working on those cupcakes, who knows if I actually remembered to feed him. And, not surprisingly, Kasper LOVES chocolate cupcakes. Guess it runs in the family.

Saving mama's sanity (and time spent in the kitchen) was on the menu for the birthday brunch, too, so we stuck with fruit salad, biscuits from a can (I love the surprise when you "pop" it open with a spoon), and a strata with delicata squash, collard greens and cheddar cheese that I made the night before, following Molly Wizenberg's recipe in this month's Bon Appetit, which pleased even the squash haters among us. More Frankensteins for dessert, plus a storebought pumpkin cheesecake and pumpkin pie. And no tears or tense words from the kitchen on the day of the party. Yay for mama! And Happy Birthday to my baby!

Sanity-saving Strata with Delicata Squash, Collard Greens and Cheddar
2 pounds delicata squash, seeded (leave the peel on), and cut into 1 inch cubes
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
7 large eggs
2 1/4 cups milk
6 tablespoons dry white wine
1 1/2 teaspoons mustard (I used stoneground)
1 day-old baguette torn into 1 inch cubes (I bought mine the day of, and put the cubes on a cookie sheet and set them in a 250 degree oven for about 20 minutes to dry them out)
1 cup chopped shallots
1 bunch collard greens, stems removed and chopped into 1 inch pieces
Dash of white balsamic vinegar
8 ounces extra sharp cheddar, grated

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Put the squash in a medium bowl and toss it with 1 tablespoon olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Spread the squash onto a foil-lined cookie sheet and roast until squash is tender, about 20 minutes, turning it over with a spatula once or twice so it cooks evenly. Let squash cool and set aside.

While the squash roasts, heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the shallots and saute until soft, stirring frequently, about 5 minutes. Add the collard greens and cook, covered, about 2 minutes. Uncover and stirl until collard greens are tender, about 5 minutes. Finish the greens with a splash of white balsamic vinegar, stir and set aside.

Whisk eggs in a large bowl. Add milk, wine, mustard, and 1 1/2 teaspoons salt and whisk to combine. Fold baguette pieces into the egg mixture.

Generously butter a 13x9x2 inch pan. Using a slotted spoon, transfer half the bread mixture to the pan, covering most of the bottom. Spoon half the collard greens over the bread, followed by half the squash, and then half of the cheese. Repeat with remaining bread, squash, greens, squash and cheese. Pour remaining egg mixture over the strata.

Cover the strata with plastic wrap, weight it down with something heavy (I like bags of rice or beans, nothing too heavy or it will start to squeeze out the sides). Let the strata sit in the refrigerator overnight.

Remove the strata 1 hour before baking. When ready to bake, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Replace plastic wrap with foil and bake, covered, for 20 minutes. Remove foil and bake uncovered until the strata is set, browned, and the juices begin to bubble up the side. Let the strata cool for 5-10 minutes before serving.

cauldrons bubble

2009-10-12T20:50:00.000-07:00

Double double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble
Nyyyaaaaaaah HA HA HA HA!!

For the last two weeks, Jules has been telling me that what he really wants to be for Halloween is a witch. Of course I was more than enthusiastic about this, and went out immediately and bought a wig and a black witch dress. Witches have always, always, always been my favorite Halloween character, since as far back as I can remember. Always. For several years running, the witch was my costume of choice because, above all others, I felt completely transformed the moment I donned that hat, that ratty black dress, and those spiky-heeled vinyl knee-high boots my Grandma donated to my Halloween wardrobe. In the sixth grade, I had the unbelievable fortune of playing a witch in the class play. We were doing some kids' version of King Arthur's Camelot and I was Morgaine. It was delicious. I hammed it up like you would not believe and developed the creepiest witch cackle ever to emit from the throat of a 12 year old. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, and the beginning of a theater career that lasted, sadly, only about halfway through college.

So this morning, Jules and I set about stirring our cauldron together and learning our lines. It was just like old times (granted, those times were way before he was born, but still). He got really good at the cackle, too. Quite impressed me, actually, that he could pull off that kind of sound with the vocal chords of a not-even-four-year-old. But by the end of the morning, Jules had shed any vestiges of witch to don his superhero costume and head to the park, and by the afternoon he was asking me if it would be OK if he "did not be a witch for Halloween" and chose to be a superhero instead. I tried to hide my disappointment in a smile as I told him, "of course, honey. You can be whatever you want to be for Halloween." Drats. Curses. Guess I'll be stirring my pot alone again this year.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—

Guess it's a good thing that my pot's serving up some tastier flavors than Macbeth's witches. Like what this guy's snuggling:

That's a delicata squash for those of you among the uninitiated. And it has got to be the tastiest squash that has ever made its way past these here cackling lips. Let me say that I find just about nothing more annoying than people waxing poetic about some obscure (to me) vegetable like, say, rainbow chard or rutabagas or Vidalia onions or fingerling potatoes or what have you. It's always seemed so contrived to me. So snooty. But this squash, seriously, is different. For one, you don't have to peel it to eat it. And unless you're talking about zucchini or yellow summer or pattypan (OK, I'm starting to think I know too many squash varieties to not be ashamed in some circles), then you're pretty well stuck with a paring knife or a vegetable peeler and, if you're like me, a few swear words.

So far, I've only roasted it. Cut it up in chunks, tossed it with a little bit of olive oil, salt, pepper, maybe some thyme, and popped it in the oven. It forms the basis of a great pasta or soup. And I even like eating it hot off the roasting pan. My first delicata, I roasted and then tossed in a pan with bacon, onions, garlic, white beans, spinach and tomatoes from the garden, then added pasta and served it with a squeeze of lemon and some parmiggiano reggiano.

The second time around, we made a creamy soup of roasted delicata, roasted red kuri squash, onions, stock and whole milk (recipe here, more or less), which we ate with a thick, crusty bread and good cheese.

And with the weather cooling, my pot's been in constant use. Tonight it was a spicy sausage and sweet potato stew with garlic, onions, kale and fire-roasted tomatoes.

For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

It was very, I'd almost say, bewitchingly (nyaaah ha ha), good. I suggest you try it, if you know what's good for you.

Spicy Sausage and Sweet Potato Stew (based on this recipe in Cooking Light)
2 Tbs.olive oil
2 cups chopped onion (about 2 large)
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 pound Italian chicken sausage
3-4 cups coarsely chopped peeled sweet potato (about 2 1/4 pounds)
4 cups water or broth
2 cups kale, stems removed and coarsely chopped
1 (14 ounce) can diced, fire roasted tomatoes
1 (16-ounce) can cannellini beans or other white beans, rinsed and drained (we skipped these tonight, but they're good if you're in the mood for them)

Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add onion; sauté 5 minutes. Add salt, red pepper flakes, and garlic; stir, cooking until just fragrant, about 1 minute. Squeeze sausage out of casings and into the pan. Cook 5 minutes or so, breaking up sausage into small bite-size pieces as you stir. Add sweet potato, tomatoes, and water or stock and bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 8 minutes. Gradually add kale; cook 10 minutes or until tender. Stir in beans; cook 5 minutes or until thoroughly heated. Slurp and eat.

LOST Lovey - Mac the Bear

2009-10-08T08:56:00.001-07:00

This is for a friend... an emergency of sorts. A friend of ours lost her lovey while playing in the "woods" at Webster park (next to the Nordic Heritage Museum) yesterday afternoon, sometime between 4 and 5:30 pm. She has had Mac for over 4 years and is EXTREMELY attached to him.

If you happened to have come across him, given him a place to sleep last night, or have any clues to his whereabouts, could you please email her Dad Steve at the address below:

steve_gardner at comcast dot net

THANK YOU!!

of cakes and critical theory

2009-10-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

Writing my last post about birthday cakes got me thinking of a "reflection piece" I wrote for a class on race and gender I took in grad school, pre-kids. It's these things that I'm still wrestling with today. So I thought I'd share. No recipes here. Just food for thought.

----written sometime in the Fall of 2003

I just finished reading Kimberly Sultze's "Women, Power and Photography in The New York Times Magazine" which touched on a lot of issues that have been swirling around in my brain the last several months. Two weeks ago, the New York Times ran as its feature article a story called "The Opt-Out Revolution" written by Lisa Belkin, who argues that professional women are increasingly making the deliberate choice to drop out of work life and become stay-at-home Moms. The cover of the magazine features a woman sitting at the base of a peach-colored ladder on the peach-colored floor of a peach-colored room looking somewhere off in the distance as if distracted, while the child sitting in her lap directs his/her gaze directly at us. Below her are the words:

Q: Why Don't More Women Get to the Top?
A: They Choose Not To.
Abandoning the Climb and Heading Home by Lisa Belkin

Before I'd even opened the magazine I was ticked off. In fact, that magazine sat on the floor for nearly two weeks before I finally opened it up and read what Belkin had to say. Every time I passed by it, I'd fume. And then lo and behold we're reading an article in class that makes me want to see what Belkin has to say, and not only that, to look at the ads, pay attention to the little details, see if I can get at what's bugging me.

So I turn the page. No ads of scantily clad, dismembered women in stiletto heels and fishnet stockings draped provocatively over the desk of their corner office sipping Bombay Sapphire. It's an ad for a printer from Hewlett Packard, but this ad actually makes me more irate. It's beautiful, colorful and striking: a two page spread with a large picture of a small South American boy smiling big for the camera. To the left of this image are four small thumbnails, each from a colorful corner of the so-called "Third World": an old, hunched man walking in front of a vividly painted blue wall, an African man wearing a green shirt balancing a tray of green-and-orange fruit in front of a green wall, his white shawl gleaming against the darker background and his dark skin, an older, barefoot man dressed in a black pants and hat, with a yellow blazer leaning against an equally yellow wall, and three Mayan women, dressed in vivid colors, with their backs turned to the camera, peering through the smudged windows of what looks to be a schoolhouse. Oh, and here's the kicker. The captions:

YOU SEE YOUR PICTURES IN EXTRAORDINARY, TRUE-TO-LIFE COLOR.
YOU SEE YOUR PICTURES IN PROFESSIONAL QUALITY BLACK AND WHITE.
YOU SEE YOUR PICTURES LAST LONGER THAN YOU EVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE.
YOU SEE YOUR PICTURES TRANSFORM YOUR HOME INTO AN ART GALLERY.

I turn the page.

Another HP ad, this one for the HP Media Center, with a large photo of three blond children, all wearing birthday crowns, blowing out the candles on an enormous birthday cake. Next to the large photo are a jumble of photos of similarly blond children all celebrating at this camelot-themed party. And here are the captions:

YOU MADE THE INVITATIONS.
YOU MADE THE T-SHIRTS.
YOU MADE THE CAKE.
YOU MADE THEIR DAY ONE TO REMEMBER.

So I haven't even made it to the Belkin article yet and I'm already side-tracked. I'm unsettled by the cover of the magazine. I'm more unsettled when I turn the page to see people turned into objects that grace other people's living room walls, elevating their status to that of an "art gallery" of colorful Third World poverty. And the juxtaposition of this ad with the one on the following page of the kids' Camelot birthday party in suburbia fills me with DISMAY."Our" normal lives on display. This is us. Is this me? Do these three images reflect me?

Criticism comes easy. Holding yourself blameless can sometimes be a perk to this. But lately, I never seem to be able to escape the blame. Don't get me wrong, I'm not walking around wracked with guilt over the way I personally embody the kind of female whiteness against which women living in the Horn of Africa or Vanessa Williams are measured. But... well, I'm not sure what to say here. I feel something, and the urge to do something about it grows stronger every day, especially since I set off traveling, and even more so now that I've settled back into a comfortable, middle-class lifestyle (if it could even be argued that I ever left it). What the "doing something" that needs to be done is, is still a bit fuzzy, though.

So I'll do some fessing up. I want to have kids and don't really know if, when the time comes to have them, I'll want to be the progressive working woman who supports the family while her partner stays home. Maybe I'm selfish that way, but I kind of think I'll want the person who stays home to be me. I do take some solace in the fact that, knowing my personality, I won't be spending my time socializing with other Moms in play groups planning the biggest ever Camelot-themed birthday party that suburbia has ever seen. But who knows what motherhood will do to you. I have another confession to make. My husband and I took over 1500 pictures when we were traveling. Of those 1500, five are hanging on various walls in our house: two from Thailand, two from India and one from Nepal. Will I take them down after seeing the HP ad? No, I like them. They look good up on the wall. So my criticism of these images is not one that can be filled with smug righteousness (well, maybe the camelot party got a little smugness--I can't help that).

So, what am I going to do if not alter my personality, strip my walls bare, stop traveling? Well, I do do things already. Small things. And before I started grad school, bigger things like the volunteer work I was doing--though I'm starting to question the role I played there, too, and whether it was really working toward promoting positive change or helping along the status quo--I think it's a bit of both--or a bit of good in a lot of band-aid.

The fact is, I can see myself in some way in all of these images. And I can see, to some extent, the potential I have to resist them, to question their underlying message, and to reject that message or at least to understand it for what it is. I never got to the article. I did read it. I have mixed feelings about it, just as I do about my own plans for the future. But what I'm realizing more and more is that what motivates me these days to do what I'm doing, to ask the questions I'm asking, is not guilt. It feels more like knowledge--if I had to put a name to it, and that actually feels good.

cake counsel: kasper needs you (and so do I)

2009-10-03T13:26:00.000-07:00

So Kasper is turning ONE in a few weeks and I'm still trying to decide what to bake. I clearly need help, most likely of the professional kind, but will settle (for now, at least) with some suggestions from you.

Here's my problem. I've never been a baker, and much less a baker of birthday cakes. Sure, once I did make an almost perfect replica of Cookie Puss for a friend's 25th birthday party after hearing her talk to a fellow former-Eastcoaster about how that cake pretty much define their childhood. It looked spot-on, but tastest dense and chewy (and not the ice cream part, mind you, but the cake) and the frosting was little more than wet powdered sugar spread so thick and hardened so completely you could hear it crack when we cut into it.

But for some reason motherhood has changed all that for me. When Jules was just a month old, I had the crazed idea that a new mom should celebrate her fledgling's first 30 days outside the belly with chocolate cake. I looked up a recipe online for some chocolate ganache thing or other and, while the cake turned out OK, the ganache shared Cookie Puss's fate. A yummy candy, it did make, but that wasn't quite what I was aiming for. Nice as they were, my friends ate it with smiles on their faces, and large helpings of ice cream.

When Jules turned one, I decided to mark the occasion with a monkey cake shaped like one of the monkey paintings I'd started hanging in his room a few months after he was born. It was cheeky and cute and maddening to make. The tail broke off in little pieces that I had to glue back together with my signature rock-hard frosting, and I had no platter big enough to hold it, so I eased it onto an ugly gray cookie sheet and decorated and served it on that. Still, it was a proud cake baking moment for me and, will make some lovely memories for him when he sees the pictures.

Year two I decided my gift to would be a calm and centered mama who was not working herself into a frenzy in the kitchen cursing some cutesy cake-like creation for her son. I bought an ice cream cake at Safeway, and a bunch of balloons and called it good.

Year three found me back in crazy-ville, baking up a blizzard of a polar bear while Jules was out playing with Bomma and Tante Leen from Belgium and Kasper, just three months old, gave me a brief period of silence while he dozed in his bed. Of course this one drove me crazy, too, but the cake was good and the frosting slightly better than previous versions. And if you didn't look to close, you'd miss the lumpy crumbs of cake under the frosting I'd try to camouflage with a dusting of powdered sugar.

With Kasper's first birthday fast approaching, I'm starting to panic. Do I slave away in the kitchen to produce a mini-masterpiece of mediocrity for my sweet baby who happened to bless me with his presence a little later in my life? And if I do bite the bullet and bake, what will it be? A Halloween-themed spider? A cutesy bumble bee? Something else? Or do I give him the gift of my sanity and pick up a few cupcakes at the local bakery and call it good? And if I don't bake, will this come back to bite me in, say, 16 years when Kasper's pleading with me to let him get his driver's license and pulls the "you always loved Jules best" line? See? SEE?

Any advice?

having my way with rotten fruit

2009-10-03T07:45:00.000-07:00

I've started to realize lately that this blog is as much about my need to document the things I'm cooking so that I can cook them AGAIN as it is to fulfill a need to write, to contemplate my life, as it stands now, with two young kids. I'm starting to think most of the "hits" on this blog I see when looking at statistics are just me coming back to check my recipes while I'm whipping up another batch in the kitchen. And that's fine by me.

So I give you a recipe inspired by a bag of plums almost gone bad that sat in my fridge for almost a week. Before that, they sat in my brother's fridge for I'm not sure how long. And then they traveled across the state with me, since my brother had bought them for Jules and Kasper to eat while we were staying with him, but we never got around to it. Apparently, fruit doesn't belong in my brother's fridge as much as it belongs in ours. So we took it. And I tried to feed it to Kasper and Jules, but the plums were too sour. And then they got old and were too tough. I didn't want to throw them out, so I decided to try to make something with them. Along the way, I discovered that one of the best ways to salvage almost rotten fruit is to make a crumble out of it.

And ooooohhhh was it good. I wasn't even planning to blog about it, but I knew that if I didn't I'd never make this thing again. And this thing deserves to be made. Again and again. I'm a little bit embarrassed and a little bit proud to admit that I was up at 4am this morning, not able to sleep, eating this crisp from the pan with a spoon. Yum.

(almost) rotten plum crumble (based on this recipe)

One of the best parts of this recipe, in my opinion, is that you don't need a spoon to make it. Though you will need one to eat it, especially if you want to do it like me, straight out of the pan.

15-20 plums, pitted and halved
3 Tbsp. sugar (more or less)
1/4 tsp. cinnamon

Crumble:
1 cup flour
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/3 cup butter, cut in 1/2 inch pieces

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Toss the plums into a pie dish, sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon and mix them around with your hands, then spread them out evenly.

Mix together flour, brown sugar, baking powder, salt and cinnamon; add the butter and blend together with your fingers until pieces are no bigger than a pea. Sprinkle over the plums. Bake for 25-30 minutes, until golden and bubbly around the edges.

Serve warm, with or without ice cream, or straight from the pan. Serves 6.

cocoa cookies: the antidote to a rough morning

2009-09-29T22:31:00.000-07:00

It's Jules's Monday, not mine, but we're all feeling it. His first day of preschool each week falls on a Tuesday and every Tuesday Jules drags his feet getting ready, telling me he doesn't want to go, telling me he doesn't like it, telling me it's scary. Of course when he says these things, I take him seriously, and we talk about it. In the end, nothing terribly specific, or terribly scary (to me, at least) is identified. What he seems to be suffering from is a case of the Monday blues. This is my hunch because every time I go to pick him up on Tuesday afternoon he is chipper as can be (or, miraculously, napping). Some days it's hard to drag him away.

This morning as we were driving to school, along with the usual pleas to stay home so he could complete the important job of making his Playmobil Knights "fight" at the dining room table (with much participation from me), Jules slipped in a request. "Will you bake cookies today, Mom?"

How could I say no to that? It seems to take every ounce of courage the kid can muster to show up for preschool on Tuesday mornings. So I was quick with the yes's. A little too quick, since I had no intention whatsoever of heading to the store today as my plan is to clear out the fridge and cupboards of anything that might pose as food before I spend another fortune on groceries. And this meant I had no eggs.

But lucky for Jules, I had everything I needed for what turned out to be some of the tastiest cookies I've baked, probably, ever. I've adapted the recipe from Orangette(my go-to gal for guaranteed goodness these last few weeks), who adapted hers from Alice Medrich's recipe. My version has a bit more salt (which makes sweet things taste better, in my opinion) and I've added some instant espresso powder to boost the chocolate flavor.

The first thing Jules asked me when I picked them up was, of course, "did you make cookies?" I did not dissapoint. He gobbled two in about two seconds while gulping a glass of milk, dubbed them "brownie cookies" and then asked for more. My answer of "after dinner" turned out to be NOT NEARLY SOON ENOUGH for Jules, which sparked some disgraceful tantrumming behavior, but I don't blame him. Chewy chocolate cookies can have that effect on me, too.

Cocoa chocolate chip "brownie" cookies (based on this recipe from Orangette)
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
¼ tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
4 Tbsp. (½ stick) unsalted butter
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup light brown sugar
7 Tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder
1/4 tsp. instant espresso powder
1/3 cup plain yogurt, preferably not low- or nonfat (I used full-fat greek yogurt with a couple of tablespoons of 1% milk)
1 tsp. vanilla extract
½ cup semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone liner.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt.

Place the butter in a medium microwave-safe bowl, and microwave briefly, until just melted. Add the sugars, and sift in the cocoa and espresso powder. Stir to blend well. The mixture will be somewhat thick and pasty, like wet sand. Add the yogurt and vanilla and stir to mix thoroughly. Add the dry flour mixture, and stir to just combine. Add the chocolate chips and stir to incorporate.

Drop the dough by generous tablespoons onto the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 9 to 11 minutes, or until the tops of the cookies have crackled slightly and look set. Transfer the sheet pan to a wire rack, and cool the cookies on the pan for 10 minutes. Transfer them to the rack to cool completely. Repeat with remaining dough.

fall cleaning (out the fridge, that is)

2009-09-29T10:49:00.000-07:00

We've been roadtripping for the past 10 days and I'm finding it hard to get back into the swing of things. Routines flew out the window, Jules OD'd on TV and candy and new toys and treats from Grandma, and we all returned with sniffles. Some of us even returned with new teeth and a newfound (albeit wobbly) ability to toddle.

Now we're home and I'm resisting the urge to run to the store and stock up on the million things I think we need. I tried to empty the fridge of most of its contents before we left. We'd just gotten a delivery from New Roots Organics, and all of it would sit, rotting in the fridge until we got back unless I got creative.

We had three different kinds of potatoes (purple, red and fingerling), green beans, a big bounty of yellow grape tomatoes from our garden, red onion, corn on the cob...

So I settled on roasted potato salad. What I'll whip up this week is anyone's guess.

It started out pretty...
And mixed up a little bit homely...
But it tasted just right. And even better the day after.

Rainbow Roasted Potato and Green Bean Salad (adapted from this recipe in Gourmet)
3 pounds small potatoes (purple, red, fingerling, knock yourself out picking)
2/3 cup olive oil
1 garlic clove
1/4 cup red-wine vinegar
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary leaves or 1 teaspoon crumbled dried, plus rosemary sprigs for garnish
1 red onion, halved lengthwise and sliced thin lengthwise
2 pounds green (or yellow, or both) beans, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 pint cherry tomatoes (red, yellow, orange, etc.), halved

Halve the potatoes, unpeeled, and cut them into 1-inch wedges. In a large roasting pan heat 1/3 cup of the oil in the middle of a preheated 425°F. oven for 5 minutes, add the potatoes, tossing them to coat them with the oil, and roast them, stirring them every 10 minutes, for 20-30 minutes, or until they are tender. Let the potatoes cool in the pan. In a blender purée the garlic, the vinegar, the rosemary leaves, and salt to taste, with the motor running add the remaining 1/3 cup oil in a stream, and blend the dressing until it is emulsified. In a small bowl of ice and cold water let the onion soak for 5 minutes, drain it well, and pat it dry. In a kettle of boiling salted water boil the green beans for 5 minutes, or until they are crisp-tender, and drain them in a colander. Refresh the beans under cold water and pat them dry. In a very large bowl combine the potatoes, the onion, the green beans, and the cherry tomatoes, add the dressing, and toss the salad gently. Serve the salad at room temperature.

fall flavors? roasted sausages with grapes

2009-09-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what's gotten into me, but I am full-on into fall. Maybe it's because I'm feeling nostalgic for where I was this time last year (8 months pregnant and looking forward to an October baby).

Yes, the leaves are changing color. The air is cooling. A couple of weeks ago it dumped down rain. For half a day. I felt an urgent need to roast something. And with the fall nostalgia of baby in belly have come a return of the cravings. Mostly for sausage. So I found this recipe for roasted sausages and grapes. Couldn't be easier. Toss a bunch of (browned) sausages into a roasting pan, shower them with grapes that have been bathed in olive oil, and pop them into the oven. Finish the grapes in a saucepan until they, well, pop, add a little balsamic vinegar and you have a really lovely, elegant, simple meal. I served them with a side of sauteed spinach, roasted sweet potatoes, red onion, red pepper, black beans and corn and avocado. It was actually a salad I'd made from the night before, but after a quick stir in a hot pan, tasted yummy this way, too. A little random, the combination, but my former pregnant self would have understood.

Lucky for me, Jules is a fan of just about all pork products (sausage, bacon, ham), and of most sausages in general, provided they're not spicy. He won't brush a chicken nuggets to his lips, nibbles fries with utter disdain, has not a clue what fruit leather is, but if you squeeze a bunch of mystery meat into a jacket, he's all over it.

So the sausage went down with nary a protest. As did the corn muffin I served it with. The veggies? Not so much. Though I did see a sweet potato sneak its way in.

"our bread" : living life in the details

2009-09-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

A few years back (what now to me seems like a lifetime ago) while I was working on my Masters Thesis, I traveled to Chiapas, Mexico to study Spanish, zapatismo, and international social revolution. I'd gone there because, ever since traveling through Mexico as a tourist a few years prior, I'd been fascinated by the region, and even more so with the cultural, political, and social revolution being waged by the indigenous people there. The Zapatista movement attracts people from all walks of life, from all around the globe, people who are committed to working together to improving the lives of Mexico's indigenous peoples, and to applying the knowledge they gain in that work to their own lives and work at home and elsewhere.

My ticket "in" to the Zapatista movement came through the language school they operated in Zapatista territory in the highlands of Chiapas. I'd write about it later in my thesis on language acquisition, transnational social activism, and tourism, a pile of pages that's likely collecting dust at my university library right now. But it was hugely important at the time.

While in Zapatista territory, I shared three very simple meals a day with my fellow language students. A little fruit for breakfast. Beans and tortillas for lunch, pasta and beans for dinner. The occasional sandwich with fresh cheese and tomatoes that I'm sure gave more of us food poisoning than not. There was a couple there, about my age, who I'd, to myself, labeled the "hippy couple." She was a yoga instructor and a new ACLU recruit, and he was an ex-businessman who'd packed it in, temporarily, to camp his way around Mexico searching for some of the best mushrooms on offer. I liked them, despite my initial labeling attempt because, like anyone, they both turned out to be infinitely more complex than I'd at first given them credit.

One of the very "hippy" things the "hippy couple" did was initiate a supper ritual that I played along with but never really took to. During our meal, they asked us all to go around the table and all share what, to us, was the favorite part of the day we'd just lived together. I'd get all shaky, wracking my brains for something profound, or just something, to say when it came my turn. Never was my contribution very profound, though I felt it should be since we were, after all, in the middle of the cold and misty Mexican mountains surrounded by indigenous rebels (some who even wore ski masks!) with whom we struggled under the common banner of bringing health care, education, participatory democracy, and a host of other basic rights to the forgotten classes in both Mexico and around the globe.

But hard as I'd try, most of the "favorite parts" I'd share were, like they were back home, simple moments. Talking with children, walking past a shed in the twilight listening to Mexican pop music played live by a couple of musicians in residence, spending the afternoon painting murals in the pouring rain, hoping the artist I was "helping out" wouldn't catch on to the fact that I'd nearly flunked out of art class in Junior High and had practically sworn it off since then. None of these shared moments were earth-shattering. None, in and of themselves, would change my life, or anyone else's for that matter. But what I came to realize, well after the "hippy couple" and I parted ways was that, collectively, these moments did have a profound effect on me and on how I view the world and my place in it. I go back to and relive moments in Chiapas in my mind more than just about any other time or place I've been to in my life. And of course, what they taught me, what I scoffed at back then but fully appreciate now, was that reflecting on those moments, as close as you can to when you're in them, makes them last longer. It makes you more present with the people you share your life with. And sharing those reflections gives you insight not only into others' lives, but into your own.

I remembered this a few months back, and began using it as part of my nighttime ritual with Jules. After we've put on jammies, used the potty (this is new!), brushed teeth, read books and turned out the lights, we lie in his bed in the dark together and share with each other our favorite part of the day. More often than not, what he tells me surprises me. He'll pick out a moment that I'd breezed by when we were together, or that I was not a part of because it happened at preschool. Most of the moments he shares are cute, sweet, 3 year old bits of fun and happiness, but occasionally he uses them to share with me his fears or embarrassments of the day and work through them. A few days ago, when I asked him what his favorite part of the day was, he told me "making bread with you, mama." This really surprised me, since I felt I'd been too impatient with him, hadn't let him touch the dough enough, had been too preoccupied with the bread turning out (it's just flour and milk and salt and sugar and yeast, after all). I thought I'd ruined the fun for him. I'm pretty sure I yelled at him, at least once. It was a failure for me. One of many parenting failures I'd been ticking off in my head lately. But Jules enjoyed it. No, more than that. It was his favorite part of the day. This was huge to me.

That first loaf lasted us about three days, and every day, at just about every meal, Jules asked for a slice of "our bread." I just about cried every time I cut him off a piece.

I think I'm making my way toward some big a-ha moment, though I still can't quite put my finger on it, and certainly won't do so before my fingers stop typing this post. But it starts out something like this:

While my life now may seem infinitely more mundane than it did when I was a child-free, globetrotting, polilingual, academic revolutionary, it's not. It's these little moments, about things as seemingly ordinary as a loaf of bread, smushed around on the counter by me and my kid, that can reduce me to tears precisely because they are extraordinary to me at the place I'm at in my life. And more than that, they're affecting me, shaping me, in ways that I may only come to recognize long after these "little moments" have passed.

More eloquent than that, I can't be at the moment. But I'm working on it. Just come back to me later.

whipping up a whole new supermom

2009-09-02T21:39:00.000-07:00

It started out so well.

I planned to bake. And bake some more. I checked out Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From My Home to Yours from the library, picked out some promising pastries and set to work. I bought shiny red fabric for that Mega Mindy costume I planned to make for Jules for Halloween, started in August so we'd have plenty of time. I harvested fresh tomatoes from our garden and paired them with corn from the organic fruit and veg bin to whip up what was guaranteed to be an amazing corn and tomato pie. My hopes were high, my ambitions were grand, I'd do it all.

I did do it all. Well, with the exception of the costume, which thankfully still lies unstitched in the plastic JoAnn Fabric bag it came in. Jules has changed his mind a dozen times about what he wants to be. Could be a doctor, a superhero, a strange bug with spray-painted ice cream cone horns. I think we'll wait until the morning of October 31 to decide on that.

But back to baking and Dorie Greenspan, who is, apparently, an authority on baking, according to many of the foodie blogs I've been reading (which shall remain nameless because, right now, I curse you all). She's a regular contributor to Bon Appetit, has written another book, Baking with Julia (yes the Julia), that was also well received. Her own baking book is supposed to make baking accessible. I beg to differ. It wasn't that any of the recipes I followed were particularly bad, they just weren't particularly memorable. To date, I've tried:

cardamom crumb cake

apple coconut family cake
cottage cheese pufflets (with chocolate and strawberry jam)

Pretty, no? I would love to tell you that these were all delectable creations, and share the recipes with you, and gloat about how my kids helped me make them all, sharing a sweet little anecdote about how Jules ate more chocolate than actually made it into the cookies. But I'd be lying (about everything but Jules and chocolate, at least). They were fine. Edible. And I won't be making any of them again any time soon.

Truth be told, I'm a little tired of all the gushing (about our food, about our kids, about our amazing parental achievements in the blogs I've been reading), and the last week has been a big reality check for me. Kasper's been teething, barely sleeping, Jules has been his usual garble of sweetness, effervescence and tyrannic fury. And I've been trying. Really hard. To be the best mom I know how to be. To not blow up at my kids (OK, I don't blow up yet at the baby, but I like to include him in my writing) at the tiniest little thing, to indulge them in their fantasies (shoot 'em up or otherwise), and to feed them, and myself, well.

This week I was mediocre, at best, at all of the above. Next week, I'm hoping for better.

sunday morning breakfast (in reverse)

2009-09-02T21:22:00.000-07:00

mega mindy abducts budding chef

2009-08-26T22:03:00.000-07:00

A superhero swiped my sous-chef. He was here a minute ago, banana masher in hand, all covered in flour, dipping his pre-licked fingers in the brown sugar and then, *SHAZAM* vanished. Gone. History.

In saunters this saucy, stacked, scarlet thing and she just stands there, striking a pose. She's calling me "mama" (how DARE she?) and insisting I speak to her in Dutch. I ask her if she's seen Jules and she says she hasn't, but I know better because she's wearing the apron he had on just a minute ago, now as a cape. Best as I can tell, she's probably stuffed him into her pocket. It's big enough.

She tells me she thinks he's gone to preschool. She'll find him. She'll save him. But right now she has to save somebody else from the "baby monster" (Kasper) crawling toward us, ready to wreak havoc in the kitchen. I tell her that when she does see Jules to tell him to come back to the kitchen because I need help finishing the banana bread we started together. I will not mash alone.

Oh, and can I tell you just how tickled I am that the first superhero my boy pretends to be is a kick-ass Belgian GIRL superhero? That ROCKS!

sleep-deprived dreams of apricot cake

2009-08-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

I've been tired. Horribly tired. Anemically tired. Nobody in my house sleeps enough. Especially me. I feel like I can hardly write a coherent sentence, let alone wax poetically about food and my budding little chefs.

I've come to a few realizations lately, enough to probably fill a few posts, but I'll start with this one. Here's realization number one:

Jules (at 3.675 years) will COOK just about anything with me, given the right circumstances. Eating the food is another story. If I limited myself to writing about only the food that Jules liked to eat, then, well, I wouldn't be writing much. Or the Tillamook company would have to be paying me big dividends for all the plugs I give their peach yoghurt. I'm not sure who to hit up for the bulk granola sponsorship. Yoghurt and granola (with the occasional side of fruit) has become our de facto Plan B when it comes to Jules not eating his dinner.

Kasper (at 10 months), on the other hand, will eat just about anything I put in front of him, and in copious amounts. Jules was never like this, but I'm told that this is quite typical of an almost one year old. I figure if cigarette butts at the park, and rotten fruit dropped from our trees in the back yard go in, why not a few gummable morsels of eggs and spinach? Tiny slivers of cherry tomato? Little bitty bits of pasta? I have to admit that watching Kasper eat these days are moments of sheer glee for me. I need to enjoy them while they last, because I'm also told that they just get pickier from here on out. Having been dealt one who was picky from day one, and is now undergoing a new phase of experimentation (yes, I KNOW I said I liked that YESTERDAY, but that was YESTERDAY MOOOOOM), this is new territory for me.

My second big realization (bear with me, these may not seem related, but I assure you they will be before I'm done) is that, since becoming a mom with children who eat things that don't emit directly from my body, I've been saving the good stuff (namely, all the fruit) in the house for the kids and depriving MYSELF of vital nutrients, and a whole lot of pleasure. I'd find myself staring at the last, ripe mango in the fruit bowl (OK, often I'd only buy ONE mango, but you know what I'm saying here) and thinking "oh, Jules loves mangoes. He needs that mango, not me." Apparently, the idea of sharing the mango, and I'm not talking a sliver for me and a hunk for Jules, but 50/50 split, had become foreign to me. Sure, I can teach my kid to share his toys, give his best buddy a lick of his lollypop (oh wait, that's sharing germs, a big no no), include his friends in games, but sharing fruit with his mama? That's waaay too much to ask, apparently.
But fortunately, after just 3 1/2 years of depriving myself, I had an ah-ha moment while reading Mark Bittman's Food Matters. Bittman's advice is simple. Instead of going for the chips, crackers, assorted processed snack food crap when you are monumentally hungry, have a peach (or THREE). I stopped. Re-read. Took a deep breath. THREE PEACHES, all for ME? In just ONE SITTING? Now that's a decadent idea. While I did not run out and get three peaches and scarf them down, I did start buying more fruit. Lots of fruit. Ridiculous amounts of fruit, and then some. Enough to share. With everyone. And then I started eating it. To my heart's content.

Most of the time, I'm very happy to take my fruit raw, but occasionally I like it cooked, and this is especially true of the apricot, a fruit as picky in preparation as my preschooler is with his plate. Unless it is extremely fresh and handled with kid gloves, I think the apricot is practically inedible in its raw state. Most apricots I've encountered (organic, non-organic, from the supermarket, farmer's market, or pick your own) are mushy, mealy, bruised, or way too sour. But that shouldn't stop me from enjoying them. So this year I went on an exploration of the apricot's finer side, the cooked one, making jam, crisp, and, my favorite--apricot upside down cake, served warm with fresh cream. A friend of mine served it to me last month with apricots she'd picked herself. And since then, I haven't been able to get the thing out of my head. So I made my own. And it was good.

Of course, Jules isn't into it. He still doesn't like cooked fruit, of any kind, and I can't blame him because it took me until I was in my teens to appreciate most cooked fruit myself. But Kasper loves it. He makes a crumbly sticky mess of it, but he loves it.

So while I may not be getting the sleep that my body needs, at least I'm not starving myself of fruit anymore. And in the spirit of sharing this new bounty of wisdom, here's some fruit I'd like to share with you.

Fresh Apricot Upside-Down Cake (based on this recipe in Gourmet Magazine)
For topping
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
10 or 11 small (2- to 2 1/4-inch) fresh apricots (1 1/4 lb), halved lengthwise and pitted

For cake
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
2 large eggs at room temperature for 30 minutes
3/4 cup well-shaken buttermilk

Fresh cream, to serve.

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Make topping:
Heat butter in saucepan over moderate heat until foam subsides. Reduce heat to low and sprinkle brown sugar evenly over butter, then cook, undisturbed, 3 minutes (not all of sugar will be melted). Pour brown sugar mixture into a 8x8 baking pan and arrange apricot halves, cut sides down, close together on top of brown sugar.

Make cake batter:
Sift together flour, baking powder and soda, and salt into a small bowl.

Beat together butter, sugar, and extracts in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes in a standing mixer or 3 to 4 minutes with a handheld. Beat in eggs 1 at a time, then beat until mixture is creamy and doubled in volume, 2 to 3 minutes.

Reduce speed to low and add flour mixture in 3 batches alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour mixture, and beat just until combined.

Gently spoon batter over apricots and spread evenly.

Bake cake:
Bake cake in middle of oven until golden brown and a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean, 40 to 45 minutes.

Wearing oven mitts, immediately invert a large plate over baking pan and, keeping plate and pan firmly pressed together, invert cake onto plate. Carefully lift pan off cake and, if necessary, replace any fruit that is stuck to bottom of skillet. Serve warm with a drizzle of fresh cream.

huckleberry apricot breakfast crisp: score one for mama

2009-08-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

This one's adapted from Deb at Smitten Kitchen, of which I've tried a few recipes and have never been disappointed. I substituted huckleberries for half the apricots in this recipe because 1) I had them and needed to use them up and 2) I figured they'd make the crisp less "crazy tart" than Deb's version. I am thankful the camera was out of commission, since my version was not nearly as pretty as Deb's (her photos are spectacular and I shall never hope to top them). But my hunch about the huckleberries sweetening the crisp up, and saving it from any chance, no matter how small, of botching on my part, was right on. It was delish. Both days I ate it.

Huckleberry Apricot Breakfast Crisp

Fruit Base
1/2 pound huckleberries (about 2 cups), rinsed and shaken dry (blueberries would be a decent, if subpar, substitute)
1/2 pound apricots
3 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon flour
Grated fresh nutmeg, a pinch

Crisp Topping
1/2 stick butter, melted
6 tablespoons sugar
1/2 cup oats
1/2 cup all-purpose flour (or a mixture of whole wheat and all-purpose flour)
Pinch of salt
2 tablespoons toasted, slivered almonds

Prepare fruit: Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Pull apart apricots at their seam, remove pits, and tear them one more time into quarters, placing them in a small baking dish (one that holds two to three cups is ideal). Stir in huckleberries, sugar, flour and nutmeg until just combined, being careful not to squash the berries.

Crumb topping: Melt butter and stir in sugar, then oats, then flour, salt and almonds until large clumps form. Sprinkle mixture over the fruit. Bake for about 30 to 40 minutes and serve warm with a scoop (about 1/3 cup) of Greek yoghurt.

apricots, huckleberries, and failing my child

2009-08-08T21:07:00.000-07:00

I suck as a parent. I feel like every decision I have made in the last, oh let's just say week, has been the wrong one.

Right now I am simmering a pot of apricot preserves on the stove (thank you, Amanda, for donating your apricots to what I hope is NOT yet another worthless endeavor in jam-making) while listening to my child cry his heart out while we "experiment" with letting him fall asleep on his own. It's waaaaay past his bedtime and he has been impossible all day, mostly because (a well-informed hunch) he's overtired. Sorry to those of you who can't relate to me right now as I regale you with the saga of my sobbing insomniac. I find it hard to believe myself just how much my universe revolves around when, where, and how long my kids sleep. I have been a sleep hostage for almost four years now. And I hate it. We've tried the Dr. Sears method (just sleep with your kid, when your kid sleeps, even when he's FIVE), dabbled in Ferber (cry baby, cry), danced with the Sleep Lady (go on and wail, baby, but know I'm here for ya), and spit on what we wish was Elizabeth Pantley's grave (there is NO "No Cry Sleep Solution,"at least for our kids, believe me).

Did I mention I'm also baking what smells like a delicious huckleberry-apricot breakfast crisp? And I'm drinking really good pinot noir? Tomorrow is bound to be a better day, right?

I just tasted the preserves, half-way through cooking, and they were SOUR, so I added what was left of a bag of sugar to the pot. I have no idea how much it was. Maybe 2 to 3 cups? Oh, and right after that, I turned on the back burner to get a pot of boiling water started to sterilize the lids to for my no-doubt sour preserves, and I set the cord to our rice cooker on fire. Did I mention that during our kitchen remodel last year we splurged on a gas range that cooks with real blue shooting flames? I guess I'll add "new rice cooker" to the list of "must-have" kitchen gadgets that I need to write this blog.

Back to the crying child, who is quiet now (except for the hiccup/shudder from the trauma he's just experienced of being left alone in his bed to fall asleep) because Johan is now lying next to him. Jules has never, not ever, fallen asleep on his own at night since the day he was born. Is that a bad thing? Most days I am quite certain, and quite willing to defend the position that that it is not a bad thing. It is just simply human to want to have someone you love lying next to you, feeling their warm body breathe in and out, in and out, as you drift off to sleep in the comfort of their embrace. Who would not fight until their last waking moment to fall asleep that way, every night of their life, if they could? Tonight, however, is not a night where I find myself willing to defend that position. I just need a break.

Preserves are done. A sweet-sour concoction that I pray will set up just right. It's much more gelled than the batch of strawberry jam I tried to make a few weeks back. So I'm hopeful.

Breakfast crisp is out, too, and now covered and chilling in the fridge. I have no idea how this will turn out, but I am, again, really hopeful. I made it with huckleberries picked by my Dad (some of which were plucked under imminent threat of black bear attack--Dad REALLY loves me, or he really loves huckleberries, or both). I've discovered that so far everything I've ever made with huckleberries has turned out just fine. I made a huckleberry apple pie last week and, while the pie was soupy (too shy with the flour in the fruit, according to Dad), the flavor was just right. Maybe I think so because huckleberries are, for me, the magic fruit. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that my Dad dragged me out to the woods to pick huckleberries as a kid, then stuffed me with pies and pancakes made with our berry loot for weeks after. I can't wait until Jules and Kasper are old enough to come picking with me. I hope they love it (and the huckleberries) as much as I did as a kid.

Right now, OK almost all the time, I feel like my life is much like my cooking. It's an experiment, one which ends with almost as many happy surprises as it does with heart-wrenching disappointments (did you note my "glass half full" speak here? Do I get any credit whatsoever for that?) . It's sometimes hard to believe that Jules has been earth-side for more than 3 1/2 years and I still have days where I feel like my parenting choices are based more on "hunches" about my kid, why he's behaving the way he is, what I could be doing to make his behavior conform to my wishes, than "hard facts."

Be that as it may, here's hoping this latest series of experiments (in cooking and in "life") end in happy surprises. Wouldn't life be grand if my "huckleberries" were the culinary equivalent to my parenting "hunches?" If that were so, then I could rest easy knowing that no matter what I might do to botch things up, as long as I relied on my "hunches," on what I knew to be true about my kids, then everything would turn out just fine. For some reason, though, I'm less confident in the "hunches" than I am in the "huckleberries" that populate my life right now.

Oh, and did I mention that we started potty training again last week for the umpteenth time? I've been warned against mixing poop stories with recipes, so I will spare you the harrowing details of the last four days. You should thank me for this. And you should also be grateful that our camera died from sand-poisoning on the Belgian coast. Fun, mouthwatering photos (I promise, no poo) will resume shortly. As will the recipes. And child-rearing advice. If, that is, my experiments turn out.

i scream you scream

2009-08-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

I was not exaggerating.

we all scream

horsing around with grijze garnalen (gray shrimp)

2009-08-03T23:02:00.000-07:00

Scampi-induced guilt aside, we DID manage to eat our fair share of locally-caught shrimp during our week-long stay on the Belgian coast. Small, delicately-flavored (read not too shrimpy) "gray shrimp" are abundant here, and every day we were witness to the many ways they're harvested: by men in chest-high fisherman pants pulling nets behind them, by the tiny shrimp boats trawling back and forth just a few hundred meters from the beach, and, the tourists' favorite spectacle, by "Brabanders"--a stocky Belgian breed of horse--saddled with nets and baskets and weathered fisher faces.

The fishermen and their horses put on a show at extreme low tide on an almost-daily basis in the summer for tourists. We'd planned on taking the kids down to watch one morning, but could convince none save Kasper (whose favorite napping spot just happened to be hoofing it down to the show) to join us. I, for one, was glad I went, and even more glad I was not trampled by one of the massive beasts while I posed in front of them for that perfect "been there" shot.

Kasper's first shrimping adventure

the shrimp shuffle
duwen (push), draaien (turn), trekken (pull)
Bomma (Grandma), demonstrating her finely-honed peeling skills
a new generation of shrimp peelers

Best enjoyed with a glass of Rodenbach, a slightly sour beer from Roeselare (Johan's mom's hometown, not far from the coast). Also often used in tomaat crevette (mixed with a mayonaisey cocktail sauce, stuffed into a hollowed out tomato, and garnished with parsley).

i heart croquettes

2009-08-03T22:37:00.000-07:00

As promised, the first in a series of installments on what made me gain weight while in Belgium, the chief culprit of course being deep-fried goodness such as these. Potato croquettes. Little logs of mashed potatoes, dipped in egg and rolled in bread crumbs and plunged into hot oil. We've started a tradition of making these for Christmas Eve every year because we can't seem to find them in the supermarkets here. And because we're masochists, I suppose. Croquette making is not for the faint hearted. It takes time, lots of space in your refrigerator to leave them to dry overnight, and the patience of a conveyor-belt worker. Cut, dip, roll. Cut, dip, roll. Cut, dip, roll. No surprise they hit the platter just once a year.

Accompanying my croquettes this fine evening were scampis in curry sauce. We ate a fair amount of scampis while in Belgium, and have been cooking them at home in Seattle, too. This, of course, was a huge source of guilt for me last week when I passed the Mangrove Action Project booth at the Ballard Seafood Festival, which boasted a large and catchy banner that admonished us all to "Shrimp Less. Think More." Since most shrimp is imported from the other side of the world (I think most of ours comes from Thailand), the carbon footprint made by my meals of late is, well, embarrassing. But the scampis were good. I promise to do better from now on.

Belgium: where every day is a party

2009-07-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

We're home! OK, so we've been back from Belgium for over a week now. Jet lag really did a number on us this time and it's taken me much longer to recover than I'd hoped. I'm not sure I really have recovered, since I'm still going to bed at around 8pm most nights, but at least we're no longer collectively waking at 4am. This is progress, believe me.

Traveling with two kids, even when our destination was "home" (at least for one Flemish-speaking, beer-drinking, chocoholic--wait, maybe make that two), was nothing short of an adventure. We managed the flights with minimal whining and tears, and were greeted in Belgium with a huge family reception. Johan's family always makes a big to-do out of airport welcomes and send-offs and this time was no exception. The next few days were full of food-filled fun. Champagne and appetizers at Bomma's (Grandma's) house, a birthday brunch followed by a summer barbecue the next day, followed by more visits, get-togethers, and outings, all choc-full with food and booze. On the third or fourth day of our trip, Jules woke up and asked, "where is the party today?" For him (and for us), every day in Belgium was a party, with much to celebrate--being "home," introducing baby brother Kasper to family and friends, re-connecting with so many people over good food and drink and, lets not forget, toys.

An adventure it was, of both the gastronomic and the disciplinary variety, and often at the same time. Jules is, and has always been, the kind of kid who simply cannot eat when there are too many new or distracting things to occupy his attention. The entire time we were in Belgium, we were showered with culinary delights, most of which Jules refused. Kid-friendly spaghetti made it on the menu more than a few times. It was ignored in favor of the kid-friendly toys and videos and new friends that Jules preferred to "discover." At barbecues (American or Belgian-style, didn't matter), Jules ate bread. And chips. And ice cream. And the occasional carrot stick.

We were, quite naturally, horrified, especially when all the other kids sat down for a meal, ate politely, and often in large quantities, and never seemed to make a fuss. But we knew our kid, and we knew he'd go back to his normal (not ideal, mind you, but it works for him) ways of eating once we were home, so we tried to be as lax as we could about it.

So while we gorged (and I really do mean gorged) ourselves on cheeses, pastries, meat, meat, meat, fries and croquettes, salads and seafood and more, Jules lived off of croque monsieurs (toasted ham and cheese sandwiches), fruit salad (and they make a mean one here), soft rolls (what, in Flemish, are quite confusingly called a "sandwich"), the occasional croissant, handfuls of chips, some fresh gray shrimp (a uniquely Belgian treat--maybe this kid is Belgian after all), and all the ice cream he could get his hands on. Ice cream was plentiful in Belgium, especially during the week we spent on the Belgian coast. Out of the 17 days we were there, I'm quite certain that 15 of those included ice cream in one form or another.

He would go for nearly an entire day subsisting on little more than a crust-less piece of bread and a bite of cheese, a little water and whatever cookies might find their way to him. Then, all of a sudden, hunger would overtake him. One night he ate SIX Nutella sandwiches, a 3 1/2 year olds' dream. Everyone was just so happy to see him eat something that they kept making them for him when he asked for another. Another night it was a more sensible meal of pasta and peas.

While Jules's diet (and don't even get me started on his table manners) was atrocious, for me it was also part of the adventure of (re)introducing him (and us) to his Belgian roots, and to long distance travel in general. And it was about us getting to know our own kid as a traveler, seeing how he handles change (in this case, in language, food, distance and time and a dizzying blur of new faces all at once--quite a whirlspin for a little guy).

The following posts (I hope) will give you more of an idea of what we ate (and what it looked like), but for now, this is just a first taste. It's good to be home, but that doesn't mean we all don't miss Belgium already.

american cookies

2009-07-01T14:09:00.000-07:00

ok, maybe one post. In honor of the 4th of July, and my not being state-side to celebrate it, I give you my hands-down favorite recipe for what the Belgians call "American Cookies." I looooove these because they are a) chewy, not cake-y, not crunchy, b) salty (baked goods need salt, more than most people add), and c) nearly impossible to botch, even when your assistant-chef smooshes and mooshes and mooches "little tastes" more than is probably prudent.

Just one little taste
apron schmapron

Note: this recipe makes a ton of cookies, so I usually end up freezing half the dough in little balls and baking them for a bit longer than the recipe below at a lower oven temp (325 degrees).

American Cookies (adapted from this recipe in Gourmet)
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
1 1/2 cups packed light brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
2 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips (16 ounces)

Preheat oven to 375°F. Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment or wax paper.

Whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl.

Beat together butter and sugars in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed until pale and fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes. Add eggs, one at a time, to butter mixture, beating with mixer until creamy, about 1 minute. Beat in vanilla. Reduce speed to low and mix in flour mixture until just blended, then stir in chips.

If you have the time, chill in the fridge for an hour, or until the dough has firmed up a bit. This will ensure the cookies don't spread to fast when baking. When the dough is ready, scoop a heaping tablespoon of batter for each cookie, arranging mounds 3 inches apart, on 2 baking sheets. Flatten mounds into 3-inch rounds using moistened palm of your hand. Form remaining cookies on additional sheets of parchment.

Bake, 1 sheet at a time, until golden, 13 to 15 minutes. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool and continue making cookies in same manner using cooled baking sheets.

a few of my favorite (belgian) things

2009-07-01T08:34:00.000-07:00

we are on a plane to Belgium tomorrow. no posts for a while, but I'll try to take some good food pictures on the road! In the meantime, here's a list of things I'm looking forward to eating while in Belgium:

pistolekes met kaas (little cheese rolls with soft gouda)
bitterballen (deep fried balls of gravy and meat, served with mustard)
vol au vent (puff pastry filled with creamy chicken and mushroom)
kroketten (fried potato goodness, served with mayo)
hazerug (jack rabbit's back, usually a winter food)
grijze garnalen (little gray shrimp, harvested by horse)
pralinekes (chocoooooolate)
bolleke Koninck (just good beer)
broodje smos (a "messy sandwich" -- french roll filled with veggies, hardboiled egg, and mayo)
frietjes met andalous (fries that are NOT french with a spicy pink sauce)

oh grandma, please forgive me

2009-06-25T09:16:00.001-07:00

I had two thoughts as I breathed in the aroma of strawberries, lemon and sugar that filled the room as the jam bubbled on the stove. The first was that my house smelled like Grandma Evelynne's. Not the cigarette-smoke permeating everything smell, no, it was the smell of summer when the doors were left open to bring in a breeze and a pot of strawberry jam was simmering on the stove. Grandma made the BEST strawberry jam I've ever tasted. She also made the BEST peanut butter and jelly sandwiches: white bread, a healthy dose of butter, peanut butter (choosy grandmothers also always choose JIF), and, of course, her homemade strawberry jam. My mother would try to make it, even using the same ingredients, and I swear she'd never come close.

My second thought, I am now horribly embarrassed to admit, was that, in just one attempt, I'd bested Grandma's recipe. I followed the instructions, read the reviews and comments, and simmered, simmered, simmered, waiting for the jam juices to achieve a gel-like consistency when spooned onto a frozen plate. It took almost 40 minutes longer than the recipe suggested, but I finally reached it. A shimmering pool of jelly, it had darkened a little from all that simmering, but it smelled just right. I carefully ladled the jam into sterilized jars, and, with Jo's help, screwed on the scorching-hot lids. We snapped a few photos, trying to get the light just right in our now dark kitchen. And then we went to bed, leaving the jam to cool overnight.

I went to bed with the words to THAT POST already forming in my mind. I'd be humble, maybe even a little disappointed that my jam tasted better than Grandma's, a fond childhood food memory smashed to smithereens with my cooking prowess. I'd talk about what a shame it was that I didn't have any really good peanut butter in the house to go with it. And I'd throw in a mention of Jules's newly acquired love for the Frances book about Bread and Jam as I described him gobbling up slice after slice of jam-slathered toast.

Oh, the arrogance of youth. This morning I checked the jam. Runny. OK, so I'd have to work on the consistency next batch, but that's no big deal. I toasted two pieces of bread: one for Kasper to gnaw on, and one for my glorious jam. One bite and I knew it was BEYOND TERRIBLE. Not just runny, it was bitter, too. Runny, bitter, and barely a strawberry flavor to it. Not wanting to throw the bread away, I covered up the jam with sunflower seed butter and ate it. Sigh.

When Jules sat down for breakfast, he spied the jars and asked for a taste. "This is. Not. Good." was his pronouncement. So now I'm stuck with 3 jars of strawberry yuck. Maybe I can salvage them. Maybe I can add some Borax to them and take out the ant colonies that have been swarming around our house since March.

But I have to smile (OK, grimace might be a better word) as I imagine Grandma gazing down on me from her spot in canning heaven with a little smile and a shake of her head. My greatest hope now has been reduced to the wish that next time (if there is a next time) I won't burn the jam.

risotto for the little shrimp

2009-06-24T22:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight I made a meal just for Jules. OK, I had ulterior motives. I wanted something a little finer than the usual weekday fare, didn't want it to be much work, AND wanted it to be a sure fire success for Jules.

My sweet baby does have a taste for "fine foods" occasionally. Take smoked salmon, for instance. While I find it slimy, greasy, and barely worthy of gagging down unless presented in tiny tidbits with creamy herbed cheese on bruschetta sprinkled with minced chives (yes, there is a very lovely recipe for this that I will one day share), Jules (and his papa) slurp it up like it's slathered in chocolate.

I didn't feel like pasta (another, almost "sure thing" with Jules, so long as it's relatively unadorned -- no green bits or large chunks of veggies), didn't feel like beans, wanted to drink wine and feel full after my meal.

So, flipping through the latest (June 2009) issue of Sunset Magazine, I found it: "Grilled corn and bay shrimp risotto." Of course the people at Sunset were crazy if they thought I was actually going to fire up the charcoal grill to get the corn in this dish just right. I cheated (of COURSE I did), "dry frying" the corn at a relatively high temperature in a non-stick pan to approximate something of the intended flavor. Then I tweaked a few of the other ingredients to fit what I had on hand/was in the mood to do, and there it was.

The result? DELICIOUS. Not too heavy, very lemony. Jules liked it, too.

"Grilled" corn and shrimp risotto (adapted from this recipe in Sunset Magazine)

2 cups frozen corn (original: 3 medium ears, husked, grilled, and sliced off the cob)
2 Tablespoons olive oil
1/2 cup chopped red onion (shallots in the original recipe)
1 1/2 cups risotto rice (I used sushi rice, as recommended in another Sunset article I once read)
1.5 quarts vegetable (or chicken) broth
1/2 cup dry white wine (the original recipe called for a cup, but this is for my kid, and I could use that extra 1/2 glass for myself)
1 pound largeish shrimp (you could use small, but why would you?)
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespooon lemon zest
2-3 tablespoons lemon juice
Freshly ground black pepper and salt, to taste
a handful of parsley, chopped, for garnish
Parmigiano Reggiano (or regular parmesan)

Warm a nonstick pan on medium-high heat, add the corn and "dry fry" it, stirring occasionally, until it begins to brown (it may actually pop, as well). Turn off the heat and set aside for later.

While the corn browns, heat the olive oil in a saucepan on medium-high heat and add red onions/shallots and cook, stirring, just until softened, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add rice and cook, stirring often, until grains are slightly translucent at edges, about 3 minutes longer.

Add wine and, while you're at it, pour yourself a glass because it's been "that kind of day." Sip, cook, and stir often, until the wine (you added, not imbibed), is almost absorbed. Add broth a ladleful at a time, cooking and stirring until almost absorbed before adding more. Keep adding broth, cooking and stirring, until rice is creamy and tender but not mushy, about 25 minutes.

Stir in corn, shrimp, butter, lemon zest, lemon juice and salt to taste and cook, stirring often, until heated through, about 3 minutes. Add more broth if risotto gets too dry here.

Spoon risotto into shallow bowls (or slap it on a plate with a green salad), grate a little parmigiano reggiano over it, add pepper and sprinkle with parsley if your kid will let you, and serve.

strawberry surplus (or strawberry "slurp" us, if the jam doesn't turn out)

2009-06-24T22:23:00.000-07:00

So true to my advice, I packed up Jules and Kasper this week and trekked halfway up to Vancouver (for those of you reading who are not from Seattle, that is FAR) to go strawberry picking.

We met a friend and her two litte girls up there, and by the time we arrived, my friend had already picked a crate-full. Her pint-sized pickers slowed down considerably when we arrived, and the kids spent most of their time running up and down the rows, racing after the tractors delivering port-a-pottys to the "commercial workers" (mostly 16 year old kids with brown butts and knees), and just shoving berries in their mouths, partly, I'm sure, to see our reaction at the red juiciness dripping down their chins. It was a cold, drizzly day and not many other pickers were out, so we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. And the berries were ripe.

Driving home, I had no idea what I planned to do with all those strawberries. It was more for the experience of bringing Jules to a farm (Kasper was less than content, and not at all impressed most of the time we were there), that I'd dragged us up there. But now I had a bajillion berries to wash, husk, slice and "enjoy." My plan was (is, still haven't done it) to make a strawberry clafouti, a kind of custardy pancake I'd seen Jacques Pepin once do with apricots. Maybe some jam.

Well, as I write this, the jam is simmering on the stove, and I'm not at all sure it'll set right since this is my first time. But what I DID get a chance to make was a nice warm spinach salad with strawberries, toasted almonds and a strawberry vinagrette that went pretty well with a box of Trader Joe's cornbread and the leftover grilled pork tenderloin we'd served up for Father's Day.

Jules helped me wash the spinach in a bowl of cold water, dry it in the salad spinner, and mix up the corn bread (from a box, but a very good box). I warmed the spinach in a pan, added it to a bowl with a drizzle of olive oil, toasted almonds and sliced strawberries and there was dinner. Not bad for a Monday.

It was pretty. Here's a picture.

put the kid to work: quesadilla day

2009-06-22T23:20:00.000-07:00

Jules loves to cook. I guess I'm lucky that way. For a kid who has never really shown a lot of patience when it comes to fine motor skills (he's more of a run around like crazy, high energy guy), he sure can contain himself these days when I assign him to be my "kitchen helper." This wasn't always the case. And getting through those times when he was a little ball of nerves, flicking batter, smearing sauce, *squeeeeeeeezing* and kneading whatever bread or cookie-like concoction I put in front of him until it was a gray, sweaty mass of yuck, was trying, to put it lightly.

I won't lie. There were times when I lost it. When I, more immature than he, would yank the spoon, whisk, bowl, what have you, out of his hands and growl at him, "how many times do I..." or send him to his room for punishment for whatever "misbehavior" set me off.

But most days I'm better. And so is he. Now I know to just relax about my fear that raw eggs will kill him and just let him lick the batter and smear it all over his face (and be ready with an arsenal of warm washcloths to deal with the aftermath). I let him have "just a little taste" of anything. Baking powder? Why not? Cayenne? Well, I wouldn't go that far. Straight sugar? There are limits, but yes. He gets away with his fair share of "pinches" and "just a little taste"s.

Most often, he's been my "baker's helper," but I've been letting him in more and more on the dinner prep these days, too. I find that A) it keeps him mostly out of my hair since it's a time where he's (more or less) following my orders rather than me following his (which seems like most of the day), and B) I find I'm less stressed out about not spending "quality time" with Jules in order to prep dinner, because we are doing just that when we cook together.

So to give you an idea of how we work as a cooking team, I'm sharing a recipe I make often, with many variations, this being my latest one. Quesadillas are one of Jules's (and my, to be honest) favorite foods, so getting him involved in making them was easy. These are on the table at our house a few times a month, are quick to prepare, and relatively healthy (this one especially).

On this particular night, I had a big bag of sweet potatoes and a bunch of rainbow chard languishing in the fridge, so I started with these, grating the sweet potato, and tossing it in the pan with some sliced onions, chili powder and salt. I chopped the chard and added it, too, cooking that while Jules spread some pureed black beans on tortillas. A sprinkle of cotija (Mexican cheese with an almost feta-like consistency, but very different taste), another tortilla, and dinner was served. We usually eat these with some fresh (or store-bought) salsa, sliced avocado, maybe even some sour cream, whatevers on hand. Variations on fillings have included spinach and mango, too. It's all good.

The sweet potatoes, onion and chard combined were sweet enough (and grated/sliced fine enough)that Jules didn't really even notice he was eating veggies, though we did also just feed him a few slices of plain bean and cheese to be sure he'd be eating SOMETHING if he discovered (and snubbed) the veggies.

So there you have it. It would go nice with a simple green salad.

Sweet Potato and Rainbow Chard Quesadillas
8 large(ish) flour tortillas
1 can black beans (or 1 cup if you've made your own)
2 small(ish) sweet potatoes, peeled and grated
1/2 medium onion, sliced thin
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 cups Rainbow Chard (about 5 large leaves), stems removed and chopped into 1/2 inch pieces
1 Tablespoon chili powder
Salt
Cooking oil or spray (for light frying)
Salsa
Cilantro, a handful, chopped
Avocado slices (optional)
Sour cream (optional)

Put black beans in a blender and puree until smooth. Spread bean puree over 4 tortillas.

Saute onion, garlic and chili powder in olive oil on medium-high heat for a few minutes, until onion begins to soften. Add sweet potato and continue sauteing until mixture begins to brown a bit. Add chard and continue to cook for a minute or two after chard begins to wilt. Spoon sweet potato mixture onto bean puree/tortillas. Sprinkle cotija on top and cover with another tortilla. Working one at a time, fry quesadillas in a pan coated with cooking spray for a few minutes until tortillas begins to brown. Flip and brown on the other side. Serve with salsa, avocado, sour cream, cilantro etc.

eating well (today at least)

2009-06-18T14:52:00.000-07:00

So I realized, after posting this to another blog, that there really is a method to my madness when it comes to kids and cooking and eating and trying to change/improve/whatever you want to call it, the eating habits of me (first) and our family (foremost). It's part inspired by writers like Michael Pollan and writers/cookbook authors like Mark Bittman, partly by child development "experts" like Dr. Sears, kidfood writers/cookbook authors like Annabel Karmel, and more-than-partly just common sense. And it is very much still in the developmental stages in my household. Thus, the blog, so I can document this (and inject a little fun into my life).

I'll call it my six-step plan, because I'm dealing with half-pints here. Here it is:

step one: realize your own eating habits are abysmal and your kids learn to eat from you

step two: start cooking with lots and lots of veggies and every time you want a snack, grab fruit (and offer it to your kids).

step three: plant a garden to get your kid interested in growing food

step four: take your kids to a farm, cheese factory, chocolate factory, whatever, to show them where their food comes from

step five: involve your kids in cooking, even if it means you're tearing your hair out as they spray pasta sauce all over the white walls of your kitchen

step six: offer that healthy, fresh, good-for-you food at every meal. Put it on their plate if they'll let you. Con them into taking at least one bit of it before you cave in and nuke the mac'n cheese, make a peanut butter sandwich, etc.

This last step requires, of course, a healthy amount of advanced planning, but I really don't subscribe to the idea that you need to pay someone else to come up with weekly meal plans, shopping lists, what have you. A little resourcefulness and a well-stocked pantry will go a long way to putting dinner (and lunch, and breakfast) on the table quickly, with minimal time and resources. Seriously. I am a convert. And time will tell if this new relationship I'm trying to spark with food will really pay off for me (and my partner and kids, too).

OK, enough said. Here's a look at what I spent my morning (yesterday) doing.

Apple and Prune Puree
1 apple, cored, peele and cut into 1 inch chunks
4 prunes

Place apple and prunes in a saucepan and add enough water to cover. Bring to a simmer and cook on medium high 5-10 minutes until fruit is cooked to desired softness. Transfer apples and prunes to a blender, add cooking water to desired consistency and blend to texture of your choice.

Cool and serve to baby, who will no doubt gobble it all up. Or store in an airtight container in the freezer for up to one month.

Broccoli and Potato Mash
1 cup broccoli florets
2 small red potatoes, peeled and diced

Place broccoli and potatoes in a saucepan and add enough water to cover. Bring to a simmer and cook on medium high 10-15 minutes until potatoes are soft but not mushy. Maxh to desired texture and consistency, adding cooking water if neccesary.

Cool and serve to baby, who will no doubt make gaggy faces and turn his head away the first time or two. Or store in an airtight container in the freezer for up to one month.

Eggplant Caponata and Pasta Bake (adapted from Rachael Ray)
The recipe makes a double batch, so I froze half of the Caponata for another day. As usual, Jules got his serving of what we were eating, plus some plain pasta, a bunch of grapes and toast with sunflower seed butter (I love peanut butter, but that peanut allergy freak-out with babies has me feeding Jules sunflower seed butter until he stops kissing his brother on the mouth or Kasper turns 2, whichever happens first.

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 cloves garlic, chopped
1/2 to 3/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (omitted an account of small person)
1 red bell pepper, seeded
1 large sweet onion, peeled
2 ribs celery
1/2 cup large green olives, pitted
1/2 cup Kalamata olives, pitted
3 tablespoons capers
1/2 cup golden raisins
1 medium firm eggplant, diced
Salt
1 can (28 oz) diced tomatoes
1 can (14 oz) crushed tomatoes
A handful of chopped fresh parsley

1/2 pound penne, cooked al dente
1/2 cup parmigiano reggiano
1 cup shredded provolone (we used gouda because it was there)

Preheat a big, deep pot over medium heat. Add oil, garlic, and crushed red pepper flakes. Place your cutting board near the stovetop and toss vegetables into pot as you chop them. Dice peppers, chop onion and celerly. Then coarsely chop olives, and sitr in along with capers and raisins. Dice and salt the eggplant and stir in. Increase the heat a bit, add diced and crushed tomatoes and stir caponata well to combine. Cover pot and cook, 15 to 20 minutes, or until vegetables are tender. Stir in parsley and remove from heat.

Mix 1/2 caponata (freeze other 1/2 for another time) with cooked pasta and 1/2 cup of the cheeses, pour into a 9x13 baking dish, sprinkle with remaining cheese and place under the broiler until cheese starts to bubble. Garnish with more parsley and serve.

belgians eat japan fish in seattle

2009-06-15T22:52:00.000-07:00

Barbecue weather was upon us, some of Johan's college friends from Belgium were here for a visit, and we wanted to treat them to some of the "local" cuisine. We'd been eating grilled salmon with bbq-roasted potatoes and salad and veg for a few weeks now, and while it tasted great, it was starting to get old. So a new twist: red miso marinated salmon, cold soba noodle salad, maneki-style green salad and soy-basted corn on the cob and presto-change-o, a meal we all (cross-culturally, cross-generationally), could enjoy. It was cool, fresh and oishii. I even impressed myself this time.

The under-five-set scarfed up the salmon and corn, asking for more, and even slurped up a few noodles. Not bad. The salad was something I'd made a few times, loosely basing it on one we've had at Maneki, a local Japanese restaurant we'd frequent a lot before having kids. Somehow, kid-wrangling in the tatami rooms kind of kills the fun of the food there, so needless to say we haven't been there in close to four years, and I was missing the place.

Red miso-marinated salmon (based on this recipe in Food and Wine)
1/4 cup red miso paste
1 tablespoon canola or other neutral oil (I used grapeseed)
1 tablespoon Asian sesame oil
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
1 tablespoon soy sauce
3-4 pounds salmon filets
1 tablespoon sesame seeds
2 large scallions, thinly sliced

In a small bowl, whisk the miso paste with the canola and sesame oils, honey, vinegar and soy sauce. In a large, shallow glass or ceramic dish, pour the miso marinade over the salmon fillets and turn to coat completely. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes or for up to 1 hour.

Light a grill and lightly brush it with oil. Lift the salmon fillets from the glaze and sprinkle both sides with the sesame seeds. Grill over a moderately hot fire for about 3 minutes per side, or until lightly charred and just cooked through. Transfer the salmon to a platter, sprinkle with the scallions and serve.

Maneki-style green salad
4 cups salad greens (get 'em from your garden, a head of lettuce, or a bagged mix; Maneki uses watercress, too)
1 avocado, sliced
1/2 cup grated daikon
1 can (15 oz) mandarin oranges, drained
1 cup caramelized pecans (see recipe below)
Ponzu dressing (see recipe below)

Arrange greens on a platter. Place grated daikon in mounds in randomly chosen spots, same with avocado, oranges, pecans. Drizzle with ponzu dressing. Enjoy.

Caramelized Pecans (adapted from Bon Appetit)
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups whole pecans

Preheat oven to 325;°F. Spray baking sheet with nonstick spray. Combine corn syrup, sugar and salt in large bowl. Stir to blend. Add pecans; stir gently to coat. Transfer to baking sheet.

Place large piece of foil on work surface. Bake pecans 5 minutes. Using fork, stir pecans to coat with melted spice mixture. Continue baking until pecans are golden and coating bubbles, about 10 minutes. Transfer to foil. Working quickly, separate nuts with fork. Cool. (Can be made 3 days ahead. Store airtight at room temperature.)

Ponzu dressing
1/4 cup ponzu
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons minced shallots
1/2 teaspoon dry mustard
1 clove garlic, minced
3/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

Mix all ingredients together.

Cold Soba Noodles with Peanut Sauce (thank you Mark Bittman)
12 ounces dried soba noodles
2 tablespoons dark sesame oil
1/2 cup peanut butter (I used sunflower seed butter)
1 tablespoon sugar
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
At least 1/2 cup minced scallions for garnish

Cook the noodles in boiling salted water until tender but not mushy. Drain, then rinse in cold water for a minute or two. Toss with half the sesame oil and refrigerate up to 2 hours, or proceed with the recipe.

Beat together the peanut butter, sugar, soy sauce, and vinegar. Add a little salt and pepper to taste; thin the sauce with hot water if necessary, so that it is about the consistency of heavy cream.

Toss together the noodles and the sauce, and add more of any seasoning if necessary. Drizzle with the remaining sesame oil, garnish, and serve.

baking day: grandma rosa's brownies (and more)

2009-06-15T16:11:00.000-07:00

I finally got her recipe. No I am not sharing.

step one: mix

Grandma Rosa is, hands-down, the best cook in my family. She's won awards at the county fair for her pies, is famous (at least in her corner of the world) for her cinnamon rolls and brownies, and would give any Iron Chef contestant a serious run for their money. She once cooked a big pot of spaghetti sauce with a jar of ketchup for our family when we showed up unannounced since, of course, we HAD to eat SOMETHING while we were there (and it was tasty, in case you're wondering). And her baked beans, served at Thanksgiving, for lunch, brunch, or anytime. It makes my mouth water just thinking about them.

step two: lick

But I keep coming back to the brownies. She's sent them to me a few times in the mail, once when she heard Jules broke his collar bone (chocolate makes everything better), once when I hinted to my Dad that I wouldn't mind another shipment. Packaged in neat little stacks separated by waxpaper in a shoebox, they are nothing short of heaven to me. I can eat almost the entire box by myself. I have a hard time sharing them, even with my own flesh and blood. They are that good. After taking his first bite of Grandma's brownies, Johan declared, "these are not BROWNIES. These are FUDGE!" Being an expert on fudge (Grandma also makes an unbeatable batch of this), I knew Johan was dead-wrong about this, but he was right about the word "brownie" not quite describing them. What I will say about the recipe is that they're rich, in an almost indescribable way, because Grandma does not shy away from using eggs (I used seven, yes SEVEN, in this batch) or butter (3 glorious sticks). The rest you'll just have to guess.

step three: pour (and lick some more)

So, after some more "hinting" to my Dad, I got my hands on Grandma's recipe. It's been only since having kids that I have really been interested in how Grandma cooks. Before Jules and Kasper came along, I'd been happy just to gorge on whatever Grandma sent my way. Now I NEED to know how she does it. And, ironically, were it not for my kids, I'd be tempted to ask Grandma if I could move in with her for six months and be her cooking apprentice. Come to think of it, uprooting them (and leaving Jo at home) might just be a small sacrifice compared to what we'd all have to gain in the advancement of my culinary skills. Food for thought.

step four (so I skipped a step or three): eat

But for now, I'll just have to be content with messing up Grandma's recipe. Since Grandma herself doesn't really follow recipes, the one I got must have taken some work on her part to write up. Her instructions were exact. Bake them for 42 minutes. When my Dad read the recipe back to her and told her he'd written down "bake for 40-45 minutes," she bit his head off. "No, I said FORTY-TWO MINUTES." Well, I baked them for 42 minutes and checked them. They were, well, kind of soupy. Back in the oven for another 15 and I'd overbaked them. So the brownies, while good (oh, did I ever eat my fair share), did not even come close to Grandma's. But just like Grandma, I did share them. I shipped them off to places as far as Nebraska and Pennsylvania, along with a little batch of the Cardamom Walnut Cookies I like so much. And Grandma even got a small box. I hope I made her proud.

step five: bake some more

oh golly. my first recipe.

2009-06-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

I make some version of this a few times a month, so I thought I'd share. It's fast, uses just two pans (a big pot and a big skillet) and, apart from the broccoli, you should be able to find most of the ingredients in your (marginally-well stocked) pantry. Broccoli can be swapped out for spinach (don't boil, just wilt with red peppers, etc.), kale (boil, or saute in bacon fat and set aside to add at end) or another veg you like, bacon can be swapped for italian sausage (or omitted). We had a version of this tonight without the bacon and mozzarella. Very flexible, very yummy, and completely adaptable to your own small person's taste.

pasta with broccoli, bacon, peppers, white beans and a little cheese
(adapted from Broccoli and Mozzarella Pasta Sauce by Marcella Hazan and Pasta with Broccoli by Mark Bittman)

1 pound (or so) broccoli
2 slices bacon (optional)
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
1 pound penne, ziti or fusilli or other smallish pasta
1 cup (or 1 can, drained and rinsed) cannelini beans
2 (homemade or jarred) roasted red peppers, chopped
1/4 cup mozzarella, chopped fine (optional)
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus more for serving
A few tablespoons minced fresh parsley leaves for garnish

1) Wash and cut broccoli. Remove florets and set aside, then slice off the reedy bottom and any other tough stringy parts from the stem.

2) Fry bacon in a large skillet at medium heat until crisp. Remove and drain on paper towels. Crumble when cool enough to touch.

3) Bring a large pot of water to boil. Add 1-2 teaspoons salt. Add broccoli stem(s) and cook for 3-4 minutes and then add florets. Cook until florets just begin to become tender when pierced by a fork, but not mushy. They'll cook more in the pan later, so you don't want them to cook too much during this step. Remove broccoli with a slotted spoon and set aside to cool.

4) Add pasta to the (still boiling) water and cook to a very firm al dente state. It will cook for another few minutes with the broccoli, etc., so don't let it cook too long either. Remove 3/4 of the pasta with a slotted spoon and cook remaining pasta to desired doneness for small persons. Drain pasta, reserving 1/2 cup or so of pasta water.

5) While pasta is cooking, chop broccoli florets and stems into small (almost minced) pieces

6) Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-low heat and cook until garlic just starts to become golden, a minute or so.

7) Add broccoli to the skillet, mashing it a bit as you stir, then add red peppers and 3/4 cup cannelini beans (reserve 1/4 cup for small person).

8) Add the pasta, give it a stir, cooking until pasta almost reaches desired doneness, then add the most of the mozzarella, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and bacon, (reserving the rest for small persons) and enough of the reserved pasta water to keep the mixture from drying. Cook until pasta reaches desired doneness and other ingredients are hot. Salt and pepper to taste.

9) In a separate bowl, mix reserved pasta, cannelini beans, bacon, cheese and enough pasta water to make it palatable for small persons.

10) Serve, garnishing with parsley (except for small person who will tolerate no green flecks of any kind on pasta) and more freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

the freezer is your friend

2009-06-03T07:45:00.000-07:00

lasagna with butternut squash and kale

We made this at a cook/freeze party hosted by my friend Sloan. I came home with a huge pan of lasagna (serves 8), some roasted sweet potato and black bean enchiladas, and chicken thighs marinated 3 ways (seen in some of my other posts). After all was said and done, each meal (serves 4 to 6) cost us about $8. Not bad.

how does your garden grow?

2009-06-02T22:33:00.000-07:00

planting day

a week (or so) later

you get the idea...

our own strawberry field

worms are our friends

ohhhhhhhhhh mikey

2009-06-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been poking around various food blogs lately—for recipes, for fun, for the heck of it, and while mostly inspired, I keep thinking to myself, “yeah, it’s great you can eat like that. But just wait until you have kids.” Or, if they DO have kids, then it's "sure, that looks tasty. But does your kid eat any of that? I bet not."

Having kids has most definitely changed the way we eat. Time is a big factor here. Spending more than half an hour cooking, especially on a weekday, is nearly impossible, and for a long (veeerrry long) time that meant we were eating a lot of takeout. Or frozen pizza (Trader Joe’s Quattro Formaggio imported from Italy, but still). Or both.

All in all, I’m pretty happy with the variety of food our kids eat. Kasper’s still on fruit purees, rice cereal and full-fat yoghurt, but he’s just seven months so we try to cut him some slack. His brother Jules, at 3 ½, has what I’d consider a pretty varied palate, though he doesn’t do spicy, and for a long time would avoid anything green that touched his plate. He’s got a pretty big sweet tooth, which needs to be managed, but is also a fruit-a-holic with a soft spot for mangoes, and will try just about everything, which is all I expect of him. Of course that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t eat yoghurt for dinner a few times a week because he’s turned his nose up at whatever we’ve served him. But we keep serving him. One day, who knows? Maybe he’ll start gobbling up that asparagus and pesto risotto and ask for seconds of the salad greens.

I have to admit I’m jealous of people whose kids are what you might call ‘adventurous’ eaters. Kids who love spicy food, eat cauliflower like candy, don’t shy away from leaves. Kids who have no weird quirks like being half-Belgian and never touching potatoes, even when they’re french-fried (which is just WRONG, by the way). So many of the ‘experts’ tell you that your kids’ tastes for food develop in infancy (some even say in the womb, which is why I packed in as much spicy food as I could, heartburn be damned, so I could enjoy it with my kid when he joined me earthside), so parents like me start feeling the pressure to not turn their kids into Dorito-stuffing slobs (of, in my case, their own childhood) while that babe is still just a twinkle in mama’s eye.

Did I not heed the call and make my own organic fruit purees? Yes, I did. Religiously, for the first few months. Check the labels on cereals, yoghurts, whatever, for grams of “sugars” or “trans fats,” and scan ingredient lists for mercuric traces of high fructose corn syrup? Well, of course I did. I love my child, don’t I? And let me tell you, to keep this up while all the while every spoonful you shovel in is greeted with a gag and shiver that says, “WHY must you torture me this way?” requires the patience of a saint. Mommy guilt and mommy martyrdom walk hand in hand.

So I bought jarred baby food (organic, naturally). He slurped it up. I bought Gerber Graduate Veggie Puffs (not organic to say the least, but they were sweet potato and how can you go wrong with sweet potato?). He developed a newfound confidence in his pincher grasp as those little bits of chemical goodness dissolved in his mouth. To make up for this, I pureed some home-made lentil, spinach, brown rice, cranberry goulash until it looked like dogfood. He liked that, too. For a time.

The second time around I’m a little more relaxed. While I’m not dunking Doritos in formula (can you tell I love these chips?) to soften them up for the baby, I only felt the tiniest twinge of guilt when it came to buying that first jar of fruit puree. Jules is proof to me (as if I weren't proof enough) that “taste” is part inherited, part shaped by your environment, and can be re-shaped (within certain limits) at just about any point along the way. My goal right now is to set my kids up for success with food to the best of my abilities. One of the ways I know I can do this is by involving them in making their own food, from growing it, to harvesting it, to cooking it, to talk talk talking about it. So we planted a garden. Jules started eating lettuce. We visit farms. Jules joins me in the kitchen, helping out sometimes, talking about cooking, or just getting in my way. I'm glad he's there. He loves it. And I hope he keeps loving it, because I sure do enjoy it much more than I do crawling around the floor with a dump truck making deep raspy engine noises.

More updates on this, most surely, to follow. But for now, I’ll leave you with a picture of a cake Jules and I baked. Together. For me.

we like pink

leftovers are the new meal

2009-06-01T15:11:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not done with Mark Bittman.

One thing that's central to Bittman's approach is the notion of "repurposing" leftovers. Cook more than you need to and, rather than simple reheating them, turn your leftovers into something completely new. Last night's roasted vegetables could be the material for a killer sandwich, frittata, asian rice bowl, burrito, etc. etc. you get the idea. Here are a few of our meals and repurposed dishes:

#1 Steak pita with grilled corn, orange snap pea couscous

#1A: Taco salad with steak, pinto beans, cherry tomatoes,
salsa dressing (and beans and carrots for 3 yo)

#2: Honey Mustard BBQ chicken and sides
(roasted potatoes, asparagus, corn)

#2A: spinach salad with steak, asparagus, roasted
potatoes and corn (and greekyoghurt + fruit puree for baby)

bitten

2009-06-01T15:04:00.000-07:00

Mark Bittman, where have you been all my life?

One bite of Bittman and I’m tempted to toss out all of my cookbooks, cooking magazines and recipe folders and replace them with only him. If they held Mark Bittman cooking retreats like they do yoga or meditation retreats (not that I’ve ever been on a retreat of any kind, ever), I’d be the first to sign up. He’s that good.

Bittman's Whole Wheat Pancakes

I first heard about Bittman a couple of months ago while he was on a book tour promoting Food Matters: A Guide to Conscious Eating with More Than 75 Recipes. Like Michael Pollan, Bittman tells readers to “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” He outlines how eating less meat (and fish, and dairy products) will not only improve your health and help you lose weight, but will make your environmental footprint much smaller. I’d never seen Bittman’s TV shows (Bittman Takes on America’s Chefs and that uber-schlocky piece of crap Spain: On the Road Again with the ridiculously self-important Mario Batali and his arbitrarily-chosen sidekick Gwyneth Paltrow), never heard of his cookbooks (The Minimalist Cooks, How to Cook Everything/Vegetarian), couldn’t remember reading him in the New York Times when I actually subscribed and had time to read it. What intrigued me about him was not just what he had to say, but how he said it. Casual, cut the crap New Yorker. He had the kind of voice you’d expect to hear from someone frying up your chicken-fried steak, not concocting your cassoulet. So I checked out Food Matters from the library. Then I bought it (OK, I asked my brother to buy it for me). Then I bought another book. And I'm quite certain our little love affair is far from over.

Why Bittman makes my heart go pitter patter:

1) Minimalist, intuitive cooking. His books are all about the idea that cooking can be simple, and the basics learned by just about anyone. Once you’ve gathered some experience, he encourages you to let your tastes, and your imagination, drive what you cook.

2) Pantry cooking. A well-stocked pantry (and freezer) and a little planning ahead mean that you can eat well, and fresh, any meal of the day, any day of the week. And for just as cheap (and almost as fast) as fast food.

3) Doesn’t subscribe to food fads or trends or care much about nutritional science, which is constantly revising itself anyway. Just common sense and real food.

4) Eats butter, uses whole milk in his cooking, but doesn’t REQUIRE you to do it.

5) His recipes are flexible and can be used to fit your tastes, dietary restrictions, what have you.

I’ve tried quite a few of his recipes so far, and my favorites include:

Whole Wheat No-Knead Bread

Whole Wheat Pancakes

Eggplant and Chicken Parmesan (amazing and simple, served with lemon spaghetti)

Porridge, Updated (my version: couscous, fresh fruit, dried fruit, nuts and a drizzle of honey and yoghurt)

Not Your Usual Ratatouille

Easy Whole Grain Flatbread

We've been eating much less meat (though you might not know it from my next post), and all in all I just feel a bit lighter in my skin since discovering Mark Bittman.

love your mama

2009-05-28T15:03:00.000-07:00

and she'll make you strawberry rhubarb pie.

and you, of course, will refuse to eat it because you don't like cooked fruit.

more for mama.

of phlegm and french cuisine

2009-05-26T23:20:00.000-07:00

I have a cold. A terrible one. I feel a little bit like death-warmed-over and given a stir. My nose has been alternating between completely corked up and flowing like a bubbling brook all day long. My throat is raw and reminds me of the time we were traveling in Vietnam and I came down with a throat bug so painful that Jo had to run out and buy me penicillin. No prescription necessary. Just a description of the symptoms would suffice. He was also sent to fetch me food that wouldn’t rip my fragile gullet to shreds on its way down. I ate ice-cold lychees and cheesy-garlic mashed potatoes from the backpacker restaurant down the road for days.

Today’s been a better day, gastronomically-speaking. It started with a cookie (a cardamom walnut butter cookie). Any day that starts out with a cookie can never be all bad. And I’ve been starting my days out with them since I baked them on Monday.

Lunch was even better. Last night, my throat could only tolerate chicken noodle soup, which meant Jo stopping to pick up Pho for dinner (funny how my sore throat had me craving Vietnamese food). Pouring in liberal amounts of Sriracha hot sauce was no doubt the biggest mistake of the night. Not an hour later, my throat seized up nearly completely, letting only the tiniest squawk for riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicolaaaaaah pass my lips. Today, however, my body craved something, if not more adventurous, then more nourishing. I came across a recipe for Spinach and Green Garlic Soup. We’d just been given green garlic in our organic produce delivery and I had no idea what to do with it.

Well, how about slice it thin, sauté it with a pinch of salt in butter and olive oil, simmer it in vegetable stock and puree it with spinach left to wilt for a few minutes in the broth. It. Was. Heaven. (and not my idea) While the simmering was happening, I decided to make lunch an ode to Molly, and try out her recipe for bouchons au thon. Only problem was the recipe called for tomato paste (no, I did NOT freeze tablespoon size portions of this in plastic wrap and stick them in the freezer the last time I cooked), crème fraiche (who keeps THAT handy in the kitchen?), gruyere, and real eggs (OK, so I had those, but Jo is trying to watch his cholesterol and I was trying to be kind). So I improvised, substituting ketchup (quelle horreur! but hey, it was organic), 1% milk, gouda and parmesan, and Reddi-eggs. I stuffed the muffin tins fuller than was perhaps prudent, and popped them in the oven. It took them a bit longer to cook, but the result was dee-light-ful. Very light and airy. One day soon I will follow the recipe exactly to see what I was missing out on, but this concoction hit the spot today. I served the little tuna corks on a bed of arugula (also from the organics delivery) doused with olive oil and lemon juice and thin slices of roma tomato, with a side of cannellini beans mixed with more olive oil, lemon juice and parmesan. The meal was so pretty I wanted to take a picture. But I didn’t. Verdorie (that’s Flemish for “dangit.” No joke. And yes, I did say that when I looked down at my empty plate and realized I missed my chance). The meal was so good, and felt so clean going down, I had it again for dinner as I fed the baby peaches and oatmeal from a jar.

Starve a cold and feed a fever?

freshness

2009-05-26T15:47:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been bad at introductions. I never remember names past the moment of their being uttered. I bumble through my own, “Hi, I’m Kristi. Nice to meet you.” Do we shake hands? Give each other a little half-wave, half-salute? Nod? Smile and make eye-contact?

Hi, I’m Kristi, and I hope you enjoy my blog. It’s meant to be a food blog, no really it’s a mommy blog, oh why oh why must you label me? We’ve barely just met and I already feel judged. Oh wait, that’s me talking. Like I said, awkward.

Even though I haven’t written anything longer than an email in the past two-and-a-half years, I’m writing now. Before I was who I am now (more on that later), I was a PhD Student in Anthropology, conducting research on travel, tourism, language and transnational activism. I enjoyed it. It made me feel smart and important and worthy at times. At other times it made me feel inept, ignorant, like an imposter. And at other times it made me feel like a pompous, self-involved know-it-all. Such is the life of an academic, I suppose.

Who I am now comes with its own list of conflicting states of being. I’m a teacher, nutritional adviser, guidance counselor, chef, referee, safety inspector, chauffeur. I’m an expert and a bumbling idiot. I’m a mother, full-time, 24/7 to two young boys (at the moment, 3 ½ years and seven months). My journey into motherhood started before my grad school trip ended. The two duked it out for close to a year, and motherhood triumphed, at least temporarily.

My youngest just started solids, is days (or weeks, who really knows?) away from crawling, my oldest just discovered “bad guys” and the fun of “shooting them” and I’m itching to write. Not as an escape from them, because if it were that I’d be smashing out a science fiction novel. I guess it’s more as a reflection. Truth be told, I’m really enjoying myself. I want to savor this time with them, and preserve it for the future when I’m not the center of their universe, and share it with you.

And the part I want to share with you is one that I (and they, and my partner Jo) live and breath and, well, eat. I want to share our food. Well, not literally, unless of course we can get over that first awkward introduction and you score an invite to my dinner table. Mind your manners and it just might happen. And please, come again. I’ll try to bring a little more social grace to our next get-together.