St. Patrick's Day Soup

It's purely by accident that I'm posting something green today. There I was, last night, haphazardly throwing together a big pot of soup for my mother-in-law (who just had knee surgery), just humming and tossing things in a pot: a little garlic, lots of potatoes (always potatoes), a handful of spinach, a splash of cream... and after immersion-blendering everything, I realized I had the perfect soup to post for St. Patrick's Day. The ivy on my kitchen windowsill was an unwitting accomplice.

Cream of Garlic-Potato-Spinach Soup

1 tbsp olive oil
8 cloves garlic, minced
3 stalks celery
6 potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks
3 cups vegetable stock
1/4 tsp black peppercorns
a sprinkle of dried thyme
5 oz spinach, fresh or frozen
1/2 tsp salt, plus more to taste
1 cup milk or cream

Warm the oil in the bottom of a big pot. Toss in the garlic, and saute for about a minute, stirring constantly. Add the celery, and cook until tender, about five minutes. Keep stirring. Now, add the potatoes and the stock. Wrap your peppercorns in cheesecloth (or put them in one of those herb-infuser things) and drop them in, along with the thyme. Cover the pot, lower the heat, and cook until the potatoes begin to fall apart, about 10-15 minutes, depending on the size of the chunks. Check the pot periodically, and add a little water if it begins to dry out. Once the potatoes are cooked, you should have a very thick stew. Add the spinach, and the milk or cream. Either transfer your soup (in batches) to a blender or food processor, or whip out your immersion blender and puree it in the pot. If the consistency is too thick for your liking, you can add additional water, stock, or milk/cream to thin it out. Add your salt, and taste to adjust the seasonings. Enjoy!

This soup would be great with some crusty bread and butter on the side. And some ceilidh music in the background, a must.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone!

Beginning again

The ground was finally thawed, the bees were buzzing, the robins were singing. It was finally time to get started, yesterday.

This is the little backyard garden of our neighbor Marilynn. She has a double lot, and summer commitments which keep her elsewhere. It was mighty magnaminous of her to offer us the use of the space, but that's exactly what she did. And so, over the course of last summer, I was not only able to scratch my gardening itch, but also forge a friendship with my other neighbors (and garden cohorts) Jen and Corrine.

In my mind's eye, I'm envisioning the prospect of what's to come: towering tomato plants, great bushy crowns of broccoli, sweet bouquets of oak leaf lettuce. Can you see it? I could sit out there for hours and just envision.

I'm not sure you have to be a little nuts to have a vegetable garden. But I'm pretty sure it helps.

Oddly, pacing it out and marking measured squares is almost the best part, for me. Just like an architect dreaming up blueprints, conjuring the perfect, rainless, snowless world where his building will exist, pacing out the garden leaves me free to imagine that everything is possible. This early spring afternoon, I was meditating on the ideal garden: the one without bugs, or groundhogs, or the freak April snowstorm we're likely to get. But, living is nothing if not constantly reconciling: the real world, versus the dream you hold in your head. The bugs and the groundhog may come, an early snow may kill our first planting of lettuce. That's the chance we take. We do it anyway. On those rare instances when reality reaches the shore of your vision, lapping against it like a tide, well, that's what we live for. It is sublime beyond words.

So, here's to sunshine and rainfall, safety from vermin, and the promise in a seed. This year's garden is officially begun.

Getting out

*Camera balanced precariously on a stick in the middle of the trail for this shot.

It was a day for exploring someplace new...

...for soaking up some sunshine.... ...for pausing for reflection in an old cemetery...

...for marvelling at deep and icy gorges...

...and for cold pints at the end of the day.

I hope your Saturday was full of adventure, however you spent it.

One potato, two potato, three potato, four

If there's one thing we have lots of in our house, it's potatoes. They're everywhere: lurking in the closet, the cupboard, the fridge, the basement. I don't know what possessed me to purchase three bushels last autumn. Whatever it was, I am paying for it now, dearly. As I've mentioned before, they're growing feelers (at least the red ones are), and so, in the interest of eating them before they turn to compost, I'm getting creative. Currently in our fridge there are no less than four different potato-related items: roasted potato wedges, potato salad, potato bread, and, of course, the leftovers of this frittata. The menu is seasonally appropriate, at least.

This frittata has proved the tastiest way yet to use them up. It's fancy enough for a fancy brunch, but just as good for dinner with a big old salad. I love the way the potatoes soak up the eggs, making each bite starchy and tender. And the green olives make everything pretty.

Potato Frittata with Green Olives

4 medium red-skinned potatoes

Throw these in your microwave (or into your oven) and bake until done. Peel the skins off the potatoes. Using a masher (or a big spoon) break the potatoes into bite-size chunks.

Add to the bowl:

1/2 cup sliced green olives
1/2 cup finely sliced scallions (about four)
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper, or more to taste
3/4 cup grated sharp cheddar
6 eggs, lightly beaten

Stir these things together with the potatoes until everything is nicely coated with egg.

Heat 2 tbsp olive oil in a cast iron or non-stick skillet, preferably 10 inches in diameter. Once the oil is hot, dump in the egg mixture. Let it cook ten minutes without stirring, long enough for the bottom to cook. Give it a good stir once, turning uncooked bits over onto the hot pan. Let it cook another 5-10 minutes without stirring. At this point, the whole mass should hold together into one eggy disk. Take your flipper and loosen the edges. Now, take a big plate and invert it over your pan. Holding the pan and the plate together, flip them over. If you're lucky, your frittata will now be sitting on the plate, cooked-side up. If you're not lucky, you'll have scrambled eggs with potatoes and green olives, and it will taste just as good.

But assuming you are lucky. Slide the frittata back into the pan, uncooked-side-down. Give it another ten minutes. You can either flip it back onto the plate to serve (which is, admittedly chancing fate), or you can just serve it in the pan.

Enjoy!

Geese and planting

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
~Mary Oliver

All afternoon, geese were streaming by overhead. I love their sound: that urgent, excited racket; unmistakable, impossible to ignore.

Again I was outside without a jacket, enacting the bravery and hope that comes with planting in springtime.

Yesterday, it was sixty degrees. This morning, it's snowing. But I'm not worried about my peas. I've planted them in the snow before, even in the half-frozen swamp of one overly promising February thaw. They've always come through.

For the other things I planted yesterday, the spinach, scallions, radishes, and arugala, I have this. This is my cold frame. One old storm window and four pieces of wood screwed together and braced at the corners, and my seedlings stay cozy at night. So the theory goes, anyhow.

We'll see how it plays out, in practice. Now quit snowing!

Colombian Bean Soup

A good cookbook is a lot like an old hunting dog. Over time, through trial and error, you come to trust it. You develop a tacit understanding: when the cookbook asks you to bother with the fuss of immersion-blendering, or toasting your own spices, you follow. You know that when it says "sift your flour," it means it. Your cookbook has led you through one success after another, and all you had to do was give yourself blindly over to its logic, and follow the directions. I have a few like this.

What I also have, (and maybe you do, too) is a bunch of books I'm wary of. I pick one up and think, Well, sure, there was the triumph of the Chickpea crepes, but what about the let-down of the Citrus Cucumber Salad? What about the Red onion-Horseradish Sauce? How can I ever trust you, when you've led me astray? It's really rather emotional. Anyway, when I picked up this particular cookbook yesterday, determined to find something dinner-worthy, I didn't have my hopes up. I was prepared to be disappointed.

But, lo and behold, it was a happy surprise that greeted me in the bottom of the soup pot. The beans were sultry and flavorful, the citrus juices gave it just the right amount of punch, the dried chili did indeed impart "a smoky, delicate heat." And for how little effort was involved, I'll definitely be making it again. Next time, though, with some sour cream on top.

Colombian Black Bean Soup

1 1/2 cups dried black beans, sorted and soaked overnight in 4 cups water
1 dried chili pepper-- try a habanero, a chipotle, or a pasilla

Drain and rinse the beans. Cover them with fresh water, and throw in the pepper. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat to a simmer, and let it cook while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

2 tsp cumin seed

Warm a small skillet over medium heat. Add the cumin seeds. Shake the skillet every minute or so as the seeds toast, ensuring they get evenly cooked. Once they're golden-brown, and your kitchen smells like India, scrape the seeds into a mortar and pestle, and grind them into a powder.

1 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 green bell pepper, cubed
2 stalks celery, diced

Heat the oil in the same skillet you just toasted the seeds in (it's still warm!). Add the vegetables and ground cumin seeds, and cook, stirring occasionally, until everything is softened and tasty-looking.

This step is optional: Remove the chili from the beans. Hook up your immersion blender, and give it a half-hearted spin in the bean pot. You don't want to puree all of them, just a few.

Add the cooked vegetables to the bean pot. Scoop a little bean liquid out of the pot, and use it to "rinse" the skillet where you cooked the vegetables. Bring the soup to a simmer, and cook ten minutes with the lid off.

3 tbsp orange juice
3 tbsp lime juice
1/2-3/4 tsp salt

Once the soup is done cooking, stir in the juices and salt, and serve. You can garnish with sliced scallions (or better yet, sour cream) if you want. Enjoy!

Tom Kha revisited

When I was in college, I had a crush on the waiter at a Thai restaurant. I ate there constantly, subsisting for weeks on a diet of yellow curry, pad see ew, and fried bananas. Sometimes, I would bribe friends to go with me, so as to appear legitimate. I didn't want it to seem like I was eating there solely for flirtation purposes, but of course, I was. The point was not the food, or the ambiance. The point was covert eye movements, watching the object of my affections like a hawk, and angling for scraps of charged conversation.

I would make those meals last a long time. I ate magnificently slowly, carefully twirling my noodles, sneaking furtive glimpses. Every mouthful was thoughtfully chewed, every sip of soup was duly savored. Every meal began with a steaming hot bowl of Tom Kha, a citrusy coconut milk soup spiked with chili peppers.

In the end, my lingering noodle twirling and furtive eye movements were for naught. He moved away. What's stayed with me, however, is the heart-racing memories of college crushes, a distaste for fried bananas, and an enduring love of Tom Kha.

In this recipe, I scaled down the liquid and added a bunch of vegetables and some tofu, to make it more of a meal. If you wish, you could substitute chicken or shrimp for the tofu.

Tom Kha with Tofu and Vegetables

1 14-oz can reduced fat coconut milk
1 cup vegetable broth
Zest of one lemon
Zest of one lime
1 1-1/2 inch piece fresh ginger, thinly sliced

8 oz extra firm tofu, crumbled or finely cubed
1 cup fresh or frozen bell pepper strips
1 cup fresh or frozen broccoli florets
1 cup sliced zucchini
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp Asian chili-garlic sauce
1 tbsp brown sugar

Rice or noodles of your choice; I used soba.

Combine coconut milk, stock, ginger, and citrus zest in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer ten minutes with the cover on. Add the remaining ingredients, bring to a boil. Lower the heat, and simmer another ten minutes. Serve over rice or pasta.