The artichoke, of delicate heart...

The artichoke
of delicate heart
erect
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges
its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.

~From Artichoke, by Pablo Neruda

With everyone around posting their best springtime recipes, I couldn't resist jumping on the bandwagon. Though I still have plenty of canned and frozen food in the house, something was calling me to the produce section of the grocery store, I place I've scarcely been all winter. And there.... there I beheld the minimal cupola, the scallop of scales and pomegranate burnishes. Oh, I'm a sucker for a good metaphor. Into the bag they went, a jumble of green points and smooth petals.

California produce in April is a heady siren song, an irresistable temptress. It's easy enough for me to resist the wilted bagged lettuces of January, and those hard red pellets people euphemistically call "grape tomatoes." But this time of year, when sassy, charismatic vegetables return to upstate New York, they seem glamorous as movie stars to my green-starved eyes. One day, there's the same old sorry sacks of potatoes, greenish grapefruits and paint-ball quality tomatoes... and the next there's tumbling piles of gleaming chard, glossy rolling-pin sized leeks, fecund asparagus, and sweet little bundles of pink radishes.

For a die-hard foodie like me, it's paradise.

This recipe is one I bamboozled from my favorite, Moosewood Celebrates. Though it calls for both boiling and roasting the artichokes, I guarantee, it will not let you down.

Roasted Baby (or not so baby) Artichokes

12 baby (or 6 adult) artichokes

1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup lemon juice
3 tbsp balsamic vinegar
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
2 tsp ground fennel
1/4 tsp salt
1/8 black pepper

Begin bringing a big pot of water to a boil.

Seizing an artichoke in one hand and a stainless steel knife in the other, slice off the top quarter of the scales. I found my serrated bread knife worked best-- those scales are tough! Next, pull off the outer scales one by one, until you get down to the yellow ones. Trim the stem so the artichoke will sit upright on a flat surface. Repeat with the rest.

Preheat your oven to 450 degrees. Whisk the remaining ingredients together in a small bowl.

Boil your trimmed artichokes for 10-20 minutes, and drain upside down. Arrange them upright in a shallow glass baking dish (or pie plate, if you're me) and drizzle the dressing over them. Slide into the oven, and roast for 20 minutes, basting occasionally to keep the hearts from drying out.

If your artichokes were petite and tender, you may well be able to eat them whole upon their emergence from your oven. If, by contrast, your artichokes rivaled the size of softballs, then the way to eat them is by pulling the scales off one by one, and scraping the soft side along your bottom teeth as you pull it out of your mouth. Pablo Neruda (later in the poem) called this stuff "halcyon paste." I just call it delicious.

Note: We made a meal out of our artichokes by making them the centerpiece of a big salad with some good bread on the side. And plenty of feta sprinkled over the top.

Enjoy!

In Tomato We Trust

Forgive me my haughty irreverance of last week. Tomatoes, you are the fairest of the fair. Fresh, frozen, canned, or dried, you are patiently tiding me through this culinary lapse, this fussy time of year when it's hard to know what to eat.

Last night, Patrick and I celebrated his spring break from evening classes by whipping up our favorite of the Old Standbys: Pasta Pomodoro. It's the fastest of the fast, and absolutely cannot be beat with a glass of good red. (Last night, it was Sebastiani Cabernet.) A couple cooperative vegetables, pasta, olive oil, and parmesan cheese, and it's dinner, folks. Enjoy.

Pasta Pomodoro
1 medium onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp olive oil
2 15-oz cans stewed tomatoes OR 6 fresh tomatoes
1 medium red bell pepper, diced (frozen peppers are fine, if that's what you've got)a few sundried tomatoes (optional)
a liberal sprinkling of basil, thyme, and oregano
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper, if you like some kick
salt and black pepper to taste

1/2 lb pasta, cooked (we like rotini, gemelli, bow-ties, or good old-fashioned spaghetti)
ample freshly grated parmesan cheese

Warm the oil in a big frying pan over medium heat. Add the garlic and onions, and saute until translucent. Add the tomatoes and peppers, herbs and spices. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has thickened suitably. Meanwhile, your house will smell better and better. Strangers passing by on the street may knock at your door and propose marriage. Once it's satisfactorily saucy looking, serve it over the hot pasta, topped with cheese.

Note: For more lavish occasions, we have been known to add eggplant, green beans, broccoli, or spinach to the saute. Also, when we have them, Tofurky Italian Sausage almost always makes its way into the pan.

Studio companions, stalwart and brave

And where have I been, exactly?

Squirreled away in my studio with new sewing books.

And brownies.

I picked up this positively enormous cotton mumu at the thrift store a few weeks ago. I'm always on the lookout for giant, shapeless clothes in pretty fabrics. Those are the ones that can be snapped up and turned into cute things.

Weekend Sewing is a big help in my pursuit of cute things.

And, what? You didn't know that brownie crumbs is the secret to a successful sewing project?

I'll post more photos later, after hemming. And more brownies.

Seeing signs

Scenes from yesterday afternoon:

Dapper little wintergreen, surveying his mossy friends.

Courting geese.

The unbelieveable hot-pink alder flowers. They're a complete surprise, every year.

Trailing arbutus buds waiting, waiting.

I hope your weekends are filled with skirt weather, good friends, and warm rainshowers. And lots of petals.

Re-fashion #6: I sheet you not

This is too much fun. The puns. Good sheet. Hot sheet. Sheetfire!

As you might be able to guess, this skirt was made from a sheet. Pretty sheets are so hard to come by at Salvation Army, so when I spot them I snap them right up. They're the first thing in the cart. Finding such a pretty, 70s-retro-daisies sheet for $2 was exciting enough.

But on top of that... on top of that, (deep breath), this is the first thing I've ever sewn from a pattern. I know, I know. Small potatoes. But when your own mother sweated bullets over sewing the badges on your girl scout sash, you celebrate the baby steps.

Let me talk about this for a minute. My mom kept a sewing box. About 6 x 8", it held a paper of needles, a small box of pins, a few tangled spools of thread and neglected packages of bias tape and rick rack, and a bag of my great-grandmother's embroidery floss. I remember her sewing on the occasional button, girl scout badges, and once, a felt hat for my Halloween costume in second grade. Suffice to say, needle and thread were not her tools of choice.

But, anyway, yes, the pattern. Simplicity 4236, a straightforward skirt, a good place to start. Skirts are such beautiful things. They are by far my favorite type of clothing, especially the ones that flare out and swish as you walk or dance. What could be better than clothes that are fun to move in? This particular skirt I made is a full circle skirt. Yesterday (before hemming), I spent a full ten minutes testing it out, sashaying around our bedroom and twirling, twirling, twirling. It flies up, perfectly parallel to the floor when I spin. Why is that so much fun?

Sigh. I'll probably have four more sewn before the summer's over. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

Roasting tomatoes

What's so great about tomatoes, anyway? They have none of the crispness of cucumbers, none of the earthiness of parsley. They lack the suavity of zucchini or eggplant. They're not as sweet as corn or carrots, nor as bright as broccoli. And it's not like they have a patent on being round and red: look at apples! Why are we so entranced, bewitched by these seedy, pulp-filled sauce bombs?

Alright. I admit that's a dumb question. We are a household enraptured by tomatoes. Fresh, canned, sauced, or dried; made into salsa or ketchup or pesto, we are under their spell.

Strangely, though, it had been awhile since tomatoes had headlined a meal at our house. Too absorbed with deliberate potato consumption, we'd overlooked our vivacious, ruby-red jars of tomatoes for the past few months. What on earth came over us?

All it took was the thought of homemade pizza, and a feature in April's Bon Appetit, to drag us out of our irreverie.
I'd never roasted tomatoes before. After last night, I may roast them every day.

It's easy: preheat to 375 degrees, cut the little suckers in half (lengthwise), lay them cut-side up on a cookie sheet, sprinkle with olive oil, oregano, and salt, slide them in and walk away for an hour. Here's the recipe, as it appeared in Bon Appetit.

Roasted Tomato Sauce

2 pounds plum tomatoes, halved lengthwise
4 tbsp olive oil, divided
salt, for sprinkling
1 tbsp dried oregano
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 cup tomato paste

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spread tomatoes, cut-side-up, on a cookie sheet, and sprinkle with salt, oregano, and 2 tbsp of the olive oil. Roast for 45 minutes to an hour, until lightly browned around the edges. Puree tomatoes in a food processor. Set aside. Meanwhile, saute garlic in the remaining olive oil until lightly browned. Add the processed tomatoes and the tomato paste, and cook, stirring, until mixture is reduced to an acceptable pizza sauce consistency. I let mine simmer for about ten minutes. This recipe yields enough for at least two 12-inch pies; it would also be stellar on pasta.

Breakfast for a crowd

At 11 am Saturday morning, I stood in our living room and surveyed the passel of snoring bodies which had taken over our house in the night. We were hosting a band from out-of-town; I was prepared for two or three people, maybe, but this morning, here in our house, there were seven. I looked around in bewilderment, hurriedly calculating the quantities of eggs, coffee, and orange juice I might need to satiate the appetites which would soon awaken.

Who are these people, and how do I feed them? That was the big question. Tiptoeing to the kitchen, I brewed some tea and escorted a heap of cookbooks to the countertop. I was the classic frazzled hostess.

This was another one of those times when being a culinary collector paid off. Of eggs and of milk, I had ample supply. Of frozen fruits which might be employed in a compote or syrup, I had more than enough. Of flours, I had eight different kinds!

The menu was decided on, the husband was sent to the store for butter and (gasp!) bacon, and gradually as snow melting, the household began to awaken.

Our kitchen door slowly began admitting drowsy people, about one every twenty minutes, regular as a pipette. Coffee and tea were administered, small talk was made. Someone was conscripted to cook the bacon.

You can get to know people faster in the kitchen than any other place in the house. I believe this. Strangers become worthy acquaintances; acquaintances become friends. All the most meaningful social behaviors take place in the kitchen: the excuse-me and the I'm-just-gonna-sneak-in-behind-you-here, the would-you-like-tea?, the oh-don't-bother-with-those. Slowly, I was learning about the folks who filled my kitchen, and I was enjoying it. As I thought about how nice it was to get to know people like this, these lyrics popped into my head:

As we come and go

In sunshine and in rain

Some years are seen more clearly than the rest

And if it weren't for kitchen songs,

and mornings spent with friends

We all might lose the things we love the best.

~Kate Wolf, The Trumpet Vine

Buckwheat Waffles for a Crowd

1 cup butter, melted and cooled

6 eggs

3 cups buttermilk

1 1/2 cups buckwheat flour

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

4 tbsp sugar

4 tsp baking powder

1 1/2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp orange zest

1/2 tsp salt

Begin preheating your waffle iron. In one bowl, combine all the dry ingredients. In another bowl, beat the eggs with an electric mixer until fluffy, and beat in the cooled butter and buttermilk. Dump the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, and stir until well combined. I used a whisk to break up the flour-lumps. A warning: the batter will seem suspiciously thin. It will work anyway, though. Make your waffles according to the instructions from your machine.

This recipe made a TON of waffles-- enough to feed eight people with three waffles leftover.

Simple Raspberry Sauce

5 cups frozen raspberries

~ 1/2 cup sugar

Put the raspberries in a saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring regularly, until your frozen berries melt and give up their wonderful berry juices. Stir in the sugar, adding more (or less) if your berries are particularly tart (or sweet). Cook about twenty minutes more, stirring frequently, until thickened. Serve warm with waffles.