Curried Cauliflower Soup

Well hello, January. Here I am, nine days in and still trying to catch up and wrap my brain about 2013 and what it means. At the moment, we're all about packing up Christmas (we just said good-bye to our tiny twinkly tree this morning), organizing the books and closets and doing a massive de-cluttering. 

This curried cauliflower soup, from Andrew Weil's newest cookbook, True Food, is the perfect complement to all that external tidying and organization. It's simple to make and so delicious you'd never guess its vegan. When I eat it, it helps me feel healthy inside and out, like I am perfectly attuned to  both my body and my physical world. I hope it makes you feel just as good. Happy New Year, may your days be merry and bright.

Curried Cauliflower Soup
In the headnotes to this recipe Andrew Weil recommends using orange cauliflower if you can find it. I couldn't, but discovered that the added spices turn the soup a lovely orange color. I also found that when using a Vitamix it wasn't necessary to strain the homemade cashew milk (oh the glories of the Vitamix!) Enjoy.

1/3 cup raw cashews
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
1 large head of cauliflower, cut into one-inch pieces
1 (14 oz) can light coconut milk
2 tablespoons curry powder
1 teaspoon ground tumeric
1 teaspoon ground cumin
salt

Garnish: caramelized onions, chopped cilantro

Put the cashews in a blender and blend until finely ground. Add 3/4 cup water and blend for two minutes. Pour the cashew mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into a bowl, pressing on solids with the back of a spoon. Discard the solids. 

In a large pot, heat the olive oil over low hear. Add the onion and saute until golden. Add the cauliflower, coconut milk, strained cashew milk, curry powder, tumeric, and cumin and salt as needed. Add enough water to cover. Bring to a low boil, reduce the heat, and simmer till the cauliflower is tender, about 10 minutes. 

Blend the soup with an immersion blender until smooth. Ladle into bowls and serve garnished with a pile of caramelized onions and chopped cilantro. 

Makes 10 cups, 4 to 6 servings

Pumpkin Leek Soup

After I posted last week about ways to bring autumn inside, I got a lot of comments about soup. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to know why I hadn't said anything at all about the autumnal comfort a simmering pot of soup on the stove provides.

But what you may not have realized (though Tea smartly blew my cover on Twitter!) was that the real driving force behind this post was my attempt to create the cozy smells and sights of fall in San Francisco -- a place where there's nary a colored leaf to be found. It has also been hot. On Monday, it was nearly 80 degrees. A simmering pot of soup on the stove in 80 degree heat? No thank you.

But, those cold, foggy days do come. And Halloween night was one of them. So I had the tiniest of dinner parties, one where I fixed my normal weeknight stuff, but maybe a wee bit fancier, and invited my dear friend Meg over to share in a hearty bowl of pumpkin leek soup.

I was secretly hoping that we might actually get a trick-or-treater so I could hand out one of the small bags of m&ms I had at the ready, but it was not to be. All the cool kids ring other people's door bells, I guess.

But we did have meat and cheese plate, with a bright orange, super salty cheese from France and sliced salami from Fino In Fondo, a salumi operation run by friends-of-friends in McMinnville, Oregon. And we had a salad bursting with CSA goodness: roasted yellow gypsy peppers, apple chunks, spiced pumpkin seeds, and greens. And we had soup. Soup that was made from a small, gnarled, knobby green pumpkin that I roasted in the oven, scooped out the sweet insides and mixed, along with broth from the freezer and a few spices and some cream, into a slightly-lumpy-in-all-the-best-ways, thoroughly autumnal soup. Are you happy now?

After we finished, Meg taught Sean the basics of Instagramming and we ate pumpkin shaped sugar cookies, blondies, and candy corn. Pretty autumnal, yes? 

Pumpkin Leek Soup
From Savor the Memories by Marguerite Marceau Henderson
4 Tablespoons butter
2 large leeks, white part only, cleaned and thinly sliced
2 teaspoons dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
2 cups pumpkin puree (I roasted and scooped the meat from a small pumpkin that yielded almost exactly two cups flesh). 
4 cups broth (vegetable or chicken)
2 Tablespoons brown sugar (optional -- my fresh pumpkin was quite sweet)
1 and 1/2 cups half-and-half

In a large saucepan, heat butter and saute the leeks for 8 to 10 minutes on low heat, stirring often. Leeks should be soft and golden. Add the thyme, nutmeg, salt, pepper, pumpkin, broth, and sugar (if using). Stir, cover and simmer for 15 minutes. Taste for seasoning. Add half-and-half and simmer another 10 minutes. Serve with garnishes of sour cream, chopped green onions, and grated white cheddar cheese. 

Serves 6-8

A Simple Autumn Lunch

When Sean's mom gave us an entire set of Staub cookware a couple of years ago, I remember wondering what on earth I would do with the tiniest of the lot, a little casserole that would only hold about a cup of anything. 

I almost gave it to Goodwill but didn't, thinking it might come in handy someday -- maybe for meals or tea parties for someone small and energetic? But now, almost exactly two years later, it's become one of my favorite kitchen items. 

Here's what changed: First, autumn happened. September and October are notoriously warm in the Bay Area but there's still been a shift. And all of a sudden I'm craving fewer salads and more warm and cozy foods. 

Second, we added an egg delivery to our weekly CSA and a healthy dozen arrives every Thursday afternoon. There's just one problem -- Sean doesn't like eggs. Or, to be more specific, he doesn't like "separate eggs." In a pinch, a frittata or strata will be tolerated, and there's no aversion at all to rich baked goods packed with yolks. He'll even gobble carbonara (weird, I know). But dinners that involve just "throwing an egg on it" don't fly. So, I've been eating a lot of eggs lately, and mostly for lunch.

A couple of weeks ago I came up with the totally-obvious-yet-still-brilliant idea of warming leftovers (farro, coconut rice, couscous, rice and beans, roasted pepper and tomato salad) in the tiny Staub and then cracking an egg over the top and setting the toaster oven to broil. 

The resulting egg is perfect. One crack with the tines of a fork and whatever is underneath is drowned in rich, runny, marigold colored yolk. Add a sprinkle of salt and a few minutes for the lot to cool -- warning, it does emerge dangerously hot -- and you've got lunch. It's simple, elegant, and oh so satisfying. 

My hunch is that these tiny Staubs (or Le Cruset) might be pretty easy to find thrifted or on sale, simply because people aren't sure quite what to do with them. So if you see one, add it to your collection. I think almost any leftover tastes better with a good egg cracked on top, and the presentation can't be beat. Needless to say, this makes a great dinner for one or two (how adorable would it be to have a matching set of these?!) and the cleanup is a dream. This is truly a one dish meal. 

One final note: My broil setting is auto timed for about 10 minutes but I find pulling it at 8 minutes is great if you like your eggs nice and runny, which I do.  


Bon Appetit!

Making a Real Dinner: Fried Farro and Dark Greens

Here's a dish I simply must tell you about: Fried Farro and Dark Greens. I made it for the first time in Point Reyes, but it's snuck into our weeknight rotation at least two times since. It's easy. It's healthy. It's the perfect meal if I'm eating alone and the leftovers are just as good the next day for lunch, hot or cold. Plus, it's extraordinary topped with a fried egg, or alongside roasted chicken or sausage. 

Last night, I used a big bunch of kale as my dark greens and also tossed in a few fresh herbs (marjoram from our CSA box, basil, and parsley). Sean's was served with a pan fried chicken sausage, mine was topped with half an avocado. 

I like to call this kind of dinner "peasant food." Simple and hearty, these aren't always the most attractive dishes but they are -- without fail -- my favorite to consume.

Add in a little farmer's market bread, a chunk of Gruyere, and a bottle of pink wine. Suddenly the mid-weeknight is feeling less frenzied, more authentic. Just the way I like it.

Fried Farro and Dark Greens

Adapted from Off the Menu by Marissa Guggiana

1 cup farro

1 bunch dark greens (kale, chard, collard)

3 Tbl. olive oil

2 garlic cloves, chopped

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Spread the dry farro on a sheet pan and toast it until a little brown, about 10 minutes. Toasting the farro will enhance the flavor. Note: Alternately, I've done this step in the toaster oven (simply toast the grain) as well as pan toasting it in a hot frying pan before cooking the grain. All methods work well.

Coarsely chop the dark greens. In a medium saucepan, bring 3 cups of water to a boil and add the greens. Cook over high heat for 5 to 8 minutes; drain and set aside. 

Combine the toasted farro with 2½ cups salted water in the saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower to a simmer, cover and cook for 20 to 30 minutes or until done. Drain the farro.

Heat a medium cast-iron skillet or other heavy-bottomed pan over medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, and the garlic. Stir-fry for a few minutes, until the onion is just tender and beginning to brown. Add the farro along with the remaining tablespoon of oil and continue to fry to encourage browning, constantly stirring to avoid burning, about 6 to 7 minutes. After the farro is fried, add about 2 cups (or more) of the cooked greens and warm through. Serve immediately.

Green Pea Soup

A few weeks ago I made pea soup for M.F.K. Fisher. It sounds kind of silly, but I like to celebrate her birthday every year. I feel sort of like she's my kindred spirit/fairy godmother and to honor her birthday just feels right. I typically make a big, three course meal, drink lots of rose or Champagne, and then ease into the 4th of July celebration. It works. 

This year I was feeling a bit more retro in my approach. Maybe it was because I had just finished reading The Help and was seriously obsessed with the idea of making a layer cake. But it was also because as I've gotten a bit older, I've begun to think of Fisher's creative life a little differently. 

After I turned in the manuscript for An Extravagant Hunger, I got to work curating pieces to include in two new books of Fisher's writing: Love in a Dish and Musings on Wine and Other Libations. Both are collections of "lesser known" Fisher pieces. The books include a lot of pieces that she wrote for magazines like House Beautiful, Holiday, and House and Garden. These are not the lyrical wanderings of a girl eating bread and chocolate on a French country hillside. This is the work she did for pay. The articles with menus for June bridal lunches helped get food on the table and care for her two little girls. 

I've long believed that Fisher felt alienated by the prissy, ultra-feminine, domestic culture that was so prevalent in the Post World War II 1950s. The magazine pieces she wrote during that time embraced the zeitgeist, but they don't really reflect how she felt about food and nourishment. In fact, I think that culture (in addition to her family responsibilities) may be why she didn't publish more during this time. 

I understand more than I used to how hard it is to write for pay versus writing for love. And maybe that's what I was trying to honor with this menu -- Fisher's creativity and talent, her ambition and her hard working attitude. Because there is a difference in the work we do for love and the work we do because we need to work. 

We began with pea soup, followed by chilled chicken-tarragon salad and greens, a cheese plate, and a towering chocolate cake with strawberry icing. Note: I don't really think Fisher was a layer cake kind of gal. But I do think she was a woman of convictions, and I was convinced I needed to bake a cake. Tout suite. 

The pea soup was, of course, a direct homage to Fisher who wrote several times about peas grown on a Switzerland hillside:

"But what really mattered, what piped the high unforgettable tune of perfection, were the peas, which came from their hot pot onto our thick china plates in a cloud, a kind of miasma, of everything that anyone could ever want from them, even in a dream. I recalled the three basic requisites, according to Fanny Farmer and Escoffier... and again I recalled Sidney Smith, who once said that his idea of Heaven (and he was a cleric!) was pate de foie gras to the sound of trumpets. Mine, that night and this night too, is fresh garden peas, picked and shelled by my friends, to the sound of a cowbell."

{From P is for Peas, from An Alphabet for Gourmets by M.F.K. Fisher}

Is this soup heaven? Who knows. But it sure seemed perfect that night.

Fresh Pea Soup

From the Barefoot Contessa At Home

Ina notes: This soup can be served hot or cold. If served cold, allow the flavors to chill in the fridge for a bit. If you can't find fresh peas, frozen are just fine. 

I note: Who wants to shell 5 cups of fresh peas? Frozen are fine.

2 Tablespoons unsalted butter

2 cups chopped leeks, white and green parts (2 leeks)

1 cup chopped yellow onion

4 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade

5 cups shelled peas or two 10 oz packages frozen peas

2/3 cup fresh mint leaves, loosely packed

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper

1/2 cup creme fraiche

1/2 cup chopped fresh chives

Garlic Croutons, for serving

Heat the butter in a large saucepan, add the leeks and onion, and cook over medium-low heat for 5 to 10 minutes, until the onion is tender. Add the chicken stock, increase the heat to high, and bring to a boil. Add the peas and cook 3 to 5 minutes, until the peas are tender. (Frozen peas will take only 3 minutes). Off the heat add the mint, salt, and pepper

Puree the soup in batches: place 1 cup of soup in a blender with the lid on top and puree on low. With the blender still running, open the vent hole and slowly add more soup until the blender is 3/4 full. Pour the soup into a large bowl and repeat till all the soup is pureed. Whisk in the creme fraiche and chives and taste for seasoning. Serve with garlic croutons. 

Garlic Croutons

1/2 loaf good bakery white bread (French, Italian) sliced 1/2 inch thick

1 large garlic clove

2 tablespoons good garlic oil

Kosher salt and black pepper

Remove crusts from bread slices and cut into 1/2 inch thick cubes. 

Crush the garlic with the side of a large chef's knife and discard the peel. In a medium sautee pan, heat the olive oil over medium heat and add the garlic. Cook for 1 minute until the garlic starts to brown, and then discard the garlic. Add the bread cubes, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and cook over medium heat, tossing occasionally, until browned on all sides. 

Vacation Meals

Just a taste of what we've been eating while living in a cabin in Pt. Reyes for two weeks.

Wine and Pizza

This pretty little book has gotten some pretty nice press in the past couple of days. Did you see it in T: The New York Times Style Blog or The San Francisco Chronicle? I'm so proud. 

What's your favorite wine to drink in summertime?

Last night I had a glass of Pey- Marin Riesling while I was making dinner. Crisp and dry and lightly floral, I think it would be perfect with oysters. Instead it helped make my job of tackling homemade pizza a little easier.

Here's what I learned last night: if I want crispy, thin crust pizza, I can't make it at home. But if I want doughy, bread-like pizza it may be worth it to wrangle the sticky dough, spread it as thin as possible with oil-slicked fingers, and pray as I'm topping it with homemade tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, and basil.

It's also good to remember that if it turns out the pizza is a little too flabby in the middle, I can always stick it back in the oven while I focus on eating pizza numero due, which is spread with a mint-fava bean puree, sliced zucchini, and lumps of fresh ricotta.

But the real lesson is that pizza tastes good almost any time, even if it isn't perfect. Also, wine helps.

Here's what I think we're having for dinner tonight. You?

A Girl And Her Pig, and a Lentil & Chickpea Salad

The other day I was talking with my friend Meg about being a "late adopter." We both have brand new i-phones and were discussing why (why?) it had taken us so long to bite the bullet and purchase one of these sleek new machines. It turns out we're also the kind of people that wait before buying a book we know we're going to love and abstain from heading the theater the first weekend a movie we're excited about is released. We decided maybe, just maybe, that there's a bit of stubbornness involved. That we don't want to be told we're going to like something, we want to figure it out for ourselves. 

Such was the case with the new cookbook A Girl and Her Pig.

I rolled my eyes when it arrived. April Bloomfield is on the front, a pig draped around her neck like an elegant feather boa. She's a celebrity chef, known for her restaurants in New York (The Spotted Pig, The Breslin, The John Dory Oyster Bar), and her gutsy menus of Euro/British inspired pub food.

I had brunch at The Breslin in December. What I remember more than the food was the huge (beer pint sized) latte from The Ace Hotel's Stumptown Coffee. (It had been a long, late night.) I've walked by The Spotted Pig a dozen times. It's on one of those crazy corners in the Village that I don't think I could find if pressed, but always manage to stumble upon while wandering. I hear the burger at the Spotted Pig is killer, but I've never had it.

The point, of course, is that the decision that I'm not going to like April Bloomfield's cookbook is based on nothing but stubbornness. Thank goodness for a rainy Friday, a hot bath, and the Dalai Lama.

The book arrived in the mail on one of those days where the sky opens up and spews rain. Around 4PM, instead of going to my favorite yoga class, I sank into a steaming bath with the contents of the day's mail, including A Girl and Her Pig. I didn't care if it got wet because I didn't care about it. It was going to be given away or sold or something.

But then, I kind of liked it. The best part of the book, written with JJ Goode, it that it has a distinctive voice. I don't know what April Bloomfield sounds like when she talks, but sentences like this are written with such a strong voice I can hear and see her:

"I loved Sundays. That was when my nan had us over for roast lunch, often pork with all manner of veg, much of it copiously buttered. (The next morning, we'd make "bubble and squeak" with the leftovers, forming little patties and frying them up, then eating them topped with a fried egg.) And later there was tea, not just the drink,  but the meal: my dad would set out a spread of cakes, like Battenberg and Mr. Kipling Bakewell Tarts, and crisps and sandwiches of strawberry jam or cucumber or ham." 

There's also illustrations that look like they were cut from a 1960s cookbook, an energetic cursive font, and chapter headings that could have been twee (meat without feet; the not-so-nasty-bits; potato and friends) but are charming. Never mind that I'm never, ever going to roast a lamb's head or make a tongue sandwich. I'm inspired!

Enter the Dalai Lama -- or rather the Dalai Lama's brother. Sean drove off early Saturday morning to attend a "teaching" with the DL's bro. (Did you even bother to think if the Dalai Lama has a brother? He does.) And I drove off to have coffee with a friend. I wanted to share the cookbook with her, so I packed it with me. By the end of our date it was raining hard enough that I had an intense urge to hunker down, so I drove directly to the grocery store. In the parking lot I hatched a plan: I was going to make something from A Girl and Her Pig.

I picked, at random, the Lentil and Chickpea Salad with Feta and Tahini. This seemingly simple salad took longer than expected to execute, reminding me that sometimes these celebrity chefs aren't respectful of the home cook's time. But it was worth it. Bloomfield calls it a "jumble of different textures and flavors.... It's completely vegetarian, and yet somehow, when I take a bite the cumin, the funky cheese, and the sesame seeds all conspire to create a flavor that I swear reminds me of roasted lamb."

It is indeed savory, and good enough to eat alone, though we paired it with good sausages. I like to think that's what any self-respecting British celebrity chef would do.

Lentil and Chickpea Salad with Feta and Tahini
Bloomfield says, "you might be tempted to follow a recipe loosely --I know I often am-- but on your first go, please try it my way. Then once you've made it two or three times, feel free to tweak as you like." 

For the lentils:
Scant 1 cup dried Puy or Casteluccio lentils, picked and rinsed over
2 large garlic cloves, halved lengthwise
2 sage sprigs
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

For the dressing and salad
2 teaspoons coriander seeds, toasted and ground
1 teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted and ground
1/2 large garlic clove
maldon or another flaky sea salt
2 tablespoons well stirred tahini paste
about 1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil
1 and 3/4 cups drained chickpeas, low sodium if canned
1/2 small preserved lemon, pith and flesh discarded, rind finely diced
1 very small red onion, thinly sliced into half-moons
A handful of small, delicate cilantro sprigs
A scant 1/4 cup feta, preferably goat's milk
1 and 1/2 tablespoons raw sesame seeds, toasted in a dry pan till a shade or two darker

Make the lentils: Put the lentils, garlic, sage, and olive oil in a small pot, along with 2 cups cold water, and set it over medium heat. Let the water come to a simmer (don't let it boil), then turn the heat to low and cook the lentils in a very gentle simmer just until they are tender  -- about 25 minutes. Take the pan off the heat and let the lentils cool, then drain them very well and pick out and discard the sage and garlic. You'll have about 2 cups cooked lentils.

Make the dressing: Mix together the ground coriander and cumin in a small bowl. Mash the garlic clove to a paste with 1 teaspoon salt in a mortar. Combine the mashed garlic, the tahini paste, 3 tablespoons of the lemon juice, 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, 1 teaspoon of the ground spice mixture, and 2 tablespoons water in a bowl. Stir the mixture well. Have a taste and consider adding another teaspoon of lemon.

Assemble the salad: Toss the lentils with the drained chickpeas, preserved lemon rind, and 1 teaspoon salt in a large mixing bowl. Pour in the tahini dressing and toss it all together really well.
Put the onion slices in a medium bowl and break them up with your fingers. Sprinkle in 2 good pinches of salt, then add two teaspoons of lemon juice. Add the 2 remaining teaspoons olive oil and the cilantro and toss gently but well. Crumble in the cheese. Give it another gentle toss.
Scatter a few handfuls of the chickpea-lentil mixture onto a large platter in one layer. Scrape the onion and cheese mixture into the bowl with the rest of the lentils and chickpeas and toss it gently so the ingredients are well distributed but the cilantro stays pert. Scatter this mixture on top of the lentils and chickpeas on the platter. Sprinkle on some of the remaining spice mixture and then the sesame seeds and serve.

Back again, with peach-whiskey chicken

And then, after nearly two weeks of eating alone, Sean came home. Hurrah!

And there was nothing else to do but make a man meal. You know the kind of meal I'm talking about. It's rich, it's meaty, it's probably filled with all sorts of things (ample butter, pounds of pasta, maybe a little meat-on-meat action) that you'd shy away from making on an average Monday.

And I must have missed him because I picked a doozy of a recipe to make for dinner. Instead of pulling a cozy favorite of the shelf (Silver Palate, or The Barefoot Contessa at Home), I cracked open The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food From My Frontier.

Let it be known, that although I have a deep affection for the pioneer life (born and raised in Utah, deeply devoted to sun bonnets and Laura Ingalls Wilder), I'm not a Pioneer Woman fan girl. But I can say this: Thank you, Ree Drummond, for making me believe that it is okay to start a week with a dinner that requires chicken legs, whiskey, a jar of jam, and four cups of BBQ sauce. Not to mention butter laced mashed potatoes.

Of course, I had to make this recipe my own. I started by making a double batch of my Grandfather's BBQ sauce. Once the chicken was cooking, instead of adding a jar of store bought peach jam I added homemade nectarine preserves. Fresh sliced peaches? There are none to be found in March. The chopped parsley garnish was replaced with cilantro. And I just didn't have the time to make mashed potatoes. Baked Yukon Gold, split, and topped with a healthy dollop of butter seemed to do just fine.

I'm enclosing the original recipe, both to give credit where credit is due, and to encourage going-with-the-flow. There's a lot of craziness in my life right now, and I find it helps to not have too many grand expectations -- or to stress too much about the little details. No peaches? No problem. Preserved nectarines will do just fine.

Peach-Whiskey Chicken
Recipe from The Pioneer Woman. Recipe presented in Pioneer Woman style, with step-by-step photos.

2 Tablespoons olive oil
2 Tablespoons butter
12 chicken legs, skin on
1 yellow onion, diced
1 1/2 cups whiskey
4 cups BBQ sauce
1 cup peach preserves
2 Tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
4 peaches, pitted and sliced into 8 slices each
Mashed potatoes, for serving
3 green onions thinly sliced
Chopped fresh parsley

Pre-heat the oven to 300 degrees. Heat the olive oil and the butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Cook the chicken pieces until golden brown on all sides, about 5 minutes. Remove from the skillet and set aside.

Add the onion to the skillet. Stir and cook over medium heat for about 3 minutes, or until translucent. Pour in the whiskey, taking care if you're cooking over an open flame. Cook for 3 minutes or so, allowing the whiskey to cook and reduce. If it seems appropriate, use that 3 minutes to pour some more whiskey and make a cocktail.

 

Grab your favorite bottled BBQ sauce and add it to the pan. Add the peach preserves, Worcestershire sauce, and 1/2 cup water, then whisk to combine. It won't look like much, but it will smell amazing.

Add the chicken back to the pan, then throw in the fresh peaches (if using).

Cover the skillet with a lid or aluminum foil and place in the oven for 90 minutes. When it emerges, the chicken will be tender and falling off the bone... the sauce will be beautiful, thick, and rich. You'll know it's done.

 Serve the chicken over a big mound of potatoes, spooning sauce over the whole thing. Sprinkle with green onions and parsley.

Make sure the table is set with paper napkins, you're in for a saucy night.

Macaroni & Cheese with Mushrooms & Chard

Today I want to talk about plans, and how we have a tendency to get all hoity-toity about our goals and loudly broadcast our epiphanies and then -- as if to prove who's really in charge -- the universe makes us topple.

That's how it's been around here for the past couple of weeks: Challenging. So challenging that if you pressed me, I might say it's March but when I check the calendar it turns out that nope, we're just past the middle of January.

I've been hiding from the world a bit, escaping into Mad Men (can you believe I never caught that bug before?), reading (The Sense of an Ending, Foreign Bodies, The Lonely Polygamist, Just Kids, and now, Coming to My Senses), and knitting. There has been lots and lots of knitting. I'd forgotten how much I love the rhythmic click of the needles and the feeling of accomplishment that comes from simply finishing another row.

There was also this macaroni and cheese. Remember way back at the beginning of the month when I vowed we were going to eat healthy: Less meat and less wine? Well, it's worked, more or less, with the exception of a tiny stand-off about macaroni and cheese.

"There isn't meat in it," Sean said. He's right, of course, even though I'm thinking, "It certainly isn't healthy!" And truth be told I don't really love macaroni and cheese -- even homemade -- and I certainly never crave it. But he had a small fever and was home from work for the day and so I made it, wilted greens, dehydrated mushrooms, bechamel sauce and all, and you know, it was good.

But what I'll remember more than the crispy breadcrumb topping, or how it paired so perfectly with a tiny glass of crisp French Chardonnay, is taking photos of my just-out-of-the-oven casserole.

"That photo is terrible!" you think. And you're right. But what's a girl to do? She has this heavy dish full of steaming pasta and she can hear her new husband on the phone receiving some very bad news. She doesn't know if she should go sit beside him and grab his hand, or leave him for a moment to process what might be happen next.

So she turns on every light in the house, as bright as they can get. And she takes photo after terrible photo of the macaroni. Close up. Far away. On the floor, on the table, on a bright dishtowel that has a cheerfulness that mocks the gravity of the situation. Each photo is worse than the one before, the shadows darker, the light alternately sickly green or stark florescent. But it feels oddly apt to be documenting -- even in a very small way -- the exact moment when everything started to change. And when the phone was finally hung up, there was nothing to do but eat.

Macaroni and Cheese with Mushrooms and Chard
Adapted from The Beekman 1802 Heirloom Cookbook
3/4 lb. chard, stems cut from leaves (about 5 1/2 cups) -- original recipe calls for kale, so you know
8 ounces elbow macaroni
1/2 ounce (1/2 cup) dried porcini mushrooms, rinsed
3 tablespoons olive oik
4 garlic cloves, minced
3/4 pound crimini mushrooms, halved and thinly sliced
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon sage
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoon sweet smoked paprika
1 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups sharp cheddar cheese
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup panko bread crumbs

In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook the chard for 5-7 minutes. With a slotted spoon, transfer the chard to a colander, but keep the pot of water boiling. Run the chard under cold water to stop the cooking, and then drain and squeeze out any liquid. Coarsely chop and set aside.
Add the macaroni to the boiling chard cooking water and cook according to package directions. Drain.
In a small bowl, combine the dried porcini with 1 cup warm water. Let stand until the mushrooms have softened, about 20 minutes. With your fingers, lift the mushrooms from their soaking liquid, leaving the grit behind. Line a fine mesh sieve with paper towels, a coffee filter, or cheesecloth. Pour the mushroom soaking liquid through the sieve into a bowl. Reserve the liquid. Coarsely chop the mushrooms.
Preheat oven to 325F.
In a large, heavy bottomed pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until tender, about 2 minutes. Add the mushrooms, thyme, and sage and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms have wilted and released their juices, about 5 minutes. Stir in the flour and cook for 2 minutes. Add the mushroom soaking liquid, milk, paprika, and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture has thickened, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the cheese until melted. Add the macaroni and chard, and toss to coat.
Transfer pasta to a 9x13 dish or spoon into individual ramekins.
In a small skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the panko and toss to coat. Scatter the butter crumbs over the mac and cheese. Bake for 30 minutes, or until the sauce is bubbling and the top is crunchy and golden brown.

Herb, Chard, and Feta Soup (And an Epiphany)

“Life is always changing.” 

Yes, I thought from my downward dog position, watching the San Francisco sunlight pour into the yoga studio, feeling my shoulder protest the deepest stretch. Yes, it is. 

Change. It’s something we’re all aware of, something so ubiquitous that mentions of it quickly begin to sound overly yogic or Zen, especially when they are pounded into our brains in this week after the dawn of a New Year. We’re collectively encouraged to make resolutions (though now, the popular thing seems to be to call them “intentions”), clean up, cut back, and start fresh.  

I’m into this concept of self-renewal. Though I didn’t take down the tiny tree, the collection of penguins on the mantle, or the merry line of cheerful cards just yet, I did scour the fridge, organize the laundry and utility closet, and go through a jumbo stack of papers and old to-do lists. We committed to trying to eat vegetarian for the entire month, and vowed to limit the booze. It felt good, like I was setting the tone for a productive 2012, a year where I’d never feel flustered or behind. 

But the real revelation came when I was making soup: Herb, Chard, and Feta soup from the January 2012 issue of Bon Appetit magazine. The instructions were simple. After tossing a bunch of chard and herbs into a pot along with some vegetable stock, you blend the cooked greens and top with feta, Greek yogurt, lemon juice and more herbs. 

Here’s where things got funky. With immersion blender in one hand, I stared down the pot and felt my stomach sway. The greens looked swamp-like, and I had an immediate memory of a rank, raw green juice I choked down one hot New York day. 

You see, I grew up not eating anything green. There was no lettuce, no celery sticks, and certainly no spinach, broccoli, or chard. I didn’t even eat guacamole. I think I may have made an exception for asparagus, but that’s not much of a compromise, is it? This changed quickly, in my early twenties, as my mother promised it would, and now I eat greens in abundance. 

Still, the soupy sludge was testing me. I thought about the decades where I never ate a vegetable and how they led to this confrontation, this Me vs. Chard Soup Showdown. I thought about this time two years ago when I was broken-hearted, and how I met Sean, miraculously, on Epiphany. About how this time last year I wasn’t married, and now I am, and how this time last year I was an anxious, about-to-be-published writer, now I’m an anxious published writer. 

Life is always changing. Sometimes the change comes from decisions we make: Resolutions, intentions, to-do lists, whatever. And sometimes the change comes from within, or around. Sometimes the change is quick. Other times it is so subtle and collective that you’re not even aware of the blunt force of it all until you’re left alone in the kitchen, two days into a new year, with an immersion blender and a pot of green soup, marveling at just how far you’ve come. 

Herb, Chard, and Feta Soup

Once I got past my fear of this green brew, I fell in love with this Yotam Ottolenghi recipe from the January issue of Bon Appetit. The soup is savory, silky, and has a richness that belies its 100% healthful ingredients. The best part may be that it keeps for a day or two and makes for vibrant lunch leftovers. I recommend stocking up on the crumbled feta; we found we liked the soup best when it was liberally sprinkled with cheese.

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, coarsely chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 pound Swiss chard leaves (center ribs and stems removed) or spinach, coarsely chopped (about 10 cups)

3 1/2 cups vegetable broth

1 cup coarsely chopped flat-leaf parsley

1/2 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro

1/4 cup fresh mint leaves

1 tablespoon dried mint

1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

salt and freshly ground black pepper 

Garnishes:

5 ounces plain Greek-style yogurt (about 1/2 cup)

1/2 cup mixed chopped herbs (such as parsley, cilantro, and mint), divided

4 ounces feta, crumbled, divided

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Fresh lemon juice (optional)

Olive oil (optional) 

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and garlic and cook, stirring often, until translucent and soft (do not brown), 7–8 minutes. Stir in chard, broth, parsley, cilantro, fresh and dried mint, and nutmeg. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer, stirring occasionally, until chard is tender, about 10 minutes. Stir in lemon juice and season to taste with salt and pepper. Working in batches, purée soup in a blender until smooth. Return to pan. DO AHEAD: Can be made 8 hours ahead. Cover and chill. Rewarm soup before continuing. 

Place 1/3 of yogurt in a medium bowl. Add 1/2 cup warm soup; whisk until smooth. Repeat process twice more, adding a total of 1 cup more soup. Whisk yogurt mixture into soup in saucepan. Stir 1/4 cup herbs and half of feta into soup. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and lemon juice, if desired. 

Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with remaining 1/4 cup herbs and 2 oz. feta. Drizzle with oil, if desired.

The Colors of Home

One of the best parts of the holiday week was the abundance of colored leaves on all the trees.

I wasn't expecting much. I had heard rumors of several big storms, and was sure I'd arrive home to bleak trees and lawns piled with dead leaves.

Instead, there was an astonishing array of color: red, yellow, orange, brown and green. The leaves crunched under my feet and the air smelled delightful -- dry and rich, like toast. There were morning walks, evening walks, and pre-Thanksgiving dinner tromps in the Utah foothills. It is, without a doubt, my favorite time of year.

As long as autumn is on the brain, don't you think we better make this pumpkin curry for dinner? Sean and I had it on Halloween and I promise it's so easy and so satisfying.

I'm heading into the kitchen to butcher our last small sugar pie pumpkin now.

Pretty and Ugly: Anchovy Onion Tart

When it comes to writing, one of the things I struggle with most is pretty versus ugly. I want to be honest in my work. But the truth is, it takes skill to produce writing that reveals both the bad and the beautiful. Often it's easier to be glib than it is to invest the time needed to write words that artfully convey the frantic, sugarcoated malaise that is often life.

It's a lot like the conversations most of us have every day:
"How are you?" They ask.
And I say. "Great." "Fine." "Super."

But really, it's always more complicated than that. There are disappointments, and scuffles, and funny things that make me laugh but that nobody else would understand, and stories that are just too long to tell because they require sitting and listening, something we don't do enough of these days.

Already I sound malcontent. But I promise, I'm not. Like everyone, I'm just tired of trying to do it all.  I'm tired of eating out; I'm tired of cooking. I'm tired of laundry and a cluttered house, but who wants to clean up? I'm tired of deadlines and being chained to my computer, and hugely embarrassed that almost every day this week I've worked in my pjs till 3PM.

And so, instead of trying to make it seem like all is easy and perfect in my world, I'm going to be honest. I've been working a lot lately. We've been eating out more than usual, and the rest of the time Sean's been in the kitchen. I've been demoted to breakfast and lunch service (and as we all know, my lunch is usually pretty monastic).

A couple of Sundays ago I did make an onion-anchovy tart. It was inspired by this recipe and article I wrote for FoodShed, but this time, instead of filo, I used the pre-made pizza dough from Whole Foods. You know the stuff -- it costs less than two bucks and all you have to do is plop it on a floured surface, roll it out, spread on the toppings, and bake.

To me, this is the perfect pretty/ugly meal. It isn't exactly a beautiful, but one bite of this intensely savory, salty, and sweet combination will make you realize what a quiet stunner this dish is. It's a meal made for those who feel like they don't have enough time, but it satisfies enough to instantly transport you to Southern France. 

"Hey," you might think. "I really can do it all."

And maybe you can. Or maybe its best if we all (myself included) gave up trying?


***
You can find the Recipe for Anchovy-Onion Tart here. I made the topping as directed, dumped it onto a pre-made pizza crust that had been rolled to 1/4 inch thickness, and baked it in a hot (400 degree) oven for about 20 minutes.

Peasant Beets

The other day, as I was canning some of the fifty-two pounds of tomatoes sitting in my kitchen, I heard the scream of an airplane so close it seemed like it could be right outside our second story window.

"The Blue Angels," I thought to myself as I stuffed slippery cold tomatoes into glass jars. And then it occurred to me: the first time I saw the Blue Angles whizzing over the San Francisco Bay was from the upper deck of the Bay Bridge, as I cruised into town with my jam packed Honda and a U-Haul full of stuff. Apparently, I've now lived in San Francisco for three years.

This got me thinking about this fall, and last fall, and the fall before that, and that very first fall in the city, which was a nice, ponderous thing to do with my hands swimming around in tomatoey juice and pulp. I watched the sun set and thought some more. I pulled on a sweater, poured myself a glass of wine, and wandered into the kitchen.

All the canning had delayed dinner. Sean was sick and I was feeling a tad uninspired. For once, I wished that dealing with food was the equivalent of eating it. Couldn't those tomatoes just feed me by osmosis?

But no. I wanted more. Tired of tomatoes, I turned to the Food52 Cookbook and our diminishing CSA vegetables. The recipe I picked -- peasant beets -- was chosen entirely out of necessity. We had beets. We had chard. We had shallots and butter. That was all.

Soon I found myself peeling beets and slicing them into jeweled discs. While the beets caramelized in butter and shallot and salt and pepper, I chopped the beet greens and chard, then tossed them in the pan and doused the whole thing with a bit of white wine. Within a few minutes, the greens had reduced to a tangle. The beets, now an even deeper ruby color, shone.

We ate late, in the semi-dark. The beets, now piled with the greens on a plate, were accented by soft triangles cut from a round of goat cheese. I scattered a few homemade croutons -- big, olive-oily, crunchy ones -- on top and prepared to take a bite.

I could tell you that the beets were good, that I may never oven-roast beets again, that it was an excellent reminder that beet stems and greens are just as good as their colorful companions.

But it was more than that. I can't really explain it, other than to say the beets reminded me of the person I was when I moved to San Francisco. It was the kind of dish I might have made for myself when I lived alone: sophisticated, French. The simple technique and complex flavor was reminiscent of the style of someone who used to cook for me a lot.

Some people describe fall as mournful. And I can see how it can be. Our social calendar slows down, the trees spill their leaves, the days grow shorter and the temperature drops.

But this meal embraced the sweet and bittersweet of the season. The beets reminded me of me: The old me and the new me.

It was a beautiful and necessary thing. 

Peasant Beets
Adapted slightly from the new Food52 Cookbook (I got an advance copy; it's coming out on 10/25)
3-4 large beets with greens
1 bunch Swiss chard, rinsed and dried
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 shallot, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons white wine
1/2 pound Boucheron or other fine goat cheese, at room temperature, cut into 4 wedges
Crusty peasant-style bread, toasted

Scrub and peel beets. Remove the greens, wash and dry them, and chop coarsely. Set the greens aside in a large prep bowl. Slice the beets into 1/4 inch slices.
Remove the ribs from the Swiss chard and coarsely chop the ribs. Toss the leaves and the ribs into the bowl with the beet greens.
In a large saute pan, melt the butter and saute the shallot over medium heat until softened. Add the beet rounds to the shallot-butter mixture. Toss in a pinch of salt and crack some pepper over the beets. Reduce heat and saute, turning to ensure even cooking, until the beets are beginning to glaze and become tender, about 15 minutes.
Add the beet greens, chard, and chard ribs and saute for about five minutes, then add the wine and cover. Cook until the greens are wilted, adding two tablespoons of water if necessary. Allow the liquid to be mostly absorbed into the greens. Taste and season, if necessary.
Scoop the greens and beets into a shallow bowl. Serve with a generous wedge of goat cheese and crusty, toasted bread.
Serves 2 people as an entree, 4 as a side dish.