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perfect sweetness

Published July 24, 2013 garden fare , pig slop 1 Comment
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I am, like a lot of us, a creature of habit. I thrive on routine. Which is precisely why I appreciate the expansiveness of summer. It shakes up my world in all the best ways.

pea pile

It’s such a treat to stay up late with one last glass of wine on the patio, even though it’s a Tuesday. Or to be able to sneak away to my sweet corn fort to drink my morning coffee in secret. I love veering off course to follow an unexpected line of hot squishy tar with my bare feet.

I like trying to predict if the wind has dramatically altered the water temperature of the Lake Superior bay I’m about to jump into, knowing I’m committed either way. I don’t need an excuse to paint my toes a garish color. Or to make an ice cream run at 3:00 in the afternoon. I can take my yoga out to the warm grass and my hula hoop to the beach.

And I love that I can spoon hot buttered peas over toast and call it dinner. Could there possibly be anything better? I wrangle the last pea into my spoon, and sigh. My head and heart as full as my belly.

toasty peas

Peas on Toast

2 cups shelled peas
3 cloves young, fresh garlic, sliced thin*
2-3 tablespoons butter
2-3 tablespoons broth or stock
1 tablespoon fresh thyme, chopped
coarse or flaked salt and pepper to taste
sliced bread for toast

Warm the butter in a saucepan over low heat. Add the garlic and let it infuse the butter for a few minutes. Stir in the peas, stock, and thyme. Cover and let the peas simmer for about 5 minutes, or until they reach your preferred level of doneness. I like mine to have a little tooth to them. While the peas simmer, make your toast and lightly butter it. Spoon peas over toast and season with salt and pepper. Serves 2.

*If you can’t lay your hands on this season’s fresh garlic, I might omit it. Cured garlic will overpower the perfect sweetness of the peas.

smile power

Published June 18, 2013 bee yard , garden fare , pig slop , rise and shine 8 Comments
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I got my start as a graphic designer laying out ads for a newspaper in southern Minnesota. I had an old fashioned “in and out” box on my desk. Am I dating myself? Ad copy would pile up in the “in” box and finished ads loitered in the “out” box, waiting to be proofed. Every so often our proof reader, Hallie, would come by and empty my “out” box. She’d return my stack a few hours later.

My routine was to pour a cup of coffee and thumb my way through the return pile. Most ads had minor corrections. Ads that were perfect though got a signature Hallie smiley face scrawled with her blue proofer’s pen. Oh how I loved to find a perky little smiley face lurking in the corner. Ads that were really messed up got a confused face. And if an ad came through the proofing rotation more than twice, you could expect an evil stink eye. Shudder.

stink-eye

It quickly became clear to me that Hallie was a master. Nothing got by her. And boy could she draw a smiley face. I marveled at her ability to give a simple little face so much expression. Her faces frequently made my day. I actually started a smiley face file. Every once and a while I’d clip a face until slowly I amassed an envelope full of smileys. And let me tell you, when you’re feeling down and you dump out a pile of smiley faces that someone has drawn, it’s hard not to feel at least a little bit better. It’s been over 10 years since I left the paper, but I still have my envelope of smileys tucked in my desk drawer. Just in case.

The staff at the paper was small and frequently we’d gather together for lunch at the back table, sharing bits and pieces of our lives. Hallie’s kids and grandkids are scattered all over the country and I loved hearing about their lives. She could also talk food and gardening to no end. Truly a woman after my own heart. We shared many meals and swapped many recipes.

ruby-stems

I start every rhubarb season off with a batch of Hallie’s rhubarb muffins. Made with brown sugar, they have a rich carmel flavor that pairs beautifully with tart rhubarb. Last week I baked my third round of Hallie’s muffins in as many weeks. They’re that good. I packed a few muffins and a thermos of tea to take out to the bee yard for a hive check. My two new hives have been limping along with the cold spring weather – which has resulted in me clucking around them like a nervous mother hen.

Out at the bee yard I pull the lid off of hive one and find a gorgeous queen, busy at work. Her brood pattern is good, but it’s still in small patches on the frames. Her hive population is small too – all young nurse bees and not many foragers. I close up the hive and give them a reassuring pat. The situation in hive two, however, is all together brighter. After multiple hive checks, I’ve yet to lay eyes on this queen, but that hardly matters. My heart leaps at her handiwork – frame after frame of perfectly laid brood. In a week or two this hive will be bursting with bees.

I remove my veil and take a seat on an empty pallet for a cup of tea and a muffin. I decide to call the elusive queen in hive two Hallie Frances. She has earned a smiley face, no question. I think I’ll even tape one of Hallie’s smileys to her hive for extra encouragement. I mull over hive one. This queen is younger by a good two weeks. I’m confident that she’ll catch up. Last fall I named the daughter of my all-time favorite queen Ella Bella – after another woman whom I respect and admire (childhood idol turned adulthood inspiration). Sadly this little hive did not get a fair shake and they met their match with this winter’s unrelenting cold. So I decide to call my new underdog queen simply, EB. Hell, maybe I’ll give her a smiley face too. Smile power works – I know.

I pack up and test the voltage on the electric bear fence before I go. Finally I can relax. I’m heading into the summer bee season with two strong ladies at the helm. And that, makes me smile.

yippee!

Hallie Francis’s Rhubarb Muffins
I don’t care for overly sweet rhubarb baked goods, so I do not pack the brown sugar. I also prefer a very rhubarby muffin. Adjust both to suit your taste.

1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup oil (something neutral like canola)
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 1/2 cup flour
1/2 teaspoon soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 1/2 – 2 cups rhubarb, chopped
1/2 cup nuts (optional)

Cream together brown sugar, oil, egg, and vanilla. Mix together dry ingredients and add to creamed mixture alternately with the buttermilk. Fold in rhubarb and optional nuts. Batter will be thick and sticky. Fill muffin tins 3/4 full and bake at 400º for 20 minutes. Makes 1 1/2 dozen regular muffins.

https://garlicpig.com/2012/09/27/season-finale/

key players

Published June 10, 2013 garden fare , pig slop , sauces, salsas, preserves 4 Comments
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I’m hopelessly fickle when it comes to salads. One meal I fall hard for a fiery greek number studded with olives and the next I’m all about avocados laced with sprouts. Days later I’ll proclaim shaved asparagus with lemon and parmesan the best salad ever. I can’t help it. I’m in love with them all.

spring love

But if I absolutely had to pick my most treasured salad, it would have to be the first, no-frills lettuce salad straight from the spring garden. I change it up depending on what’s available, but my go to combination is a head of velvety buttercrunch lettuce tossed with thin radish slices and scallions.

I realize this is hardly a fair time of year to be making such sweeping declarations, but this one I can defend. Even when the sturdy greens of fall start rolling in, I’ll hold tight. A garlicky caesar based kale salad or romaine quarters tossed on the grill with crumbled blue cheese might give these simple inaugural spring salads a run for their money, but if push came to shove, I know which one I’d pick.

Spring is continuing to drag her feet on up into northern Wisconsin. We’ve barely seen a day over 50ºF in the last three weeks. My spinach and lettuce seedlings are perpetually stuck at 3 inches tall. So I nearly cried last week when I opened my highly anticipated Hermit Creek Farm “spring kick-start” CSA box and found all the key players. Gorgeous ruby radish globes, tall perky scallions, and a head of soft, papery thin buttercrunch lettuce. I think I actually had to sit down and catch my breath.

Of course with every salad comes the conundrum of dressing. Typically I am not a creamy salad dressing sort of person. I’ll take a vinaigrette or even just a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and coarse salt over a cream dressing almost any day. Mayonnaise and buttermilk hardly ever get involved. So it’s peculiar that my choice dressing for my proclaimed darling is cream. Almost pure cream. With just a splash of vinegar and pinch of sugar added. The sweet, tangy light cream makes a perfect shroud for spring lettuce. It’s creamy, but it’s delicate. It doesn’t overtake the greens – my number one rule with any dressing.

farmhouse dressing

You remember Grandma Myrtle? Well this was her go to dressing. I learned about this sweet little concoction from my mom, years ago and almost by mistake when we were in the kitchen throwing together a salad. It’s one of those simple unwritten recipes that so easily could have been overlooked and lost. Fortunately it has found its way into one more kitchen. I come back to it every spring with the arrival of tender lettuce. And I always think of Myrtle bustling about in her farmhouse kitchen.

Farmhouse Cream Dressing

2-3 tablespoons cream
1-2 tablespoons vinegar (I use rice)
1-2 teaspoons sugar
fresh ground pepper

Mix together and adjust flavors to your liking. Serve over fresh greens.

garlic report

Published May 17, 2013 garlic patch , sauces, salsas, preserves 2 Comments
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I think it is  finally safe to say (bang on wood) that the weather has turned. There are still a few random snow piles, desperately hanging on for dear life, but the garlic patch is clearly visible. I’ve even managed to duck out of work an hour early a few nights this week and sneak off to the garden. It’s my favorite time there – when the light is all slanty and rich. I shake myself a small vodka gimlet, plunk in 3 hazelnuts, and pick out a few seed packets for the evening’s planting. My kind of happy hour.

happy-hour

Traditionally my sugar snap pea crop is in the ground no later than Tax Day. They almost always get a little snow at some point, but that’s the nice thing about peas – they don’t mind. I’ve never planted peas so late, but I finally got two rows in on Tuesday evening. It might be a lost cause if the weather turns too hot, too fast. But after mulling it over for about a half a second, I decided it’s worth the gamble.

I’m anxious to see how the early summer plays out. Will things catch up, or should I resign myself to an agonizing month delay on spring produce? Either way, I refuse to be deterred. I’ve already declared this the year of the garden. Last spring I was too tied up with finishing and moving into a new house to really put much attention into the garden. And the year before that I was on couch probation – recovering from eye surgery. Those gardens still produced food, but they were sorely lacking in character. This year though, I am back on my game. I already have black mulch down, pre warming the hot pepper bed.

And then there is the question of the garlic. When we left off last fall, I was terribly nervous about the effects of what I think was a Phytoplasma bacteria outbreak. On the chance that I planted any infected seed, I’m ready with floating row covers to keep different varieties isolated and protected from the leaf hoppers that transmit the bacteria. So far there is not a leaf hopper in sight. But that hardly matters. There is barely garlic in sight. Here’s a shot of the Aglio Rossa taken on May 15 this year.

garlic-2013

I’ve been pulling back mulch, doling out encouragement and assuring the new sprouts that it doesn’t matter that they’re light years behind where last year’s May crop was. Maybe they’re just trying to mess with the leaf hoppers.

garlic-2012

Nevertheless, I’m planning on a later than nornal harvest this season. Luckily our garlic stores are still holding out. The raw cloves are definitely picking up heat, and there are a few green sprouts to remove, but it still cooks up just fine. Lately though I’ve been on an infused garlic oil kick. It’s a great way to add a nice warm garlic flavor to grains, salads, and lightly steamed vegetables. It takes out any heat or bitterness, leaving only a subtle, smooth garlic flavor.

I picked up this tip from the “prep school” section at the back of a Bon Appétite and it’s a trick that has stuck with me. For maximum flavor let the cloves get almost black (but not burnt) before removing them from the oil.

Garlic Oil

4-5 cloves garlic
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon olive oil

Peel the garlic and crush each clove with the blade of a knife. Heat the oil over low-medium heat and cook the garlic cloves, turning occasionally until the are dark brown to black (about 8 – 10 minutes). Remove and discard garlic, store any unused oil in a sealed jar in the refrigerator.

garlic-oil

noodles and butter

Published May 10, 2013 cereals, grains & pastas , garden fare , pig slop 5 Comments
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Food is complicated. Too complicated, really. But I love food, so I spend a lot of time thinking about it. And there is no shortage of fodder. Books like Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma, Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle,  Sally Fallon’s Nourishing Traditions, and documentaries such as Food Inc., and Forks Over Knives keep my brain reeling.

Blame the long winter, but I’ve been doing an above average amount of soul searching lately about what I eat and why. And it’s recently struck me that I want to revert back to a vegetarian diet.

Most (but certainly not all) of the animal products I’ve been eating are byproducts of a happy life, raised by people I know and trust. I firmly believe that the small farms I buy meat from, like like Hermit Creek Farm and Pasture Perfect Poultry, create vital ecological systems that are healthy and sustainable. And it feels good to be a part of that cycle. So it’s been confusing to have vegetarianism tugging at my sleeve.

veggie-wonder

I originally became a vegetarian at the ripe age of twelve. I distinctly remember the day I realized that there even was such a thing. An entire group of people who consciously didn’t eat animals? These, I knew, were my people.

My twelve-year-old logic was twofold. I loved animals almost more than anything as a kid. My heart was (and still is) a giant sinkhole of compassion for anything and everything living. I’m the type that says a silent blessing for roadkill. Additionally, I didn’t really like meat – the taste, the texture – nothing about it turned me on. And that’s saying something because my mother is known for her cooking. I certainly couldn’t blame my distaste on dried out chops and rubbery chicken.

I shared this breakthrough with my mom who only responded with, “That’s fine, but you’re not just going to eat noodles and butter.” She then embarked on learning (and teaching me) how to cook like a proper vegetarian. Talk about a mom on her game.

As I learned more about food politics, my reasons grew more ethically and environmentally based. By college I was dabbling with a vegan diet. Though when life landed me on a small organic farm in northern Maine I dutifully tried reintroducing meat – mostly out of a notion that I should take responsibility and be a part of the ecological loop I was helping to create. But it didn’t stick.

Years later, after working with scores of small, sustainably oriented farmers, meat slowly crept back into my diet. I even came to like it. Kind of. The overall number of meat to vegetarian recipes in the Pig archives should tell you something about where my loyalties lie.

bowls-in-waiting

I’ve also been studying the Yoga Sutras this winter. And the first yama, ahimsa – which translates to “do no harm” – really resonates with me. It’s funny, but it took reading it in print to wake up the twelve year old in me. Maybe I’m oversimplifying and skirting details, but if I allow myself to be a kid again, all I can say is that it just feels better not to eat animals – even ones that are impeccably raised.

And for now, that works. I’m trusting my instinct and it feels good. I’ve been rediscovering falafel wraps, hot rutabaga melts, and yes – noodles. But not just any noodles, and certainly not just noodles and butter (thank you mother). I’m talking soba noodles, crunchy vegggies, and flavors so simple that all they can do is shine. I used short sprouted mung beans for this dish, but traditional long mung bean sprouts (or any other sprout) will work just fine.

Fried Noodles with Broccoli & Bean Sprouts
(Adapted from Nigel Slater’s Real Fast Food)

5 ounces noodles (soba, udon, or curly ramen)
3 Tablespoons peanut oil
2-3 Tablespoons fresh grated ginger
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups broccoli
2 large handfuls bean sprouts
4 scallions, sliced
1 1/2 teaspoons soy sauce
1 1/2 teaspoons Chinese cooking wine (shao shing)
Salt and red pepper flakes to taste

Cook noodles in a large pot of salted water until they are barely done and still toothsome. Drain and toss well with 2 tablespoons oil.

Heat the remaining tablespoon of oil in a hot wok or large skillet. Add ginger and garlic and stir-fry for 30 seconds. Add the broccoli and bean sprouts, cooking for another minute or two. Tip in the noodles and stir-fry for about 2 minutes, keeping everything moving over hot heat. Add the scallions, soy sauce and cooking wine. Stir-fry for another minute and remove from heat. Season with a bit of coarse salt and red pepper flakes to taste. (Serves 2-3)

fried-noodles

sandwich trials

Published April 29, 2013 dairy , pig slop 4 Comments
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My friend Julie is a farm girl through and through. She grew up on a southern Wisconsin dairy farm. Julie is the type who works until the work is done. And she’ll take on just about anything. The other thing about Julie is that she doesn’t get sick. You might catch her with a raspy voice or the sniffles, but if you ask her if she’s coming down with something, she’ll laugh and say it’s nothing. Being sick was not part of her upbringing. You just don’t get sick on a dairy farm. Julie so doesn’t understand what it means to be sick or injured that sometimes I have to remind her to be sympathetic to her husband and children when they’re ailing.

Not surprisingly, this dairy girl harbors a deep love of cheese. I’ll never forget one of the first times we were out to dinner and Julie ordered a cheese plate for dessert. Why cheese, I wondered, when we had access to things like molten chocolate cake, peach pavlova with tarragon ice cream, and warm pecan-wild rice cake with de leche sauce? But this was way back in the dark ages before I was properly educated about the beauty of good cheese. Though I still might go for the warm wild rice cake.

cheese

I have made great strides in the world of cheese however. Generally you can find a handful of specialty cheeses nestled alongside the mozzarella and cheddar in my fridge. My cheese drawer is particularly well endowed at the moment. My friend Mary recently found her way to Fromagination in Madison and brought me back some true gems. I’m especially in love with a cheddar-blue duo. In the summers I practically live on Sassy Nanny’s fresh chev. Smeared on warm toast with honey for breakfast, paired with a tomato sandwich for lunch, and tossed in a grain salad for dinner. Those days can’t come soon enough.

I regularly get e-mails from Julie, but a few weeks ago one message arrived with an alluring subject. “Grilled Cheese.” There was a link inside to what Julie described as the “photo contest I’ve been waiting for all of my life.” Are you aware there is a National Grilled Cheese Sandwich Day? No, me either. But there is, of course. In fact, it turns out that the entire month of April has been devoted to the grilled cheese sandwich. And to celebrate, Culture magazine held a photo contest.

I’m okay with Grilled Cheese Sandwich month. A grilled cheese is a perfect work at home lunch. I love dreaming up wild combinations. Cheddar with mango and jalepeños, baby swiss with kraut and russian dressing, blue cheese with tomato and honey, gouda with apple and touch of horseradish. I’m not fussy and nothing perks up a dull work day like a little lunch time experiment. My routine is to get the griddle heating up, open the fridge and pull out a handful of things that might work together. I’m rarely disappointed.

hot-brie

For my most recent sandwich trial I chose a creamy Grate Lakes Brie from the cheese drawer, julienned a few scallions, grilled it up on a light rye and topped it off with a hot mango chutney. In Julie’s honor, I dutifully got out the camera before gobbling it down. Hunger got the better of my creativity, but I sent in my submission to Culture anyway. Because I’d like nothing more than to win the big cheese prize and invite Julie over for dessert.

extra-time

Published April 11, 2013 from the lake , pig slop 10 Comments
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If I ever have a midlife crisis, I’m pretty sure it is going to involve a ship. A big ship. Like an ocean bound salty. I used to think I might give up life as I know it to ride the rails, but lately I’m convinced that I’m really meant for the seas. I can read the Duluth Shipping News like a novel.

My  fantasy was rekindled last week when I got a voice message from a client. It was no big deal, really. He only needed to reschedule our morning meeting regarding the local community education foundation. This particular client also happens to be a Madeline Island Ferry Captain. And here’s where the trouble was. He was going to be tied up all morning. The USCG Alder, a 225 foot multi-mission buoy, would be arriving to cut a channel between Madeline Island and the mainland. This stop would nearly complete the Alder’s month long Great Lakes ice-breaking expedition.

USCG Alder

No problem on my end. I always revel in that liberating sensation of gaining “extra-time” when something gets cancelled – no matter how fleeting or false it may be. So I pour another cup of coffee and take a peek at boatnerd.com, a site that shows real time position of Great Lakes vessels. I see The Alder just entering the south channel.

I will myself back to work, but fifteen minute later, I’m clicking refresh to find the Alder rounding Grant’s Point. I’m still on extra-time, right? I close the laptop, grab my camera and head for the city dock.

Parking is at a premium. Evidentially I’m not alone in wanting to witness this passage into spring. I gather with what feels like about half of Bayfield’s male population to watch the show. The growl of the engines makes my heart leap. I squint to study the little figures on board, making up duties for them, imagining their ship-bound lives.

The majority of spectators depart after the Alder’s first pass, but I find  a seat on the sunny breakwall to wait for another round. Sure enough, as the Alder makes a second approach the ice resumes shifting and I can hear the fresh water sloshing beneath. I can’t see it, but it’s under there somewhere. That’s all the proof I need.

The dock has emptied out, but it’s still bustling. The currently icebound fishing tugs are on their way to being set free. I watch with envy as a handful of commercial fishermen ready their boats for 2013’s inaugural voyage.

eleanor-b

My mouth waters at the thought of Lake Trout and fresh Herring. I think of long summer days when we run into town for an afternoon ice cream, a jump in the lake, and a stop at the fish house for a fresh catch to throw on the grill.

Spring and Winter have been duking it out this April. It’s safe to say that Winter currently has the upper hand. Bayfield’s fishing boats only made it out of the Bay a couple of days before a new winter storm system blew in. But this snowy, windy, whiteout only serves to deepen my love of hot summer days. They’ll come, and when they do, you can bet I’ll be ready.

spring dinner

Grilled Lemony Lake Trout

1 whole trout, cleaned (or 2 fillets)
1 lemon, sliced

2 tablespoons butter
1/4 teaspoon lemon pepper
1 tablespoon minced shallots
1 tablespoon minced parsley
1 1/2 teaspoons celery salt (or Penzy’s English Prime Rub)

Combine the butter, lemon pepper, shallots, parsley, and celery salt.

Lay 3-4 lemon slices on a sheet of heavy duty aluminum foil that is 3-4 times the width of the fish. Place the fish on top of the lemons. Generously dot the cavity with herb butter and add 3-4 slices of lemon to the cavity and press the fish back together. Dot the top skin with butter. Make a tight foil packet. If working with fillets, make 2 separate packets. Place on a hot grill (about 400ºF) and grill for 20-25 minutes, turning once. Individual fillets will cook slightly quicker. (serves 2)

stormed-in

buried treasure

Published March 29, 2013 garden fare , pig slop 5 Comments
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Living in Northern Wisconsin has it’s perks, to be sure. But it also means coming to terms with being a step or two behind most of the world. Fashion trends, for instance, typically don’t make their way up here until they are already on their way out in most places. Or, wait. Do they ever even make it up here? Not really sure on that. Likewise, when the spring barrage of cooking mags start pouring in with glorious photos of rhubarb and spring peas, I take it with a grain of salt. I’m lucky if I get my first pea harvest by the end of June.

I know to set my new throng of must-try seasonal recipes aside for at least another month or two. Still, my heart goes pitter-patter at the mere thought of fresh produce. On a whim I go out to check my most promising contender – the parsnip patch. I plant a few rows of parsnips every summer. Half of them I devour in the fall, and half I leave well mulched in the ground for a spring feast. Parsnips are good in the fall, but they’re even better after a winter underground. The frost converts some of their starch to sugar and gives them an unbeatable subtle sweetness.

parsnips

I grab the yard stick on the way out the door. As I suspected, things do not look promising. My gnarly jewels are buried under thirty-six inches of hard snow pack. I desperately rack my brain for some of the benefits of living on Lake Superior. There must be some, I’m sure of it, but at the moment all I can focus on is my hidden treasure. Clearly this is going to require some human intervention. I strike hard with my shovel, keeping my eyes on the prize. It becomes immediately obvious that my plastic tool is no match for 3 feet of snow that has repeatedly thawed and frozen over the season.

Time for the big guns. I summon my husband Mark and his unwieldy beast of a snow blower. I doubt I’ll even have to plead. Mark is sort of a snow blowing nut. He must find it satisfying work. Halfway through the winter I discovered an amazing labyrinth of paths criss crossing the upper half of our property. I had no idea. When I confronted him about it, he burst out singing “Don’t Fence Me In” and claimed that a fella needs to roam. Did I mention we have long winters?

spring garden

We concur that the parsnips are indeed a noble cause and Mark fires up the beast. Of course the ground is still frozen solid underneath, but we’ve made headway at least. A few weeks of spring weather is all it will take for the parsnips to start poking their heads above ground. And you can bet that I’ll be out there muscling my way through to them with a pitch fork at the first sign of a thaw.

Luckily, in the meantime, I’ve got a few parsnips lingering in the crisper from our winter CSA share. I like to mix parsnips in with other root vegetables for roasting, and equally, I love a creamy potato-parsnip mashup, but my favorite way to prepare parsnips is to feature them head on in a simple parsnip pie. It really lets them shine in an easy, comfort food sort of way way.

parsnip pie

Brown Butter Parsnip Pie

1 9-inch unbaked pastry shell*
1 1/2  pounds (roughly) parsnips
2 tablespoons tahini
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoon lightly crushed pecans
Salt, pepper, nutmeg

Peel and dice the parsnips. You want enough to fill the pie pan, so you can sort of eyeball or do a dry test run before you line the pie shell. Steam the parsnips until tender, about 10 minutes. While they steam, roll out the pie crust and line the pan. Brown the butter in a small sauce pan until it is nutty and fragrant, but not at all burnt. Mash the steamed parsnips with the butter and tahini and spoon the mixture into the pie shell. Leaving a few lumps of parsnips is a-okay. Fold over any edges of crust and sprinkle the top with salt, pepper and a dusting of nutmeg. Bake at 350ºF for 15 minutes. At this point, scatter the crushed pecans over the top and continue to bake for another 10 – 15 minutes,

* My standard note on the pie shell: after trying many recipes and methods, I’ve settled on Alice Waters’ pie dough in The Art of Simple Food as my standby. It is easy, straightforward, and has yet to let me down. But a frozen store bought shell would work just as well.

pie gone

jilted

Published February 18, 2013 pig slop , sweets 11 Comments
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The third time’s a charm, right? Let’s hope so. Last week I underwent my third eye surgery in as many years. And with any luck, it will be the last – at least for a while anyway. If nothing else, I’ve got the surgery drill down pat. I’ve learned the crucial necessity of power hydrating the night before. I know that it is pointless to lug a book around – even though there will be hours of waiting. And I’ve learned to anticipate the eerie feeling of slowly coming back to reality mid-way through surgery. All of my surgeries have been at the University of Minnesota, which is, of course, a teaching hospital. So to wake up and realize you’re listening to a play by play of what’s happening to your eye can be a little unsettling.

But mostly what I’ve come to appreciate is the recovery room. It’s such a nice feeling to land and become increasingly re-grounded in the world. Like magic, my husband Mark materializes in front of me with a reassuring smile on his face. That’s when I know we’re really getting to the good part. They’ll ask what I’d like to drink and without hesitation, I’ll choose the apple juice. My juice will almost assuredly be accompanied by a package of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. And I will methodically indulge in this snack like I were in the finest of restaurants enjoying an absolutely memorable meal.

lorna-doone

So I was taken aback this time around when the recovery nurse asked me what color popsicle I wanted. Popsicle? I hadn’t thought about popsicles. “Green? Orange?” I answered with uncertainty. She arrived back and handed over a paper cup with a half-opened popsicle perched inside. It was purple. I ate half and gave the rest to Mark. It was okay. But it wasn’t apple juice and Lorna Doones.

I forgave my nurse this oversight, but I have to admit that I started to lose a little faith in her as she was reviewing my post-operative care directive. She recited the orders verbatim, Mark following diligently along with his own copy. When we got to the part about putting a hot compress on my eye, it included a little tip. An easy way to do this, read the instructions, is to microwave a sock full of rice. To feel like I was contributing something to this process, I piped up from my bed that we don’t have a microwave. The nurse looked up and said, “Well whatever you do, don’t use the oven. I tried to dry a pair of jeans that way and they burnt right up.” Wow.

I pondered this as she resumed reading. I can’t imaging stuffing a pair of jeans in my oven. I mean, what rack would you put them on? But what I really can’t imagine is actually telling someone that I attempted it. There are just some things better left unsaid. The nurse wrapped up my care requirements and encouraged me to get started straight away with a pain pill. I was still feeling substantially numb but reluctantly decided to take her advice. She brought me a pill, a cup of water, and finally, my long-awaited package of Lorna Doones. I downed them all.

Right around this time, however, the discharge process seemed to come to a screeching halt. My nurse left and came back and left. Time dwindled. Another nurse came and left. I started detaching rogue pieces of medical equipment from myself. I never did see my pants-burning nurse again, but finally, a man appeared at my door with a wheelchair for O’Neill. Mark sprinted for the car and while I waited in the lobby with my escort I realized that I was becoming increasingly nauseous. The dull headache I noticed two hours earlier was now a freight train barreling by at high speed. I had not eaten for 20 hours and my Lorna Doones were not holding their own.

By the time Mark got me to food, it was too late. A Divanni’s hoagie never looked so ugly. There was no turning back. I was in for a five-hour car trip to hell. Nothing helped. I was hot, I was cold, I was delirious, I was tortured. It was wretched. But finally, just as we made our final turn north, the vice grip on my head began to loosen ever so slightly. With my one working eye I saw Lake Superior’s frozen Chequamegon Bay come into focus and I actually felt slightly human. I could breathe.

frozen bay

Things only got better from there. I was in good hands and well cared for. A friend had left a pot of wild rice soup waiting and I was actually able to eat a few spoonfuls. It was exactly what my stomach wanted. Another friend brought by some Thai pork that made a lovely little Valentine’s Day dinner the following night. My local coffee shop sent up a bag of goodies.  I had everything I could need.

Everything that is, except I still felt jilted out of my post-surgery Lorna Doones. They had become such a tainted memory. And since I am hopeful there is not another surgery in my near future, I decided to treat myself to a batch of shortbread cookies. The recipe I settled on is just what I was after. Buttery, salty, and just ever so slightly sweet. They are as fitting with a cup of tea as they are a glass of wine. The semolina flour gives them a delectable crumble.

shortbread

Canestrelli (Shortbread from Ovada)
adapted from The Essential New York Times Cookbook

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup semolina flour
8 ounces salted butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of kosher salt

Sift together the flour and semolina and set aside.

Beat the butter with an electric mixer on high speed for a minute or two. Add in the sugar and continue beating until light and fluffy. Lower the speed of the mixer and gradually add the flour mixture, continually scraping down the walls of the mixer bowl, and mixing until the ingredients are just blended. Don’t overmix! The dough will be somewhat crumbly.

Press the dough together into a ball and place on a lightly floured surface. Place a piece of parchment or wax paper over the dough and roll it out to a quarter-inch thickness. Cut the dough into shapes with a cutter or small juice glass.

Transfer the cookies to a baking sheet with a metal spatula. Before baking, prick them all over with the tines of a fork. Chill any unused dough while the cookies bake in a 325ºF oven for 15 – 20 minutes until just a hint of color begins to show. Remove and transfer to a wire rack. Makes about 3 dozen 2-inch cookies or 2 dozen 3-inch cookies.

short-stack

kick in the pants

Published February 1, 2013 pig brain , sweets 10 Comments
Tags: , ,

I’ve been putting off writing. Because every time I sit down, there is only one thing that presents itself in forefront of my brain. And this “thing” immediately leads to a sad, twisted up knot in my stomach. But I’ve finally decided to stop fighting and go face to face with it.

gitche gumee

My friend Hannah is suffering a terrible loss. Last week she lost her very best best friend. Her husband. Here was a man who was a constant example of what it really means to live the life you love. Tragically and unexplainably, the untamable waters of Lake Superior took the life he was so passionate about. Jimmy only got 34 years in. But he made the most of them. And Hannah, through her grief, is graceful enough to embrace the fact that Jim died doing something he loved. Ice fishing.

If Hannah can find solace in this, shouldn’t I too be able to focus on this tiny pin-prick of light? I see it, but it keeps darting around. Because no matter how you cut it, I just don’t want Hannah to have to accept a new reality. Like always though, Hannah is charging though life, already ten steps ahead of me. I don’t know who poured all of the strength into this petite, firecracker of a woman, but she is brimming with it. And that, at least, is something that brings me hope.

I’ve been ruminating all week on what it means to be passionate. It’s not an easy topic (at least not for me, anyway, and I’m fairly enthusiastic about life). How do you find your true passion? And once you’ve found it, how do you incorporate into your life? In essence, how do you become your passion? And what do you do if you get stuck along the way? I don’t know the answers, but I figure I owe it to Jim, to Hannah, and to myself to really put some effort into it. We all do. Image a world where everyone radiates such a love of living.

Jim “got it.” He figured out the answers to these complex questions. And Hannah gets it too. She credits Jim for teaching her how to love life and never do something you don’t love, but I know they fueled each other on this. The truly amazing thing, though, is that I’m pretty sure this tragedy will only set Hannah’s flame for life even higher. That’s how well she gets it.

And if that isn’t a kick in the pants to give your life an honest to goodness assessment, I don’t know what is. I’m continuing to send every drop of love and strength I have to Hannah, but now – I realize – it’s with my eyes wide open, my ears pricked, and my heart a little more exposed. I’ve been slapped with the message that it’s time to sit up and pay attention. And at the moment, there are only two people I can thank for the call.

pie for hannah

Hannah needs love and support, but she also very clearly needs chocolate. Preferably topped with Nutella.

Brownie Pie for Hannah
From Momofuku’s Milk, Christina Tosi

Graham Crust

1 1/2 cups (190 grams) graham cracker crumbs
1/4 cup (20 grams) milk powder
2 tablespoons (25 grams) sugar
3/4 teaspoon (3 grams) kosher salt
1/4 cup (1/2 stick or 55 grams) butter, melted<
1/4 cup (55 grams) heavy cream

In a medium bowl, toss the graham crumbs, milk powder, sugar and salt with your hands to evenly distribute the dry ingredients.

Melt the butter in a small sauce pan. Let cool slightly and whisk in the cream. Add to the dry ingredients and toss again to evenly distribute. The mixture should hold its shape if squeezed tightly in the palm of your hand. If it is not moist enough, melt an additional 1 tablespoon of butter and add it to the mixture. Set aside.

Pie Filling

4 1/2 ounces (125 grams) bitter sweet chocolate
6 tablespoons (85 grams) butter
2 eggs
3/4 cup (150 grams) sugar
1/4 cup (40 grams) flour
3 tablespoons (25 grams) cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon (2 grams) kosher salt
1/2 cup (110 grams) heavy cream

Press about 1 1/4 cups of the the graham crumb mixture into a 10-inch pie pan, working it evenly up the sides. Add another 1/4 or so of crumbs if you need to fill in anywhere. Set the remaining graham crumb mixture aside.

Combine the chocolate and butter in a heat proof bowl set over a pan of simmering water and gently melt them together on low heat. Stir until the mixture is glossy and smooth. Set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, combine the eggs and sugar and whip together on high speed for 3 to 4 minutes, until the mixture is fluffy and pale yellow and has reached the ribbon state. (To test, drag the whisk or a spatula through the mixture – it should form a thickened, silky ribbon that falls and then disappears into the batter.)

Switch to the paddle attachment and slowly drizzle the chocolate mixture into the eggs on low speed, then increase the speed to medium for about 1 minute Scrape down the sides of the bowl.

Add the flour, cocoa powder and salt and paddle on low speed for another minute or so until there are no clumps. Stream in the  cream on low speed, mixing for 30 to 45 seconds, until the cream is just mixed in.

Remove the bowl from the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl. Gently fold in 1/3 cup of the remaining graham crumbs into the batter. (This means you will have a small bowl of crumbs leftover that makes a delightful little pinch snack.)

Fill the pie crust with the filling, put the pie pan on a sheet pan and bake in a 350º F oven for about 25-30 minutes until the pie is slightly puffy and set in the middle.

Cool and serve with a dusting of powdered sugar. Or, (particualarily if you are making this pie for Hannah) spread a thin layer of Nutella over the top.

empty shell

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