Breaking Up with Butternut

Dear Butternut,

You were my first, you know—the first squash I ever loved.

I was reluctant to love you; I don’t have a trusting heart when it comes to squash. Too often in the past I had been disappointed by your brethren who proved too stringy or too soggy. I had given up on ever finding a squash to care for, but I took a chance on you—with your graceful neck and pretty orange color—and you never let me regret it.

We’ve had some good times together. Once I relaxed into the relationship and realized I could peel your thin skin, rather than having to hack it off with a knife, things really got fun. We made soup together, and stir-fry; heck, I even ate you raw! That’s true devotion, I tell you, but then again, you meant that much to me.

These days, however, I’ve been reevaluating our relationship. Sometimes I find that you’re just not as flavorful as I hope you to be; sometimes I wish you were smoother. I still think you’ve got a neck to be jealous of, and the ease of your skin does tempt me (I have a hard time not caressing you in the grocery store, if truth be told), but lately I’ve been wondering what else might be out there.



If you really must know, the final break came over a plate of ravioli. I had worked hard for those ravioli, kneading the dough by hand, rolling it out into increasingly thinner and thinner sheets of pasta, it’s no easy task. I wanted a filling that was smooth, velvety even, tasting of nothing but squash. I roasted you, pureed you, and set you to drain out your excess water (you had gotten oddly watery that day, I don’t know why).

In the end you were just okay, strangely grainy actually. I wanted smooth and strong, but you weren’t up to the job. After so much effort, you let me down. I thought about adding some sort of cheese to give you the creamy mouthfeel I desired—and I’m sure I could have done that—but I began to suspect that there was someone else who could satisfy me in style.

Yes, Butternut, I began to desire another.



When I think about it I realize that it’s not your fault—there is someone else I’ve loved for years. We met years ago in Asia and it was love at first taste. But then I moved away and the memory faded. When we met I truly thought we could be happy together, but now I wonder if my heart wasn’t spoken for all along.

It's true, Butternut. I’m in love with Kabocha.

I know this may come as a shock to you—Kabocha has none of your grace or good looks. There’s no easy peeling with Kabocha and, let’s face it, you’ve got the cutest name of any squash on the block. But if you look underneath Kabocha’s hard and sometimes knobby exterior, you’ll see a squash that’s all sweetness and deep velvet. I don't mean to rub it in, Butternut—I don't want to be uncessarily hurtful—but Kabocha makes my ravioli sing.



Dear Butternut, I hope in time you can understand. What we had together was real and true. I really did love you and your smooth supple skin—I may even cop a feel now and again in the produce aisle—but if I am honest with myself I know that my heart lies elsewhere and I have to follow it. Love like this comes along only once a lifetime. Dear Butternut, I hope you find a love like I have found with Kabocha, and I hope you can forgive me.

Your former paramour,

—Tea

Happiness, too

I’ve got a late addition to the happiness list:

Happiness is a care package from a friend who knows how much you miss fresh Meyer lemons and sends them to you—and she does so before she even knows you’ve been having a cranky week. This is the astonishingly wonderful box I found on my doorstep when I returned home the other day.



For the second year in a row, Mrs. B’s Christmas present made me cry. Then, when I got over my emotions, I was ecstatic to have not only 16 bright and beautiful Meyer lemons, but a jar of Mrs. B’s own homemade lemon curd as well. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.

I don’t know if it’s the lemon zest that she adds, the fact that the lemons are picked off her bountiful tree just minutes before, or if this particular recipe happens to be head and shoulders above any other lemon curd recipe, but this stuff is like summer sunshine in a jar. It’s the kind of thing you might get up for in the middle of the night and eat out of the jar with a spoon while standing in front of the fridge a la Nigella Lawson. Seriously, folks, it’s that good.

There was also pepper jelly and peppercorns, two kinds of flavored salts (rosemary and lemon) and a bar of herbed soap that smells like a dream. I had cancelled a trip to come visit and Mrs. B decided to send me all the holiday goodies she had made and set aside—and to use Meyer lemons as the padding in the box!

I’m one lucky girl, happy too. My kitchen is filled with the smell of Meyer lemons and it makes me want to dance a jig.

Now, what shall I make first?

Thank you, Mrs. B!

The Cure for Cranky

I’ve been struggling with this New Year thing a bit and it’s something that makes me embarrassed. I’d love to say that I am one of those people who is open and embracing, grateful and joyous all the time, but the truth is, sometimes I’m not. The further truth is that sometimes—as in sometimes lately—I can be downright cranky. I’m not cranky with other people, mind you, but I am cranky with myself, I am cranky with the world in general, and I’m definitely cranky with the weather and the mud and the fact that I couldn’t find the right kinds of apricots the other night even though I went to two stores (grumpity grump grump).

This makes me feel even worse, because really what do I have to complain about? I have so much in my life—friends, family, a warm house, and food on my table. But this New Year found me in an odd place, my life stretched between two cities and changing as I speak. I do my best to keep steady, but it’s hard when the ground is shifting under your feet. It makes me feel bad that I can’t be sunshiny every day, but some days it just doesn’t happen and I guess I need to accept that; it’s silly to make myself even more cranky because I’m cranky, right?

So here I’ve been, fighting the fact that 2008 hasn’t found me all sunshiny and bright and not wanting to admit it—even to myself. And like a Christmas Scrooge, other people being all joyous and grateful has just made me even crankier. And I can’t write, because the cranky comes out on the page and that doesn’t do anyone any good. I was thinking of taking up kickboxing, as I seem to need a cranky outlet, but I can’t even do that because I tripped down the stairs at my brother’s house the day before New Year’s and twisted my ankle and it still hurts (see: cranky; also, self-pitying). As I said before, grump.

Then today came. I woke up tired, from staying up too late last night reading a book that had beautiful language but was depressing (one should never read depressing books when they are already cranky). And because it was the day we have our weekly playdate, I went to see my niece, the three-year-old who is growing taller and more like a beansprout every time I see her.

We made “smoothies,” in the new play kitchen that was a Christmas present. This consisted of putting plastic fruit in a plastic cup in combinations we liked (peach-plum, banana-pear, apple-lemon). We made a different smoothie for each family member or friend.



The little one was very conscientious about wiping up the “smoothie” we accidentally “spilled,” she’s good like that. I've never before seen a child who thinks that cleaning is a fun game. My sister-in-law is either very lucky or very, very clever.



Then she cut up some fruit for our "fruit salad" (she already knows that lemon makes almost everything better—she gets that from my side of the family).



Then—after our fruit salads had been eaten—we went to the conservatory of flowers where the little one was delighted to find a room filled entirely with pink flowers. As we walked home through the park, my niece ran ahead and said aloud, to no one in particular, “I’m happy!”

And so was I. No cranky in sight, nowhere.

* * *

Later in the day, I came across a post that also made me happy. Jen Maiser had posted a list of things she never tires of, an idea that started with Jen Lemen (who I now think is some kind of wondrous) and went through Chookooloonks (you must look at her exquisite photos) before coming to the lovely Jen. I adored reading the lists of what makes these people happy, it reminds me of the goodness and graciousness of life. It’s an awfully good antidote to cranky.

So here—more for me than for anyone else—is a reminder of what makes me happy. I’ve given myself an extra few, ‘cause I seem to need it these days.

HAPPINESS IS:

Time spent with my nieces
The scent of Meyer lemons fresh from the tree
Walks and talks with friends, when the conversation just flows
Sitting down to a cup of tea when I have nowhere I need to be and nothing I need to do
Farmers’ markets
The feeling when my mom strokes my hair, like all is right with the world
Cooking in the same kitchen with my brother
Reading a piece of writing that transports me
Chopping an onion in preparation for cooking something after a long day of work
The smell of freshly cooked plain rice, the cleanest, most wholesome smell in the world
Sleeping by the ocean or a river, listening to the sound of water in the night
Bike rides
Lilac bushes in full bloom; cherry blossoms viewed while lying below the blooming tree
Old grocery stores, hardware stores, and bookstores with creaky wooden floors
Talking with friends—new and old—around a campfire
Hiking to the top of a mountain
Salt
Waking up in the woods in a tent or cabin
Experiencing a different culture
Soup
Gardens, farms, nurseries—any place where things grow
The way the ocean makes me feel small
Boats
The feeling of family, belonging
Old houses with old windows, the way the glass goes all wavy with age
Being told other people’s stories, entrusted with their secrets
The scent of narcissus, especially the ones my mother brings me each year for my birthday
Cooking for people I care about, feeding friends and family
Long meals around a table with good conversation and laughter

Happy New Year, everyone. It’s taking me some time to warm up to it but I’m coming around to 2008. I hope the year brings you wondrous new things that make you happy.


The graphic is Linzie Hunter for Thumbtack Press. I think I'm going to get one for myself, as a reminder.

My Kind of Sunday

I’ve been harboring a little daydream about Sundays for a few years now. My daydream goes something like this:

•A big table (outside in summer, indoors in winter).
•A group of people I like surrounding that table.
•Good food.
•A significant amount of time to relax, enjoy, settle in.
•Laughter. Talk. Smiles. Perhaps even a walk.

I recently read somewhere—and for the life of me I can’t remember where—that Europeans of a certain age (French, Italian, Spanish—can’t remember) are accustomed to spending up to five hours or six hours at the table on a weekend day.

Five to six hours.

This made me think of my friends Amy and Saverio and the meals we had when Saverio’s family visited from Rome. Weekend lunches lasted for hours, everybody talking and laughing, lingering over fruit and nuts and perhaps a bit of cheese at the end. No one was ever in a hurry to leave the table, no one ever ran off to check their email, there was never that divide I sometimes feel in the US between young and old. We simply were, together, happy.

I remembered Sundays when I lived in Vienna and all the shops closed and families went for long walks in the park. This annoyed some foreign students who wanted to be able to do their grocery shopping on a Sunday. When they complained our German professor fixed us with a stern gaze. “I am sure the families of those shopkeepers are happy they do not work on Sundays. They need to spend time with their children, to go for walks in the park. How would you like it if your parents had to work on Sundays?”

(It strikes me also that these are both traditionally Catholic countries, so I imagine there was a bit of church required before these long Sunday lunches and walks.)

In my perfect world—the one where I would be queen—I’d issue a decree about long Sunday meals. I wouldn’t require them, mind you, I wouldn’t want to be a dictator, but I’d strongly suggest that people give serious consideration to spending time each weekend around the table with those they care about. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.



One recent Sunday I gave it a go. I’ve been keeping to myself lately, content to stay quiet and cozy all on my own or with family, hibernating. This week, however, I reached my saturation point. The combination of rain and solitude was beginning to make me climb the walls—enough with the alone, I miss people! A few quick emails and phone calls later, I had invited a small gaggle of folks around for Sunday supper.

I made Tortilla Soup, which seemed like a good thing to counteract the grey and wet weather. When I make this for a crowd I like to put all the ingredients on the table in separate bowls. This way each person can mix their own soup the way they like it.



There is a pot of broth simmering on the stove and this gets ladled into each bowl, with crispy tortillas to go on top. Then people add the avocado, cheese, red onion, jalapeno pepper, cilantro, or lime as they want to. This is good for a long and lingering meal as people can go back for more as they please, vary the flavor on each serving, play around with the ingredients (just be careful, you always need more avocado than you think).



Our meal was a production in two acts, as our little dinner included a four-year-old (the world’s most articulate four-year-old, in fact). We had a brief entertainment break for an adorable talent show that featured said four-year-old before she and her parents headed home for bed. The rest of us lingered into the night. We talked about family and finance and friends and other funny things. We laughed and rolled our eyes at things we couldn’t change (see above: family), and when all was said and done and everyone headed home, I looked at the clock and realized we had been at the table for three hours.



Three hours—that’s not bad for Americans, eh? With some training I’m sure we could get up to four hours, maybe even five. Perhaps with a little finagling we could start earlier, add a walk in there. Who knows what could happen.

I have to tell you, sitting around a table with good food and friends or family is an awfully nice thing. In my private world, it’s one of the very best ways to spend a weekend.

What are you doing this Sunday?



Recipe for Tortilla Soup
(whoa, that is one from the deep and dark archives; such a newbie I was!)

Gingerbread Pancakes for the Holidays

Oh, holidays, holidays, you passed in a flash.

I’ve been quiet over here—not much writing, emailing, even talking. It’s been cozy and quiet and just what I needed. After months and months of running around and work and late nights, a little winter hibernation suits me fine. It was what I was looking for.

But there has been some baking going on. In the evenings, when it got dark early, there were sugar cookie stars and gingerbread people. There were tiny silver balls to stick on wee little Christmas trees, and colored sprinkles.



My favorite new recipe this year was pepparkakor, a Swedish ginger cookie that bakes up thin and crunchy. I'm calling these the cookies that went around the world—the blog world at least. Camilla Engman mentioned them on her blog, which got Mav interested. Nicky picked them up from there and inspired me.



I played around with my version a bit, adding fragrant Balinese long pepper to the dough to bring out the spicy undertones, and topping them with demera sugar and flakes of Maldon salt (a la salted caramel). Yes, I put salt and pepper in my cookies, and it was delicious. In fact, the ones I baked without topping are getting a quick sprinkle of salt before I eat them.



My KitchenAid mixer earned its stripes this year—two stripes of molasses on the right side of the base. I was amazed by how fast and easy it was to whip up a batch of cookie dough in this racing car of a kitchen appliance, and each time I used it I remembered the dear friend who gave it to me last year.



Then there was Chanukah and Christmas, and the squeals of little kids with new presents. There was family and a big dinner cooked by my brother and me—stuffing and cranberry chutney and my brother’s pumpkin soup that I love. There was champagne and candles and fires in the fireplace. There were walks in the cold, and mugs of tea and cocoa when we came home.

And, my friends, there were pancakes—gingerbread pancakes.



I’ve often expressed my tenuous relationship with pancakes: I don’t always love them, rarely in fact. That said, I can’t imagine a better breakfast for Christmas morning than the gingerbread pancakes we made this year. Once the initial rounds of stockings and presents were opened, I headed into the kitchen. The batter had been mixed up the night before, and soon a happy pile of pancakes filled a baking dish. We served them as they do at my favorite brunch place in San Francisco, with lemon curd and poached pears. As the morning went by and people grew hungry, they wandered over and make themselves a plate of pancakes.

I can’t imagine a better, sweeter, way to enjoy the warmth and coziness of the holidays—in front of the fire with those I love.

I hope the end of your year was sweet as well.



GINGERBREAD PANCAKES

Because this was for the holidays and for family, I did some recipe testing before to find the gingerbread pancake I liked the best. Of the three I tried, this was my favorite. I've adapted it a bit to get it exactly where I want it, but the original is apparently the gingerbread pancake recipe served at La Note, a Provencal restaurant in Berkeley.

While these are lovely with maple syrup, I'd recommend giving the lemon curd and poached pears a try. The curd melts with the heat of the pancakes, becoming syrupy, and the high sweet/tart flavor sets off the deeper spice notes of the gingerbread in a lovely way. Poached pears—or the recent recipe for roasted pears—provide a juicy fresh note. If I were you, I wouldn't wait until next Christmas to try these. There's still a lot of winter to get cozy in.

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup brewed coffee, cold or at room temperature
4 large eggs
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
Vegetable oil for brushing griddle

Whisk together flour, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spices in a bowl. Whisk together water, coffee, eggs, butter, and lemon juice in a large bowl. Add flour mixture and whisk until just combined. Let stand 15 minutes (batter will thicken).

Brush a griddle or 12-inch nonstick skillet with oil and heat over moderate heat until hot but not smoking.

Working in batches of 3 or 4, pour 1/4 cup batter per pancake onto hot griddle and cook until bubbles appear on surface and undersides are lightly browned, 1 to 2 minutes. Flip pancakes with a spatula and cook until cooked through and edges are lightly browned, 1 to 2 minutes more. Transfer to a platter and loosely cover with foil to keep warm. Brush griddle with oil between batches.