Polenta and Mushrooms and Love Past

I never intended to fall in love with J. I told him so on our second dinner together. I had just returned to San Francisco after six years out of the country, nearly ten years away from my home city. It wasn’t a good time for me to get involved. I told him so.

Then he tried to kiss me—and, after demurring several times, I let him. And again, and again.

It was December, a mildly cold night, and we wandered the streets of Palo Alto looking into shop windows lit up for the holidays. Our bellies were full with the warmth of a meal just finished and a cold night in California is to be relished, they don’t come all that often. At one point, in the shadows between two buildings, I pulled J towards me and kissed him back, as if I meant it. It is not in my nature to do such a thing, but I dared myself to be someone else for the evening. Months later, J told me that was the moment when he first thought he might have a chance with me.

As the weeks passed I found myself falling for this man who played no games. He came to me with his heart in his hands, willing and wanting to entrust it to me. It was a change from the college relationships I had known before. J’s games were different—planning a future, shopping for furniture, talking about children. He told me what he wanted to engrave on our wedding bands. I hadn’t been looking for marriage but I liked what we were to each other, I liked the feeling between us. Playing the field no longer seemed appealing.

He brought me bagels from New York, his hometown, and was thrilled when I liked them. I introduced him to hikes on Mt. Tam and brunch at Howard's Cafe in Occidental. One day he took me down to Sunnyvale so I could taste the pizza he said was most like New York pizza. I was unimpressed but didn’t say so; I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. It wasn’t until I ate real New York pizza in Brooklyn two years later that I understood what he was talking about. Our Chinese food preferences matched perfectly, and one evening in the middle of that winter we found “our” restaurant.

I can’t remember how we stumbled on the little Italian place at the foot of Fillmore Street. The proprietress was named Maria and told us that she had run a restaurant in North Beach for years but wanted to downscale—she was a grandmother now, after all. This little hole in the wall was her retirement restaurant.

We were seated at the window table and no sooner had we placed our order than the waiter came with two steaming bowls of soup, a rich-smelling minestrone. J and I looked at each other.

“But we didn’t order soup.” We felt bad pointing this out, everyone seemed so nice.

“Maria thinks you need soup,” the waiter said with a smile, before retreating to the kitchen.

We did need this soup—rich and filled with vegetables, beans, noodles. We didn’t know how much we needed this soup. We spooned it up, grinning at each other. It was the best minestrone either of us had ever tasted—even J said so, and the New Yorker was picky about Italian food.

This is how we fell for the little Italian place around the corner from Chestnut Street. It wasn’t a neighborhood either of us lived near, but we made the pilgrimage often. Maria always greeted us warmly, always seated us in the window. It was our place.

This all came back to me recently when I saw a recipe for creamy polenta and wild mushrooms. This is the dish I ordered every time we ate at Maria’s. To me this small dish of polenta with Taleggio cheese and mushrooms was the perfect food. I could have eaten it every day for a month.



Months passed and J and I began to discover that, as much as we shared a tender heart, the lives we envisioned for ourselves were very different. He dreamed of moving back to New York, a place that would always be home to him. I had just come home to the West Coast, after a decade of being away, and I wasn’t eager to leave. He was willing to give up New York for me, he told me so, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to.

The truth is I wasn’t ready to get married, and secretly I was beginning to wonder if we were right for each other. It could have worked, certainly, but I was beginning to doubt that it should.

J was a city boy, and I yearned for the mountains and the coast and forests and woods. I had begun to dread the summer—would I have to choose between my love for this man and my love of the wilderness, the place I felt most alive? Such choices should not have to be made. When I tried to think of J amidst the high mountains and alpine lakes where I felt so at home, all I could imagine was his discomfort. Was ours a relationship that only worked in the off-season?



It may sound superficial—this issue of incompatible hobbies—but it represented something deeper. My adventurous and untraditional heart chafed against his more logical, conventional mind. The girl who had grown up on the wild cliffs of a rugged western coast was not a good match for the boy marked by the grid of New York City. When I asked him if he would ever consider taking a year off from work—to travel or live abroad—J looked at me like I was crazy. “I couldn’t just quit my job,” he said, mild panic in his voice. “What would I do?”

The last time we saw each other was October of that year. J had been in New York since June. We had seen each other a few times since then, had spoken on the phone, but our lives were moving in different directions. We both knew it.

We had dinner at Maria’s, the place that had always been our place. They seated us in the window and I ordered my polenta. We were gentle with each other that night, holding close what had been, but acknowledging that the possibility had passed. There was still love and admiration, would always be, but sometimes it is not enough.

“I was never adventurous enough for you,” J told me softly, ruefully. “I never wanted to raft the Amazon—and I know, given half a chance, you would.”

“I was too political for you,” I said. We had fought only twice in our relationship, both times over my fierce feminist and environmental beliefs. He laughed and shook his head but did not disagree.

We lingered that night, over polenta and wine and what might have been. We held each other tight for a moment, then we each went our own way in the dark.



Maria’s restaurant closed not long after that and I was secretly relieved. I could never have gone back, yet it would have pained me to know it continued without my presence. This meant that I’d never again taste her minestrone, but I hoped she was enjoying a real retirement with her grandchildren.

As for the polenta, I hadn’t considered recreating it until I found the recipe in a magazine. Here was Maria’s polenta, or near enough. Did I dare attempt it? They say you can never go home, perhaps one should not even try.

One recent grey day, I boiled my water and cooked my mushrooms and sat down to a meal I didn’t think I would ever taste again. The mushrooms melted into the creaminess of the polenta, the cheese was soft and dreamy warm. It is a tiny thing, this flavor combination, but sometimes small tastes can hold entire worlds within them—romances, possibilities, chapters written, choices made, windows that appear to be closed. One bite of this dish brought it all back: a decision made, a love left behind.

It was six years later when I next heard from J, but that is a story for another time.

For now the polenta is hot and needs to be eaten. We can never know what our future holds. Polenta or love, each needs to be savored in the moment. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? For now, the polenta is hot. Eat.



POLENTA WITH MUSHROOMS
One generous serving, or two appetizer-sized portions

One cup uncooked polenta (I prefer a coarsely ground polenta rather than the somewhat fluffy instant version, choose whichever suits you best)
One and a half cups wild or cultivated mushrooms, sliced into nice bite-sized bits
One teaspoon olive oil
1/4 to 1/2 cup Taleggio cheese, rind removed and cut into small strips
Salt and pepper to taste

Cook the polenta in salted water according to package instructions until soft.

Sauté mushrooms in olive oil until cooked fully through and soft. Add a generous pinch of salt as soon as the mushrooms are coated in oil and beginning to soften. Add more oil to prevent sticking, if needed.

Spoon the polenta in a bowl, top with thin strips of cheese. Spoon mushrooms over polenta. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Eat, sigh, enjoy.

NOTE: Taleggio, if you are not familiar with it, is a washed rind cheese from the Lombardy region of Italy. Though it is a somewhat stinky cheese, the flavor doesn’t match the smell—it is mild and buttery. The high fat content means it melts like a dream.

Further Adventures with Yeast: Pita Bread

One recent Sunday morning I woke up wanting to make bread.

This might not seem odd to you, but it is for me. Just the other day I had been reading Michael Ruhlman’s book, The Making of a Chef (fascinating book). In one of the later chapters, while doing an intensive on bread baking, Ruhlman realizes that he is a cook and not a baker. As I read the chapter I was nodding along: Yeah, yeah, I’m not a baker either.

But there I was, waking up on a slow morning and wanting to bake bread. Which is funny because I only just conquered a decades-long fear of yeast a few short weeks ago. But the idea of pulling a baking sheet out of a hot oven and ripping off a warm crust to smother with butter was intoxicating. It didn’t even matter what kind of bread I made, I just wanted to make bread.

Of course, bread takes hours to make, a full day sometimes.

That wasn’t a problem. I had plans to garden that day—at least until the rain started to fall (spring gardening in Seattle takes place in spurts, between rain showers). I could let my yeast proof and my dough rise while I mucked about in the dirt, planting the tiny strawberries and leeks and arugula sprouts I had bought at the nursery.

And here I just have to say that my former twentysomething self would cringe at the things I now, a thirtysomething, think of as a good time. It may not be glamorous, but a day spent digging a hopeful spring garden and an afternoon that includes soup and homemade bread—especially when there are friends around the table—well, that seems like a pretty good way to spend a Sunday to me. At least these days it does.

Not to mention, I find my new gardening gloves oddly fetching—and yes, you may call me a dork. I believe it is official now.



I started to peruse bread recipes—most of them from the website The Fresh Loaf, which I discovered when they linked to my post on Russian Black Bread. It seems there is a whole secret—or not so secret—world of bread bakers that I know little about. I don’t count myself a member, but it’s an interesting place to visit. There’s a language I don’t speak—terms like Preferment and Poolish. Those of you who are bakers might be familiar with this, but it was all new to me.

What became quickly clear to me is that one doesn’t just get the hankering to make bread for supper and expect to be tearing into a crusty loaf a few hours later. It's not just a matter of having time for the yeast to proof and the bread to rise—I had that. The bread recipes I was interested in, however, all the deeply flavored breads needed to be started the evening before. This isn’t just a spur of the moment sort of thing.

Sure, I could have made a batch of Irish Soda Bread and called it a day, but I had been hooked on the yeast thing—the idea of a loaf of bread having loft and height. I wanted something that was going to rise. It seems I have caught the proper baking bug—yeast included—and nothing else would suffice. No one told me this bread thing could be addictive.

After a little searching I found a recipe I could start mid-morning and reasonably expect to be eating for dinner. It wasn’t a standard loaf of bread, though it did use yeast—I decided to make pita bread.

The recipe said it was fairly easy—good for beginning bakers and a fun project to do with kids who like to watch the pita breads puff up in the oven. I’m not technically a child any longer but it sounded fun to me too, and it required only one rise of the dough. That I could manage and be done by dinner time. I imagined warm pita bread, both crispy and soft, to dunk into my soup. My mouth began to water.

I dutifully made the dough—water, yeast, flour, salt, a pinch of sugar, a little oil—and left it to rise while I planted small kale and chard sprouts. It was an overcast day but perfect for gardening, and after a long winter it feels so wonderful to be mucking about in the earth. Each small sprout feels like an investment in the summer, in a time when lunch can be as simple as walking outside and picking a handful of greens and herbs for a salad.



After two or three successful yeast experiences, I’m much more relaxed about the whole bread baking thing. The dough doubles, you punch it down; it almost feels instinctual. This is all a far cry from my years of terror of anything yeasted. Bread baking in general is still quite a mystery—and an intriguing one at that—but I am beginning to feel comfortable with the basics. The panic has abated and I find that I like the process.

Bread baking—even just pita bread—speaks of an older time. These days we are so very speedy. My mind goes at warp speed sometimes, my fingers so fast on the keyboard that the computer can’t even keep up. I have multiple windows open on the screen at any time, multitasking. Whenever I need to go somewhere and I think of walking (carbon footprint and all), the first thought that comes to mind is: that will take too long; I don’t have enough time.

Time: we zip right through it, fill it up, throw it away, and never have enough.

Bread baking takes time, there’s no avoiding it. You can’t get the yeast to rise any faster than it’s going to rise (instant yeast not withstanding). It reminds me to slow down, be patient. I’m pretty certain I never would have delved into bread baking had I stayed in San Francisco. Life is too busy there—at least my life there is too busy. More and more these days I just want to slow things down. My mind may function at warp speed but it doesn’t feel healthy doing so all the time, it doesn’t make me happy.

Bread baking makes me happy.

That’s what I was thinking after I had punched down my dough, shaped it into balls, and let it rest a bit. I then rolled a ball into a rough circle and put it in the oven. I didn’t have the recommended baking stone (a growing bread obsession requires specialized equipment I have yet to purchase), but the recipe said I could use an upturned cookie sheet and a hot oven—400°. I popped the pita dough on top of the heated cookie sheet and put the whole thing in the oven. Then I waited for it to puff up. This was going to be the fun part.

And I waited. And waited some more.

I made some tough crackers that evening—which I did end up dunking into my soup—but nice puffy pita bread eluded me. I turned the oven up to 500° but still had no success. Hurmph—just when I thought I was getting the hang of things…

I gave up on the pita experiment because it had gotten late and I was tired. The small amount of gardening had exhausted my weak, post-illness constitution and I was ready for bed. But I put the balls of dough on a tray sprinkled with flour and wrapped in plastic and stuck them in the fridge. I had read somewhere that while bread baking does take time, you can halt the process by refrigerating the dough—like pausing a movie. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I wanted to give it a try. I couldn’t stand the idea of throwing all the dough away.



The next day I attempted the pita bread again. I decided to cook them in my toaster over, rather than the big oven, because I felt like they hadn’t gotten hot enough to puff, even at 500°. I’m a big fan of the toaster oven and thought it might do the trick. If not, I was willing to give up and toss the dough (ahem, compost the dough).

I set the oven on broil, figuring that would be the hottest I could get it. I knew I’d have to keep an eye on the pita bread, if it puffed up too much it might hit the heating element and burn. I rolled out my dough, waited until the small baking sheet was hot, and then I popped the whole thing into the oven, working quickly so the heat wouldn’t escape.

Low and behold, under the orange red heat of the toaster the pita bread began to rise. Yippie! The recipe was right—it is fun to watch, no matter how old you are.



And when I pulled out the pita it was so pretty—all browned and puffed.



I could open the crusty/soft bread and see the hollow insides.



It was perfect for stuffing—with feta cheese, cucumbers, sliced radishes, and fresh cilantro. Which is exactly what I did.



I kept the dough in the fridge for a few days, taking out a ball or two here and there whenever I wanted to make a new pita. I found I liked rolling salt into the crust, or sesame seeds—or gomashio, which is a Japanese blend of salt and black sesame seeds. I ate the pita hot with butter, stuffed with veggies and cheese, used to scoop up lentil soup. I used them until they were all gone, and I will be making more.

Perhaps I am a baker after all.

Pita Bread Recipe on The Fresh Loaf
I used half white flour, half whole wheat in the recipe; next time I'll use 1 cup white flour, 2 cups whole wheat.

Let's have another look at that pretty pita, shall we? I think I have a new favorite lunch treat for this summer. It's delish.

Perhaps you are a baker too.

Making A Green Home

Sometimes I get scared over the state of the world—the food shortages, the climate change. The problems seem overwhelming, the solutions out of reach. When that happens I try to look at my part of the puzzle, what impact I have in the situation. I’m a little late for Earth Day, but I’ve been wanting to write about my efforts to be greener and more sustainable in my home. Because if we don’t care for the earth, where are we going to get our food?

Here's a little of what I've been up to.

For the past year or so I’ve become obsessed with the idea of landfill.

I realize that this is an odd thing to be obsessed with. Many people don’t think about where their garbage goes—for many years I was one of them. I recycle faithfully, and the rest of the trash gets trucked away every Wednesday morning and not given another thought. We pay people to whisk these things out of sight. That’s how the system works.

But then you look at the figures: the average American produces 4.6 pounds of solid waste each day. That means the city of Seattle generates over two million pounds of waste daily; San Francisco nearly three and a half million pounds; and New York adds nearly ninety million pounds (based roughly on 2006 census numbers). And that’s not including the suburbs. Where is all that junk going?

For that past year or two I’ve been taking stock of what products I use, what waste I generate, and considering what changes I could make. The good news is that the changes are pretty easy, some of them are even fun.

FOOD STORAGE CONTAINERS



I’ve recently switched my food storage from plastic to glass—to get away from using disposable containers and also to sidestep the worrisome things I’ve been reading about storing—and especially reheating—your food in plastic. Whether you believe the articles or not, I figure it’s just easier to avoid the issue. Glass is more durable and will last for years.

I grew up using the Luminarc jam jars, pictured above, for storage of halves of lemons and bits of leftover tomato sauce, and I really love them. The lids fit well and don’t lose their secure fit, even over time (my mom’s had hers for over twenty years) and they just look pretty in the fridge. These come in two sizes, short (show here) and tall (good for leftovers). For years I bought mine at Crate & Barrel, but you can often find them at health food stores. I also see them at thrift stores these days, for about $.69 each.



For storing larger leftovers I did some research and ultimately purchased a set of Pyrex containers (the round ones above are filled with frozen leftover Moroccan lamb stew). They’re glass with a plastic top and can be used for baking, freezing, and reheating in a microwave or oven. They are available in most hardware stores and large outlets such as Target. I’ve been really happy with these. The square and rectangle-sized containers means you can bake a casserole or roast vegetables in them and then just snap on a lid for easy storage. There’s no messing about with plastic wrap or tin foil—and nothing to throw away later.

SOAPS AND LOTIONS



Once I started looking at containers I realized how many of them we use. When I was a kid we washed our hands with bars of soap, but these days there’s a container of liquid soap in my bathroom. That’s another piece of plastic I don’t need. So I bought a cute soap dish and went back to bars of soap for hand washing, and I found a local soap company that uses minimal packaging.

Giving up my favorite bodywash was a bit harder—I will admit that. But again, it’s a plastic container I don’t need. Instead I found an organic bar soap that smells so divine it makes me want to wake up in the morning just so I can use it. A year later I’m now giving up that soap in favor of a local company. I figured I don’t need to have my soap shipped from New York when I can support a Seattle company that sells their products at my Sunday farmers’ market.

I’ve also switched to buying my lotion in bulk and using a glass dispenser in the bathroom. Many health food stores offer soaps and lotions in bulk (I get mine at Central Market in Seattle). The side benefit of this is that I now have pretty soap dishes and glass containers on my bathroom counter, which look a lot nicer than plastic.

Another eco-friendly bathroom thing I do is to use olive oil instead of shaving cream or foam. Now, before you think I’ve gone off my rocker I will say this was not my crazy idea. I read it in Real Simple magazine and it actually works great (with the added bonus of not having to moisturize your legs; it does make the bathtub a little slippery). When I think about all the aerosol cans of shaving cream that get tossed each year, I’m really happy with olive oil, which is a natural and renewable product. Please note that I do not use my favorite cold pressed Bariani olive oil for such things. I have a supermarket brand for that.

KITCHEN AND LAUNDRY SOAP



The hardest thing for me thus far was giving up my laundry detergent—I'm very picky about how my laundry smells. I once nearly fell in love with a guy because I loved the smell of his laundry detergent; every time I saw him I just wanted to cuddle. When he moved away he gave me his half-used bottle of detergent to remember him by.

My mother’s friend Liza has been on my case for several years about giving up my laundry detergent. She has done a lot of research, after falling sick and developing chemical sensitivities, and told me that most detergents have cancer-causing ingredients in them. I resisted for a few years but finally went out and bought a bottle of Seventh Generation laundry detergent. The following passage was printed on the back of the bottle:

“If every household in the U.S. replaced just one bottle of 100 oz. petroleum-based liquid laundry detergent with our 100 oz. vegetable-based product, we could save 460,000 barrels of oil, enough to heat and cool 27,000 U.S. homes for a year.”

That got me.

I used Seventh Generation for a while, then switched to Ecos (another vegetable-based product) because I prefer the scents they offer (Magnolia and Lily is my favorite). I do use Seventh Generation’s dish soap (Lemongrass and Clementine scent) and I love it. I was recently in a situation where I found myself washing dishes with a mainstream dish soap that was so heavily fragranced and bright green that it creeped me out a little. I don’t think I could ever go back.

I've switched my dishwashing machine soap—for the rare occasion that I actually use my dishwasher—from liquid to powder because the packaging is more biodegradable (a cardboard box vs. plastic bottle). I'm trying to make the jump to powdered laundry soap. I'm going to try this one, next time I run out.

INSULATED MUGS AND SHOPPING BAGS

Living in coffee-loving Seattle, I am a bit horrified to see the amount of paper cups the local population goes through each day. I’m not a coffee drinker myself, but I do love tea. A few years ago I made a New Year’s resolution that I wouldn’t use disposable cups any longer, but would invest in an insulated mug and use that instead. I can’t say that I’ve never used a paper cup since then, but about 98% of the time I have my mug with me (I do have to remember to wash it out when I get home).

When I moved to Seattle I bought a new bag, as I wanted to take my laptop to cafes to work there, and it has a nifty side pocket where my mug lives. It takes a slight amount of effort, but when I think of all the paper cups I’ve managed not to use—and thereby not to throw away—over the past six years, it makes me really happy.

Naturally, I also gave up bottled water long ago. Giving up bubbly water for special occasions took some effort. I sometimes think about getting a seltzer siphon.



A year after I resolved not to use paper cups I decided to get rid of paper and plastic bags as well and to bring my own reusable bags to the store. I remember when I lived in Austria almost everyone brought their own bag—or cute little basket—and if you didn’t you had to pay for the store bags. I keep some in my car, others on a hook near the front door. I’m rarely without at least a few reusable bags. I am sure many of you are the same.

Over the years I’ve had a series of canvas and cotton bags—always very functional, never very attractive. Then, a month or so ago, Molly and Brandon brought back cute shopping bags from Europe and I was lucky enough to get one as a gift. Brandon warned me that I’d get compliments on the bag and he’s right—every time I take it out someone says how much they like it. Why had I never thought of shopping bags as fashion accessories before?



Now I’m on the hunt for cute shopping bags. I adore this one, and this is pretty cute as well. I bought one of these as a gift for a friend and she liked it. And I recently found a brand called Oil Cloth Brand bags, which doesn’t seem to have a website but they hit the trifecta for me: a long shoulder strap (my preference and hard to find), waterproof material, and cute patterns. I found a few at City People’s Mercantile in Seattle, but I’m on the lookout for more stores that carry this brand.

SHOPPING IN BULK

I grew up shopping in health food stores, so buying my dried foods in the bulk section is second nature for me. It really does cut down on packaging—instead of getting my quinoa packaged in a both a box and a plastic liner, I scoop as much as I want into a plastic bag, write the appropriate code for the item, and have the clerk weigh it for me. Once I get home, all the grains and beans and flours go into glass containers (these are from Ikea).



I buy my spices in bulk as well. This allows me to buy as much or as little as I want. I also buy my tea in bulk. I know loose tea may not work for all people or all situations, but you get better tea when you buy it loose and the amount of packaging involved in tea bags makes me want to use them sparingly. I love my Bee House teapot, which was a gift from friends, and that tiny bag of my current favorite herbal—Safari Sunset by the Republic of Tea—will last me for a few weeks. It’s also a lot cheaper and produces a better product than buying a box of tea bags. I still do use tea bags on occasion ( I like a few herbals that are only available bagged), but I am trying to wean myself mostly off them.



For coffee drinkers looking to cut down on paper filter use, there are reusable coffee filters. I have one of these for camping trips and the feedback has been good, but I guess you have to weigh the fact that the paper filters decompose and the reusable filters don’t.

Another thing I’ve been trying to do with my bulk good shopping is to reuse the bags and twist ties. When I get home I simply dump my grains into their glass containers and put the bags and twist ties back into my shopping bag. Then, the next time I go shopping I have a ready supply. I cross out the item code from the first use and write in the new code and am able to get up to twelve uses out of them before I run out of space completely. You may think it’s silly to be concerned at this level—it’s a feakin’ twist tie—but I think small efforts, repeated over years, can make a difference.

COMPOSTING

I’ve also been composting, which takes most food waste and some paper (napkins, paper towels, etc) out of my garbage. This is a topic that really deserves a post of it’s own. I will say though, with composting, recycling, and the other efforts above, I’ve reduced my garbage output to one shopping bag of trash every other week. Seriously, I’ve been known to put out the garbage for collection only once a month (with composting there is no food waste in the garbage so it doesn’t smell). That makes me feel pretty good.

I’m certainly no perfect environmentalist—I don’t hang my laundry to dry, I'm not eager to give up my toothpaste for baking soda, and I wince when I think of all the metal Altoids containers I am contributing to landfill (note to Altoids company: please sell in bulk), but I am making an effort to look at my impact and reduce it.

I don’t write this to seem all preachy or holier than thou. I just wanted to share some of the ways I’m trying to channel my concern into productive measures that—I believe—are increasingly necessary for our population to to move forward. I’d love to hear about any greening efforts other people are making—feel free to leave ideas or reports in the comments.

The only way we’re going to get through this is together.