The meaning of January

It’s snowing. Again.

Not that we’re alone in our misery. The Midwest is slammed, and the entire West Coast, including California, is getting it pretty badly. The LA Times reported this morning that a large percentage of California's orange crop has been destroyed by the record cold. The fact that the cold has had a stronghold for so many days means its effect is that much more damaging.

Now, in an effort to get out of the curry rut, I’ve been delving into my shelf of cookbooks. I reached in randomly, and pulled Der Norddeutsche Küchenkalendar off the shelf, a wedding gift from my Darling Husband’s Dance Partner (before I assumed that coveted role). The book traces the year through the kitchen in northern Germany, and since it feels like we’re living above the Arctic Circle these days, it seemed apt. Each month is considered in its own chapter, with its particular needs and offerings. The not-too-terribly Teutonic author outlines the following as good in January:

Rosenkohl. That’s Brussels sprouts to you and me. I’ve been slowly discovering them, since they’re one of the few fresh, local products I see at the grocers this time of year. I don’t think I ever had them even once growing up. What I didn’t know is that they’re not old-fashioned, but a fairly new cultivar. They’ve only been around for about 150 years, originally cultivated by the Belgians—thus, Brussels sprouts.

Rum. I hardly think of booze as seasonal, but apparently the cookbook's author has a strong association with living in Hamburg, where it’s so cold the river freezes, and the different warm and warming drinks this beverage serves as base for. Perhaps I should learn how to make rum toddy if this weather keeps up.

Schwarzwurzel. Literally, “black root,” but we’ll call it by its proper name, salsify. I first met salsify in France, at one of our favorite restaurants. The eatery was situated on an island in the middle of the Rhine, called, appropriately enough, “l'Ile du Rhin,” but accessible only from the French side. The restaurant itself was called “Le Ranch” because it was attached to riding stables. Indeed, from the dining room, we could look out into the indoor riding ring. If this had been the US of A, they probably would have served burgers and (freedom) fries. But being French, they prepared real food, served up family style. That means the waiter waited patiently while we all decided to have the same thing, and brought big serving dishes and a stack of plates to the table. The evening in question, I forget what the main course was (rabbit or veal, perhaps?), but one of the side dishes was a gratineed vegetably somethingorruther. We had to ask the waiter what it was twice before we finally figured it out. It was heavenly, not stringy, but full-bodied and warming, and creamy white, in complete contrast to the black beast in market. I think I may have identified my quest: the vegetable and a good recipe for it. I'll have to shovel the driveway first, though.

Linsen. We’ve already decided that a pot of lentil soup is what we will offer to British Neighbor’s husband for his birthday later this month. He was so enthusiastic about the pot we shared after they took our boys innertubing up at Snoqualmie Pass, and we need to make up for ambushing him with snowballs this morning as he walked off to work.

Rote Bete. Red beets. Our naturopath waxes poetic about their cleansing properties, and the boys love the way their tongues turn color when they eat them. We’ve discovered they’re sweet as candy when we throw them in the roasting pan with potatoes and chicken. We also like the golden yellow beets, tossed warm in lemon juice, olive oil and cumin. They’re on the if-I-ever-get-the-car-out-of-the-garage-again shopping list.

Orange. Imagine Europe without all the crops resulting from various imperialistic ventures: oranges from China in the sixteenth century, tomatoes, potatoes, corn and chocolate from the new world. Interesting that Northern Germans should consider them their own. I’m a Californian by birth, and I remember fondly picking lemons and kumquats from the garden in winter. This is the month I instinctively search for Meyer lemons, and concoct desserts to feature them. Then there are those tiny key limes, just waiting to make the zingiest pie filling that ever was.

Which brings me back to the LA Times: “In addition to citrus fruits, growers are reporting damage to leafy greens, avocados, strawberries and blueberries.”

Do so many people see strawberries and blueberries as staples in the winter? To me, they epitomize summer—indeed, I have jars of jam on my shelf reflecting different sun-drenched outings, with the attendant sunscreen and bug repellent, to gather obscene amounts of berries and simmer them in huge pots. We make the jam for exactly this time of year, and call it summer in a jar.

Winter is not meant to be a time of bounty: historically, we should be living off food preserved for this season. But I too am modern in my expectations; I shall miss plentiful avocados, which have become one of my indulgences. I have a few in the freezer, but when those are gone, we shall have to wait for spring and the new crop, yes, from California.