Saturday, March 22, 2008

Chicken soup

I know I’m not the only one to get colds, especially in this wet clime, but my melancholic nature means I tend to wallow for a day or two before one of either two things happen: either I get so horribly miserable and cry, which believe me, does not help clear the nasal passages, or I luck out and encounter a bowl of chicken soup that melts the sinuses just enough to help me turn the corner to health.

It should come as no surprise that the weather has a great influence on this outcome. If it’s miserably cold and wet, I simply can’t get motivated to dig out from under the covers; I may even add a blanket and hibernate. But when the day dawns sunny, with Disney-like birdsong, I may not throw the covers off the bed and burst into a song-and-dance routine, but I do get up and get dressed.

Vacation does have the advantage of not forcing me to rise too early, for we can dispatch cello lessons during the week, and take an extra hour in bed on Saturday morning. This morning the sun rose, and I followed, albeit very slowly. I was quite unsure of how I was going to muster the energy to get through the day, let alone make Easter happen.

With all the boys in tow, we dropped Number One at his rehearsal, and headed to the University district. First stop for me was Weaving Works, on a quest to match yarn for Little One’s worn rainbow elbows. Darling Husband and Little One immediately disappeared into the neighboring fire station, so I could browse in peace, and I ended up with green and yellow for patching, as well as some electric blue silk that called to me from the shelf. I think it will make a fine little bag for summer.

Then we hoofed a short two blocks to the farmer’s market. Darling Husband wanted to make sure that I was only seeing Pete for his (perfect) toffee and Tiny for his aptly named apples, and Little One wanted to see everything. While I stood in line for some fresh lamb (shades of last Easter!), they circulated the market, meeting and chatting up Pete and Josh (honey) and Anne (truffles of the chocolate persuasion), and picking up their own treasures. I added garlic and a rosemary bush to the treasure, and pronounced I was done.

With a cup of hot cider someone had pressed into his hands, Little One said he was hungry, and Big One said he was going to pick up some bread (apparently sampling is an effective marketing tool, especially for the Tall Grass bakers pushing their chocolate loaf). That left me to navigate the concessionaires, which have swelled their ranks to four tents, adding pizza, and—oh, heaven—soup! Not just soup, but chicken soup, and, miraculously, with rice instead of noodles! My heart leapt. Little One was happy to sit, tapping his feet to the ladies with the washboard and mandolin, sipping his apple juice and nibbling a quesadilla, while I deliriously slurped soup. Between the fresh air, sun on my face and a tart rye bread I dipped into the hot chicken broth, the clouds in my head parted, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. How interesting that a bowl of soup—or was it just the soup?—should give me all that.

The odd thing is that when I got home, energized to bake, I realized I was out of staples like flour and laundry powder, so must head for the co-op if we are to have hot cross buns tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll get a bit of chicken so I can have a wee drop of soup this evening. Some energy for all the hopping I want to do tomorrow.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Local leftovers

Being surrounded by a three guys sneezing and coughing finally caught up with me, so as they came out of their low energy state, I hied myself to bed with tea and orange juice. Because this is the way things work out, the boys are on break, which means I can’t just sleep through their school hours and bumble my way through the two hours before Darling Husband can come home. Nope, this is full-day parenting. Darling Husband, my hero, always rises to the occasion, juggling telecommuting with dadding with amazing alacrity.

Lucky for us all, they can go off in search of fire stations or whatever it is guys do together and still have a hot supper, since we’re fixed for leftovers. Last Saturday, I stocked up on loads of local goodies at the farmer’s market, but kids with colds don’t eat as much as I’m used to, so the fridge was literally bursting. From Monday, there was corned beef, a lovely uncured one from Hempler’s, some garlic and leek mashed potatoes (I am reminded of a video of Julia Child, noting that if you didn’t want to use that much butter in mashed potatoes, well then, why not use some cream instead!), and some stubby young carrots, as well as the requisite cabbage wedges. Add to that some incredibly sweet red beets, and we have been enjoying a local feast without really cooking: corned beef hash, veggies and rice, you get the picture.

This morning, I actually got quasi-dressed and took Number One Son across the bridge to cello lesson, and Little One and I headed to Bedrock to look at recycled glass tiles for the kitchen backsplash. He always delights in the one-of-a-kind oddities that these folks create from broken bottles. While I fussed with different shades of glass tile, he tinkered in the lower bins, finding stars hiding in a dark blue sky (vodka bottles), some crinkly plates (old windows), and the place where the cat sleeps (next to the solar panel that powers the radio playing kitty jazz).

Irish neighbor still has her tricolor flag hanging in her front yard, which means we can still celebrate St. Paddy’s day. Which I think means we’re having corned beef sandwiches for lunch.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Brunch olio

Yesterday, we decided to go to that local icon, the Space Needle, for Sunday brunch. We were ostensibly celebrating Darling Husband’s birthday, but were also catching up on Little One’s choice of birthday restaurants (the calendar was too full around his real birthday). Their brunch was three courses: only one of us was able to finish all that was put before them and we came home with two boxes, one of space noodles in red sauce and other with one of two eggs Benedict. You simply can’t save apple-pear cobbler with vanilla ice cream for later, or there would have been a third box.

Little One came home and got busy in his kitchen, concocting his own Orbiter, the Space Needle specialty of ice cream served in a bowl over dry ice and topped with a sparkler candle. It’s showy and fun, and it’s parent payoff to see the delight in Little One’s eyes when he realizes it’s for him. His home version is a wooden ice cream cone tucked in a bowl of marbles, served with a loud flourish to any stuffed animal who unwittingly orders it on their waiter’s advice.

Unsurprisingly, no one was terribly hungry that evening—except for teenaged Number One, who had worked up an appetite playing a cello recital. I dug in the fridge for some treasures from this week’s farmer’s market: a pot of rillettes, a local ripened cheese, a baguette and a bowl of greens. I set about mixing a quick vinaigrette for the greens, and Darling Husband disappeared downstairs to find a suitable bottle.

He returned with a bottle of mystery wine. Many years ago, when we first arrived in this country, we tucked our tiny but treasured wine collection in the crawl space. Our resident rodents, clearly of excellent taste, did their best to get into the bottles, chewing through the lead foil (no, it didn’t kill them) and scratching and soiling the labels in the process. We had no choice but to wash the bottles, removing the last hint of their provenance. We know only that they are French and getting long in the tooth. We popped the cork, and tasted a flinty white, probably a Sancerre, past its prime, but still fine with food.

The festivities continued into the morning, as Little One plastered the hallway with elaborate diagrams leading to his restaurant, which had expanded into providing overnight boarding (hey, we had to get him to bed somehow). The only way I could get him to the breakfast table was to announce that our special St. Patrick’s day brunch was served: leftover waffles, garnished with green whipped cream and green pears, served with bacon (Mommy knows protein will be needed to get the boys through the morning).

As we cuddled up to discuss my imminent employ in his restaurant (apparently, if you want to stay more than 10 days, you have to work there) and plan our evening menu, we heard the telltale clinking of the cat’s tags on the breakfast dishes. Her quarry was the paper towel used to blot the breakfast bacon. She had dragged it across the kitchen and seemed surprised that we weren’t pleased with her menu selection. High in fiber, yes, but not up to the high standards in Little One’s restaurant.