Vegetable alchemy

"Wow, mom, you did magic!" exclaimed Little One as we left the farmers market this afternoon. And I did feel a bit like a medieval alchemist, transforming juicy fruit into root vegetables.

It started back in early spring, when we had a glorious stretch of sunny and warm. I looked out at the mass of bees and blossoms on the plum tree and thought to myself, "it's going to be a good year for plums (and apples)." As it turns out, I was right.

But it was also a good year for strawberries and raspberries, and somehow the finite resources of empty jars and shelf space dwindled long before we got to plum jam season. In our house, it's the last hurrah of summer when we pick the late-ripening plums and add foraged blackberries, a sort of bookmark on the jam shelf: once you get to the plum-based jams, you know that season has come to a close.

So what to do with the excess plums this year? It turns out the answer was staring us in the face, as we have joined an informal online group that arranges shared buys of various local produce. I put out an offer, and a few people responded. It's a perfect match: we still had plenty of fruit to use up every last jam jar, and the excess was magically transformed into a handful of bills.

Yes, the bills were the intermediary that I traded for the spuds, but it somehow felt direct, taking the same worn three bills that had been pressed into my hand only a few hours prior and pressing them into the hands of the farmer, so, yes, I agreed with Little One that it was indeed magic, transforming purple plums from the front yard into purple potatoes on the supper table.

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The post script to this, is of course, that money is a kind of magic, based on mutual trust in a system. In a time when we hear terms like mortgage-backed derivatives and bankrupt brokerage firms bantered about, it's a good reminder, seeing how those leathery slips of paper can represent real value. It's pretty easy to follow the trajectory of those dollar bills, but how much of our economy is that firmly based in the real and tangible? Yet another compelling reason to keep it local.

Blurred lines

I signed up for Twitter this week, adding yet another social-media outlet to my stable. I realized that the line between my personal social media avatar and my professional persona is becoming increasingly blurred. Experts remind me that I must mindfully consider what information I share on which site; how personal disclosure may affect my professional life and vice versa.

But the cyber realm is not the only place where delineation is not apparent, and I’m not so sure it’s bad thing. As I juggle my roles as an office worker (in my own home) and Minister of Household Affairs (a euphemistic title shamelessly cribbed from a colleague), I often find myself moving from desk to kitchen and back. Today for example, my computer was clamoring for me to update something and reboot, so I decided to take an early lunch break while it went through its gyrations. As I passed the kitchen window with its view of sun and buds and flowers, I couldn’t help noticing what a lovely spring day was beckoning. Opening the larder for an onion, I was greeted by potatoes and garlic sprouted past edibility. So after my tasty lunch, I gathered up the sprouted wonders and headed downstairs again, only glancing at my computer screen long enough to determine that no clients had any fires to put out. Leaving the door open a crack for fresh air (and so the cat could join me), I spent a delicious hour getting my nails dirty, tucking the potatoes and garlic into the earth. Like the bulbs I plant in the fall, I know I shall be seeing them in the kitchen again at the end of the growing season.

And I realized that just as the line between my professional and personal lives is at times ill-defined, the delineation between growing and preparing food and eating and health are indeed blurry lines, if there are lines at all. The food from my garden came into the kitchen to nourish us; and that which we do not use in a timely fashion ends up back in the garden, either as the seed or the soil.

How wrong we are to think we have come so far, with our industrially-prepared meals and compartimentalized lives, where work is separate from “life,” and where the process of bringing living food to what goes onto our tables and into our bodies is obfuscated. How appalling that we not not seem to realize that we wound ourselves with our unthinking acceptance of being stuffed into neatly-defined cubicles? How artificial it all seems, and how utterly foolish of us to not reclaim and embrace the ambuguity of that whole messy thing called life.

Winter

It is winter's darkest hour; we passed the official marker just a few days ago, but even as the houses glow with icicle lights and trees in front windows, the earth sleeps. Unlike excited little boys straining to hear hooves on the roof. In the kitchen, the local roast is sitting on the counter salted, waiting to enter the hot oven in a few hours.

Our vegetable stores are slowly emptying from the bounty of the fall harvest: first the frost-tinged greens, made all the sweeter by Jack's kisses, then the crcucifers and squashes; we are now into the roots. A generous handful of Brussels sprouts made it this far, and by coddling them and sacrificing the outer leaves to the compost heap (oh, if I had chickens, how happy they would be today!), we will have greens on the table. Some of the parsnips and beetroot will join the roast and last of the fingerling potatoes in the oven.

We still have five weeks before our weekly deliveries from the farm resume. But all is not entirely bleak. We have pears, and the little bundles of sunlight that my family call "Christmas oranges" have burst on the scene. We are fortunate to live in an era and area where we may choose to eat local, and supplement those dark days with sunshine from faraway.

In some cases, very far away: A bottle of red wine from France will come off the rack, set aside for such a day. Spices that filled the corners of our cases when we returned from Morocco released their prize under the pestle yesterday, and joined nuts and candied fruits in holiday baked goods, some of which were offered on a plate in front of the fireplace last night by children waiting to be nestled snug in their beds. And chocolate from places so distant we have never been there, warming our hands in hefty mugs, drunk under warm wooly blankets and in the glow of candles on the tree.

We may be assaulted this time of year by the loud jingles and incessant chatter reminding us to consume for the sake of our loved ones, to save money by getting everything we need for our table from one national chain store at unbelievable prices. But I for one shall snuggle into the warmth of family and small treasures chosen or crafted with love, and let the bounty of the now faded sunlight grace our table and nourish our souls.

And so I send my wishes for warmth and peace to you in this quiet season.

The smell is free

My shopping list today is pretty boring: lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, avocado, butter. Because my car does not have air conditioning, it has to be a pretty compelling reason to get me to drive anywhere in the afternoon. And I’m trying to empty the fridge a bit, since our summer trek to the olde country is but ten days away. But Little One had a coupon for a one dollar token at the Crossroads Farmers’ Market, and I missed the Redmond Saturday market for camping last weekend, and just can’t face the wilted stuff in the crisper, so off we went.

It is a small market, but still had plenty of flavor, from the Laotian and Mexican farmers bringing fresh cherries over the mountains (1 pound of Rainier cherries go in the bag after begging from Number One, even if they aren’t organic), to the woman who tapes up the seed packets from seeds that I can’t get to grow, but which she has started (one Mammoth sunflower for Little One, who gets two quarters from me in addition to his token), and the Russian woman haggling over the price of a bunch of beets with the preteen who has been left to tend the till (many thanks to the woman who was quick with two quarters to save the poor lad).

I find my old friends from Full Circle Farm, and indeed, they are the only organic farmer represented, and the most local. I’ve been watching their selection turn from dark leafy winter greens to tender baby lettuces, and now it’s glorious summer, and the big heads of fresh lettuce are three for $5. One red sail, one green leaf, one romaine for tomorrow night’s Caesar salad. A farmer from Yakima has the only potatoes at the market, and they’re cheap: a dollar a pound. I find eight nice red potatoes for a salad; if they are nice, I may be back another time.

But it is the strawberries that are the stars of this market day: flats, half-flats, pints, all resplendently red, and one farmer is offering an heirloom variety that sells itself from the smell alone. Two overflowing pints tops off the bag and will tuck themselves into scones this evening.

There are no tomatoes here, but I know I will find them on Saturday in Redmond. I’ll swing by Trader Joe’s on the way home for avocados and butter, and make sure to get a little cream, for those fragrant berries are well on their way to overshadowing dinner.

Is this the cake you baked for me?

I got to be the queen in our second grade play. She was a demanding woman, who commanded her head baker (played by my best buddy Hiroshi) create the most exquisite cake ever made to grace her table. What she ended up with was a tiny little thing presented by a lowly baker’s apprentice (played by my other best buddy Jeff); thus the line my father made sure I never forgot, “Is this the cake you baked for me?” delivered with a just a touch of disdain in my voice.

This week’s CSA box contained the usual roots that are hard to be enthusiastic about after a long winter, but there were also some early shoots: rhubarb, raab, and—gasp!—asparagus! The kids weren’t around to hear my shriek of glee; probably just as well, since everything I do serves only to embarrass my 13-year old. Another cackle: Farmer’s wife has won Darling Husband’s everlasting adoration by throwing in an extra stalk of the red stringy stuff. I quickly slate that for compote with a wee bit of orange peel and plan to bake up some lace cookies to dunk/scoop the glop.

But it was the asparagus that made my heart leap, because I’ve lived here long enough to know that when the green spears head upward, it’s the time when the salmon arrives. Sure enough, a trip to the market revealed that the Copper River season started today, which would have meant waiting a day to eat the asparagus, which frankly wasn’t an option. So we “settled” for Columbia River King, and fired up the grill. Potatoes (yes, they were in the box as well) first, then the asparagus (ever so quickly!), and finally the filets, oozing enough oil to raise flames from the coals. No worries, though Number One Son, aka Armchair Fire Chief wanted to know if I wanted water to throw in the Weber.

The play has a happy ending, as all second-grade plays have: It turns out that the cake the apprentice baked was incredibly delicious, and I am duly impressed. But as I sit back licking my lips from that plate of fresh local goodness, I feel like a different sort of queen. Not only do I have the privilege of eating an incredibly tasty meal, not only have I had the honor of working with fine food, I have trod the soil that grew much of it, and have met the farmer (though I have yet to thank the farmer’s wife in person for that extra rhubarb in Darling Husband’s tummy). But there’s more: in that modest waxed cardboard box I have found something more than vegetables and other goodies: I have found time. I am spared standing in front of tables of produce asking myself, “Is it local?” “Is it in season?” No, I just say, incredulously, but with no disdain whatsoever, “Is this is the box you made for me?”

Snow on kale

In a Waldorf kindergarten the teacher often regales the children with tales of Old Man Winter fighting to hold on to the cold weather while gentle Lady Spring sneaks sunny days and flowers into the picture. Well, this year’s battle is taking on epic proportions as crotchety Mr. Winter adamantly refuses to let anything above freezing fall from the sky, despite Ms. Spring’s tasteful floral decorating efforts. Uncharacteristically late snow—the second bout this year—is wreaking havoc on gardens and fruit trees. Indeed, as I regard the Italian plum tree in the front yard, with branches in full bloom under wet snow, I can’t help but wonder if it will set fruit.

Riots in other countries over the cost of food seem distant, even if they resonate with students of French history (“Qu’ils mangent de brioche !” intones Marie Antoinette). But I wonder how many are considering what might happen to an apple crop that has sustained the double-whammy of snow during blossom time and yet another huge die-off in beehives around the state.

This is the time of year when a girl’s fancy normally turns to love and picking posies. This girl looks forward to the spoils of spring: I crave a plate with a piece of tender salmon, sweet new potatoes and pencil-thin asparagus. But the salmon season has been sharply curtailed (and farther south it has been cancelled altogether) due to decimated Coho runs. Asparagus has yet to appear at the farmer’s market, though the first spears of rhubarb made Darling Husband’s mouth water when I asked him if I should make a crumble with it. The potatoes are starting to appear, knobbly russets that yield their skin to scrubbing.

So when the butcher from Vashon Island said he had beef, I took home a bundle of round steak, to go with russet potato fritters and yet more greens. A tiny bit of fresh kale from the garden serves as a garnish, but only after I dust the snow off its leaves. Spring may need to take off her ladylike gloves to get the old man to finally leave town. He’s just not welcome here anymore.

Stretchy chicken

It was nearly impossible to find a container for the bit of raviolini that didn’t get eaten last night, which means there are too many leftovers in the fridge.

So this afternoon, I pulled out the odd bits to see what they might add up to: most promising were two wings and a drumstick from Sunday’s roast chicken, along with the pot of carcass and stock, a container of rice, a serving of mashed potato and two spoonfuls of chili. The crisper held three leeks, one carrot, half an onion and two wilted celery stalks. The larder had some shallots and two lonely potatoes.

After discarding the spent onion and celery stalk from the stockpot, I had a more than a quart of stock. But we’re all sick of soup, and we’re not sick, so I need to learn another song. Stew, perhaps? I chopped up the onion and threw it in the pan, then picked the chicken off the bones and tossed that in as well. Added the leeks, and watched it simmer nicely. I threw in a bit of the stock, then thickened it (with cornstarch, no wheat today). A bit of salt, ah, stew!

Number One walks in, sticks his nose in the pot, and says (predictably), “what’s for supper?” “Stew” “That sure doesn’t look like much.” I look at it, and he’s right. It’s thick and rich, just like the inside of a chicken pot pie, but there’s not enough for three hungry men. Pot pie does sound good, but it’s not a wheat day, and I've never managed a golden flaky crust with rice flour. The mashed potatoes, perhaps? I just can’t quite see a shepard’s pie crust on this. Hmm again. I fish the food processor lid out of the dishwasher (this will only take a minute), and shred the two potatoes. Into lovely green olive oil it goes, to brown into a potato crust. Once it’s golden brown, I slide the whole thing on top of the stew and pop it in the oven to bubble. A big green salad will complete the meal.

I tuck the carrot, celery and leftover rice and stock back in the fridge. I can always make some soup tomorrow.

Perfect Pete

I met Pete today. Pete, who was shivering because he hadn’t bundled up enough against the chill this cloudy Seattle morning, makes Pete’s Perfect Butter Toffee. After careful analysis, I can attest that his toffee is indeed buttery and about as close to perfect as any toffee I’ve ever had.

I met Pete at the University District Farmer’s Market, one of three year-round open-air markets in the Seattle area. Since the cello run already takes me over the bridge, I’m only a few minutes away from this little slice of local heaven. More than a few hardy souls joined me this morning.

I went with every intention of coming away with armloads of healthy produce, really I did. In the end, the bag did contain some very lovely lumpy potatoes (blue and red, since I couldn’t decide), curly-edged kale, apples, and still-muddy scallions, but it also had things like fresh goat cheese and fromage blanc, a dense honey whole-wheat loaf and a bottle of hard cider, and even some chicken and duck eggs. Oh, and the toffee.

The other thing I took away from the market, which cost me nothing, was inspiration. Now, I fully expect to have to restrain myself at the market in September, when truckloads of fruits and vegetables scream, “Take me home!” “No, take me!” as I stroll through. On those occasions, I need helpers to carry the bounty, and then help me process it into jams and such for the winter. I tend to come home with enough to make eight meals for the week, and even growing boys can only eat so much. But this is barely March, and though the buds are plump on the fruit trees, they are not yet blossoms, let alone ripe fruit. I expected to find turnips and kale and not much more. The foods of winter were there in abundance, offering warmth to the chill: cheeses (aged and fresh, goat and cow), meat (beef, goat and oysters), bread, eggs, preserves, along with the buds of the season to come: little baby carrots (finger-sized because they grew that way, not because they’d been lathed down to that dimension), nearly translucent in the weak sunshine, and pencil-thin scallions, fragrant bundles with long root beards and mud still attached. My head races with the possibilities: steam and mash the red-skinned potatoes with heavy cream and some scallions; pan sear the kale with some carrots and orange juice; or maybe roast it with the blue potatoes and chicken. An omelette of duck eggs and fresh goat cheese and more of those scallions, or maybe quiche, with some smoky bacon. Wash it down with the cider, or use the golden liquid to deglaze some pork chops and apple slices sautéed in butter. For dessert, maybe mix fromage blanc with some apricot preserves; or use those fresh egg whites to make a light genoise and use up the last two Meyer lemons in the bowl.

By the time I got back to the car, my canvas bag was overflowing with ideas. I couldn’t wait until I’d bitten into the quintessential Washington fruit before I called Darling Husband to pull some steak out of the freezer to thaw. Jazzed, inspired, invigorated—and I hadn’t even had a chance to dig into the bag yet.

On the way back from the market to pick up Number One from rehearsal, I noted wryly that the parking lot in front of Northgate Mall was absolutely packed with cars, shoppers no doubt in search of the perfect fashion accessory. Me, I’ll stick with my old jeans (there’s a smudge where I wiped some mud from the scallions off my hands) and take perfect toffee.

February sunshine

We emptied an overflowing rain gauge just two short weeks ago, and it remains eerily empty. For the last week, I have been enjoying puttering in a sunny spring-like garden, doing a happy dance when the seed packet reads, “sow in early spring, as soon as ground can be worked.” Spinach, lettuce, kale and peas (including some sweet peas in a container outside the kitchen door) are all in. But as I covered the rows, I hesitated. If this were anywhere else, I would have planted with a hose at hand, gently watering in my new darlings. But this is the Pacific Northwest, and I expect it to rain in February, even if the weather pundits don’t forecast it. And they keep forecasting it, but it’s just not happening. So, do I water them in or not?

I snuggle up evenings with Darling Husband and Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, trying not to gobble it up in one sitting, striving for a balance that will let me finish it before the library repossesses it for the next person and making sure I get to sleep enough to make it through the next day. I’m thrilled that so many other people want to read it that there are still 132 holds on it (plus the 86 waiting for the audio CD); it means a lot more people will get to revel in her joy of seasonality, but it does put pressure on me to get through her year before next Friday.

Number One Son, delighted at the stuff pulled from the freezer last night (gotta make room for the first of the couscous lamb), was thrilled when I offered him some of Fishing Sensei’s lox to go with his bagel for his lunch. “Why do they call smoked salmon lox, Mom?” asks my spoiled-by-fresh child. Out poured the explanation: the Yiddish for salmon, from the German Lachs, refers to the smoked version because historically, it was rare to find it fresh in most places (not here, thank heavens). Smoking was the best way to preserve it, and it became the de facto norm, what you eat in the off-season. I’m wondering if it will taste good with Portobello mushroom risotto tonight.

One of the side effects of the sunny week was that once we had ticked off the list of things to do in our own garden, we could explore farther afield. For us, that means letterboxing, planned to end near Theno’s Dairy. It was there that we had ice cream on Friday afternoon, and there that the boys noticed butter from Bow, Washington in the case. That easily qualifies as local, and the ingredients label was enticing: Cream, salt. We grabbed it, along with three cones (chocolate chocolate chip, mint chocolate chip and lemon chiffon), and a quart of hand-pack ice cream for Darling Husband (banana nut, his favorite).

Not surprisingly, the big thing on the table last night was not the local pan-sautéed pork chops on a bed of black kale, deglazed with balsamic vinegar, but the potatoes. Glowing Yukon Golds from Oregon, they were simply boiled and served like that, smashed on your plate for a glob of butter and a sprinkling of salt. Potatoes and butter, heroes of the meal, disappearing quickly, removing any doubt that eating locally and in season is anything but a sacrifice.

The stick of butter that was open when we brought the real stuff home is still sitting there. When I do the sniff test, it smells a little buttery, but nothing like the heady aroma from the little Golden Glen tub, which we seem to be running through rather quickly. We clearly have to make an excuse to get to Theno’s again for some more butter (“and ice cream!” screams Little One) And maybe the weather will hold off for just one more day so I can get some potatoes in the ground too. Then we can do a rain dance.

Happy dirt

I nearly ran to the garden this muggy afternoon, anxious to see what the rains have wrought. A couple of huge slugs, to be sure, but then I saw the peas! Those lovely shelling peas that we smuggled in from Ireland are in full glory, enjoying the damp, cloudy days. The two dozen pods I pick aren’t enough for a whole plate of peas, but they combine well with some leftover baby carrots from the next valley over for the classic peas and carrots dish. A dot of butter will insure they disappear.

I turn to the rows of potatoes, and choose the one marked “Misc. Pots.” It’s the garden equivalent of Google’s “I’m felling lucky” button, odd potatoes that didn't fit in the red, yellow or russet categories. My pitchfork turns over handfuls of little golden fingerling potatoes. I am feeling very lucky indeed.

This is the time of Darling Husband’s home town festival, Rutenfest. Today would have been the culmination of the festival, with drummers noisily filling every corner of town, and just about every school kid dressed up to take part in the big parade. Germans grow misty-eyed about these things, so to make him feel better we throw some sausage in the pan, and hang the city’s big blue and white banner out front. There’s even a commemorative glass at his place to remind him of home and welcome him home.

In search of spuds

As I peeled potatoes this evening (using what one gourmet friend of mine would term an ‘old-fashioned’ potato peeler), I reflected on the source of the foods we were eating. We started our adventure in Irish shopping this morning with a visit to the convenience store around the corner, since we woke hungry to the grey day and the larder was completely empty. We downed a lovely light breakfast of thick back rashers, hot cross buns (from Cuisine de France) and orange juice. We demolished the whole litre of orange juice, clearly still dehydrated from the long flights.

So after polishing off the breakfast, and waking up with a nice cup of cocoa, we threw a load of laundry in the machine (once we figured out which of the 12 programs the Italian combined washer/dryer would do what we wanted), and walked across the street to the Luas, the light rail. Two stops up the tracks took us to Dundrum Shopping Centre, billed as the largest mall in Europe. The first store that greeted us was Starbuck’s, which we immediately passed by. We were looking for a light lunch, to get our stomachs accustomed to the time change, and found a smoothie bar. We had some berry and juice concoction and planned our attack. First a phone card, then some food.

After a quick pit stop, we took care of the phone cards in record time (it’s a real time-saver to not to have to spell my name out!). Then on to the food. We trundled down sloping travelators (like escalators, only flat so you can push a shopping cart or a buggy—sorry, stroller) to Marks & Spencer, where their designer food is as lovely as ever. There are huge signs everywhere touting Plan A (because there is no plan B), which in the most immediately visible terms meant that the old plastic sandwich boxes are gone, replaced with thin cardboard with cornstarch cellophane windows. The sandwiches inside are still some of the best, and they disappeared quickly.

The other constant, and really only downside, is the pricing: my ten items cost over 40 Euro—more than $45 for supper ) a tiny lamb roast (the name of the farmer is on the package!), some peas and asparagus and salad (yes, in a bag, sigh), the two aforementioned sandwiches, some Irish cheddar and two very cute chocolate ducks for Easter.

But back to provenance: I was having a devil of a time finding Irish potatoes. There was one item in the extensive and fetching spud section that came from Ireland, but it was sweet potatoes! The small buttery yellow potatoes that tempted me were from Israel, not the Emerald Isle. I just couldn’t stomach that.

So on to Tesco, another British import (what happened to Irish supermarkets?) where prices were a tad more reasonable, but still cost me over 50 Euro for two bags of groceries. I found their potato section—an entire aisle—and started reading. Still lots of pretty spuds from Israel, and a couple organic offerings. But all in packages (10 lbs.!) or from the UK, Israel or France. Finally, down at the end cap, one bin of loose rooster (red) potatoes, including dirt, from County Wexford. Four went into my cart, which got peeled (not organic, sigh), and made into mashed potatoes with a generous chunk of sweet cream butter (County Kerry). It sat next to some steamed spinach, asparagus and peas with white wine butter (from Northern Ireland), some fresh lamb (Ireland) and salad (lettuce from the UK, avocado from California, leftover from my in-flight stash). Sweet (dessert to you and me) was yogurt, but not just any old strawberry, nope: this was chocolate and hazelnut, with a nice chocolate covered hobnob. All washed down with some chilled Bullmer’s cider.

We’re off tomorrow to visit vegan friends in England for a long weekend, so will have less say in what we eat, but know that it will be selected with care. After spending hours looking at all these American brand names in a huge mall, I am anxious to find a real, local store, where I can buy real, local food.

Potage Parmentier

Well, I was looking for a way out of a rut, and I found one. When I run across an interesting title (book or music or movie), I put in a reserve in our library system, and sit back and wait. Since I'm constantly putting in reserves and they move to the top of the queue at different speeds, they come up somewhat randomly, like a disorganized, multimedia version of Netflix. This weeks' bounty included DVDs of Vera Drake and Before Sunset, together with Carlo Petrini's Slow Food: The Case for Taste and Julie & Julia: 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen by Julie Powell.

I ventured into Carlo's thin tome, to be daunted by the heaviness of the task for those of us who would like to change the world. Let's face it, sometimes I have trouble just getting my kids out the door to school in the morning. The prospect of tilting at windmills makes me want to crawl back under the covers. So, I set Carlos aside for now and plunged instead into Julie's delightful book. I'm only a few chapters in, but am enjoying her voyage as well as her excellent writing. And how perfectly it jibed: as I opened the fridge, looking for inspiration on this potato day (Mondays and Fridays chez nous), there were two beautiful leeks. And indeed, her first chapter is how she stumbled into making the potato and leek soup recipe that opens Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. So, after playing a couple of rounds of leek charades with the kids (we decided the moose, violinist and carpenter were the best), there's a pot of potage Parmentier simmering on my stove. No worries, I'm not going to follow Julie's path, but I am very grateful for her reminder to dust off the volume dotted with fleurs-de-lis. Of course, there is a small risk that I might get stuck in the soup chapter.

Uninspired

The cold rain returned yesterday, that cold rain that would be snow if it were only a bit colder. When I thought of potatoes (since it was Monday), I could only think of mashed potatoes. Luckily, there were russet potatoes in the larder, so I peeled them, plopped them in a pan of water and set them to simmer on the stove. Lacking other inspiration, and preoccupied with the evening's upcoming concert, I grabbed some sausage out of the freezer--where would I be without the microwave to thaw? Mashed potatoes also call for peas, these were Petit Peas from Trader Joe's, also out of the freezer. Uninspired, but apparently comforting: I note that all the mashed potatoes were gone by the time I got to the dishes.