Combinations

Number One Son had an attack of adolescent angst the other night (conveniently right in the middle of cello practice), so, after a good talk and listen, I introduced him to one of the joys in life: A bit of Green & Black 70% chocolate, and a lovely ripe Anjou pear. Take a bite of chocolate, and when it’s nearly melted in your mouth, take a bite of the juicy pear. Lovely. What is it, he asks. Belle Hélène, I respond, beautiful Helen. We silently bless the French woman who clearly knew her chocolate and knew what to do with it. It got us chatting about some other famous food combinations, which got me thinking about the Rotkohl I’d prepared for supper that evening.

I’m always perplexed by the ingredients list for this German-style red cabbage. You’d think I’d remember the recipe, since I’ve made it so many times, but I always end up pulling Dr. Oetker off the shelf to remind me what the forgotten ingredient is. This time I’d forgotten the currant jelly. It makes me shake my head and wonder just how this list of seemingly disparate elements came to reside in the same pot.

I have an image of a desperate eighteenth century German Hausfrau, being told oh by the way honey, the boss is coming for dinner as her husband trots off to the office on their one and only horse. Here she is, stuck at home to conjure up a meal from what’s in the freezer, but it hasn’t been invented yet. As she walks past the juniper bush into her house, she absently pockets a few berries from the bush. She sighs when she sees the breakfast dishes (right where he left them…) and starts clearing the leftover bacon and jar of red currant jelly off the table (she made it last July from the bush down the lane). The larder is next to bare, just a single bay leaf, a few cloves and a half bottle of apple cider that has turned. Her market basket holds half an onion, a shriveled green apple, seven potatoes, and three-quarters of a head of purple cabbage. Things do not look good, but our heroine is a creative woman, and has a vested interest in her husband’s career (this is another time, so neither divorce nor career is not an option). She renders the bacon in a big pot and sautés the onion in it (always a good start), then chops up the apple and the cabbage and throws them in. She considers her options, and chucks in the cloves and bay leaf, and then tosses in the leftover jam and a glug of the vinegar for good measure. She gives it a good stir, and sighs, gazing out the window at the fields below. And then she sees it: movement in the grass. She deftly takes the shotgun from the corner, and slips out the door. It takes her a good hour and a half to finally bag her main course, but she is whistling brightly on her way in, with a hare dangling by its ears. Delighted that the extended simmering has actually made her kitchen smell good, she takes the juniper berries from her apron pocket, sniffs them, and throws them into the simmering pot while she prepares her quarry for the roasting pan. The potatoes get a good scrub and join the hare, and she sets the table with a sprig of pale blue rosemary blooms plucked from the kitchen garden.

Needless to say, a dinner like this clinches her husband’s promotion, and the boss sends a messenger to fetch the recipe for his housekeeper (in my mind, she’s an extraordinary woman, and is fully literate among her clearly many talents). I simply can’t imagine any other plausible story as to how all these odds and ends wound up in the same pot.

Stewing

It’s cold. Bone-chilling, wet, as-cold-as-it-can-get-without-really-snowing cold. I grant you, it’s not the 5,000 below zero they get in the Midwest, but this is the temperate rain forest. The whole family has been congregating to use the newly completed downstairs bathroom because of its incredibly toasty tile floors. All the long underwear in the house is off the shelf and on our bodies, and yet we still feel cold. There are extra quilts on the bed, and Little One’s toes are covered in socks where they stick out from under the covers.

So when I saw a package of big chunks of Oregon beef in the market, I knew what we would be eating for supper last Friday. I also bought a local onion and three horse-leg thick carrots from Dungeness farm as well, and headed home.

Number One’s stomach led him into the kitchen by his nose, and he said, “that chicken and wine thing?” “Nope, beef stew” “Mmmm.”

Darling Husband came through the front door, his manly bulk exaggerated by the extra layers of coat and sweaters. After he had stomped off his boots and doffed his Indiana Jones hat, he paid a visit to the pots on the stove as well. “Coq au vin?” “Nope, boeuf bourguignon” “Mmmm” For this, I get a good wet one planted on my cheek. And neck. And…

At the supper table, our bellies radiating the warmth, we push back and start talking about classic French dishes. We love the way the traditional winter dishes warm us. Coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon are family favorites. But we’re also open to change (a good thing in this election year). I immediately think of Ratatouille—the movie—where our rat hero updates a classic dish, but is still able to trigger a Proustian moment in the cold heart of a jaded restaurant reviewer. I grab a French cookbook off the shelf, and it reminds me that ratatouille nicoise is a peasant dish featuring onion, green pepper, eggplant, zucchini and tomato. Judging from the ingredients, it is a dish planted firmly in autumn, celebrating the harvest, when tomatoes and zucchini are abundant and warm on the vine in the afternoon, but the evenings are verging on cool. We sigh a collective family sigh and make a mental note to try it next September.

But the splatty snowflakes continue this Monday, and we are getting snippy again. Even Hannah opted for indoors today, trading her all-day freedom forays for a toasty armchair where some kind soul left a wool throw. I head for the computer in my wool slippers, ostensibly to organize myself, but my morning reading leads me to the P-I foodie blogger, who tells me about the lentils she had for Christmas and about hogwash, another local food blog, where Jess Thompson has submitted herself to the tortuous journey of creating a recipe a day during 2007. I browsed and ogled, and while I was reading, I realized I had already seen what I was looking for: a bowl of lentils cooked with duck fat. Now, I’m fresh out of duck fat, but I do have some onions and freshly dried herbs and a couple of late tomatoes. I’m thinking of a thick lentil stew over some creamy polenta to warm the troops tonight. I’m sure it will warm their bellies better than suburban housewifey fallbacks like fish sticks or stir-fry.

The year of the cat

The new year is a time for cleaning out the old, cleaning up what you’re going to keep, and cleaning up your act, otherwise known as resolutions. The image I hold is of German women scrubbing their doorsteps in snowy weather to ring in the new year, presumably to booby-trap their stoops with ice to incapacitate visitors with muddy feet. Last year, my resolution was easier on my back than scrubbing steps: try to clean up my eating habits, making a difference on a small scale, and blogging my thoughts as I went. The latter, it was hoped, would serve to test my discipline for writing on a regular basis, and, I humbly hoped, serve as an example to those so inclined, though, given my limited readership, this cannot be considered a primary goal. I have been mildly successful, so will keep at both, working to keep both habits from accumulating grime without too much scrubbing.

***

Hannah’s personality is emerging, and it appears that she is quite the right cat for us. After having recovered from the trauma of going from stray to foster home to shelter and back to a home (ours) again, and after shaking off the kennel cough that turned into kitty bronchitis and conjunctivitis, she is today the picture of both physical and mental health. Her Christmas present was a homemade toy engineered by Number One Son and a bit of freedom: as we cut down the tree from the front yard, she came out with us, nose and tail twitching. She soon asked to go out more and more, and we have settled into an easy rhythm of spending a few daylight hours outside each day, punctuated by breaks for her power naps. It is reassuring that she has not fled; indeed, if she spots one of us in the yard or through the window, she will come running to tell us all about her adventures. This weekend, we knew we had won her heart: her loud mews summoned us to the back door to ooh and aah over the treasure she wanted to share with us: a freshly killed bird (we think it was a chickadee, it was frankly hard to tell at that point). And even in this she fits in with us, embracing our frugal ways: after sharing the pleasure of the red-tinged carcass, and even offering us a turn to bat it around too, she ate it. The whole thing, down to chewing any flesh off feathers.

The new year will hold some special challenges for me, as I transition “back” to the working world. I will have to travel in my new leadership role, which takes me out of my comfortable home and kitchen and my comfort zone. My aching hips and tightening waistband remind me that I do need to work harder at taking care of myself, as well as taking care to reduce my footprint. My old neighbor has persuaded me that carbon offsets do make sense, and not just as “Catholic guilt,” but as a way to make my voice heard in the messed-up energy market. But I also need to be mindful of the environment in my body, and do a little cleaning up there (especially right now, with fondue and Christmas-cookie induced sugar overload). Travel will test my resolve on both fronts.

I used to joke that my cat taught me the importance of ergonomics by making me get up from my desk and change my focal distance from time to time (open door, close door, open door, close door…). But I realize, as I slip gently back to professional life, that what both the felines and the offspring in my life have taught me is that balance is absolutely key: neither cat nor child does the same thing all day long, and neither shall I.

Après Silvestre

After the cheese fondue—nearly three pounds of cheese melted and scooped up with chunks of chewy ciabatta loaf and rinsed down with a lovely German Gewürztraminer (Bloom)—and the company of good friends; after the decadent princess torte from Hoffman’s, with its layers of delicate sponge cake, cream, and marzipan; after the bottle of bubbly from Château Ste. Michelle and the fireworks, the kisses and hugs; and after the late night punctuated by wandering children, cats and neighbor’s fireworks, you would think that we were done with revelry.

But no, we woke to greet 2008 late and lazy, and after a leisurely photo shoot of matching Hanna PJs and cute family toes, we headed to the kitchen at an awkward hour: far too late for breakfast, way too early for lunch. Luckily, New Year’s day and the leftovers in our fridge work well enough together. We pulled out the cut loaf from last night and melted the last bit of cheese, then uncorked the leftover champagne and had ourselves a brunch fondue.

Stymied by the leftover cake—cheesecake, angel food and princess—we invited one more friend over in the afternoon to help take care of it. We melted some chocolate in the fondue pot (easy, since it was already out). And thoroughly decadent.

We slide into our “normal” routines tomorrow, the boys to work and school, myself to the pile that has accumulated on my desk over the past two weeks. That means a healthy supper and early bedtime, for we must rise before the sun tomorrow. Needless to say, no one was particularly hungry after the melted debauchery, but a quick toss of broccoli and carrots in some garlic and oil over some leftover brown rice went over well, and should get us back on track for living not only well but right.

Dear John

I hate to be the one to have to say it, but we were never meant to be. You came home with me on an impulse, because it was easier to say yes than no. My sensible side would never have aquiesed when I was younger, but you made me feel youthful again, full of potential. And we have had some great moments together, working on projects, camping near the river, times when you’ve more than pulled your own weight. And I cherish those times. But most of the time, you just sit there, expecting me to provide for you. And provide for you I do, nothing but the best.

But, let’s face it: we have a problem, and it’s not going to evaporate on its own. I’ve tried ignoring it, but now my husband knows, and he’s not going to put up with you any more. So I’m sending you away for a bit, to dry out, and then I’m posting to Craigslist to find you someone new. That’s right, Green Pickup, you’re going to find a new home where they make you earn your keep, and I’m going to tuck those crisp bills into my Prius fund. Trust me, it’s for the best.

Pimping the electric ride

Our outing yesterday, in spite of dire weather predictions, was to a little corner shop on the fringe of downtown Seattle, MC Electric Vehicles. My big brother, mild-mannered school bus driver by day, has at latest count four cars in his garage and driveway, three of which are collectible project vehicles. With a short two-mile commute, he’s concerned about the wear and tear on his non-collectible but aging Honda CRV. He had visited the sister MC showroom in Oregon, but discovered that the little electric car he likes, the Canadian Zenn, is limited to 25 mph on neighborhood streets—hence the moniker NEV, or Neighborhood Electric Vehicle. A little research on my part revealed that the cap is 35 mph for the same car purchased in Washington, and he was wondering what mechanism was used to make this enhancement. He wandered off with the jeans-clad salesman to take a test drive.

As for me, I’m still in the research phase for a car change. I like the idea of a plug-in hybrid, since my driving patterns tend to be mostly neighborhood jaunts for kids and household stuff (school, 5 miles; co-op, 6 miles; doctor, 6 miles; and so on), all typical “neighborhood” usage. But twice a week, I make longer drives, one to Renton for my violin lesson, and one to Magnolia and Shoreline on Number One Son’s cello run (lesson + orchestra). An all-electric car would be great for the short runs, but insufficient for the 35-mile freeway- based round trips that can include side runs that bring the daily total up to over 50 miles. A standard hybrid only runs full electric to about 10 mph before it fires up the internal combustion engine, while a plug-in has more juice—enough to run up to 35 mph for 30 or so miles. On my way to school last week, I noted only one moment when I got to 40 mph, while merging into traffic. The rest was under the 35 mph that would allow me to run full electric. I am not interested in paying the premium for the new car smell, so I’m looking at the used market, which means I need to learn more about things like battery lifespan and plug-in conversions before I take the plunge. A book on the subject is on hold at the library.

Big brother, however came back all smiles from his spin in the little blue Zenn. Seems the car can be purchased in his sales tax-free state, and then a separate invoice is written to upgrade the software to allow the higher speed. It looks like he will be buying an electric blue car on his return home.

Visions of cheese

I dreamt of cheese last night. I’m not sure why, but there you have it: slabs of cheddar in toasted cheese sandwiches. It comes at a good time: The tree is finally up, and there are even some presents under it, along with the cat, who thinks it a splendid place to sleep. Gramma arrived yesterday, and the boys are thrilled. Their uncle, my brother, arrives today, since he needed to do his shopping yesterday. That means X-Day is even closer.

With a solid English tradition behind us, there is a large roast beast (from Oregon Country Beef) waiting for the oven tomorrow. We’ll fill out with red potatoes chiogga beets, a Yorky pud, and some green beans. Our soggy autumn means some of the produce has come from farther south than I care to admit, but local pears will top a warm frangipane tart (we’ll melt some ice cream on top). But what about the Christmas Eve? If we were good Catholics (we’re not, but I promised the bishop I wouldn’t stand in my husband’s way when raising our children as such), we would fast until after evening mass. That’s already a lost ideal, since Gramma joined the boys in a bowl of manly oatmeal for breakfast.

So what to make? As if he can read my dreams of cheese like an open book, Darling Husband looks at me and says, “let’s make Käsespätzle!” It’s a meal the whole family makes together: Beat together 500 grams of flour and 6 eggs until bubbles form. Sounds easy enough, but we have to take turns beating the thick mixture, since our arms tire. Then one person takes up a position at the pot of boiling water and spoons the bubbly dough into the Spätzle press. Another gets the job of lifting the cooked noodles out of the pot with the strainer spoon when they rise to the surface, and layering them with grated Gruyère in a big warm bowl. Whoever isn’t cooking is setting the table and helping make salad. When the whole thing is done, a generous handful of crunchy onions goes on top and we all dig in.

We’ll fête the evening with eggnog and oodles of homemade cookies and a reading of The Night Before Christmas, and take a plate to the neighbors. The boys will artfully arrange a selection for the old guy in the red suit, along with the finest local carrots for the reindeer, of course (We figure the cat will be really surprised by his appearance in the fireplace). The Spätzle will warm our bellies and stick to our ribs, and the cookies will fill the corners, insuring that when we settle down for our long winter’s nap, we’ll be surrounded by visions of sugarplums—or Brie, as the case may be.