eating zen

Last night I challenged myself to eat mindfully--that is, without music AND, most significantly, without reading. I sat, alone, with my bowl of food and concentrated on eating. Lucky me, I created a tofu-broccoli-carrot-ginger-garlic-stirfry (a reprise of dinner a few nights ago), and ate every last morsel using my polished bamboo chopsticks, which aided in my zen-like venture. Eating with new utensils entails learning to eat in another way, finding the rhythm of the meal change with the awkward slick and slip of the chopsticks. I’m improving!

I was inspired to use my lovely chopsticks (purchased at a boutique in Auburn that I dearly miss) last fall when I went to eat with M and S, who are both adept at using them (M having lived in Japan for a year, and S a devoted Buddhist). Now whenever I create a stirfry, out come my chopsticks, and each time I’m that much better at trapping vegetables and bits of rice and transporting them to my mouth. The rice remains a challenge, but it’s one that increases the pleasure of the meal, slows down the pace, and allows me to truly taste each bite.

As friends would tell you, I’m a silverware freak, using utensils to eat pizza (which seems almost prissy, I know). My rationale has to do with the heat of the pizza, and not wanting all the hot cheese and toppings to slide into my mouth at once. I like to prolong the pleasure of cheese in each bite. Now, when I’m home alone, I’ve been known to eat a bowl of steamed broccoli with my fingers, popping the delicious stalks into my mouth like sweet treats. So my silverware use depends on the food and the moment
Last week I shared dinner with an Irish bloke, and noted his distinct silverware usage, the fork held completely differently in the left hand, rather than in the right. How much we learn of cultures as we sup with one another!

good food day

You know how some days are good hair days, which makes the whole day simply pleasant? Today was a good food day...

Breakfast: Pancakes “from the pantry,” a recipe from my Aunt B for a dry mix, which includes oats, whole wheat flour, and cinnamon. I added some applesauce and pecans, and topped the finished pancakes with maple syrup. Add my usual half a ruby red grapefruit, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee with milk and sugar, and the breakfast was perfect.

Lunch: My favorite winter salad of red leaf lettuce, oranges, shaved parm-regg, shallots, balsamic vinaigrette, ground black pepper, and sea salt; home-made oven fries; and a red pepper and red onion frittata. Two squares of Michel Cluizel Concepcion chocolate.

Between class snack: Whole wheat banana pecan muffin.

Dinner: Crispy Tofu stir-fry with carrots, broccoli, scallions, ginger, garlic, and a tamari/wine/red pepper/brown sugar/orange juice glaze. Served over brown rice. Eaten with chopsticks.

Post-prandial snack: Hot chocolate with Bailey’s and a cream biscuit.

Ahhh....amidst a busy week and a messy mind, I locate a spot of bliss and carve out a bit of calm in a few simple, delicious treats.

comfort food

One of the major tensions I see between foodie culture and the culture at large seems to be the role of food and emotion. Foodies openly profess a genuine affection for food as emotional sustenance, pleasure, and spiritual transcendence. In much health, fitness, and self-help writing, food and emotion has a negative connotation of “emotional eating.” And certainly, like any substance, food can become an unhealthy obsession in a variety of ways. Nearly everyone I know has a complex relationship to food, and these relationships are all valid and need to be honored.

I’ve been thinking of this lately, because several of my dear friends are facing challenging times, and I wish I could sweep away their suffering. And in some situations, there are real limits to what one can do, and so I find myself speaking the language of comfort through words, which seem to fail me at these times, and through food, a language of care and sustenance. A homecooked meal shared with friends creates a space to share the suffering and sustain the soul. A basket of homemade biscuits and jam communicates a moment of assuagement. Or so I hope.

This is the real meaning of comfort food, more so than the ubiquitous Ben and Jerry’s in the face of heartbreak, or my personal favorite, homemade mac and cheese on a day when the world seems an amalgam of the blues and what Holly Golightly calls “the mean reds.” I hope that when I speak food, others can sense my compassion, my desire to share their suffering and offer even a moment of comfort.

hot and spicy in hotlanta

Last weekend I journeyed to the blooming landscape of the South to escape into the woods with J and M, and to revisit some of my old haunts. While the culinary adventures while hiking are somewhat limited by one’s inclination to avoid unnecessary weight, I did manage to sneak a few of my favorite goodies into my food bag: a hunk of parm-regg to grate over pasta and dehydrated veggies; another chunk of cheese, a dry jack, to add to our black bean salsa couscous burritos; and my personal stash of chocolate, including a Vosges Barcelona bar, Vosges Black Cat bar, and my default fave, the Michel Cluizel Concepcion bar.

The backcountry adventures were bookended by culinary delights in the city. On Friday, we ventured to an old standby from grad school days: Mellow Mushroom. I delighted in warm, soft pretzels fashioned out of pizza dough and brushed to a glistening sheen with butter and then sprinkled with grated parm. I drank two huge glasses of Southern sweet tea, and enjoyed my pizza with green peppers, spinach, and feta. I wish I could’ve taken my leftovers home with me!

And Monday, due to a complexity of factors of changed plans and mysterious trails (“what happens in North Carolina stays in North Carolina...”), I was back in Atlanta by noon, and by 12:30 I was drinking in the fragrance of thai spices at Tamarind, my favorite Thai restaurant. I ordered my usual: iced tea (unsweetened), spring rolls, and mixed vegetable curry. My body was shivering--a combination of air conditioner shock and the lingering chill of the woods--while my mouth was shimmering to life with the gentle heat of the spring rolls and accompanying sauce, and then sweating with the more pointed warmth of the red curry sauce. Yummmmmmmmmmm.

I glanced at my watch, and with 3 hours left before I needed to be at the airport, I decided to drive around Midtown in search of Jakes, an incredible ice cream place I had been two years before. After 15 minutes of navigating the one way streets, I found my spot, pleased with my memory recall. Though there have been some slight changes in the ownership, the dessert itself was as delicious as I remembered. Shivering once again, I settled in with a dish of half ginger (a nice lingering finish to my Thai meal) and half cinnamon coffee, replete with flecks of espresso and spice...

A quick trip up to the shopping mecca known as Lenox Square mall completed my tour de Atlanta, and I hit the trifecta of favorite shops: Sephora, Bloomingdales, and Anthropologie, before steering the rental car through late afternoon traffic and back to the airport. I soaked up the last bits of sunny Southern warmth, before slipping on a jacket over my tank top and changing my flip-flops to running shoes. I stepped into the airport, and awaited my return to the great lakes, where winter still reigns, though Spring tenatively throws out an occasional invitation, like the tease she is.

just a cheese sandwich?

The other day I read a short article in one of my cooking magazines that was bemoaning the “cheese sandwich” blog in which the writer merely chronicles each meal. So I’ve been a bit concerned that my own blog veers awfully near this abyss of boredom...then again, as I’m always telling my students, what matters is having your APPM clear, and then the rest falls into place. (A:udience; P:urpose; P:ersona; M:essage). So at the risk of being a cheese sandwich blog in the eyes of the sophisticated gourmands in the magazine world, I’ll carry on, as I think my approach reaches my desired APPM:).

Last night I made cookies--I was craving little bits of sweetness. I tried a new recipe for oatmeal raisin cookies, with a few inevitable subsitutions; I swapped dried cranberries for the raisins and added chopped toasted pecans. The cookies are wee, crispy, crunchy gems of caramelly yumminess. I think I’ll freeze some to take backpacking with me...

My other food project is to concoct a parm-reg pasta dish that can be prepared with minimal fuss in the backcountry. I’m excited to try something new, rather than the standard Kraft or Lipton packaged dishes. I hope my hiking companions don’t think I’m too terribly high-maintenance (though who am I kidding? I do tend to be rather HM about some things. I used to be “the worst kind,” according to Harry Burns, of *When Harry Met Sally,* by insisting on believing myself low maintenance when really I’m high maintenance. I take my open admission of “I just want it the way I want it” to be a sign of maturity). Anyway, my HM tendencies seem to revolve around food. I already have a lovely stockpile of chocolates (Vosges Barcelona bars, and the lust-worthy Michel Cluizel single origin Concepcion bar that I keep sneaking a square from...) ready to fill my pack.

And I have my iPod loaded with some new favorites for the plane ride. Recently, I’ve discovered the indie band Death Cab for Cutie, which features reflective lyrics and mellow melodies that are very popular with college-aged hipsters. And I’ve been listening to James Blunt, who I love, and feel compelled to admit listening to before he exploded on the pop music landscape. “Tears and Rain” is an achingly gorgeous song. And there’s other fun “bippy” stuff like KT Tunstall, whose “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree” amazes me because every rich, distinct musical sound is created by one woman (I heard a story about her on NPR a few weeks ago). And, a lovely gulf coast relief song by Michael Stipe (REM) and Chris Martin (Coldplay), called “Into the Sun.” A good reminder that the tragedy continues and kindness must continue to flourish. And Ben Folds, who I have such a crush on, and who I’m going to see in concert in a few months (hoorah!). I like him in both his mellow, sweet, sad moods “Late,” “The Luckiest” (a song I would have at my wedding if I were to marry now), or the infectious, fun, messed up songs like “Zak and Sara” (best line: “visions of pills that put you in a loving trance/that make it possible for all white boys to dance.”)

cold, cocktails, and conversation

After a string of teasing, temperate days, winter has returned with biting wind and low, low temps--this morning the thermometer read -1, and the wind chill assuredly hovers somewhere around -10 or so...

Last night, my friend S- and I decided to brave the cold and head out to a supposedly hip new restaurant in the downtown area. I’ve read reviews that claim that once inside, diners will forget the relatively provincial locale and be tricked into thinking they’re in Chicago...we were in search of innovative cocktails and small plates, as well as an urban social scene.

Unfortunately, the restaurant was empty--due to the influx of diners on Valentine’s day, our bartender B- told us. But, the restaurant is gorgeous--a warm, sensual setting, with long linen drapes, cherry-colored furniture, sleek wood floors, and behind the bar, a wall of one inch tile, all in warm red and orange tones. The lighting was dim yet cozy, and we settled into the high chairs at the bar and listened to B- list the diversely delicious cocktails he could create. We both decided on a Champagne sorbet “martini,” composed of a variety of orange flavored liqueurs, grenadine, and a scoop of the eponymous champagne sorbet. Yumm! As B- promised, the flavor of the drink would change as the sorbet melted.

As the liqueur traveled straight to my head, I suggested we order a small plate of the warm goat cheese, served with marinara and crostini. Usually, I find goat cheese too pungent and earthy for my palate, but I’ve been trying to accustom myself to its flavor profile. Plus, the menu, while innovative and reasonably priced for upscale dining, has nary a vegetarian option, so goat cheese was THE choice.

The cheese, mixed with an array of herbs, was floated in a pool of marinara, and served in a small cast iron skillet. The crostini were still warm, and just the right crispiness, with a slick of satisfying olive oil. And when our crostini were gone, the wait staff brought more (most generous since S- and I both inadvertently flung a toast or two on the highly polished floor).

And then the night became interesting. The 60+ year old barfly sitting next to us took the advantage of S- going to the bathroom to strike up a conversation with me. His son is ostensibly the chef (his other stories seemed rather fabricated, so I remain skeptical). By turns an interesting talker and by turns belligerent, J- continued to chat with us the rest of the night. And, since the bar was nearly deserted, so too did B-, the cute bartender, who was most attentive and flirtatious as the best bartenders are. A high point of the evening involved B-removed his vest after my confession of watching *Smallville* for the obligatory Tom Welling sans shirt moments.

Despite the quiet of the restaurant, I did feel I was in a city for those brief hours we enjoyed our cocktails and conversations, and I hope to see a crowd worthy of Chicago the next time I venture back downtown...Ahh, Chicago, the city where though the wind whips a biting chill through the streets, I’m warmed with thoughts of Rick Bayless’ Mexican cuisine and Katrina Markoff’s creative chocolate bars at Vosges, and, of course, the endless shopping at Bloomingdales....

go for the gold

Last night I hosted an Olympic Party--each guest/couple declared a “country” identity and brought food and beverage representing their chosen nation. As the hostess (I can hardly write that word without adding “with the mostest,” a little in-joke from my college sorority days), I presented the culinary delights of Italia...

Due to a busy work week, I decided to spend more money and less time creating a memorable dish or two, and I made an Antipasti platter and Tiramisu. After work each day, I ventured to a different food store in search of the perfect ingredients...and at week’s end, I discovered that I bought ingredients at 6 different locations...I will spare you the details of my hours wandering through grocery stores, but I must say that when planning a party or a special meal, I love the thrill of gathering the most delicious, freshest, best ingredients I can find.

For my Antipasti, I made Balsamic Roasted Red Peppers, riveting in their simplicity of salt, pepper, chiffonade of basil, 10 year aged Balsamic, and the peppers;

Marinated Kalamata Olives, blended with lemon zest, basil, crushed red pepper flakes, and olive oil;

Chunks of Zingerman’s Paesano bread;

Small fresh whole milk mozzarella balls, chunks of fontina, and shards of asiago;

And a spicy Sopressata. Yumm!

My Tiramisu is an adaptation of a *Cooking Light* recipe, to which I add Starbucks coffee liqueur along with the Kahlua and coffee for ladyfinger “dunking.” I also add a thin layer of vanilla and coffee liqueur scented whipped cream. I’ve found that using the crispy imported Italian ladyfingers makes the dish a bit more interesting.

For beverages, I provided a Moscato d’ Asti, one of my new favorites, along with a Barbera d’ Asti, both wines from the Piedmont region, along with one of my favorites, San Pellagrino.

My guests’ dishes were equally thrilling:

A Spanish tortilla and white wine sangria;

Corn chowder and Southern cornbread and a California unoaked Chardonnay (*very* nice--I detest overly oaked wines);

Guacamole and blue corn chips and Corona Light;

Irish Soda Bread and Killian’s;

Cannellini bean soup, garlicky hummus and pita, and misc. olives, and even more Moscato d’ Asti....

We critiqued the figure skating pairs’ costumes, spotted the Olympic hot, hot, hotties (how do those speed skaters fit into those skin-tight suits? And have you ever seen men with such amazing quads?), and shared our own Olympic aspirations (in 1984 I was determined to be the next Mary Lou Retton, a dream fueled by reading *A Very Young Gymnast*, to be updated in 1988, when I dreamed of being an ice skater and even checked out a “learn to ice skate” book from my local public library)...ahhh. I’ll now content myself with the creation of satisfying, pleasurably meals, appropriately descriptive prose, memorable moments with my dear loved ones, as well as the more inner-directed “sports” or disciplines of running and yoga...

Cin Cin ‘til we meet again!

fragrant and floral

The scent of garlic and rosemary wafts through my home, and the wind stirs the bare trees outside. I hear the scrape and crunch of ice as neighbors uncover their cars and motor down the road, covered with the thinnest skiff of snow. I leisurely read my students’ thoughts on science and technology while simultaneously watching a series of cooking shows, which are about the segue into travel shows. I love PBS! It’s a chilly January Saturday morning and I’m content to stay in today, cooking slow foods (like my dried cannellini beans that are currently undergoing their transformation on the stove-top), reading about Einstein, and writing tidbits here and on my novel. At some point, I’ll pull my warm layers on for my daily run...this week I’m breaking the 15 mile mark (weekly total) for the first time. I think my thing with running is about to become serious. Hmmm. Last night I was researching the Nike Women’s half-marathon. Could I run 13.1 miles?!? For a special Tiffany and Co. necklace in addition to my sense of accomplishment AND the opportunity to run through the beautiful landscape of San Fran?

So, a few culinary moments to share. This is the season of citrus abundance, though most all of our stock is California this year, rather than Florida, in large part because of the hits of heavy hurricanes these past few years. But oh, the grapefruits! The oranges! And, the little wonder of the citrus world, the Meyer Lemon!

I first discovered these little gems last winter at my favorite natural foods store. Their appearance is capricious, so when I saw them earlier this week I bought a half dozen. I have tons of foodie recipes featuring this fragrant fruit, but I like to keep my use of the lemon simple. Combined with olive oil, a smidgen of vinegar, chopped shallots, and a drop of honey, the lemon makes a wonderful vinaigrette. Last night I made a simple pasta with thick, amish-style egg noodles, spinach, shallots, ricotta, parm regg, and the zest and juice of one lemon. And, I used the last of the lemons to make lemon bars to take to my friends’ H- and P’s house tomorrow.

The glory of the Meyer Lemon rests with its flavor profile--it’s not as tart as a traditional lemon, but it’s not exactly sweet either. Really, the best description I can offer is that it is fragrant and floral, with overtones of lemon and tangerine (the fruits from which it was developed). The lemon bars are not nearly as sweet or as tart as traditional bars, but something else entirely. Transcendent. Different. Special because of their rarity. A nice alternative to all of my chocolatey desserts.

war damn eagle

In keeping with my Southern heritage, yesterday I fixed simple, country fare for dinner: beans, greens, and cornbread. Yumm! Of course, I dressed up the dishes a bit: cannellini beans with roasted garlic and fresh sage; sauteed fresh spinach with caramelized shallots, lemon zest and juice, Maldon sea salt. I also drank a California white table wine, and ate a slice of the famous chocolate cake. A lovely way to greet the new year with nourishing, hearty fare.

Today while I watched my Auburn Tigers lose to Wisconsin--unfortunately, the only Auburn game I had a chance to watch this season--I indulged in pimento cheese and crackers and a sweet tea the size of my head from the McAllister’s just around the corner from my house.

And the culinary high point of this year thus far: sweet potato gnocchi in brown butter sage sauce, which I made tonight. Ahhhh...how perfectly tasty. I’ve had a few dishes in restaurants along similary lines, but often the butter sauce is simply too much. But the beauty of cooking at home is that I could make my butter sauce just the lightest of coatings. I made sauteed spinach again, as well as a salad of boston lettuce, navel orange, with a lemon-honey-poppyseed vinaigrette. Delish.

Tomorrow I’m making black beans--they’re soaking right now. And I’m choosing a bread recipe to perfect over the next several weeks...

au revoir, year of the cake

The smell of my now famous Better-Than-you-Know-What Cake fills my home, the sound of my talented friends playing old-time music on a just-released CD fills the air, while outside large wet flakes of snow fill the sky. I’m making the cake for my friend S’s- second annual New year’s Eve Dinner Party. I spent a good portion of the morning buying the necessary ingredients, as my baking larder was spent from previous holiday baking. I searched for silver dragees to adorn this last cake of the year, but alas, none can be found. Instead I may drizzle “2006” in white chocolate, topped with a cinnamon-sanding sugar mixture for high glamour.

This noon, when I was taking my last run of 2005, I was thinking of the past year in terms of what I baked, and indeed, this was the year of the cake, in its many forms, and particularly, sizes. I started the baking year with the very first Mexican Chocolate cake on MLK weekend (a post-holiday celebration with my best college friends). I made chocolate cupcakes for my friends M- and B-, visiting from Chicago, in February--these were a preview of the cupcakes to come at their wedding in May. For that blessed event I baked 175 total, a melange of flavors and frostings; we had a frosting party the day before the wedding, complete with margaritas and glue guns (to construct the cardboard towers to hold the diminutive cakes). I made a chocolate cake for S’s birthday in February, and another for H’s birthday in April (though we celebrated on May day). I baked the chocolate layers here and toted them (and the non-perishable frosting ingredients) via airplane for J’s graduation party in AL, finishing the cake the night before the celebration. There’s the tiramisu I made for my brother L’s birthday in May, the chocolate and meringue frosting cake I created for E’s bridal shower, the chocolate cake I gave to S’s parents, the cake I made for Grandpa C’s Christmas gift, and assuredly many more that I’ve forgotten.

So now that I’ve reflected and reminisced, I’m thinking ahead to ‘06--what will this be the year of, culinary speaking? Cookies? Breads? Puddings? Muffins? Pies? Candies? I’m undecided (not surprising, if you know me well), but I’m leaning toward breads. I already know that I’ll be creating a King Cake from scratch for Mardi Gras, in honor of that great city with its amazing people and traditions, which will survive that which nature has wrought. The cake is more like a bread, a brioche, I believe, which is twisted into a wreath, glazed, sprinkled with the tri-color sugars of green, yellow, and purple, and, best (and rather oddest) of all, stuffed with a little plastic baby Jesus.

For now, I drink in the warm, comforting smell of hot, chocolate cake, and think of all of the cakes I’ve shared with so many family members and friends, near and far, and I feel content, calm, and cared for. Ahh, the magic of chocolate and the wonder of loved ones. Be blissful, each and all y’all:)

gifts from the kitchen

To loosely quote the romantic comedy classic *When Harry Met Sally,* I’ve desperately wanted to write but have been trapped by something heavy: a combination of end-of-the-semester grading madness, final days at the cafe, and my characteristic end-of-the-semester cold. But, I’ve posted course grades, have been freed from the high-drama dysfunction of the coffee shop, and have shaken the last of my upper respiratory distress. I’m free! I’m baking! I’m thinking of witty and funny additions to my novel! I’m reading novels! I’m running and yoga-ing! I’m staying up late to watch syndicated *Sex and the City*!

I recently hosted a Christmas Tea Party for my family and friends, complete with dainty sandwiches (cucumber, white bean pâte, pimento cheese), tea breads (cranberry walnut, banana, made by Mom and H-, respectively), parmesan puffs (made by K-), cream biscuits with homemade strawberry jam, chocolate peppermint sandwich cookies, and the most amazing mocha slice cookies (from the December Issue of Martha Stewart). I also made Robert Linxe’s (of La Maison du Chocolat fame) truffles as party favors. Yumm! We sipped Moscato d’Asti and Castelton Estate Darjeeling. To quote old sorority reports, “a good time was had by all.” I thank my guests for their delightful presence, entertaining conversation, and overall kindness.

I enjoyed a delightful Christmas with family. I gave a variety of foodie gifts--from kitchen tools and vintage cookbooks to handcrafted mini-chocolate cakes. And, I have many new additions to my kitchen: Reidel “O” tumblers for Pinot Noir, a bottle of Zingerman’s 10 year balsamico condiment (yummm), the *Zingerman’s Guide to Good Eating*, and a nifty pump-action pepper grinder with premium pepper corns. I can’t wait to rearrange my kitchen, add the new goodies, and dream up lovely meals and occasions to welcome 2006.

One of my goals for 2006 is to write more regularly all around, including this poor neglected blog. I almost doubt anyone’s reading this anymore! If you haven’t given up, know that I’ll be back with more regular posts in 2006.

Happiest of holidays to all!

maple, maple everywhere, dripping out of the pan

Last Wednesday I headed out on the snow-skiffed roads to a local Sugar Bush to buy a jug of maple syrup for my Thanksgiving concoctions. The showroom was an unassuming room filled with maple sugaring supplies and a small selection of maple goodies. I chose a large jug, added it to my crowded backseat, and navigated the snowy roads across the state to my parents’ house.

Once I arrived, I set about finishing my baking. I unveiled the cake I baked for Grandma, which was disappointingly leaden. I then turned to my pie, rolling out the pastry I made the night before, and stirring together butter, brown sugar, maple syrup, and pecans for the filling. Several weeks ago mom and I found these nifty pie pans at Williams-Sonoma that had a few holes in the bottom, to help crisp the crust. I assembled my pie into the pan, placed it in the oven, and set about making cinnamon rolls with the leftover pie crust. When I opened the oven to bake the rolls, I noticed a trickle of caramel leaving the pie and splattering on the oven floor. The maple filling! Dripping in a steady stream! From all of the holes in the pie pan! I laughed and cussed and Mom came running to investigate. We lined the oven floor with foil to collect the candied drippings, which began to burn and smoke. I was worried the pie would absorb the smoke, and I was prepared to declare it an avant-garde “hickory smoked pie,” taking a hint from chocolatier Katrina Markoff, whose Vosges Barcelona bar is a masterpiece of melded and unexpected flavors (hickory smoked almonds, grey fleur de sel, enrobed in dark milk chocolate). The pie lost about a third of its mapley goodness, and I joked that it was a low-sugar pie. Luckily, the pie tasted nutty and sweet and scrumptious and not at all smoked.

Now, I’m looking ahead to Christmas baking, which I will keep a veiled mystery since many of my readers will be receiving these goodies. To tease your palates a bit, I can promise chocolate (of course), as well as cranberry and orange, and perhaps some of that Alabama gold: pecans

cookie grandma

Mmmmm. My home fills with the mingled scents of cloves, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and nutmeg, all baking together in a two-layer spice cake I’m making for Grandma C-s birthday, which just so happens to be on Thanksgiving this year. It will be topped with a maple meringue frosting--woah! Tomorrow morning I’ll stop at the local maple sugar bush to buy the syrup for the aforementioned frosting AND for the maple pecan pie I’m making for Thanksgiving.

Something about the smell of the cake reminds me of my Great-Grandma V-, who my brother dubbed “cookie grandma” when he was a wee lad. I don’t specifically remember her baking anything with these spice flavors, but she must have. She was a great baker, and I have her sugar cookie recipe (which is nice because it uses brown sugar and is a drop cookie rather than a rolled cookie). We would drive to her house every Sunday around 11:30 or so, after church if we had gone, or we would ride our bikes since she lived just down the road. Different cousins would be there every week, but we would always have home baked treats, Koolaid for the kids, and coffee for the adults. She kept a jar of pink things (as wee little L- used to call them), pink peppermints. I can taste them now...

I just removed the cake from the oven and am a bit concerned because the layers seem quite dense, more bread-like than cake-like. Hmmm. The adventures of trying a new recipe...

Today I bundled up and ran 3.5 miles, soaking up the sunshine for the brief time it made a definitive appearance today. Once I start running, the cold doesn’t really bother me, but those first few tenths-of-a-mile are a bit brutal. No one else was out today, which made me feel brazen (or crazy, as the case may be).

running with the flurries

The delectable smell of cookies wafts through my home and I’m happy. I’m listening to my Dad’s “Pure 70s CD,” boogie-ing around to the likes of “Sweet Home Alabama” (my tribute to my former home, and a good luck charm for my Auburn Tigers tomorrow; War Damn Eagle, she says, mustering up her best Southern accent) and “Hooked On a Feeling” (which reminds me of dancing with cute boys at fraternity parties in college).

Tonight I had a simple feast of a baked sweet potato, a “white” one, which I had never seen before. I’ve since discovered in my research that white sweet potatoes are not quite as sweet as their orange-fleshed counterparts. It was quite delectable with butter and salt. I also ate steamed cauliflower with sharp cheddar (2% as my compensation for this evening’s cookie eating), and cranberry sauce/jelly that I made for the first time. I followed the directions on the Ocean Spray bag; basically, the formula is the same for making other fruit jams/jellies, though with a bit more sugar to temper the cranberries’ extreme tartness. The fun aspect of making cranberry jelly is that the berries pop as the heat splits their skins, and they turn such a vibrant crimson color!

It’s hard to believe that last Saturday was a sunny 68 degrees! My friend M- was in town and we ran a bit over 6 miles (a new record for me) at a local park that has woodsy trails. I decided running with someone who completed 2 marathons in a little over 2 weeks is great incentive to not give up when I can keep on running. The day was gorgeous, and I was happy to be back in the woods--it was about the closest to hiking I’ve had since my last trip on the AT with friends J- and M- back in March 2004. I miss the rhythms of the woods.

So while my marathon running friend was here, I was asking his advice on cold weather running. I had asked one of my cafe acquaintances, who suggested hot showers pre-run and warm socks. M- said that layers are good, and he noted that B-, my friend and his equally inspiring marathon running wife found warmer running tights essential. Today I wanted to run and didn’t want the 32 degree temps and even lower wind chill keep me inside, so I headed to our local running/outdoorsy specialty store. This store’s customer service brings me back time and again, as I know I can count on the staff to help me find the right gear. I bought a pair of black Patagonia regulator tights, a soft, fleecy pant that is both lightweight and toasty warm. I try to buy Patagonia when I can, as they still make many of their fleece items in the USA, and their corporate philosophy convinces me that business can be quite profitable and adhere to ethical principles of sustainability for not only the environment but for employees as well--hoorah! I also bought a pair of pink and grey Smart Wool running socks.

I came home and excitedly changed into my new clothes, as well as layered on my Patagonia Capilene tops and Regulator wind-blocking fleece jacket. I laced up my trusty Asics, pulled on my silly Nepalese hat and black fleece gloves, scrolled my iPod to Usher and ran out the door. The clothes worked well, though my booty was cold most of the time (a common problem I had backpacking in the colder months. Is not fat an insulator?!? Hmmm.). I ran 4.5 miles fairly easily, enjoying the quiet stillness and the occasional flurry, though I am now thoroughly exhausted. I think it must be more strenuous to run in the colder weather, as my body has to work harder to keep warm? I treated myself to a short yoga practice to stretch my muscles, followed by a bowl of homemade old-school popcorn with butter and salt and a mug of Valrhona and 1% mile cocoa. Yumm-delish! What fun! I’m going to add outdoor running to my list of strategies to keep SAD away this winter.

Now, I must store away my goodies, packing some up for lucky recipients!

the snow bunny returns

I’m curled up in my favorite pink Ralph Lauren velour “leisure suit” and a pink fleece blanket, wearing old wool hiking socks and drinking Stash Green and White Fusion Tea. Winter has presented its first blast of flurries, ice, and cold temperatures. I hauled out my white down coat, hand-knit pink accessories, and pink suede Ugg boots from last winter. Suddenly I want to eat endless chocolate and read long novels of realism.

Yesterday I met my Mom and we enjoyed a lovely lunch at our favorite bookstore/cafe. We split the house quiche (spinach, basil, and feta) and a Greek salad, and warmed up with hot Darjeeling tea (my all-time favorite!). We visited a few of our favorite foodie spots, including one that features a variety of imported wines, cheeses, chocolates, and just lots of nifty specialty items. I was excited to find Codice, a Castellian wine I enjoyed when I was visiting my friend S- in Alabama in May. And they have a wide array of liquors and liquers in tiny bottles; I selected a few varieties (Godiva Chocolate and Bailey’s Irish Cream) to slip into my homemade hot chocolate on these chilly winter nights.

When we left the foodie mecca, the snow was swirling everywhere and we had to scrape our cars. We headed to our respective homes, and I made a stop at a Starbucks drive-through for their most perfect beverage: non-fat vanilla latte. I’ve had many a vanilla latte, my favorite comfort coffee beverage, at many a coffee shop and cafe, and the only place I’ve had a better one is at Zingerman’s, where they use real Mexican vanilla and organic milk. But the Starbucks vanilla latte brings me such simple happiness. Yesterday’s beverage was not a disappointment, and as I munched my snack sized Toblerone bar, sipped my latte, and listened to my mellow mix CD, the snowy miles unrolled under my tires.

Tomorrow the holiday baking commences; I’m treating my students to cookies, and I have several other outstanding baking projects to tackle. The warm smells of chocolate, butter, and sugar melding together will combat the gloomy cold outside.

I’ll leave you with my favorite winter poem, Wallace Stevens’ “The Snowman”:

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

lyrical realism

There’s something there is that loves a Sunday morning, in which she realizes that peace must be found within herself (how was that for a blended allusion to Frost and Stevens in one sentence?). This morning I graded papers whilst listening to Organic X online, one of my all-time favorite radio programs and one of the main ways I discover new singer-songwriters. Since I’m no longer anywhere near the metro OTP ATL area, I listen online. Today I fell for the songs “Pink Moon,” by Nicke Drake, “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt, and “Bones” by Charlotte Martin. I’m in the process of downloading them to iTunes.

While having the pain of empty sentences and quasi-analysis soothed by the likes of Ben Folds and Ray La Montagne, I started thinking about my absolute favorite restaurant in ATL, which is Tamarind, a classy Thai place located off of 13th St. (or is it 10th? I know it’s that exit off of the expressway). Because I first ate Thai food at Tamarind, its significance is sealed in my heart. My friend S- and I first went there several years ago, when I still lived in Alabamy. We had spent the day shopping at Lenox and Phipps (my favorite shopping spots) in Buckhead, and after I secured the perfect red lipstick at Saks (Chanel, Coco Red), we drove through rain-laden streets to the restaurant, which was on the aforementioned road that was quickly flooding. Inside awaited a tranquil oasis, where efficient and personable wait staff whisked linen napkins onto our laps. I enjoyed a Tsing Tao beer, the most scrumptious spring rolls I’ve ever eaten, and Tofu curry. The presentation is lovely--the curry is served in a copper bowls set over warming tea lights and garnished with Thai basil and purple and white blossoms. Yumm.

When I visited the Southland this summer, I made a special trip to Tamarind for lunch, only to discover that I had arrived right at 2 when they stop serving. I was desperate and pleaded my case; when I quickly ordered without a menu, the obliging waiter whisked me to a table and once again the blend of heat and sweetness evoked bliss.

Now I need to find somewhere a bit closer to indulge my desire for Thai curry. I’m meeting my friend H-in AA this week and we’re hoping to find somewhere.

Today I went to see the film *Shopgirl*; I read the novella earlier this week and something in me was so taken with the story. The movie is quite good, and because Steve Martin also wrote the screenplay, it’s an honest rendering of the book. The film is quiet, rather “slow” (which I like about films, contrary to popular belief that never-ending action is the only filmic technique du jour). One of the qualities I most like about both texts is their lyrical realism...on the other hand, the 20something girls sitting behind me were quick to announce to the theater that “this movie sucks” as the credits rolled. I, on the other hand, smiled while dabbing at the salty tears that had trickled down my face with the sleeve of my fleece coat. Someday maybe they’ll too see that, well, this lyrical realism is life.

paying for foodie fun with indigestion

Thanks to K-for her sweet comment. I drive past Berryhole on my way to work twice a week and remember fondly our old feasts which involved copiously amounts of garlic, improvised tunes accompanied by unknown chords strummed on S's school guitar, and silly stories about our super sexy maintenance men Jeff and Cid along with an errant weasel.

Today I’m recovering from last night’s repast at what is arguably the nicest “foodie” restaurant in the greater “metro” area. I’d been scoping out the online menu for well over a year, long before I moved back here, actually. And so last night S- and I went to ostensibly order appetizers and drinks and check out the social scene. However, upon surveying the daily menu, S-fell for the whitefish special, and I turned my eager eyes to the vegetarian options on the regular menu (even though I had memorized them all months before). I decided that I would order the lighter of the entrees, a sweet potato “taco” with honey, cilantro, and winsintigo (Wisconsin) parmesan and cheddar served on a smoked tomato cream sauce. My rationale was then I could order dessert, without being as full or feeling as guilty as indulging in piles of cheese (like the chesse fondue or the Bolivian Mac and Cheese). Oh, and how could I forget the wine? I started with a taste of the Menage a Trois white (very nice, if a tad too sweet), and then graduated to a La Recougne Bordeux (one of the best wines I’ve had in ages. Lush. French. Yumm.)

So my quite large taco came, plated very architecturally. I ate one half and enjoyed the mix of flavors. I forgot I was eating sweet potato (though I do love them in all preparations). S’s whitefish was similarly displayed with a vertical height and diagonal display, on a bed of mashed potatoes, and a plate sprinkled with roasted carrots and olives. She very much enjoyed her meal.

I then selected creme brulee as my dessert since I haven’t had any in ages, and it sounded SO good. I also ordered a french press pot of coffee. My dessert was wonderful--the creme brulee exhibited the correct balance of supple custard to perfectly brittle crust, that wonderful yin yang that makes the dessert the marvel it is. They must have a helluva torch in their kitchen to make such a perfect crust. The coffee was rich and smooth. I didn’t finish my dessert either, as I could sense I was slipping into the dangerous arena of overfullness...

But indeed, it was too late. By the time I arrived home, my poor tummy was feeling stretched and unhappy. I sat up for hours, watching *Sex and the City* (a very touching episode in which Carrie sees Big again and he’s read her book), scoping out warmer running gear online, and waiting for my indigestion to subside. I finally gave up and fell asleep propped up on pillows, only to awaken an hour later to a kinked neck and upper back.

This morning I was crabby, thinking of how this scrumptious meal, and the last phenomenal one I ate this summer in Chicago (Cafe Spiaggia, where I dined on papparadella with zucchini, mint, and ricotta, multiple glasses of wine, and some chocolatey dessert) made me feel so awful afterwards. I felt/feel much the way I do after imbibing that one extra glass of alcohol on occasion and waking to cotton head and rumbling stomach the next day: it’s simply not worth it. I also realize how healthfully I must eat on a daily basis, how little richness of cream and fat and all those seemingly addictively delicious substances pass through my system, when one indulgent meal can so throw off my balance.

john cusack takes the cheese

My kitchen has been quiet this week, filled with simple meals of roasted fall veggies and leftover Halloween snack size candy bars. I did make cheese grits the other night, using artisanal grits from Logan Turnpike Mill in Blairsville, GA, that my friend M-sent several months ago. The funny truth: I never ate grits when I actually lived in the South. It was only this summer that I first enjoyed them in all their glory at the Zingerman’s roadhouse in Ann Arbor (I also tasted a most divine pulled pork barbecue, made even more transcendent because I’m a vegetarian and the rich fattiness of meat has escaped me these 8 years). So now I make cheese grits occasionally when I need a warm, soothing dish to smooth out my blues. I like to use a pinch of cayenne pepper and generous amounts of extra sharp Vermont cheddar...which leads me to my first top five list:

Dharmagirl’s Top Five Cheeses
1. Extra Sharp Cheddar: Cabot (Vermont) is tasty, as is Black Diamond (Canada), but the 5 year aged cheddar at Zingerman’s is beyond.
2. Parmigiano-Reggiano: the real stuff, with the name carved into the side. Amazing how a little lasts ages.
3. Triple Cream Brie: yumm. It’s practically butter, with a heady richness.
4. Havarti with Dill: the first “fancy” cheese I ate.
5. This position rotates: right now I’m remembering a imported Italian marscapone I used to make Tiramisu for my brother L-for his birthday in May.

My inspiration for these top five lists is twofold:
1. Rob, the lovable semi-lost Rob, the narrator of Nick Hornby’s “Lad-Lit” ur text *High Fidelity*: Rob is forever making top five lists to organize his life and create meaning.

2. Road trip/Slumber Party activity: My friends and I used to play a game called “would you rather,” in which we would list two possible dates, and one would have to choose one or the other. The fun of this game was picking either two horrid combos or two dreamy combos and forcing a decision to best judge one’s affections. We often used celebs, such as “would you rather date John Cusack or Patrick Dempsey?” So I decided to pick up on the John Cusack thread (he played the aforementioned Rob in the film version of *High Fidelity*--the book is better, as usual), and segue into creating top five lists. A slightly more sophisticated game, S-, H-, and I first played this as we tooled around Prince Edward Island in a Ford Focus Wagon (and, to return to John Cusack, he’s one of S-’s favorite picks:)

elegy to the farmer's market

Saturday was the last hoorah for my local farmer’s market for this growing season. I bought 18 heads of garlic and bid the garlic man adieu. I bought a pound of Amish butter and bid the Amish man adieu. I bought a bag of baby bok choy and bid the all-organic woman adieu. I bought a little “bear” full of honey and found out I can go buy honey throughout the winter from the honey man, so no adieu necessary. I walked slowly to my car, my hands full with the last of the harvest; I sighed to think of the grocery store offerings awaiting me...

But then I drove to my childhood hometown and went to the farmer’s market there, which has a few more weeks to go, and I added a bag of red peppers, winter squashes, two kinds of potatoes (the ubiquitous russet and my favorite, yukon gold), leeks, and a gi-normous head of cauliflower to the back seat of my car and I didn’t feel quite so sad. Now begins the season of heartier fare and neverending soups, two of my favorite culinary aspects of winter (the other is my self-prescribed dose of how ever much chocolate I deem necessary to keep my serotonin levels in balance on endlessly gray winter days). When I lived in the South, I tended not to eat so seasonally, largely because the seasons were largely indistinguishable beyond hot and not hot.

Speaking of the South, I’m quite excited because pecan season is nearly upon us, and this year I’m stocking up. I ran out of pecans back in March or April, and had to supplicate my Mom and Grandma for a few extra bags. This year I plan on ordering 6 pounds, which should last me a year if I keep to the rate of a half pound/month. We order from a small family farm on the outskirts of the town where I used to live in the South--I would drive to the farm on pecan lined drives, where a Southern man who sounded a lot like my Grandpa would sell me the finest pecans in the Southeast. Now, we order them in massive quantities. I can’t wait to taste the caramelly nuttiness of the fresh pecans...

So there is good in the changing of the seasons. I recently read a quote of Santayana, which suggested how much better it is to deal with the changing seasons than to glory in an endless spring. How true, though in a few months I’ll be disgruntled and suffering from the winter blues and I’ll be wishing that spring would hurry and appear and never end. For now, I’m enjoying the pleasures of autumn--today I turned my face to the warm-ish sun, ran through my childhood neighborhood, walked in a woodsy park, and raked leaves. What a wonder of life in the process of photosynthesis and dormancy. All of life in one fallen leaf...

friday night paramour

A racy, coy title, I realize. Don’t be alarmed (or too terribly titillated, my dears). Yesterday my students read a chapter from Ruth Reichl’s *Garlic and Sapphires* food memoir, in which she admits to an affair with cooking--which is problematic because she was, at that time, a restaurant reviewer at the NYTimes. Looking back on past entries, I realized that Friday nights are seemingly my nights to fully indulge in the pleasures of the kitchen.

This Friday’s paramour project: butternut squash soup. I poured over several recipes, and decided to create something new. Why can I never just follow a recipe? I wanted to emulate M-’s soup I mentioned in a previous post, but I decided to play around with the ravioli by making my own. Ambitious, yes. Once again, I perused several recipes featuring butternut squash and came to the conclusion that ricotta, parm-regg, sage, and toasted hazelnut would make an intriguing filling. Lacking a pasta machine (as well as that level of home-made dedication), I used wonton wrappers and experimented with several ravioli shapes. To make the soup, I roasted the squash in the oven ‘til tender. Meanwhile, I carmelized a sweet onion with a few cloves of garlic. I tossed in the roasted squash wedges, added water and salt, and brought the mixture to a boil. (note: I wanted some vegetable broth concoction, but Kroger only has Knorr veggie cubes and the first ingredient is sodium, the third MSG!!!). I reduced the heat and simmered until the squash fell apart in a glorious mess and the soup created those huge internal bubbles that threaten to explode all over the kitchen. I used my immersion blender and pureed, briefly cooked the ravioli, and then assembled the soup and ravioli in a bowl, with a bit of finely grated parm-regg and a few toasted hazelnut bits as garnish. Some fresh sage would’ve been a nice touch, but alas, I only had rubbed sage. The combination was most delicious.

Now, I have a pan of brownies in the oven to bring to my friends M- and B- tomorrow, who are in Michigan for the Detroit marathon. I had hoped to make an apple galette for them but ran out of time so brownies will be a fair substitute, especially when frosted and ganached with the leftovers from last weekend’s cake adventure. B- is running her first marathon! Yesterday there was an article in the NYTimes about a Nike sponsored women’s half/marathon in CA which includes goodies like massages and facials the day before the race, and Ghiradelli chocolate pick-me-ups mid race. The coup de grace, however, is that at the end of the race each runner receives a little blue box from a tuxedoed hottie. Yes, a little bling from Tiffany’s. I told B- this is a race I could consider:) A half-marathon is reasonable, right? Only 13 odd miles...I’m up to 4.5 now, so I’m a third of the way there...

Today I also settled on what I think is a brilliant Halloween costume for J- and K-’s party next Friday (no cooking paramour for me next week, alas). I am going to don a crisp, perfectly pressed oxford and jeans, a grey/black poncho, an ankle “bracelet,” some pearls, and my best imitation of a Connecticut accent. I will carry a basket full of good things, and attempt to fashion my long hair into a pseudo-bob. Since my family lovingly (mostly) calls me “Martha” anyway (and my brother L- “Emeril”), this seems a natural costume. I had been considering Julia Child, but couldn’t think of what to wear and how on earth I would ever approximate her warbly, trilling voice.

There’s the timer--my brownie creation awaits!