There are coffee people, and there are tea people. I am a Coffee Drinker. I'm not myself until I've had my first cup. I get irritated and remain groggy without it. The first thing I do every morning is start the water for my French press. (I encourage you to try your coffee "unplugged"....it changes everything.) Tea Drinkers, I've noticed, are a different sort. They sit and wait while their tea steeps. They can let their tea brew and smile at the same time. They don't excuse their behavior because "I haven't had my tea yet today!" No, I've never heard that one. They are Zen.
Tea, they say, was discovered serendipitously by a Chinese emporer relaxing under a tea tree. A sudden breeze whooshed a tea leaf into his cup of warm water and "Eureka!" ...there was tea. Whatever! Those British wanted their tea fix so bad they infiltrated China and started an Opium War, created a corporation to do their dirty work, and ended up occupying India first as the East Indian Trading Company and later as Great Britain. All for a cup of tea...
Tea sneaked up on me. My mother did the Sun Tea thing--Lipton tea bags (they are my standard! Don't knock Lipton!) and gently sang: "If you don't like the taste of tea, don't drink it." So I learned to drink it without sugar. Summer is not Summer to me without my iced tea in the fridge. I brew red tea with chocolate, green tea with apricots, black tea with berries. We won't talk about my mother's Russian Tea, even though I have such fond memories of that concoction. (Thank you, Astronauts!)
What fascinates me most about tea is the fact that, despite the various colors and flavors, all tea derives from the same leaf. This tea leaf is found in China, Japan, Sri Lanka, and India. This tea leaf can transform into green tea, black, white, lapsung, bird's nest, oolong...one leaf! It's all about the journey. The Japanese tend to just dry it: that's green. The Chinese like to dry it and smoke it: that's black. The Indians drink that black tea with milk and spices: that's Chai. Pick that tea leaf when it's just a baby: that's white. And here comes the fun part: Take any of these leaves and add dried something, toasted something, smoked something, and you change everything. Some nobleman in England found his favorite tea infused with dried orange peel (bergamot, acutally): that's Earl Grey. Even cooler: Take any edible flower or herb and dry it, smoke it, toast it, and you get a Tisane. Chamomile is just a little daisy-like flower. Mint! Hibiscus! Add hot water to that dried chyrsanthemum and watch the petals unfurl for its last time. Such beautiful magic!
Tea is still surprising me. I add loose leaf oolong into the steam bath for my halibut. I infuse my creme anglaise with earl grey for a subtle, flowery creme brulee. Lavendar ice cream (oh, yes!) and lapsung suchong in my handmade burgers for a smoky background. I stuff my roasting chicken with a lemon and push green tea under the skin.
Tea gives my French man and I ten minutes or so every day for just the two of us. Tea Time is our chat about whatever, a one-on-one that lasts as long as it takes to sip our tea face to face. We wait for the water, sometimes quietly, sometimes ready with our list of rants or sweet nothings, and then choose our tea depending on caffeine, taste, time. If we argue, I drink fast. If we are conspiring, I sip slowly. Sometimes it's in the early morning, sometimes the last thing before bed. It's our Zen Moment, we two. In a busy, chaotic day full of children, dog, chauffering and cooking, this is our Time Out. It keeps us together, on the same page, caught up. Tea is the perfect Pause Button.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Cheers!
My first drink, I'm pretty sure, was from my older cousin. A grown-up, he was visiting and I charmed a sip of his screwdriver. Yummy! That sloe gin! Much later, my brothers and I discovered that my father's bar had things like blackberry brandy, Cointreau, Galiano. I grew bolder, incredibly tall, and--showing my age, here!--since the drinking age in Iowa was only 19 at the time, I managed to walk into most gas stations and buy my own beer. Sometimes I managed Mad Dog or Boones Farm.
It's not that I liked it. Budweiser, the drink of choice for my age-group, tasted terrible. (Honestly, I still think it tastes terrible!) And cheap wine...well, the sugar I added to my glass to help me finish it didn't help at all! I remember cringing in college whenever someone yelled "Kegger!" I just knew it was going to be awful.
I feel lucky, now, that I didn't start really enjoying alcohol until I was out of college and living in the Pacific Northwest. Microbrews! I started with a small local brewery that used blueberries and apricots. Yum! I found Hefeweisen, and then learned how to say it...By the time I left for cooking school, I had established preferences for ambers and stouts, been initiated by Guiness, and collected three different sets of beer glasses: pilsner, lager, stout.
In France, I met a Belgian student who drank beer like water, and not just any beer. Belgium is the Mother of Beer. (And fries!) Forget Stella Artois. He passed me bottle after bottle of lambic, chimay, cider while we waxed philosophic on cooking, running, biking, life.
I know beer has a reputation: puking college kids, redneck tailgaters, beerbellies and beer bongs. That's not my beer. I don't chug. I don't guzzle. If I drink two in a night, I'm surprised. The beer I buy doesn't come in twelve packs. (The great ones are often only four to a pack!) It never appears in a can. I pass by the stacks of Bud and Miller that line the grocery shelves. I find myself making trips to beverage specialty stores to find something obscure, small, personal. My motto has become "Drink Artisan."
I know beer is not for everyone. (If this is you, I encourage you to try a Belgian lambic. Start with cranberry.) I know the Big Three (Budweiser, Miller, Coors) have taken this ancient art form and created a shadow of beer's former self. I know there are passionate people who resent this and spend their time and money creating beer as art.
A great beer can change a meal, enhance a gathering, bring closure to a bad day. Beer is the perfect partner to bratwurst, anything Mexican, smoked and grilled dishes. A beer is a remedy for a hot day. You can't visit the ball park without a beer, scoop up chili without also lifting that beer mug, manage hot wings or 3-star Phad Thai without a great lager.
Equally important, an artisan beer represents the struggle of David vs. Goliath, quality over quantity, the Little Man against Corporate America. Choosing microbrews supports someone's small business, someone's passion, someone's family. With every bottle of Dogfish (Check this guy out! He's amazing!), every glass of Pyramid, every sip of Red Trolley (local! Love it!), I get to walk my talk. Fight the Good Fight: Drink Artisan!
It's not that I liked it. Budweiser, the drink of choice for my age-group, tasted terrible. (Honestly, I still think it tastes terrible!) And cheap wine...well, the sugar I added to my glass to help me finish it didn't help at all! I remember cringing in college whenever someone yelled "Kegger!" I just knew it was going to be awful.
I feel lucky, now, that I didn't start really enjoying alcohol until I was out of college and living in the Pacific Northwest. Microbrews! I started with a small local brewery that used blueberries and apricots. Yum! I found Hefeweisen, and then learned how to say it...By the time I left for cooking school, I had established preferences for ambers and stouts, been initiated by Guiness, and collected three different sets of beer glasses: pilsner, lager, stout.
In France, I met a Belgian student who drank beer like water, and not just any beer. Belgium is the Mother of Beer. (And fries!) Forget Stella Artois. He passed me bottle after bottle of lambic, chimay, cider while we waxed philosophic on cooking, running, biking, life.
I know beer has a reputation: puking college kids, redneck tailgaters, beerbellies and beer bongs. That's not my beer. I don't chug. I don't guzzle. If I drink two in a night, I'm surprised. The beer I buy doesn't come in twelve packs. (The great ones are often only four to a pack!) It never appears in a can. I pass by the stacks of Bud and Miller that line the grocery shelves. I find myself making trips to beverage specialty stores to find something obscure, small, personal. My motto has become "Drink Artisan."
I know beer is not for everyone. (If this is you, I encourage you to try a Belgian lambic. Start with cranberry.) I know the Big Three (Budweiser, Miller, Coors) have taken this ancient art form and created a shadow of beer's former self. I know there are passionate people who resent this and spend their time and money creating beer as art.
A great beer can change a meal, enhance a gathering, bring closure to a bad day. Beer is the perfect partner to bratwurst, anything Mexican, smoked and grilled dishes. A beer is a remedy for a hot day. You can't visit the ball park without a beer, scoop up chili without also lifting that beer mug, manage hot wings or 3-star Phad Thai without a great lager.
Equally important, an artisan beer represents the struggle of David vs. Goliath, quality over quantity, the Little Man against Corporate America. Choosing microbrews supports someone's small business, someone's passion, someone's family. With every bottle of Dogfish (Check this guy out! He's amazing!), every glass of Pyramid, every sip of Red Trolley (local! Love it!), I get to walk my talk. Fight the Good Fight: Drink Artisan!
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Rainy Day Woman
I live in Southern California, our nation's Vacationland. Pristine skies, just-right temperatures, beaches dotted with bikinis, surfers crossing the street in wetsuits. Life is simple here: walk outside and find your bliss.
As a girl from Iowa, THIS is heaven. I don't miss driving white-knuckled in the crunching snow, sliding sideways at every stop. I don't miss shoveling the driveway, sometimes twice a day. I don't miss the wind-chill factor, the snowplows, the frozen toes, the freezing winds howling across the prairies that make me cry and freeze my tears simultaneously. Nope. Not one bit. Do I really have to visit at Christmas?
It never snows here. And we all know it never rains in California. But, yes, it really does pour. Sometimes for days. Buckets of rain. Puddles up to your shins. Roadways closed because there's suddenly a river running through it. People's shoulders droop. They get upset; I turn on my oven. I'm an Iowa girl deprived of her hibernation. I want to nest, hunker down, envelop myself in a blanket and snuggle, and suddenly it's raining! I gather my babies in the glow of my kitchen. We turn on the music, and the hum of little hands sifting, mixing, and whisking pushes out the gray and blankets my home in cozy. My crockpot comes out of hiding and bubbles with stews, roasts, curries. We have soup for dinner. We eye the pile of brownies. We decorate cookies just because we have sprinkles. We sing and dance in our cave of blankets while the pouring rain cleanses the dust off our desert.
Rainy days don't bring me down. They are an opportunity: A good book in my lap. Children screaming with glee through the house. The smell of simmering lentil soup. Muffins stretching up for tomorrow morning.
Here comes the sun. It's all right. Out we go back into our world...
As a girl from Iowa, THIS is heaven. I don't miss driving white-knuckled in the crunching snow, sliding sideways at every stop. I don't miss shoveling the driveway, sometimes twice a day. I don't miss the wind-chill factor, the snowplows, the frozen toes, the freezing winds howling across the prairies that make me cry and freeze my tears simultaneously. Nope. Not one bit. Do I really have to visit at Christmas?
It never snows here. And we all know it never rains in California. But, yes, it really does pour. Sometimes for days. Buckets of rain. Puddles up to your shins. Roadways closed because there's suddenly a river running through it. People's shoulders droop. They get upset; I turn on my oven. I'm an Iowa girl deprived of her hibernation. I want to nest, hunker down, envelop myself in a blanket and snuggle, and suddenly it's raining! I gather my babies in the glow of my kitchen. We turn on the music, and the hum of little hands sifting, mixing, and whisking pushes out the gray and blankets my home in cozy. My crockpot comes out of hiding and bubbles with stews, roasts, curries. We have soup for dinner. We eye the pile of brownies. We decorate cookies just because we have sprinkles. We sing and dance in our cave of blankets while the pouring rain cleanses the dust off our desert.
Rainy days don't bring me down. They are an opportunity: A good book in my lap. Children screaming with glee through the house. The smell of simmering lentil soup. Muffins stretching up for tomorrow morning.
Here comes the sun. It's all right. Out we go back into our world...
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I Am the Rabbit
I have been experimenting for a few weeks. It's what drew me to food as a profession: the constant influx of new mediums, the inability to ever know everything This never-ending lesson thrills my brain and makes my heart smile. So here I am, trying something new.
I have been eating raw. I know...it feels extreme, rather "out there." I have been living on the fringe. I feel the pull to slip on Birkenstocks and a floppy hat, toss my bra.
Raw is, simply put, living food. It's not cooked past a certain temperature, or processed beyond a puree. Sushi would qualify, I guess, although it's not what RAW foodies had in mind...This is beyond vegan, which, as we all know, is a pain in the butt. (no cheese! no eggs!)
I started with great intentions. The first morning, I put bread in the toaster and then it dawned on me...the dog ate my toast and I had a smoothie. I drew the line at coffee because, after all, I am a mother of three and need a little help. I had nuts and dried fruit for lunch, but was hungry again by 2 and at a loss. I ate a banana with almond butter. An hour later I was eyeing my daughter's Sunchips. Crunch, crunch. crunch. I wanted that sound in my mouth! I had an apple. Somehow, it was not the same thing. Not at all! This was hard! and it was only my first day. I had salad for dinner, fingered that beer (brewed!) and went for the bottle of wine instead. (fermented, not heated...yeah!)
The next morning, while blending another smoothie, I took a moment to reflect on this choice. What was I hoping for? I just wanted to see...what? If I could? If I should...? If I wanted to take my partially vegetarian lifestyle one step further? I wanted to see if I'd have more energy. Healthier skin. (Getting old, you know...) Lose that 5 pounds. (Yes, just 5. Hate me all you want...) Enjoy better digestion. Need less sleep. (Who couldn't use an extra hour?)
So I sipped my smoothie. And then I cheated. It just happened. It slipped into my mouth without thinking. A cracker. It was so good. Salty, crunchy, toasted. Yum. Who knew? Then I ran to the store and stocked my cupboards with dried fruits and nuts. I walked through the produce section slowly questioning everything, checking off possibilities. (no potatoes, yes cauliflower, no eggplant, yes peppers...) I made customized trail mixes, made another salad for dinner, and dreamt of grilled cheese sandwiches. I can see the melty cheese stringing me along right now!
"I can do this," I whispered as I listened to sizzling bacon on my daughter's plate. I wrote lists (it's what I do...) of salads, trail mixes, smoothies. I researched raw food at my bookstore and for the first time in four days, I didn't have a smoothie for breakfast or a salad for dinner. I bought cookbooks and played with zucchini "noodles", cashew "cheese" and chocolate "mousse." I found three raw food restaurants in my big city and dragged my French man with me. It was hippy-dippy, but the food was fabulous.
I cheated. A lot. You can't go out and eat raw. Impossible. Mostly, I just missed cooking and eating with my family. Sharing a meal is not the same as eating at the same table. I was often making my dinner while they ate theirs. It was lonely. I missed the magical alchemy of cooking: the sizzle, the heat, the melding of flavors that fill the room with yum.
But I like raw dessert, because there is no guilt in a raw dessert. My French man's raw "chocolate mousse" contained pureed dates and avocadoes. I could eat only dessert if I wanted without feeling like I cheated my body. Snacking was awesome. I missed my cheese and crackers. I missed my ritual hard-boiled egg at 10:00, but I found new buddies. I even added green smoothies to my families breakfast menu. (Definitely add pineapple. I'm serious. Otherwise...)
The best thing about my raw experiment was reminding myself to view fruits and vegetables differently. I rediscovered fennel, kolhrabi, beets, jicama, celery root. I trekked Asian markets and found old friends: kaffir lime leaves, lychee, yuzu juice, pea shoots, bok choy. I ventured into the Indian market and came out with dried mango powder (awesome! try it!), black cumin seeds, green cardamom, galangal. I've made room in my kitchen for hemp seed ("They're the bomb," my French man claims.), coconut water, spirulina, chia seeds (yes, ch-ch-ch-chia!)
When I was a teenager, I would rearrange my room countless times, sometimes at 2:00 in the morning. I still change my kitchen table periodically. It's good for my head. As a mother of three, I am often at the mercy of routine and schedules, few of them my own. My experiment let me shake things up: in my kitchen, in my head, in my family. I wonder what I'll do next?
I have been eating raw. I know...it feels extreme, rather "out there." I have been living on the fringe. I feel the pull to slip on Birkenstocks and a floppy hat, toss my bra.
Raw is, simply put, living food. It's not cooked past a certain temperature, or processed beyond a puree. Sushi would qualify, I guess, although it's not what RAW foodies had in mind...This is beyond vegan, which, as we all know, is a pain in the butt. (no cheese! no eggs!)
I started with great intentions. The first morning, I put bread in the toaster and then it dawned on me...the dog ate my toast and I had a smoothie. I drew the line at coffee because, after all, I am a mother of three and need a little help. I had nuts and dried fruit for lunch, but was hungry again by 2 and at a loss. I ate a banana with almond butter. An hour later I was eyeing my daughter's Sunchips. Crunch, crunch. crunch. I wanted that sound in my mouth! I had an apple. Somehow, it was not the same thing. Not at all! This was hard! and it was only my first day. I had salad for dinner, fingered that beer (brewed!) and went for the bottle of wine instead. (fermented, not heated...yeah!)
The next morning, while blending another smoothie, I took a moment to reflect on this choice. What was I hoping for? I just wanted to see...what? If I could? If I should...? If I wanted to take my partially vegetarian lifestyle one step further? I wanted to see if I'd have more energy. Healthier skin. (Getting old, you know...) Lose that 5 pounds. (Yes, just 5. Hate me all you want...) Enjoy better digestion. Need less sleep. (Who couldn't use an extra hour?)
So I sipped my smoothie. And then I cheated. It just happened. It slipped into my mouth without thinking. A cracker. It was so good. Salty, crunchy, toasted. Yum. Who knew? Then I ran to the store and stocked my cupboards with dried fruits and nuts. I walked through the produce section slowly questioning everything, checking off possibilities. (no potatoes, yes cauliflower, no eggplant, yes peppers...) I made customized trail mixes, made another salad for dinner, and dreamt of grilled cheese sandwiches. I can see the melty cheese stringing me along right now!
"I can do this," I whispered as I listened to sizzling bacon on my daughter's plate. I wrote lists (it's what I do...) of salads, trail mixes, smoothies. I researched raw food at my bookstore and for the first time in four days, I didn't have a smoothie for breakfast or a salad for dinner. I bought cookbooks and played with zucchini "noodles", cashew "cheese" and chocolate "mousse." I found three raw food restaurants in my big city and dragged my French man with me. It was hippy-dippy, but the food was fabulous.
I cheated. A lot. You can't go out and eat raw. Impossible. Mostly, I just missed cooking and eating with my family. Sharing a meal is not the same as eating at the same table. I was often making my dinner while they ate theirs. It was lonely. I missed the magical alchemy of cooking: the sizzle, the heat, the melding of flavors that fill the room with yum.
But I like raw dessert, because there is no guilt in a raw dessert. My French man's raw "chocolate mousse" contained pureed dates and avocadoes. I could eat only dessert if I wanted without feeling like I cheated my body. Snacking was awesome. I missed my cheese and crackers. I missed my ritual hard-boiled egg at 10:00, but I found new buddies. I even added green smoothies to my families breakfast menu. (Definitely add pineapple. I'm serious. Otherwise...)
The best thing about my raw experiment was reminding myself to view fruits and vegetables differently. I rediscovered fennel, kolhrabi, beets, jicama, celery root. I trekked Asian markets and found old friends: kaffir lime leaves, lychee, yuzu juice, pea shoots, bok choy. I ventured into the Indian market and came out with dried mango powder (awesome! try it!), black cumin seeds, green cardamom, galangal. I've made room in my kitchen for hemp seed ("They're the bomb," my French man claims.), coconut water, spirulina, chia seeds (yes, ch-ch-ch-chia!)
When I was a teenager, I would rearrange my room countless times, sometimes at 2:00 in the morning. I still change my kitchen table periodically. It's good for my head. As a mother of three, I am often at the mercy of routine and schedules, few of them my own. My experiment let me shake things up: in my kitchen, in my head, in my family. I wonder what I'll do next?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Salad Days
We've got sun until after 7 pm, balmy evenings with glorious sunsets, and it's almost summer. I can see the corner where spring meets June 20th, and I start to pick up my pace. My mind drifts to salads and my eyes perk up at the glorious produce headed my way.
I grew up on iceberg lettuce. Tomato wedges. Thousand Island or Russian? Placed in a little bowl on the side of my plate.
I graduated, left home in a hurry, and my roommate introduced me to Salad 101. Romaine. Shredded cheese. Canned black olives stuck on your fingers. Thousand Island or Ranch? I would eat leaning against the sink. (Give me a break...I was 24!)
I met my French man and rose to the occasion: mesclun with chevre, toasted pecans, freshly-snipped chives. I made my own balsamic dressing. We ate staring at each other across the table.
My repetoire of lettuces expanded; I discovered spinach, arugula, pea shoots, kale, and dandelion greens. I added quinoa, soba noodles, wheat berries, lentils, and couscous. I played with vinegars and oils, chutneys and mustards. I'm still finding new options: pumpkin seed oil, pomegranate molasses, orange flower water, tomato chutney, branson pickle...Such a simple formula: one part acid, three parts oil, and never-ending combinations. The perfect lettuce with the perfect dressing is still my favorite game.
Some of my favorite salads are the classics: Salade Nicoise, the official salad from Nice, in the south of France. Seven ingredients, simply made, arranged or tossed, creates a meal no man would complain about: tomatoes, olives, hard-boiled eggs, green beans, boiled potatoes, lettuce, tuna. Try this at 7 on a summer evening with a glass of rose and you'll stay at the table waiting for the cicadaes to sing you a lullaby.
My oldest daughter has seen it all, and in her 15-year old wisdom, chooses the Cesar every time: sturdy romaine, garlicky, creamy dressing, anchovies!, crunchy, buttery croutons, slivers of pungent parmesan. "Mexican food," I smirk, and she smiles.
Our summers hit hot patio and cooling grass al fresco. White wine, rose, cold beer, pastis. Glorious salades composees, fresh ingredients on display. We celebrate California with a Cobb salad: spinach, blue cheese, tomatoes, avocados, bacon, and hard-boiled eggs. We hail the sunset with the competing colors in my quinoa salad: red peppers, white corn, cilantro, and pumpkin seeds peek through this grain's famous halo. We scoop up emerald couscous, chunky with garbanzo beans and tiny cubes of tomato and cucumber. We swirl soba coated with spicy peanut sauce, paint our plates clean with the last of the baguette, and settle in for sorbet, fruit salad, a splash of limonocello.
It's hot. We hang out, not wanting to move, finding conversation between sips of cold and bites of cool, and think that this, really, is the Life.
I grew up on iceberg lettuce. Tomato wedges. Thousand Island or Russian? Placed in a little bowl on the side of my plate.
I graduated, left home in a hurry, and my roommate introduced me to Salad 101. Romaine. Shredded cheese. Canned black olives stuck on your fingers. Thousand Island or Ranch? I would eat leaning against the sink. (Give me a break...I was 24!)
I met my French man and rose to the occasion: mesclun with chevre, toasted pecans, freshly-snipped chives. I made my own balsamic dressing. We ate staring at each other across the table.
My repetoire of lettuces expanded; I discovered spinach, arugula, pea shoots, kale, and dandelion greens. I added quinoa, soba noodles, wheat berries, lentils, and couscous. I played with vinegars and oils, chutneys and mustards. I'm still finding new options: pumpkin seed oil, pomegranate molasses, orange flower water, tomato chutney, branson pickle...Such a simple formula: one part acid, three parts oil, and never-ending combinations. The perfect lettuce with the perfect dressing is still my favorite game.
Some of my favorite salads are the classics: Salade Nicoise, the official salad from Nice, in the south of France. Seven ingredients, simply made, arranged or tossed, creates a meal no man would complain about: tomatoes, olives, hard-boiled eggs, green beans, boiled potatoes, lettuce, tuna. Try this at 7 on a summer evening with a glass of rose and you'll stay at the table waiting for the cicadaes to sing you a lullaby.
My oldest daughter has seen it all, and in her 15-year old wisdom, chooses the Cesar every time: sturdy romaine, garlicky, creamy dressing, anchovies!, crunchy, buttery croutons, slivers of pungent parmesan. "Mexican food," I smirk, and she smiles.
Our summers hit hot patio and cooling grass al fresco. White wine, rose, cold beer, pastis. Glorious salades composees, fresh ingredients on display. We celebrate California with a Cobb salad: spinach, blue cheese, tomatoes, avocados, bacon, and hard-boiled eggs. We hail the sunset with the competing colors in my quinoa salad: red peppers, white corn, cilantro, and pumpkin seeds peek through this grain's famous halo. We scoop up emerald couscous, chunky with garbanzo beans and tiny cubes of tomato and cucumber. We swirl soba coated with spicy peanut sauce, paint our plates clean with the last of the baguette, and settle in for sorbet, fruit salad, a splash of limonocello.
It's hot. We hang out, not wanting to move, finding conversation between sips of cold and bites of cool, and think that this, really, is the Life.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
You Say Tomato...
The Tomato. Born in the mountainsides of Peru. Ancient fruit of the New World. An innocent of the Nightshade Family. All of Europe feared this transvestite fruit/vegetable, except the Italians. They embraced this acidic fruit, called it the Love Apple, and proceeded to fill their recipes with tomatoes diced, simmered, pureed, stuffed.
Now, this fruit that acts like a vegetable is ubiquitous: Need a little color? Add some diced tomato! Your salad a little plain? Tomato! Want an easy appetizer? Cherry tomatoes are the ultimate crudite!
They are beautiful: Reds of every hue, greens, white!, yellow, orange, even purple! Tiny little balls of red, yellow, orange! Giant bulbous blobs of scarlet and deep purple! Stripey firm orbs of green and yellow! They look so gay tumbled together at the farmer's market. They are so happy, lined up in color-coded rows at the store.
They work so hard: Thick slices stacked, tricolor, with pesto. Cubed chunks swimming with garlic and basil on crostini. Five colors chopped into wedges, sprinkled with gorgonzola and balsamic, triangles of watermelon; it glistens and smiles: "Summertime!"
They display such versatility: tomato chutney perfects those hush puppies and, mixed into a salad dressing (yes...try that one!), creates a whole new world. Pureed tomato transforms sauces, soups, pizzas, and sorbets (yes...try that one with ratatouille!). Tomato is the zen master: sliced with balsamic, sliced with tarragon and red wine vinegar, sliced with sea salt, sliced with...your turn!
It's unfortunate, then, for me, that's it's on my list. I know I'm missing out. I just can't do it. The one food I cannot abide: the tomato. What a shame! I know! Tomatoes have a place in my heart. They even have a place on my table, but they don't get much space in my tummy. I've tried! Seriously! When your mother makes goulash, chili, and spaghetti weekly, you really try to like tomatoes. But to no avail...
I am a stubborn girl, but I'm not a zealot...Hand me a burrito with diced tomato inside and I'll eat it all. I'll make you tomato soup and even eat it with you, as long as there's some roasted red pepper, fennel, thyme, and caramelized onion in there. Oh! and lots of bread, please....
Make those tomatoes sun-dried...oh. All is forgiven. Sun-dried tomatoes are the evil twin's lovely brother. Pack them in oil and I am in love. Funny what a little extra sunshine can do! I toss sun-dried tomatoes into my romaine with sourdough croutons. Yummmm. I puree sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil with a wedge of brie for a most-excellent pasta sauce. Mmmmm. I add sun-dried tomatoes to my spaghetti sauce and I can eat with my family! Yeah!
But you can scrach most Italian food off my list. Don't hand me bruschetta or pass me the ketchup. And please, whatever you do, don't bite into a warm, raw tomato from your garden! Eew!
Now, this fruit that acts like a vegetable is ubiquitous: Need a little color? Add some diced tomato! Your salad a little plain? Tomato! Want an easy appetizer? Cherry tomatoes are the ultimate crudite!
They are beautiful: Reds of every hue, greens, white!, yellow, orange, even purple! Tiny little balls of red, yellow, orange! Giant bulbous blobs of scarlet and deep purple! Stripey firm orbs of green and yellow! They look so gay tumbled together at the farmer's market. They are so happy, lined up in color-coded rows at the store.
They work so hard: Thick slices stacked, tricolor, with pesto. Cubed chunks swimming with garlic and basil on crostini. Five colors chopped into wedges, sprinkled with gorgonzola and balsamic, triangles of watermelon; it glistens and smiles: "Summertime!"
They display such versatility: tomato chutney perfects those hush puppies and, mixed into a salad dressing (yes...try that one!), creates a whole new world. Pureed tomato transforms sauces, soups, pizzas, and sorbets (yes...try that one with ratatouille!). Tomato is the zen master: sliced with balsamic, sliced with tarragon and red wine vinegar, sliced with sea salt, sliced with...your turn!
It's unfortunate, then, for me, that's it's on my list. I know I'm missing out. I just can't do it. The one food I cannot abide: the tomato. What a shame! I know! Tomatoes have a place in my heart. They even have a place on my table, but they don't get much space in my tummy. I've tried! Seriously! When your mother makes goulash, chili, and spaghetti weekly, you really try to like tomatoes. But to no avail...
I am a stubborn girl, but I'm not a zealot...Hand me a burrito with diced tomato inside and I'll eat it all. I'll make you tomato soup and even eat it with you, as long as there's some roasted red pepper, fennel, thyme, and caramelized onion in there. Oh! and lots of bread, please....
Make those tomatoes sun-dried...oh. All is forgiven. Sun-dried tomatoes are the evil twin's lovely brother. Pack them in oil and I am in love. Funny what a little extra sunshine can do! I toss sun-dried tomatoes into my romaine with sourdough croutons. Yummmm. I puree sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil with a wedge of brie for a most-excellent pasta sauce. Mmmmm. I add sun-dried tomatoes to my spaghetti sauce and I can eat with my family! Yeah!
But you can scrach most Italian food off my list. Don't hand me bruschetta or pass me the ketchup. And please, whatever you do, don't bite into a warm, raw tomato from your garden! Eew!
Sunday, May 1, 2011
My Tribe
Changes. My high school graduation ceremony featured David Bowie's Great Life Lesson; it has been my anthem ever since. What is it my grandmother used to smile devishly at me? "When a door closes, somewhere a window opens." Who knew David and my sweet grandmother held the same philosophies? She always was a hip woman!
I try not to let small things overwhelm me: today's drama will pass, 'what-she-said' will be forgotten, this week's flat tire fiasco will be reduced to a sentence or two by the weekend and then disintegrate into nothing. Even big changes, in my mind, are just disguises for newness. A clean slate. A freshly-sharpened pencil on the first day of school! White sneakers.
If there is one thing that is sure in life --besides death and taxes--it's that whatever you have right now, however you're feeling, will inevitably change. This idea has helped me endure many hardships: heartbreak, grief, natural childbirth labor (3 times!), changing jobs and careers. Everything has an end. Suffering has an end. This cycle has helped me see the bittersweet behind life's great moments. It's why I cried at my own wedding, savor turning on the Christmas tree lights the first time (Ooh! So pretty!), and take the time to dance with my children to Lady Gaga (Ga, Ga, Ooh la la!) Nothing lasts forever. All good things must come to an end.
With this knowledge in my head, and especially in my heart, it has become important for me, a part of my very being, to account for life's ordinary happiness: contentment. I feel it when my children sit around my table eating the breakfast I made, when we sit after school and have snack, bake cookies, color on the sidewalk, chat our way through dusk. When my family merges with another and we all click, that conviviality becomes a thing of beauty to me. When great tunes waft out of my kitchen to the patio where my friends and family are eating, drinking, laughing and talking, I feel that secret collective consciousness that whispers: "This too shall pass, but we are here now."
This simple life takes some coordinating. It takes time and energy to find and maintain great friends who fill you with warmth and a sense of belonging. It takes patience to sing "I'm a Little Teapot" every time the water's ready for your coffee. It takes a loving mind to play Candyland five times in a row. It takes skill and organization to feed your family and friends on a Sunday afternoon. These things aren't memorable in themselves, but they build a cushion , a home inside your soul so that when life throws something at you, or your family, or your dear friends who feel like family, you find that no matter the roller coaster, there is something stable, and it is You.
I try not to let small things overwhelm me: today's drama will pass, 'what-she-said' will be forgotten, this week's flat tire fiasco will be reduced to a sentence or two by the weekend and then disintegrate into nothing. Even big changes, in my mind, are just disguises for newness. A clean slate. A freshly-sharpened pencil on the first day of school! White sneakers.
If there is one thing that is sure in life --besides death and taxes--it's that whatever you have right now, however you're feeling, will inevitably change. This idea has helped me endure many hardships: heartbreak, grief, natural childbirth labor (3 times!), changing jobs and careers. Everything has an end. Suffering has an end. This cycle has helped me see the bittersweet behind life's great moments. It's why I cried at my own wedding, savor turning on the Christmas tree lights the first time (Ooh! So pretty!), and take the time to dance with my children to Lady Gaga (Ga, Ga, Ooh la la!) Nothing lasts forever. All good things must come to an end.
With this knowledge in my head, and especially in my heart, it has become important for me, a part of my very being, to account for life's ordinary happiness: contentment. I feel it when my children sit around my table eating the breakfast I made, when we sit after school and have snack, bake cookies, color on the sidewalk, chat our way through dusk. When my family merges with another and we all click, that conviviality becomes a thing of beauty to me. When great tunes waft out of my kitchen to the patio where my friends and family are eating, drinking, laughing and talking, I feel that secret collective consciousness that whispers: "This too shall pass, but we are here now."
This simple life takes some coordinating. It takes time and energy to find and maintain great friends who fill you with warmth and a sense of belonging. It takes patience to sing "I'm a Little Teapot" every time the water's ready for your coffee. It takes a loving mind to play Candyland five times in a row. It takes skill and organization to feed your family and friends on a Sunday afternoon. These things aren't memorable in themselves, but they build a cushion , a home inside your soul so that when life throws something at you, or your family, or your dear friends who feel like family, you find that no matter the roller coaster, there is something stable, and it is You.
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