How it breaks down

We are in the middle of zucchini season. In case you didn’t know, zucchini season has three stages. The first stage is marked by obsessively checking on the zucchini plants, followed by squeals of delight when the first zucchini is ready to be picked, hoarding of said first zucchini and the next five or six glossy-skinned precious babes as they trickle in from the garden, and a flurry of favorite zucchini recipes.

You know you are in stage two of zucchini season when your refrigerator crispers—both of them—are loaded with the small to medium-sized green clubs (no longer thought of as “precious babes”), you’re spending extended periods of time chopping the vegetables to get them ready for the canner or freezer, and you’re perusing the web and flipping through cookbooks in search of variations on the zucchini theme.

Stage three is the stage that usually comes to mind when people think of zucchini: country church parking lots full of looked cars, zucchinis the size of small baseball bats that get heaved over the fence to the farm animals, and unabashed relief when the bore worms attack the plants and they suddenly collapse in a yellow-brown heap of stinky foliage. Then, finally, we all heave a great sigh of relief and thank our lucky stars that zucchini season is over for another year.

Right now we are in stage two. I have zucchinis in the crisper, a bag of zucchinis, a gift form my sister-in-law, on the counter (I accepted a gift of zucchini, a sign that we have definitely not reached stage three), and more just-picked zucchinis on another counter. Oh, and there’s one other zucchini on top of the bowl of fresh green beans—a hidden one that I found when watering the plants. (I was watering the zucchini plants—more proof that we’re not yet in stage three.)

What do I do with my zucchinis? I shared the first ones with my mother, and while it was hard, I knew I had to do it—I’ve got to be a good daughter and take care of my mother dearest, you know. I can only hope that I raise up my daughters as well as my mother did me. (How’s that for masked self-adulation?) I’ve made zucchini skillet and I’m preparing to make a big pot of zucchini-sausage-brown rice soup that I’ll (bless my poor nervous soul) pressure can. But, upon assembling my first decent collection of zucchinis, I promptly made a batch of zucchini relish.


Zucchini relish is like pickle relish but with zucchini (obviously) in place of the cucumbers. My friend Amber gave me the recipe a couple years ago and I loved the stuff, especially on hot dogs. In fact, I can hardly bear to eat a hot dog without it. We had just finished up the last of the relish (I only suffered through one or two hot dog meals without it) when the zucchinis made their welcomed entrance.

I searched through my files for my recipe but had to call up Amber when I couldn’t find it. However, her mother Ann answered the phone instead (Amber was out frolicking at some beach, Ann reported), and it was Ann who helpfully paged through Amber’s recipe collection while I waited.

“Hm, ketchup, salsa... I must be getting close,” Ann mumbled to herself, and then, “Okay, hear it is!”

She ran through the list of ingredients, explaining the procedure as she went, elaborating on the tricky spots (“make sure to stir it the whole time because it does have a tendency to stick to the bottom and burn”). I asked her where the recipe came from and she told me that back when they had a roadside vegetable stand (I was just a baby then) a customer, a woman from Middleton, told Ann about her fabulous zucchini relish recipe and then upon Ann’s request, gave her the recipe.


“It is good stuff,” I said to Ann. “I like it even better than pickle relish.”

“Oh my, yes,” said Ann. “It’s really very good.”


Zucchini Relish
From Amber, by way of her mother Ann who, in turn, got it from the customer from Middleton.

If using the large, boat-sized zucchini for this recipe, remove the seeds first; otherwise, if the zucchinis are small, use the whole thing.

I shredded my zucchinis and onions in the food processor. I tried to shred my peppers in the same manner, but the processor merely mangled them. Therefore, I tell you to chop the peppers, and it’s really not that big a deal, chopping three measly peppers.

Ann highly recommends using the full five cups of onions.

10 cups shredded zucchini
2 sweet red peppers, small dice
1 sweet green pepper, small dice
4-5 cups shredded (or chopped) onions
5 tablespoons salt
2 1/4 cups cider vinegar
5 cups sugar
1 teaspoon celery salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon dry mustard
1 tablespoon turmeric
2 tablespoons Therm Flo (or cornstarch)

Day One, in the evening:
Toss the first four ingredients together in a large bowl and sprinkle the salt over top. Stir to combine. Cover the bowl with a cloth and let it sit at room temperature over night.

Day Two, in the morning:
Drain the vegetables, rinse them well (I put them in a bowl and swished them around in some water), and drain again.

Put the vegetables and the remaining ingredients in a large, heavy-bottomed kettle. Stir them well and bring them to a full boil, stirring constantly. Reduce the heat and simmer for another ten to fifteen minutes, stirring steadily.

To hot pack the relish, put the hot relish into clean canning jars and seal with rings and lids. Allow the jars to cool at room temperature; once cool, check the tops to make sure they have properly sealed before removing the rings, wiping off the jars, labeling them, and transferring them to storage. (Or, if you want to can them in a hot water bath, put the relish-filled jars in the canner, cover them with water, and bring the water to a boil and process for five to ten minutes.)

Yield: About seven pints

One Year Ago: Red Beet Salad with Caramelized Onions and Feta (only read this if you're in the mood for some old-fashioned aerobic exercise).

Tangential thoughts

Introduction: I’m in one of my writing dry spells, wanting to write but not know what to say. Oh, I have lots to talk about, but I don’t know how to talk about it. The bigger, more interesting topics (The Sex Talk, Saggy Arms, Marital Issues, etc) feel daunting, like rugged mountains waiting to be climbed by me, a flip-flop clad almost-middle-aged woman with four kids, and all the little stuff just feels like, well, little stuff. Reality can be depressing if you stop to think about it. Let’s move on.

Tangent A: Maybe this word lethargy comes as a result of just finishing my third book by Elizabeth Strout, her first (Amy and Isabelle). Strout writes as though her pen were a scalpel, using it to cut into each conversation, to separate out the head nod, the tissue thrown into the trash can, the fans whirring uselessly over in the corner of the office mill. With each slash of her pen-turned-knife, she peels back the layers, drawing you in to a life that is not yours. It’s exhausting, this being there without being there, and when I finally read the last sentence and closed the book, I felt as if I needed to rest for a couple days while I waited for the story to settle and I could reorient myself to my surroundings. Still, even a couple days after finishing the book, I’m gasping for breath, feeling rather short on both oxygen and reality. I continue to mull over the characters and the plot (Paul Bellows found that blue car way too easily, it seems to me), savoring her phrases in the same manner that I run my tongue over my back molars after eating a piece of caramel candy, searching for the lingering bits of sweet.

Main Point: But life goes on, regardless of what novels I’m reading (or recovering from). Yesterday Miss Becca Boo turned eight, disrupting the odd numbered age streak we had going for the past few months.

Tangent B: When people asked how old my kids were and I rattled off their ages—“three, five, seven, nine”—it gave the impression, I thought, that my children were orderly and predictable, thus making me a Good Mom. Now that they are three, five, eight, and nine, I feel discombobulated; they have fallen out of line and I will have to work extra hard to keep them in their place. I have lots of time to get used to this new feeling because it will be seven long months before they fall into position again, this time in an even-numbered line. (I like the odd-numbered line-ups better since they make me feel bold and daring; the even-numbered ones feel bland in comparison. Is that weird?)

Tangent B ½: Obviously it’s a Sunday afternoon and I have some extra time on my hands, time when I can analyze my children’s ages. It’s nice to ponder and type and ponder some more, especially now that I’ve gotten over my little writing hump. I knew that if I just carved out some computer time and set my fingers over the black keys, then the words would come (I hoped)—it’s The Getting There that’s the hardest.

Main Point, revisited: So Miss Becca Boo is eight. Because her birthday fell on a Saturday, we had her special meal at noon, the table dressed with a cloth, an old-fashioned creamer filled with flowers, and real wine glasses for the ice water (it’s a grand occasion indeed when we put ice cubes in our water). As we ate our lunch of baked macaroni and cheese and her Grandma Betsy’s buttered carrots (the first food she mentioned when I asked her what she wanted for her birthday meal), we retold the story of her birth. (The kids are becoming quite familiar with their birth stories so that when I launched into the part about calling Matt and Crystal to be with toddler Yo-Yo while we went to the hospital, Yo-Yo jumped in and told how I had to impatiently wait while Mr. Handsome made himself a big ol’ breakfast before we could actually leave for the hospital.) We’re all fairly comfortable talking about the details of birth (and sex, but that’s another topic), but when I got to the part about the final gigantic push and how I didn’t heed the midwife’s order to stop and as a result had some tearing, Mr. Handsome said, “Alright, that’s enough. I’m eating.” Of course that got Yo-Yo’s goat and he launched forth on the topic of Gory Births until Mr. Handsome gave him a gigantic hairy eyeball.

Tangent C: Speaking of getting goats, while I was washing the dishes this morning, Mr. Handsome came up beside me and said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we just decided to stay home from church? We could hang out and relax...” (We’ve been through this many times before, and while I’m not opposed to skipping church every now and then, I can not handle last minute decisions to opt out—it messes with my fragile brain. As a result, about a year ago I declared a moratorium on deciding to skip church on Sunday morning; if we’re not going to go, then we have to decide that the night before—it’s the rule.) So, as you can see, Mr. Handsome was just trying to get my dander up. (He also has a bad habit of picking fights first thing in the morning because it helps to jumpstart his brain.) But this morning I remained unperturbed and simply stated, “I put my goat out to pasture so you can’t get it now.” He snorted at my joke and then asked, “Where did you hear that one?” And I said, “I made it up myself. I’m a very funny person, you know.” And then we went to church.

Main Point, revisited again: Back to Miss Becca Boo’s birthday: we gave her a guinea pig for her present.



She’s the animal lover among us, and once it occurred to me that a guinea pig would be a good birthday present, I fixated on it, certain that it would be the only acceptable gift.


Tangent D: I have a hard time buying presents for my children. Birthdays are a big deal in our house. Because we don’t buy Christmas gifts (we do the stocking thing though, and I’m just now beginning to figure out that stockings have the potential to be quite extravagant—changes will be made in the near future, mark my words), birthdays are the one opportunity to do it up good. However, I still can’t figure out how to buy good gifts for my kids; it remains a hit or miss proposition. For example, I thought for sure that the two-storied, multi-roomed dollhouse that I found at a thrift store would be just the thing for Sweetsie but she has almost never played with it. Yo-Yo’s poster for his wall is now in his trash can, and his hefty, battery-powered jeep sits silent, both his interest and the jeep's battery having gone kaput. The ballet and karate lessons were taken and enjoyed (mostly), but there were no requests to continue. Sweetsie's tricycle is damaged, but still gets played with occasionally. The butterfly barrettes were ignored, necklaces broken, ponytail holders lost, fuzzy socks never worn. As you can see, finding a gift that provides both a thrill and lasting enjoyment is a tricky endeavor.

Main Point...yup, still going strong: I’m afraid the guinea pig was a little disappointing at first. I mean, there were no bells and whistles and the poor dear was terrified and we didn’t know what we were doing and, well, it was pretty intense for awhile. Miss Becca Boo’s other gifts of guinea pig pellets, a water bottle, and a book on (you guessed it) guinea pigs weren’t that thrilling in and of themselves. But, as Mr. Handsome said last night, it’s the kind of gift that will grow on her—it takes time to make friends with a rodent.

The question of a name remains to be solved. I suggested Miss Piggy, or maybe Porky. Mr. Handsome suggested Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo. Yo-Yo though Sparky. The Baby Nickel suggested Jessie, and Sweetsie said Sally. Miss Becca Boo thought Sandy at first, but finally settled on Sparky, though I hear them saying "Sally” a lot and I still refer to it as Miss Piggy, or sometimes The Rodent (though I try not to say that in Miss Becca Boo’s presence as she’s quick to take offense).

We were all a little worried about Sparky at first. She didn’t eat or drink anything, though we plied her with the best we had—bananas, grapes, cherry tomatoes, broccoli—but it wasn’t till today that she started eating ... and pooping. I bet you never knew guinea pig poop could be so exciting. The kids squeal over each little black turd that appears on the ground, excitedly counting them (“...eight, nine, ten—there’s ten, Mama!”) as though they are prize jewels and not little pieces of rodent crap. She’s also becoming a little more comfortable with all the floor thumping and shrill shrieking and sudden movements that come about as a result of six, highly opinionated, boisterous people living in close proximity.


Miss Becca Boo requested a chocolate cake with rainbow icing. Considering that I’m quite weak in the cake decorating department, I did the best I could.

Photo by Yo-Yo

I made my basic chocolate cake which comes from one of my Tiny Little Brother’s roommates, a boy named Arthur that I never (I don’t think) met; I’ll have to tell you about it sometime. I put a thick layer of peanut butter frosting (ooo, I could live on that stuff) between the layers and then made an extra big batch of buttercream frosting. I frosted the sides with white icing and sealed the top with a thin layer of the white icing. Then I divided the remaining frosting between six bowl, and, with my entranced children watching (only Miss Becca Boo was allowed at the table, the other three were lined up on the kitchen stools a safe distance away), I squirted drops of coloring into each bowl while Becca Boo stirred, transforming the plain white icing into a multitude of colors: blue, purple, red, green, orange, and yellow.

Photo by Yo-Yo

I made up the design as I went along, a rainbow circle on top, tie-dye swirls on the sides, and a blur of colors at the very base, as the children oohed and aahed, told me I was the best cake decorator ever, and tried to swipe tastes of icing.

Conclusion: In a nutshell, that’s what’s been going on.

One Year Ago: Strawberry Cake.

A sauce to crow about

Have you ever heard of tempero?


I hadn’t, not until several months ago when I had that coffee date with my friend Michael Ann and she enthusiastically enlightened me. She said, “All you do is blend up onions and garlic and herbs and leeks with lots of salt and then you keep it in your fridge for months and you can add it to everything—soups, eggs, beans, meats, whatever.

I was dubious. “Doesn’t it make all your food taste the same?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll send you the recipe.”

And she did. I read it and filed it away until last Thursday when I unsuccessfully tried to pull my garlic. The stalks kept breaking off in my hand, leaving the fat garlic heads buried, or worse, only half the bulb came up, so I had to go fetch a shovel and dig the bulbs up (and then I still had trouble—those were some stuck heads). I wove the intact heads of garlic into two braids and set aside the mutilated heads till the following day when I would have more energy to figure out how to deal with them.

When I woke the next morning, I pondered my options (one of which was this, but I read somewhere that this is an excellent breeding grounds for salmonella—is that true?), and it was about then that I remembered Michael Ann’s tempero (pronounced “temPAREoh”). Didn’t it call for a lot of garlic and onions? I flipped through my red, three-ring recipe binder until I found her neatly typed recipe. I noted happily that I had everything but the leeks and scallions; I would increase the onions and call it even.

Out to the garden I again went, this time to pull some of the bigger onions and pick the basil and parsley, and then I commenced to peeling and chopping and processing, all the while basking in the sanctimonious bubbly feeling that washes over me whenever I combine multiple, fresh ingredients in a single recipe. It’s a pleasant sensation indeed when my everyday grind melds with both the practical and the gourmet. It makes me feel like crowing.

Of course I didn’t know for sure if the recipe itself would be any good. I was still a little doubtful, though I certainly had no right to be considering that my friend is an absolute whiz in the kitchen and has a genius for the savory (you ought to taste her killer soups). But still...

I should definitely not have doubted her. In less than a week I have used up over a cup of the pungent green sauce. So far I have used tempero in the following ways: simmered with unsalted, precooked pinto beans; sauteed with zucchini; briefly cooked in hot oil as a base for wilted Swiss chard; mixed into the sausage I was browning (it made the sausage extra salty, but I’ll be adding it to a soup later); and stirred, uncooked, into tuna salad.

In regards to the question I first asked Michael Ann—whether or not tempero will make all your food taste the same—it won’t, at least not any more than adding onions and garlic to all your savory dishes makes them taste alike. It’s like a liquid version of seasoned salt, and while I’m not one for seasoned salt, I do add fresh garlic and onions to most of my savory dishes, and in essence, that’s all this is—instead of having to peel and chop my garlic and onions every time I need them, I can simple dump in a blob of tempero. It’s a marvel!


I did a little research after I made the tempero and found some information that made me fall in love with the sauce even more than I already have, as if that’s possible. Rita says (the post also contains her recipe), “It works almost like your signature flavor that everyone can recognize on your cooking without really knowing where it comes from... that certain something that makes your dishes unique.” Is that not totally classy? Don’t all cooks secretly lust after a signature flavor? (Don’t even try to tell me I’m the only one—you can’t fool me.)

And if you want to read more about the history of the Brazilian sauce and how to use it, click here.

Tempero
From my friend Michael Ann.

Notes from Michael Ann: “Remember that the tempero is made up of raw ingredients and is not intended to be a sauce itself or to be used on its own. The mixture is an ingredient in other recipes and most of the time will be cooked with them. Keep it in the refrigerator to add to other sauces and recipes in small amounts, starting with half a tablespoon and tasting as you go.” All the tempero needs is a quick sizzle in some oil before adding the other ingredients, or it can be added directly to simmering soups and sauces. It also serves as a rub for meats. The options are countless, countless, I tell you.

And she adds, “Warning: It’s hell on the eyeballs with all those onions.” True, I screamed and hollered and jumped about, but it wasn’t all that bad, nothing a brave grown-up couldn’t deal with. The pain was short-lived, and the payoff is tremendous—the stuff lasts for months.

I’m giving you Michael Ann’s recipe as is, but I omitted the scallions and leeks and upped the onions to three pounds. You could also add green pepper, if you wish.

2 1/4 pounds (about 4 large onions) onions, peeled and coarsely chopped
10 ounces (about 9 medium-size heads) garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 cups kosher salt
1 ½ leeks, washed and coarsely chopped
½ bunch (about 1 ½ cups) parsley, stems discarded
2 cups basil leaves
½ bunch scallions, both the white and green parts, coarsely chopped

Mix all the ingredients together in a large bowl. Working in batches, add the vegetables to a food processor and process until smooth. Transfer the batches to a large bowl and combine until the entire mixture is smooth. Transfer to lidded glass jars (or plastic containers) and store in the refrigerator (or freezer) for 6-8 months.

Yield: A generous eight cups.

About one year ago: What to do with brown bags.

A sweet tale

I apologize to all of you who have grown weary with my incessant prattling about chard and red beet greens and chicken and potatoes (there was a red raspberry dessert thrown in there, too, but come on, it had a fruit) and have grown desperate for something purely frivolous, like, say, ice cream.


How about it? Are you up for some creamy peanut-buttery ice cream, thickly studded with chopped-up peanut butter cups? Yes?


Okay, but first I’m going to tell you a story.

Once there was a little girl who didn’t get store-bought ice cream very often. Her parents made fine homemade ice cream, but, like white bread and celery, ice cream was a rare treat. The girl grew up and went to college where there was lots of ice cream in the cafeteria, and she ate it frequently, especially the soft serve. But then she got married, and because for the first time she had a fair amount of extra cash, a car, and easy access to the grocery store, she discovered the endless varieties of Ben and Jerry’s and thought she had finally died and gone to heaven (part of that floaty feeling might have had something to do with having just married the most gorgeous man alive). But then she and her husband left their comfortable middle-class existence with easy access to chain groceries that sold Ben and Jerry’s and flew to sweaty-hot Nicaragua where there was no decent ice cream to be found, though there was some fabulous Guanabana yogurt. When they came back to the states three years later they had a little boy and no money, and then the handsome husband caught cancer, found a job, and got cured, and the girl, who was now a young woman, caught another baby in her tummy and developed a fearsome sweet tooth, and then Ben and Jerry’s ice cream went on sale and because they had some money again thanks to the husband’s new job, the young woman brought cartons and cartons of the ice cream home from the store and she ate them every single night and gained forty pounds. After which she pushed out a little girl, rested for a few weeks, and then plunked the little boy and the baby girl into a clunky stroller and pushed them around their hilly neighborhood in an effort to shrink her buns and belly (she stopped eating Ben and Jerry’s, too). Years passed and not only did they acquire two more children and a vasectomy, they also purchased a used hand crank ice cream churn from a yard sale, a country house (not from a yard sale), and some milk shares from a local farm. Today, the young woman, who isn’t so young anymore, though she isn’t quite middle-aged either, has taught herself how to make thick, rich, creamy ice creams that taste just like Ben and Jerry’s, if not better, and even though they have more money than they ever had before and the chain grocery store is just ten minutes away, they hardly ever, maybe even never, buy Ben and Jerry’s. The end.


Peanut Butter Cup Ice Cream
Adapted from... oh dear, I don’t know where! Some place on the net, I guess. Sorry.


Do not use the miniature peanut butter cups; use the full-size cups, okay?

And I tell you to reserve part of the chopped candy because I’ve discovered that they don’t mix in evenly—often the ice cream at the bottom of the churn has only a few bits of candy while the ice cream at the top is loaded. Reserving some of the candy allows you to add it at the end when you’re serving the ice cream, or transferring it into freezer containers, creating an ice cream with even candy distribution.

1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1 cup milk
3 ½ cups cream, divided
1 cup creamy peanut butter
1 tablespoon vanilla
12-16 peanut butter cups, roughly chopped and divided

Put the sugar and eggs in a mixing bowl and beat with a handheld mixer for about three minutes.

Heat the milk and one cup of the cream in a saucepan. Once hot, slowly add the milk and cream to the egg-sugar mixture, beating on low speed all the while. Then, dump the tempered eggs and milk back into the saucepan and stir over medium-high heat until the mixture has thickened slightly (do not boil). Remove the saucepan from the heat and pour the mixture through a fine-mesh strainer.

Whisk the peanut butter into the egg-milk mixture. Add the remaining cream and the vanilla. Chill the ice cream base in the refrigerator for 6 hours or overnight.

Churn the ice cream. When it is almost done, add three-quarters of the chopped peanut butter cups and finish churning. When transferring the ice cream to freezer containers (or eating it), stir the remaining bits of candy into the parts of the ice cream that are candy deprived.



One year ago: Apricot Pandowdy. And a year and a day ago: Grace's Vanilla Pudding and Baked Oatmeal. I was a blogging fiend, back in the day.

Sniffing for cake

I don’t know how those kitchen-tester, experimenter-type people do it. You know who I’m talking about, right? I’m talking about the cooks that are behind the scenes of cookbooks and culinary magazines, but specifically (for the next few paragraphs anyways) about those people who work for the magazine Cook’s Illustrated. Those Dudes and Dudettes slave away in the magazine’s test kitchen for hours at a time tweaking and tasting and tasting and tweaking till they find The Perfect Whatever It Is They Are Searching For. And then they tell you what they’ve learned.

No, that’s not quite right. They tell you every little detail of how they learned what they learned, so that you can be sure to appreciate the fact—the fact!—that they have fairly outdone themselves bringing you The Best There Is. They try to be generous and gracious, but you can’t help but hear their behind-the-scenes self-righteous sniffing.

You’re not familiar with the magazine? Okay, let’s take, for example, the question of prepeeled garlic. You didn’t know there was a question about prepeeled garlic? Well, there is, or rather, there was. See, somebody (the editor, perhaps?) wondered what the difference was, if any, between jarred, prechopped garlic and fresh garlic. The question (probably written in beautiful calligraphy on a parchment scroll and bound with a satin ribbon) was delivered (by a thirteen-year-old boy in purple tights) to the Dudes and Dudettes in the magazine’s kitchen. Of course the D and D’s didn’t do a simple taste test, oh no-no-no-no-no! They, the dear souls, got down and dirty in their quest to answer the all-important question set forth before them. As a stringed quartet played Vivaldi over in the corner by the industrial stoves, they spun and twirled around the kitchen making aioli sauce (two batches, of course), sauteed garlic with spaghetti (again, two batches), and stuffed rolled flank steaks (yep, two batches). The tasters (seated in a red-carpeted dinning room) gave mixed reviews, and the final verdict (written on another, slightly larger scroll) stated that prechopped garlic would not store as well as the fresh raw cloves, but that there was not much difference in taste (and with that, the music soared gloriously, and the kitchen staff bowed and curtseyed as we gratefully applauded). The end.

Um, hello? I’m pretty sure I already knew that fresh garlic lasts longer than the prechopped stuff (though I never thought to thunk it), and I can guarantee that it didn’t take multiple batches of flank steak and spaghetti for me to figure that out. (That I don’t even know how to cook flank steak is irrelevant.) However, I do understand that documented—and published!—scientific evidence is worth more than my practical, day-in-and-day-out kitchen wisdom. And so I bow my head in meek submission.

Okay, okay. I’ll stop now. The magazine does hold helpful information (I did check it out of the library, after all), and I enjoy flipping through its pages, gleaning tidbits. But there is something off-putting about the magazine, not because they have a goal to obtain the perfect Whatever It Is because all cooks strive for this, but because they claim that they have. Cooking is such a personal thing and everyone has different preferences, so for them to assume that they hold the Golden Answer strikes me as being a little presumptuous.

But maybe that’s just because I can’t stand to see anyone else carting around more than their fair share of the gold.

Anyway, my point to all this was that just thinking of all that excessive food prepping and testing makes me bone weary. (And besides, who eats all that food? I worry over things like that; I can’t help myself.) As for me, I’m feeling pretty whipped after playing around with a raspberry-lemon buttermilk cake, doing my darndest to grab hold of some of that flashy culinary gold. I made it three times. Three times is about all I can handle, so it’s a pretty good thing that I struck pay dirt on the third try. Or maybe I just gave up and decided it was easier to be content.


I unwittingly started my cake marathon when I made Deb’s Raspberry Buttermilk Cake. To start with, I only made a couple practical changes—I doubled it, and I used frozen raspberries instead of the fresh, plus, I sprinkled one cake with plain white sugar and the other pan with Demerara sugar. Some daring changes, huh? But then we tasted it and Mr. Handsome thought it needed more lemon, so back to the drawling board I went. (And right there is when I started hearing little Cook’s Illustrated voices in my head: “I’m going to make this cake perfect, I tell you, simply perfect.”)

The second time around I reduced the buttermilk by a quarter cup and added a quarter cup of fresh lemon juice instead. I also upped the lemon zest, three times over. The resulting cake was definitely more lemony, but all the berries sank to the bottom and the cake had a more sponge-like texture. (“Drat this cake! Don’t tell me I’m going to have to do something crazy like beat the egg whites. This is supposed to be a simple cake. A simply perfect cake.”)


Round three involved two parts buttermilk, one part yogurt and one part milk (because I ran out of buttermilk, not because I was intentionally trying to be complex), no lemon juice, three-plus times the amount of zest, and fresh berries because they are now in season and I had just picked a bowlful.

I pulled the cake from the oven. I looked at it. I sniffed it. I tasted it. And then I smiled.


And now (drum roll, please) I present you with, a la The Cook’s Illustrated Testing Method (sniff, sniff), the perfect, absolutely perfect, Raspberry-Lemon Buttermilk Cake.


Actually, I think this cake would also be good as muffins, maybe with a layer of streusel hidden in their middles, or with blueberries in place of the raspberries (blueberries and lemon, oh my). See, I’m not really Cook’s Illustrated material—there’s just too many good options out there. Besides, I haven’t the endurance or the ego.

Well, it might just be the endurance part I’m missing.

Seriously, though, this cake is good. It’s simple and elegant, but not too showy. It’s just the thing to have on hand, like at all times. (I tried serving the cake with seedless raspberry sauce and some whipped cream, but I think I like it just as well, and maybe better, all by itself. Sweet and simple, and perfect. Sniff.)


Raspberry-Lemon Buttermilk Cake
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

Deb’s recipe made one round, 9-inch cake, but I doubled it. The way I see it, if you’re going to go to all the trouble to measure, mix, and bake you might as well make a fair amount. Besides, the cake freezes well, so I doubt you’ll regret the extra (we whipped through the six cakes I made in less than a week). But if you’re feeling conservative, go ahead and halve the recipe. It will still be sniffably perfect.

2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup butter
1 1/3 cups sugar, plus 3 tablespoons for sprinkling
1 teaspoon vanilla
the zest from one lemon, or a minimum of 3 ample teaspoons
2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk (or ½ cup buttermilk, 1/4 cup plain yogurt, and 1/4 cup milk)
2 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen

Grease two 9-inch cake pans and line them with wax paper circles. (To make my wax paper circles, I set the cake pan on the wax paper, trace around it with a pencil, and then cut out the circle and press it into the bottom of the greased pan.)

Cream together the sugar and butter. Add the vanilla, eggs, and zest and beat some more.

Measure the dry ingredients into a separate bowl.

Add the dry ingredients to the creamed butter alternately with the buttermilk.

Divide the batter between the two pans. Sprinkle the raspberries evenly over the cakes, and then sprinkle over the sugar.

Bake the cakes at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes. Allow them to cool for ten minutes before inverting the cakes onto a cooling rack and peeling off the wax paper. To freeze, wait till they have cooled to room temperature before wrapping well in plastic wrap and transferring to the freezer.

One year ago: Angel Bread.

Eggs and Potatoes

Mr. Handsome brought home a friend’s egg incubator and now we have thirty-some eggs cooking in the back hall.


The kids are excited, but to their little, only-in-the-present minds the twenty-one days they have to wait is a forever-long eternity.


They ought to try a 42 week-long pregnancy. Now that's waiting.

***

Why are the insides of my larger potatoes rotten? The outsides of the potatoes are gorgeous and firm, but the very centers are often yucky.

And in the same potato-y vein: Why is it that when I boil my potatoes, the outsides stay firm while the very centers tend to get a bit mushy-slimy? Does it have anything to do with the fact that I test the potatoes for doneness with a fork—do the fork marks allow for the boiling water to enter and sog up my potatoes’ insides?

***

Coming home from church on Sunday I realized that I had no quick food on hand for lunch. If it had been just us, we might have eaten granola and yogurt and called it a meal, but Yo-Yo had a friend along and I felt responsible for providing something a bit more well-rounded.

The day before I had cooked some starches to have on hand for the following week—a pot of brown rice and a large pile of new potatoes that I boiled, peeled, and then stuck in the fridge—so those were the foods I had to work with. Not very exciting, huh?

Once home, the kids ran off to play and I headed to my cookbook shelf to work on the food situation. I found just what I was looking for: a quick variation on scalloped potatoes that called for grated cooked potatoes with cheese, onions, and bread crumbs and then melted butter and milk poured over top. I set to work, adding some chopped ham to the potatoes, and for a side vegetable, putting a pot of peas on to boil. (Dessert was raspberry-lemon cake, whipped cream, and seedless raspberry sauce, all pre-made.)

The verdict? Mr. Handsome and I both loved the potatoes—pure comfort food and better than macaroni and cheese—and Yo-Yo’s friend had three helpings.



All in all, it was a pretty fine solution to a last-minute, no-thinking-ahead meal. In fact, it was almost exciting!

Cottage Potatoes
Adapted from Mennonite Country-Style Recipes by Esther H. Shank

Add sausage or bacon in place of the ham, or omit the meat altogether.

8 cups cooked, peeled, and grated potatoes
1/2 cup minced onion
2 tablespoons parsley, chopped
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
½ cup bread crumbs
½ cup deli ham, chopped fairly small
1 cup cheddar cheese, grated
1 ½ cup milk
4 tablespoons butter

Heat the milk and butter in a saucepan till the milk is hot and the butter has melted. Stir in the salt and pepper. Set aside.

In a large bowl, combine the grated potatoes, onion, bread crumbs, ham, parsley, and cheese and stir to combine. Put the mixture into a greased 9 x 12 baking dish, pour the hot milk over top, and bake, uncovered at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

One year ago: Fruit Cobbler. (Excuse the dark, night-time pictures.)

To do with chard

So, how about another chard recipe?


The thing about chard is that it keeps growing and growing and growing. Barbara Kingsolver said (in her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle) that if she had to move to a retirement village and could only grow one vegetable (or maybe it was only one plant), she would choose Rainbow Swiss Chard. I think she might be on to something (actually, I think she's on to a lot of things, but I won't go into that right now): it’s pretty in a leafy, green way, it produces excessively and continuously, and it is downright infested with nutrients.

The other day (there’s that phrase again) I clicked on Epicurious and skimmed through the chard recipes, searching for new flavor combinations. It appeared that golden raisins and chard are a standard configuration, and nuts—pine nuts and almonds, especially—are often in attendance.

First, I attempted a pie with chard, pine nuts, golden raisins, and orange zest, and, right before serving, a dusting of confectioner’s sugar. It was good (Mr. Handsome said he though I was on to something) but seemed lacking—I think it might be improved by some ricotta and caramelized onions. Maybe I’ll try it again later.


The second recipe I made was much better, I thought. It was a spin on the chard-golden raisin-nut trio, with some caramelized onions and Parmesan cheese thrown in for excitement. I served it over spaghetti, and the following day the leftovers were eaten atop soba noodles, but it would be equally great over brown rice.

Spaghetti with Swiss Chard, Raisins, and Almonds
Adapted from a recipe on Epicurious that originally came from the February 2008 issue of Gourmet.

The original recipe called for a quarter teaspoon of Spanish smoked paprika. I didn’t have any, so I left it out (and sprinkled in a little regular paprika which did pretty much nothing). If you have the smoked paprika and give it a try, let me know how it turns out. If it’s good, I might have to go out and buy some.

I never weigh my chard; I simply fix a large bowl of the chopped leaves and call it good. If I were forced to measure, I would guess I used about a heaping gallon of leaves, loosely packed.

1 onion, peeled and sliced into thin rings
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 pounds Swiss chard, center ribs discarded and leaves roughly chopped
½ cup golden raisins
½ cup water
1/4 cup chopped raw almonds
1 teaspoon butter
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
salt and pepper, to taste
1 pound spaghetti

Melt the butter in a small skillet and add the almonds. Stir them around until they are golden brown—it should only take a couple minutes. Set them aside.

In a large soup pot, saute the onions in the olive oil for about ten minutes, or until they are starting to brown. Add the chard and toss gently until it has wilted. Add the raisins and the water, put the lid on the kettle, and cook for 7 to 10 minutes over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Season with the salt and pepper.

While the chard is simmering, cook the spaghetti according to package instructions.

To serve, pile a scoop of chard on top of some spaghetti and sprinkle it with cheese and nuts.

Variation: In place of the spaghetti, use cooked brown rice.

About one year ago: Homemade Yogurt.

A potential problem

On Sunday afternoon the dog unearthed a rabbit nest, and then the kids gallantly saved two bunnies from a set of frothing canine jaws.


The word “saved” is ambiguous. Saved for what? To be butchered? To be fed to the dog? To die from starvation? Seeing as I don’t care much for rabbits, particularly the wild kind, I wasn’t too thrilled—whatever would we do when the bunnies grew into two adult garden-loving rabbits?—and I told them so.


But then I remembered the hours of fun I had with my friend Amber back when we were little girls and turned part of her barn into an animal hospital and spent hours trying to feed and coddle their viciously wild barn cats. It was so much fun to (try to) take care of those little kittens, pretending that their survival depended on our hard work and loving care.

Fast forward twenty-five years and here I was, my delighted children clustered around me, their hands cupping two, real-life, side benefits of country living, looking at me expectantly, hopefully. (It didn't escape me that I was being handed a free, hands-on educational experience, not that I was about to do any teaching).

"Go out to the barn and find a cage," I said. The kids gasped with surprise (am I really that strict?) and then yipped with joy and tore off to round up all the things that two little bunnies could ever possibly need.


When Yo-Yo came in and asked me to look online to see what bunnies eat, but I pointed him to the world books instead, telling him to look it up himself. He yanked the thick blue book off the shelf and ran back outside where I could hear him reading out loud about grasses and climate and such. Later when they asked for milk to feed the bunnies, I did find a little medicine dropper for them and show them how to wiggle the tip in behind the rabbits' clenched front chompers and gently squeeze the milk in, drop by drop, looking all the while for the occasional throat twitch that would indicate it was indeed swallowing. (Feeding the bunnies did tug on my heartstrings, just a little).

The children have been faithfully feeding the bunnies milk and slipping them bits of carrot and snap pea and cuddling them in all their free time, but then the inevitable happened: the littlest Bunny Foo-Foo died. “Are you sure?” I asked, going outside to investigate.

They lifted the bunny and hung it upside-down to show me how very dead it was. (Mr. Handsome thinks it had internal injuries—the dog, you know...)

“Okay, then, go throw it on the burn pile” (the burial ground for most of our dead, wild animals). They obeyed, no tears or drama whatsoever.

The remaining Bunny Foo-Foo appears to be thriving, jumping so high he bangs his head on the roof of his dog-carrier cage. The kids are determined to sell it for the bargain price of five dollars, but I told them I doubted they will have many buyers clamoring to snatch up their pet.

I’m not too worried about this potential problem yet, figuring I have plenty of time to let it work itself out before I will have to step in and make any decisions. I’ll let them nurse it back to health, raise it, and then, if it hasn’t taken a bite out of a child’s finger, died or escaped, we’ll deal with it then. They can play with their new pet as much as they like as long as they are gentle the the bunny, as long as they take turns holding it without fighting with each other (we're not doing so well on that one), and as long as they washed their hands with soap after each visit to the bunny's house, and as long as they keep it out of my house.

About one year ago: Work. (It looks like we won't be getting any blueberries this year---our local blueberry farm closed their PYO option after being open for only two days. I'm sorely disappointed and am taking this misfortune as a sign that we need to get busy and plant ourselves some blueberry bushes.)

Salvaging the compost

The other day—

(You do realize that’s a euphemistic phrase, don’t you? It means that whatever I’m about to tell you happened a while back, perhaps a good deal of a while back, perhaps as long as a couple months back, but since I never got around to writing about it until now, and since I want my words to seem fresh, I say “the other day” because it sounds more recent (and more relevant) than “a couple ages and eons ago.”)

Where was I going with this? Oh yes, red beets.


The other day (maybe a week and a half ago, if you’re wanting the hard, irrelevant truth) I thinned out my beets. I don’t have a very big row of beets since no one else in my immediate family enjoys them, but I do plant a handful of seeds so that I have enough to eat some fresh, make a salad (or two or three), and possibly whip up a chocolate beet cake for a church potluck. Right about then, after feasting my heart out, I start to get sick of beets and begin to feel rather glad that there is no point in canning them since no one else likes them anyway. So I cheerfully, and without guilt, toss the large, woody beets that are still hanging out in the garden onto the compost pile, and move on to preparing and eating other foods, relieved to lay off the beets for another ten months until the next beet season swings around and provides me with the opportunity to glut myself once again.

So anyway, as I was saying, I thinned my beets. For the Amelia Bedelias among you, that does not mean that I slipped girdles on my beets to restrain their slowly swelling bellies, nor does it mean I took a knife to them, trimming their round frames into hourglass figures. It means that I went down the row pulling up the beets that were crowding too close together, making the row thinner, not the beets.

I’m guessing you probably already knew that.


Of course I couldn’t throw away the pulled plants, so I gathered them into a bowl and took them inside, intending to cook them up for my lunch.

I had planned to eat only the greens, but the little beets, some skinnier than a pencil, looked so yummy that I decided I would eat them, too. I cut them off and set them aside in a little bowl—I would boil them first and then serve them along with the greens.


It appeared that the only beet part I was going to toss out would be the red stems, but then I got to wondering if they would be good to eat as well. So I called my mom and she said, Sure, go ahead and eat them if you want; it certainly won’t hurt you.

I boiled the little beets in a pan of salted water till they were almost, but not quite, done, and then I added the stems. When both the beets and stems were fork-tender, I poured them into a colander to drain while I wilted my greens in a pan of hot butter. Once the greens were sufficiently cooked, I scooped them onto my plate, piled on the stems and little beets, and dug in.


It was a huge pile of roughage; I made it three-quarters of the way through before I called it quits. I had eaten salad for breakfast that morning, so I was feeling a little nervous about all that fiber flooding my system. Maybe there was a limit to the amount of salvaged compost that a human body could digest. Maybe I had overdone it. Nothing happened to me though, except that my cheeks turned rosy red, my fingernails lost their white spots, and my split-ends mended themselves. (My ears also grew a couple inches and my nose started twitching, but by the next morning those symptoms had vanished, so I think they were a fluke.)

Red Beet Greens

The greens from baby beets, about one large bowlful, or about 8-12 cups
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper, to taste

Melt the butter in a large soup pot. Add the greens, salt liberally, and toss gently till they have wilted. Allow them to cook, uncovered, for three to six more minutes (the shorter amount of time for newer greens and a longer amount of time for the not-so-new greens).

Yield: Will feed one to two adults when served straight-up as the main meal (the gray fuzz that sprouts on the back of your hands will disappear within twenty-four hours), or it will feed four to six adults when served as a side dish, or, when tossed with a pound of cooked spaghetti and freshly grated Parmesan and served as a main course, it will be make a hefty main meal for four to six adults.

About one year ago: One freaky kid

Chapter Two: The Miss Becca Boo Reading Situation

Remember all that stuff I told you about how Miss Becca Boo still isn’t reading but she doesn’t seem to mind? The other day my friend Shannon watched my kids, and later she filled me in on a little interaction that transpired between Miss Becca Boo and Jalyn, Shannon’s daughter who just turned six and started to read.

Miss Becca Boo was sitting on the couch, absorbed in some books. Jalyn walked into the room and asked, “Are you reading those books?”

Miss Becca Boo said, “No, I’m looking at the pictures.”

Jalyn said, “Would you like me to read them to you?”

Miss Becca Boo said yes, the girls snuggled up together on the sofa, and Jalyn read the books to Miss Becca Boo.

“Did she act embarrassed?” I asked Shannon.

“Not at all,” Shannon said. “I was watching really closely because of the stuff you’ve said and I think she is either totally clueless or else she has amazing self-confidence. And I don’t think she’s clueless.”

***

Aren’t most people ashamed of (or at least subdued by) their inferior abilities, even at a tender age? By all accounts, Miss Becca Boo ought to be blushing with embarrassment and ducking her head in shame when a child younger than her can read books she can’t. (Mr. Handsome was a late reader and he knows firsthand the heavy shame that comes with falling behind.) But she’s not, and even though I’m grateful (of course), I’m also downright mystified.

While I know that some of our decisions (keeping her out of the school system and letting her learn on her own time table, to name two) have played a role in this, I am not naive enough to take all the credit. We did the same things with Yo-Yo, and before reading clicked with him, he articulated embarrassment about his inferior abilities. And I doubt she gets her confidence from me. I’m riddled with all the standard feelings of inadequacy and fight many a mental battle in the War of Self-Acceptance (excuse my drama).

Maybe Miss Becca Boo has a non-judging personality, one that allows her to accept herself and others. Maybe she’s just not aware enough yet to feel bad that she’s behind and once she does she’ll push herself to learn. Or maybe, irregardless of how far behind she falls or what anyone says, she’ll learn when she’s ready, no bad feelings involved.

I’ll have to wait a few more months till I can find out how this ends. It’s kind of like a real-life mystery complete with twists and turns and ah-ha moments, but minus the smoking gun.


The story isn’t over yet. Hang on for Chapter Three.

About one year ago: Brown Bread and Fancy Granola and French Chocolate Granola (the chocolate granola is well on its way to becoming a classic).

Another sketchy character

Here’s the other character sketch. Even though this sketch is part fabrication, those of you who know me will have no trouble figuring out who this is. I’ll just say this: I love this woman ... to pieces.

**********

Chin Hairs and Chicken Noodle Soup

Mrs. Sarah Stoltzfus worries. She worries that the stove is leaking gas and spends long minutes adjusting the gas knobs and sniffing above each burner. She worries about botulism. Once when the venison roast was left in the crock pot all morning without being turned on, and even after she cooked it properly, she feared that it would kill them all and threw it out. They ate cold, left-over vegetable soup on top of the rice instead. She worries that the appliances aren’t properly plugged into the electrical outlets and that the plastic casings around the wires are wearing thin, so she unplugs certain lights each night before going to bed. She worries that she won’t notice the hairs that might begin to sprout out of her chin before important people have already seen them. She worries about the old chair by the kitchen stove that is painted with paint that probably contains lead, so she refuses to allow any cooking utensils to be set on it. She worries that her signature looks sloppy; maybe the cross for the ‘t’ has partly slashed through the ‘l.’ She worries that she’s getting old because flab hangs from her arms and she forgot to put the chicken in the chicken noodle soup. And she worries that she’s a heretic for wondering if God really did tell Abraham to sacrifice Isaac or if it was just a figment of Abraham’s imagination.

About one year ago: Cake Extravaganza

The chicken that's been missing from your life

I love this. The kids love this. As for Mr. Handsome, well, this is what he said.

First, he said, with reflective tentativeness, “Wow.” Next, he added a bold, “Mmm.” And then he really let fly the culinary praise when he asked, almost peevishly, “Why doesn’t chicken always taste like this?”


So, there you have it. We’re sold.

Oregano, Garlic, and Lemon Roast Chicken with Potatoes and Asparagus
Adapted from Aimee's blog Under the High Chair

I didn’t measure my potatoes or asparagus. I used the last bit of asparagus that was hiding in the crisper, and ran out to the garden to dig up a couple potato plants—I was shocked to discover giant, fist-sized potatoes this early in the season.

The asparagus roasts up kind of soft, I think because of all the lemon juice. I thought I wouldn’t like it (since I don’t like baked asparagus—tastes too slimy for me), but it was great, the texture melded perfectly with the potatoes and chicken.

There did not seem to be many juices left in the roasting pan when I pulled the roasted chicken from the oven, but after letting the chicken rest for a few minutes and then after piling the veggies up around it, the juices oozed out, seemingly from nowhere. If you want a juicier chicken yet, you can add a cup of chicken broth to the pan the last fifteen minutes of roasting.

I’m going to be making the pesto-like rub and freezing it in little containers so we can eat this roast chicken year-round.

Leftover chicken goes great in a lettuce-cucumber salad.

1 chicken
3 lemons, divided
6-8 cups new potatoes, washed
1 bunch asparagus, trimmed and cut into 2-inch spears
1 tablespoon sea salt, plus more for seasoning
1 teaspoon black pepper, plus more for seasoning
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus some extra
½ cup fresh oregano leaves
10 garlic cloves, divided

For the “pesto” rub:
In the canister of a food process, combine the following: the zest and juice from two lemons, four cloves of peeled garlic, and the fresh oregano. Process until the mixture resembles a nubbly pesto. Add the 2 tablespoons olive oil, the tablespoon of salt, and the teaspoon of pepper and process till well-blended. Set aside (you may freeze it at this point, if you wish).

For the chicken:
Put the chicken in a roasting pan. Rub the garlic mixture all over the chicken: stuff it under the skin, right up against the meat, inside the chicken’s cavity, and all over the outside of the chicken. Bake the chicken, uncovered at 350 degrees for 1 ½ - 2 hours, or until done. (I check for doneness by wiggling one of the legs—if it moves easily, it’s done.) Remove the chicken from the oven, cover it with foil and allow it to rest for 15-20 minutes.

For the vegetables:
While the chicken is roasting, prepare the vegetables. Wash the potatoes, but do not peel them. If they are not uniform in size, cut the large potatoes into chunks the size of the smaller potatoes. Put the potatoes in a pan and cover them with water. Bring the potatoes to a boil and then simmer them until they are half-cooked (about ten minutes). Drain them and then put them in a large bowl.

Cut the third lemon into six wedges and add them to the potatoes along with the prepared asparagus and the last six cloves of garlic. Generously douse the vegetables with olive oil and sprinkle them with plenty of coarse sea salt and some black pepper. Toss to coat. Spread the veggies out on a large baking sheet.

Once the chicken has finished roasting, turn the oven up to 450 degrees and slip the baking pan of vegetables into the oven. Bake them, stirring once or twice, for 10-15 minutes, or until the potatoes are fork-tender and the vegetables are beginning to caramelize.

To serve:
Mound the vegetables up around the roast chicken and serve.


About one year ago: Lemon Donut Muffins