Cold asparagus soup with cream
Hot asparagus soup without cream
Pickled asparagus
Cold asparagus with chopped egg vinaigrette
Warm aspargus wrapped in prosciutto
Sauteed asparagus with grilled salmon
Grilled asparagus with anything
Asparagus tart
Raw asparagus spears in green salad
Open face asparagus sandwich on calabrese with thyme infused goat cheese
And the perennial favourite: asparagus and asparagus
Or… you can just have asparagus.
No spam.
Consisting of: nettles, dandelion, and sorrel (our friendly garden rabbit finally had its fill and deigned to let us have a go).
To which was added: olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, a handful of seasonings and slices of cold hamburger.
*Note: to eat nettles, pick off leaves and chop finely (discard stems)
Truth #8: I have officially fallen in love with a cheese.
And I don’t say this lightly. I’ve been around the les fromages block, have savoured plenty of equally local and goat varieties—some of similar firmness, even ones that sport that je ne sais quoi ‘nutty’ quality that makes cheese such a pleasant companion—but this is different… this is the real thing.
This is love.
Truth #5: Sometimes all it takes is one potato. Maybe two.
Sliced thin and tossed with olive oil, sprinkled with salt and freshly ground pepper, merken, paprika or cayenne, and baked at 350 for 25 minutes (or til crispy).
This in itself can bring much simple-homemade-potato-chip-joy to an otherwise grey and headachy day. But if I add a spinach salad dressed with garlic, olive oil and lemon and sprinkle sea salt and turmeric and whatever other spices call to me then top with that bit of cold bbq’d salmon from the night before, I will have a lunch that takes the wind right out of grey and headachy’s stupid and annoying sails.
In other words, food is one of my favourite medicines—for which I make no apology.
Things didn’t start well.
I’m referring to yesterday’s great sour cabbage experiment.
Frankly, I didn’t think we’d ever get past the sauce issue. Peter and I were in two camps from the get-go. One of us (who shall remain nameless) wanted tomato, the other opted for a gorgeously rich and traditional meat sauce. But as I hadn’t previously considered details such as ingredients, we found ourselves sans the required ham hocks and smoked sausage and were forced to settle on the tomato version. Which, as it happened, we also didn’t have the ingredients for but running out to No Frills for a can was easier than going to the ham hock purveyor much farther afield. (The ridiculous thing is that normally the cold room is filled to the rafters with jars of homemade tomato sauce but without a bumper tomato season in the past year or so, the shelves are bare. Plus I recently did a serious thinning of old preserves after remembering a scene in Larry’s Party where the mother-in-law dies from eating some home-canned green beans…)
Did I mention we were out of paprika?
I will say this, the eight dollar pickled cabbage head was a joy to work with. Not too salty nor too sour, just the right size, and the leaves were nice and loose, easy to fold and tuck.
Unfortunatley it wasn’t until I’d made about half a dozen that I remembered they’re called cabbage rolls for a reason. Mine looked like cabbage hambugers. Peter said not to worry, they were fine, he preferred a meatier version anyway; we’d simply rename them, he said. We’d call them cabbage packages.
Right.
I was just thankful we’d already given up on the Moroccan element.
I rolled the last few into a slightly more recognizable shape, bunged them into a pot—or no, sorry, I carefully layered them between more of my sour cabbage leaves, then slopped on the wretched tomato sauce (I firmly believe it’s all about the sauce; that’s what flavours the meat and the rice, no? And if you’re using a can—a can for pity’s sake—well how on earth can anything good come of it?? But we were in a pinch so I’ll shut up about it…), then Peter poured us each a glass of wine while they cooked and by some miracle my mood improved and the package/rolls actually turned out tasting much better than they looked.
Much, much better.
In fact, I’m suggesting you don’t look at them too long…
Okay, that’s probably long enough.
~
I know it looks bad.
It looks (slightly) better in person. Mostly I’m (very) hungry when I see it in the veggie aisle at Soeby’s.
A pickled head of (sour) cabbage. Product of Ontario. This alone makes me happy, being as how there’s little at this time of year that’s from this part of the world. Still, I’ve never seen anything like it and have no idea what to do with it. I assume it’s a version of sauerkraut, which I happen to love but have only ever seen in a jar—I’m thinking I could cut it up and use it the same way. I don’t see a price but how much can it be? It’s cabbage.
I add it to the mesclun and mushrooms, the avocado, bananas and Canadian shallots in my basket and then at the check-out the cashier says, um, you know this stuff is very expensive, right?
What, the cabbage?
Yeah, she says and offers to weigh it and tell me the price before she rings it in.
Okay. Should I sit down? I ask.
Eight dollars and forty-seven cents, she says.
Eight dollars for a head of cabbage?
She smiles apologetically, nods. I can tell she’s been through this before; there have been unpleasant words uttered about the price of this cabbage in previous lines. She waits for me to utter a few myself but I’m completely intrigued by now—what is so magical about this cabbage that makes it this pricey? I have to taste it for myself.
I’ll take it, I say.
She looks concerned, but rings it in. Then: what are you going to do with it?
The question feels like a test, like if I get it wrong, a mechanical arm might descend and take it back.
Well, I tell her, hoping for the best… I thought I’d cut it up and saute it with onions and butter and bits of bacon. Like sauerkraut.
She tilts her head and politely refrains from saying what she’s so obviously thinking.
What, is that a bad idea? What should I do with it?
It’s for cabbage rolls, she says. That’s what people buy it for.
(Remember I’m very hungry.) I smile.
I love a chatty cashier. Love it when you get recipes while you’re looking for your Air Miles card. Cabbage rolls! Of course. I’ve never made them before but I get home, look up some recipes. Settle on the Yugoslavian version in my Old World Cookbook, only with a Moroccan twist that I’m leaving to Peter.
So, tomorrow (unless a probably necessary intervention takes place): Moroccan Yugoslavian cabbage rolls with Italian tomato sauce and Canadian shallots and mushrooms.
—To be continued.
~
In honour of my friend Chead’s birthday, I’m sharing what might be the world’s best brownie recipe. (Drink with east friesan black tea for happiest results. Add maple sugar crystals to tea for bliss.)
Katharine Hepburn’s Brownies
1. Melt together 1 stick butter and 2 squares unsweetened chocolate and take the saucepan off the heat.
2. Stir in 1 cup sugar, add 2 eggs and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla, and beat the mixture well.
3. Stir in 1/4 cup all-purpose flour and 1/2 teaspoon salt. (In the original recipe, 1 cup chopped walnuts is added here as well.)
4. Bake the brownies in a buttered and floured 8-inch-square pan at 325 F. for about 40 minutes.
—courtesy of Laurie Colwin’s More Home Cooking
Notes:
—I bake for exactly 40 minutes in a pre-heated oven. The second the timer goes off, I take them out and let them cool (thoroughly) in the pan before cutting.
—Some people prefer pecans to walnuts. You know who you are.
~
Love.
Go ahead. I dare you. Just try to read Joe Fiorito’s Comfort Me With Apples and see if you don’t end up in love. Because it’s not possible. Chap or chapette, you’ll be in love with him. I guarantee it. (Okay, I don’t guarantee it, but there’s a strong possibility…)
It’s not a new book, just newly discovered—also not exactly a cook book, nor exactly anything else; the man simply writes about food. And in such a way that I haven’t stopped cooking or eating since discovering it.
Yes, alright, another exaggeration. But it’s true that I can no longer cook or eat the same way. I mean, when in a simple essay on oranges he tells you—
“…You can put orange peel into beef stew along with your bouquet garni. You can squeeze a little juice in your fresh tomato soup; add a little orange zest while you’re at it. Or try this…peel two oranges, finely slice the peel, blanche it in boiling water for two minutes, and drain. Sautee a finely chopped onion in four tablespoons of olive oil. Add the drained peel to the oil, along with a cup-and-a-half of pitted black olives. Remove from the heat. Cook a pound of spaghetti in a pot of salted boiling water until it’s al dente. Dress the spaghetti with the olive oil mixture, add four more tablespoons of oil, and be grateful the Moors invaded Italy.”
—how can you not immediately want to put on your coat and walk to the nearest orange purveyor, purchase a dozen, make stew and soup and boil up some spaghetti, and when that just happens to change your outlook on life and entire DNA for the better…well, how can you not fall in love?
In another essay he reveals how a nun’s peculiar answer to his childhood question: What does my soul look like? led him to hate all cereal except oatmeal (and only then in the form of cookies). And then he gives you the instructions to make a batch. No recipes in this book and few precise measurements—mostly he just tells you how to do things the way he would if you were in the kitchen with him, chatting and sipping wine. And somehow things work out beautifully, the way they always do in happy kitchens.
I’ve been waiting for the perfect Sunday morning to make the popovers he describes in ‘Breakfast in Bed’—
“…Wake early one Sunday and smell the person sleeping next to you. Do it. Lean over. The side of the neck will do, just below the ear. Take a deep breath. The knowledge of this scent is lodged in the deepest part of your brain.
“…Now go to the kitchen. Throw two eggs into a bowl…”
And the perfect Friday night to re-enact his piece titled ‘A Plate of Spaghetti’, which begins:
“Today you’re going to eat, drink, sing, read—and act—Italian. I want you to start by going to the film store to rent Fellini’s ‘Nights of Cabiria’…” And ends with: “Whisper the last words of Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ as you fall asleep…all’alba vincero—at dawn I will win. And you will. You’ll have leftovers. Spaghetti arrabbiata is wonderful for breakfast.”
He writes about sushi and Halloween apples, the importance of the right knife, the woman who hummed while she ate and how he married her, how to make the best potato salad, chicken soup, pork chops (I’ve tried the chops, they’re truly amazing); he compares chili dogs to alligator shoes, discusses food myths and food in movies, considers his last meal, his worst meal, and the piece that confirmed my adoration for this man’s work, ‘Museum Food’—which is too long to transcribe but, trust me, it’s a gorgeous piece of writing and a gorgeous testament to food.
Impossible to read this book and not come away with a deeper appreciation for the connection between what we eat and how we live, between food and people, music, sights, art, books, sound, neighbourhoods, joy, sadness, seasons. (And we all know the connections are there; I can’t rub a piece of thyme between my fingers and not be transported to my mother’s kitchen where a roast is the oven on a Saturday afternoon in winter, juices heavily infused with thyme from her garden, picked fresh from under the snow.)
All of which leaves me deeply in love—okay, maybe just deeply grateful for the reminder that food isn’t so much about eating, but about everything around the eating, everything that precedes it.
And everything that follows.
_______________________________________
—Purchase Comfort Me with Apples online at Blue Heron Books.
1. Open a box of Jello.
2. Wet index (or other) finger.
3. Stick finger into Jello powder.
4. Stick finger into mouth.
5. Presto. Instant Lik-M-Aid—and just like that I’m back to pre celsius temps—something in the low 80’s with a gentle breeze—decked out in baggy yellow shorts and a striped tank top, a bandaid on my knee, another on my elbow, reading Richie Rich on the porch or riding my sister’s green two-wheeler hand-me-down that was so big I had to choose: pedal or sit. Impossible to do both at the same time.
(Incidentally, I notice it’s now called Fun Dip and comes with a dipping stick, which is depressing because you know this change occurred to avoid having children stick germy fingers into their mouths—to which I say how are they supposed to develop immune systems if they aren’t occasionally putting fingers into their mouths?? Especially during summer—the universal Lik-M-Aid season—when the more multi-coloured your index (or other) fingers are, the healthier you will grow!)
6. Take your fingers out of the Jello powder—you’re a grown up, for heaven’s sake! It’s winter. Get over it. Boil water. Make Jello. Eat it in the bathtub.
~
From the new glossy pages of The Globe and Mail (Sue Riedl’s ‘The Spread’) comes a piece about a family that moved from Israel to Kelowna and opened a goat cheese business named after their two daughters. I read it thinking: that is exactly what I’ve always wanted to do, despite not having the requisite two daughters.
I just like goats. And not only that—although I do have a story about taking one for a walk in the Austrian alps when I was nine (that got away from me because it was not used to being taken for walks by strange young Canadians and was both confused and frightened and so galloped through the village with me in hot pursuit trying to think how to say Stop Little Goat! in german)—
—but I also happen to like goat cheese.
So running a goat cheese business has always been something that seemed right up my street.
Two problems continue to prevent this:
1) They don’t allow goats on my street; at least I’ve rarely seen any, and
2) I haven’t finished the novel so don’t really have time to be milking and walking and otherwise entertaining them.
Oh, wait. There’s three.
3) Despite my general crazy love for cheese, and no matter how hard I’d be willing to try, I just know I’d never be able to describe it in these terms (from The G&M):
“Misty and Moonlight are two cheeses that stand out from the pack…. Misty is immediately distinctive with its dark ash rind made from kiln-charred root vegetables. The cheese has a mushroomy, yeasty aroma and a nice balance of flavour–salty with a soft tang that leaves a pleasantly long linger. “
The other—Moonlight—is, apparently, “smooth and creamy on the palate with mineral notes and a pleasant earthy aroma.”
Gorgeous, yes, but I’ve only just learned to describe wine as not merely tasting ‘grapey’. Now it seems it’s not enough to describe cheese as mmmm, nice…
So, notwithstanding my love of all things goatish, I’ve gotta say this is one dream I just may have to let go of.
Ah well. I’ll always have the alps.
~
Matilda Magtree 