A Walker in the Suburbs

I don’t usually read the food section of the newspaper because after decades of slinging hash I enjoy spending less time in the kitchen. But yesterday, I found myself pulled in by a piece that trashed, of all things, lettuce!

The author, Tamar Haspel, was not subtle: “Lettuce is a vehicle to bring refrigerated water from farm to table,” she began, explaining that the crop is 96 percent water. Then she launched into a discussion of why eating salad was bad for the planet (it consumes too many resources in exchange for too few calories and nutrients) and bad for us (it provides a halo effect for all the less healthy stuff we mix in with it — croutons, fried chicken strips — and is more likely to make us sick, since it can be contaminated with food-borne pathogens and we eat it raw). It’s not that we shouldn’t eat salad, she concludes, but that we should realize it’s a luxury to do so. 

As a person who builds many meals around salads (albeit forgoing iceberg lettuce, the most watery of salad greens), and who has sought them in vain in countries where food isn’t as abundant, I have to say that her piece was an eye-opener. I won’t be giving up my baby romaines and arugula anytime soon … but I’ll try to include even more beans, nuts and other nutritious add-ons when I eat them.

Yesterday I chopped onions and celery and carrots. I peeled potatoes and sliced them into quarters, then eighths. I unearthed a bay leaf from the spice cabinet and found some parsley from the fridge.

The potatoes were snowy white, and the large carrots made ducat-like rounds, fell from the knife with a crack and a burst of sweetness. The puny celery (is there a shortage this year?) needed little skinning. The onions were less pungent than some, so my eyes didn’t water.

The kitchen filled with the aromas of simmering beef and marrow bones, as I added canned tomatoes and the sliced vegetables to the broth. The mixture simmered, and with each stir, the vegetables softened, adding their juices to the broth. The individual ingredients began to give way, to meld, to become one.

It took most of the afternoon, but by dinner time there was a passable vegetable soup to sip. It was delicious, but it will be much better tomorrow. And even better the next day.

It was near the end of a fascinating Zoom book group conversation — which moved from the book itself to a discussion of memoir — that one of us mentioned having just sampled the best white cake ever. 

Baking the perfect white cake is something of a holy grail for me, the attempt to duplicate the most delectable wedding cake-like texture, dense and fine of crumb. I don’t have much time to devote to this quest, but I have experimented with several recipes over the years and was delighted to have another one to try. 

When I saw the King Arthur Flour “Tender White Cake” recipe I was immediately encouraged. I had all the ingredients in my pantry and fridge — or so I thought; it turned out I was missing almond extract. But a quick stop at the grocery store remedied that, which is how I found myself up to my elbows in flour and sugar at the end of a long work week. 

Thanks to my power mixer, though, I was able to cream the unsalted butter with the (sad to say not King Arthur brand) flour, add one egg white at a time, and finally whip in the cup of yogurt laced with vanilla and almond extracts. 

The cake was as exquisite as advertised, with a rich, old-fashioned flavor that my mother would have said reminded her of a cake my Aunt Mary made. Beyond the taste, though, was the experience.  It was fun to bake a cake for no reason — that is, for no reason other than the cake itself.