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The Berries

The Berries

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Summer begins today and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate it than with a picture of my go-to fruit this June, local strawberries. I’ve been hunting them down like a foodie (which I am not) and with mixed success.

According to a vendor at the Reston Farmer’s Market, where I missed the berries by four hours a few weeks ago — “You have to get here by 8 if you want them,” he said, and I sauntered in there at noon! — the crop was off by at least a third this year.

And the crop was late, too. A pick-your-own place I looked into pushed back its start time by two weeks. I’m blaming both the quantity and tardiness on our harsh winter.

But I found a farmer’s market downtown, and at the last stall, a small selection of overpriced berries. I’m not saying how much these beauties cost. Let’s just say they’ve been worth every penny.

Humble Sides

Humble Sides

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Yesterday’s feast, like every other Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever cooked, was proof that though the turkey gets all the glory it’s the side dishes, the humble sides, that deserve it. They are where the real finesse comes in, the true effort; they are more difficult to prepare and, arguably, more scrumptious to consume.

Here it was fairly light as holiday cooking goes. The yams were baked, the potatoes were boiled — and I wasn’t responsible for the green bean casserole.

But the stuffing involved dicing and stirring, ditto the cranberry salad. And the pies (though a dessert and not a side dish) are always labor-intensive, though I wouldn’t have them any other way.

On the other hand, the turkey is easy to baste and roast — and it sits regally atop the table, the centerpiece, the champ.

The humble sides don’t seem to mind, though. They have long since accepted their relegated roles. In exchange, they avoid the slow, protracted, death march of the leftover — no sad progression from sandwich to salad to hash for them. The turkey, they know, gets its comeuppance in the end.

(What to eat the day after.)

Shopping Alone

Shopping Alone

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It had been two weeks since I’d shopped for groceries. Two weeks of eating the ultimate leftovers, what’s left in the freezer after the kids have gone. But having exhausted most staples, I headed for the store.

I begin in the dairy aisle. No gallon of skim, just a pint of whole milk for my tea.

I skip the cold cuts, the Lunchables, the Fruit Rollups.

No candy or cookies or crackers. No goldfish! Kid cereal successfully bypassed, too; I go for the granola instead.

Meat, eh! Fish, double eh! I even pass on pasta. I settle on salad and one of those rotisserie chickens, the kind someone else cooks for you.

Before I leave I move through the produce aisle. The pears, I always bought them for Celia. The apples, those were for
Suzanne. Claire has always loved melon.

So I buy all three — pears and apples and
melon — just for the memories, you understand.

(Photo: 123RF)

Eggs!

Eggs!

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Consider the egg. I will be considering dozens of them today. Consider its potential. Consider it theoretically, of course.

If left alone an egg would become a larger food, with more protein and heft. But instead it’s consumed early in its life cycle. Which makes it precious. When Suzanne arrived in a small African village, her compound-mates offered her an egg. It’s the food of welcome —and welcome food, too.

Today and tomorrow, eggs all over Christendom will be punctured, boiled, blown, colored and hidden. Some of these eggs will have their yolks lifted, fluffed, seasoned and stuffed back into their whites. And then they will be admired and eaten.

But this morning, early on this day of preparation, eggs are still in their cartons. They haven’t yet been put to the test. They are still more potential than actual, which is what they always are, when you think about it.

Chemistry of Cooking

Chemistry of Cooking

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My visit to Kentucky entailed more cooking than I usually do. It made me realize how far I’ve slipped in the culinary arts. Take mashed potatoes, retrograde food that they are. If you’re making Swiss steak for someone who’s been longing for it then you must also whip up some potatoes.

Here’s what you must not do. You must not boil the potatoes until they’re a watery mush. You must not let them sit in the starchy water while you finish an email, read another chapter, watch the end of a TV show. You must not mash the potatoes all cold and slimy. They should be warm and well drained.

If they’re not mashed properly (until grainy) then the milk does not make them fluffy, it turns the whole mess into something resembling wallpaper paste. Lumpy, gelatinous and too white. It’s all a matter of chemistry, I guess.

Funny thing about those potatoes, though. People were hungry enough that they gobbled them down. Chemistry is important, yes. But so is appetite.

(Mine did not look like this. Photo: Wikipedia)

Eggnog and Other Matters

Eggnog and Other Matters

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Discussing seasonality with a Millennial:

“Why can’t you buy eggnog year round?”

“Because it’s a holiday thing.”

“But if you like it so much, why not drink it all year?”

Because life is not about the words but the space around them. Because music is not about the sound but the silence, too. Because eggnog tastes better when you sip it only a few weeks a year.

The lesson is lost, though. This is a generation raised on winter strawberries and music you download instantly and sometimes for free from the Internet. They do not save dimes and quarters and trudge up to Wheeler’s Drugstore to buy a single.

For them, there is no time between action and reaction. They don’t yet realize that can be the sweetest time of all.

As and Ps

As and Ps

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Once a month or so, Celia and I work at a food bank. We sort cans, shelve food, or make up boxes called “As and Ps.” “A” boxes contain cereal, peanut butter and jelly plus the usual complement of dried pasta, canned meats, vegetables and soups. “B” boxes hold more fruit and fruit juice, more meat and tuna, and, if possible, canned milk. I have a new appreciation for canned milk since we’ve worked there, will always give it to food banks if I have a chance.

Coming home after one of our expeditions I debate what to make for dinner. It shouldn’t be steak or lamb chops, not that we have those much anyway. And it shouldn’t be based on fresh fruits or vegetables. Something simple, whipped up from a can or a jar. Spaghetti with sauce. A simple salad from a bag. French bread. We eat well. We eat in solidarity.

Photo: Free-Extras

ISO Cake

ISO Cake

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My sister, Ellen, joined me in Chincoteague at the end of the week and we spent a lazy day together talking, walking the beach, riding our bikes and sitting in the hot tub. After dinner Friday night we started talking about Smith Island cakes. Ellen had tasted a couple and as she described the many light layers, the delectable frosting, the overall wonder of the thing, we decided we had to taste one.

So we went by a place that advertised the cakes. They were out. The town bakery was closed. As we looked through menus in our motel lobby, the ladies at the desk overheard our conversation. We would be driving home the next day through Salisbury. Did they know of anyplace?

Salisbury, asked one, with a faint smile and a faintly arched brow. Yes, she did. Which is how Ellen and I found ourselves in a little strip shopping center off Milford Drive in downtown Salisbury, Maryland, buying ourselves each a slice of a fresh strawberry Smith Island cake.

Yes, the layers were lighter the air. And there were seven of ’em. The strawberries were ripe and full-bodied. The frosting was divine. No wonder the cake is Maryland’s official state dessert. It was a sweet way to end a vacation.

Photo from smithisland.org

A Pot of Soup

A Pot of Soup

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A few days ago I chopped two onions, peeled three potatoes, assembled a soup bone and stew beef, canned tomatoes, celery, carrots, beans and corn. I set about making vegetable soup the way I learned to as a girl. It takes the better part of a day to do this — but it’s not concentrated time, of course, just whenever you can edge it into whatever else you’re doing. When you’re done, your refrigerator may look a bit like ours above, empty and used up.

I boiled the meat and the bone first, skimmed the broth, then added vegetables according to texture and flavor — onions and celery for seasoning, potatoes, then tomatoes, carrots and so on. It takes a couple hours before it’s bubbling on the stove and the vegetables begin to soften and blend into each other. To become less themselves and one with the soup.

Because I started making the soup in the evening I knew we wouldn’t eat it till the next day. And more importantly, I knew that the soup wouldn’t be at its best until we’d cooled and reheated it several times. There must be a chemical or gastronomical explanation for this but I don’t know what it is. I do know that vegetable soup is at its best about three days after you make it. And in fact, soup is one of those slow foods, and making it harkens back to an earlier time when things worth doing took time and patience.

The Sound of Tea

The Sound of Tea

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One of our most coveted possessions is an electric tea kettle (not pictured; it’s too grungy to photograph) that automatically shuts off once the water has boiled. And one of my favorite sounds of the morning is the steady crescendo of boiling water the kettle produces. It’s barely perceptible at first, a quiet hiss, but 20 seconds later, it’s rumbling enough that I can hear it from the top of the stairs.

It’s a friendly, promising sound. It doesn’t demand immediate attention, as a whistling tea kettle does. The boiled water will stay hot for several minutes if you don’t reach it right away. Or if you’re a purist (as I am), you simply switch it on again to heat the water to the proper just-boiled temperature before warming the pot and making the tea.

I could pick our tea kettle’s sound out of a aural lineup any day. It says: you are not alone on this cold winter day. Soon you will curl your fingers around a mug of hot tea, sweetened with a splash of milk and way too much sugar. You will sip, you will wake up, you will take on the day.