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all happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast. ~john gunther
the xx - intro (listen)
panda bear - surfer's hymn (listen)
sonny & the sunsets - too young to burn (listen)
lucinda williams - fruits of my labor. live. (listen)
the tallest man on earth - drying of the lawns (listen)
bon iver & st.vincent - rosalyn (listen)
alexander - truth (listen)
notes
* special thanks to SS & JAD for the musical inspiration
i've strawberry crumbled and shortcaked. strawberried my yogurt, oats, rice krispies, too (leftover strawberrymilk is strawberrylucious). i'll be salading strawberries all spring. strawberries glossy, warm, stored in jars for blustery days. strawberries smashed, sugared, sipped from a stainless steel bowl straight from the fridge. i've brown-bagged strawberries, stumbling through the park. and you've let me. i love you.
you've taken all this in stride, even appear to have enjoyed it. i'm certain this means you won't mind if i swathe a few strawberries in custard. undulating strawberries are your thing, too. and i'm convinced you won't object when said custard gets a chilly whir in the ice cream maker, then lands atop a sticky-sweet serving of roasted rhubarb. the glug of pimm's in the baking dish?
that was in your honor. plus, it was pimm's o'clock.
strawberry ice cream with rhubarb & pimm's
(serves 8)
2 pints strawberries, hulled
1 cup granulated sugar
2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks
for the roasted rhubarb:
1 1/2 pounds rhubarb
about 1/4 cup pimm's liquer (or 1/4 cup freshly squeezed orange juice)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
butter, for the pan
make the custard: whisk the egg yolks together in a medium bowl. heat the cream and 1/2 cup sugar in a saucepan over medium heat. until it is gently simmering and the sugar has dissolved. make sure to watch that it doesn't boil over. temper the eggs by adding about a cup of the hot cream to the eggs and whisking to combine. add the egg & cream mixture to the remaining cream over medium-low heat. stir constantly, until the mixture thickens to a consistency that coats the back of the spoon. again, watch carefully, you don't want scrambled eggs. promptly remove from the heat and pour through a fine miesh sieve into a bowl. chill for several hours or overnight.
prepare the strawberries: mash the strawberries finely using a potato masher or the back of a fork. you should have a strawberry soup, with only small chunks of strawberries. stir in the remaining sugar and let sit at room temperature for 1 1/2 hours, until the sugar has dissolved. add the strawberries to the chilled custard and stir to combine. return to the refirgerator to chill until cold throughout. prepare according to your ice cream makers instructions.
make the roasted rhubarb: preheat oven to 350. butter a large roasting pan or 8 individual gratin dishes or shallow ramekins. trim any leaves or tough ends off the rhubarb stalks. slice the rhubarb lengthwise into 1/2 inch strips, then crosswise into 1 1/2 inch pieces. toss the rhubarb with the sugar. add the rhubarb to the roasting pan, or distribute among ramekins. drizzle a bit of pimm's over the rhubarb. cover the dish or ramekins with foil. roast for 30 minutes. remove the foil and bake 5-10 minutes more, until the rhubarb has softened. remove from the oven. if there is too much liquid in the pan, set it over medium heat on the stovetop until it has reduced to a syrupy consistency. let the rhubarb set for a few minutes before serving in bowls (or straight from the individual gratin dish), topped with strawberry ice cream.
notes
* the strawberry ice cream recipe was adapted from chez panisse desserts by lindsey remolf shere.
i think i have only one bit of advice when it comes to strawberries: always get more than you think you will need, especially if you plan to store your strawberries in the vicinity of other people, particularly little people. addictively sweet with a note of pucker, piled in flimsy green baskets that can barely contain them, delicately bulleted with yellow seeds--they are irresistible to humankind.
strawberry season is painfully short, so i dive right in and am known to have red-stained fingertips for a two month stretch. maybe i am a strawberry snob, but why even bother with one out of season? biting into a spring strawberry that sends ruby juices dribbling down your chin and fills your head with long built-up sunshine sugar is how nature intended it for us.
strawberries shine on their own, so my philosophy when serving them in a dish is to get out of the way as much as possible. they don't need much help to steal the show. classic strawberry shortcake gets the formula right. a flaky, buttery biscuit and barely sweetened whipped cream is the ultimate frame for a strawberry's vibrance. i enlisted the help of thing 1 & thing 2 in lieu of a pastry cutter. rubbing cold butter into flour is right up thing 1 & 2's alley.
i've already revealed my strawberry snobbery, so while i am in the spirit of pompousness: our shortcakes were a masterpiece. i am convinced my children have gifted fingers. clearly they are going to harvard. shortcakes do not lie.
truth: shortcakes are a cinch to make. i followed a recipe from chez panisse exactly to stunning results. if, by chance, your shortcakes come out a little lopsided (several of mine did), all the better. the strawberries are the only thing that need to be perfect here. the only change i made was to marry them with several spoonfuls of tupelo honey instead of sugar. barely-golden, lightly sweet, and just a hint floral, tupelo honey begs for a bed with strawberries. i am not one to keep lovers apart.
strawberry shortcake with tupelo honey
(serves 12)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
3 tablespoons sugar + 2 tablespoons for dusting
1/2 cup unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch pieces and chilled
3/4 cup heavy cream + 2 tablespoons for brushing tops
4 pint baskets of strawberries
1/4 - 1/2 cup tupelo honey (or substitute sugar)
For "creme Chantilly" aka whipped cream:
3 cups heavy whipping cream
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
preheat oven to 450. combine the flour, salt, baking powder, and 3 tablespoons sugar in a large mixing bowl. whisk lightly to combine. add the chilled butter, and toss to coat it with the flour mixture. use a pastry blender or two knives to cut the butter into the flour until it resembles cornmeal with a few larger pieces of butter (the size of peas) in it. you can also rub the butter between your fingers to achieve the same effect.
mix in 3/4 cup of heavy cream with a fork, just until most of the dry mixture has been moistened and the dough is shaggy. turn the dough out onto a board and knead a few times until the dough just comes together (at this point, i vere slightly from the recipe and wrap the dough disc tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 20 minutes. i find this makes it easier to roll and handle). roll the dough 1/2-inch thick and cut into squares or circles (using a cookie cutter). you should have 12 individual shortcakes if you re-roll the scraps.
place the shortcakes on an unbuttered baking sheet. brush the tops with the 2 tablespoons of cream using a pastry brush or the back of a spoon. sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar on top. bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until the tops are lightly brown and the dough is set. cool on a rack and serve warm.
while the shortcakes bake (or a few hours ahead of time), wash, dry, and hull the strawberries. crush about one-quarter of the berries using a fork or potato masher and slice the rest of the strawberries in with them. toss with honey (or sugar) to taste. chill until serving time (if made ahead) or keep at room temperature. the strawberry mixture should be very juicy.
make the whipped cream: add the 3 cups heavy cream and sugar to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment (or use a handheld mixer). beat on medium (gradually increase to medium-high) until it mounds softly and just barely holds its shape. the cream will have about doubled in volume. do not over whip! fold in the vanilla.
to serve: warm the shortcakes if necessary, split them (the tines of a fork can help with this task), and spoon the strawberries liberally over the bottom halves, then spoon whipped cream over the strawberries. there should be lots of berries and lots of cream. place the top back on and serve immediately.
notes
* this recipe adapted from chez panisse desserts by lindsey remolif shere
The poem that follows is a collage by Melissa Mylchreest. Such poems are sometimes called centos, after a Latin word for a cloak made of patches. The pieces, in this case, were found on Groove Food. Freshly experiencing words and sentences I had stewed on was the most delightful gift. While my heart is tied to so much of it, this poem is equally (if not disproportionately more) Melissa. A meditation on food and language--and how we have no choice but to share them.
The Chef Writes a Letter to Her Young Daughters
A collage from the writing of chef Lauren Mitchell Wilkinson
At some point, it will inevitably get cold
where you are, and I want you armed
with this recipe. Let me share, coquettish
little things that you are: love is a rare find
in a meal, but I am built to give
a cluster of Chioggia beets every ounce
of my attention. When I dream onion
half moons, a jar suffused with landscape
and season, a sprinkle of sea salt from above,
it is part of a bottomless affinity. As a girl
I imagined I’d have a house
with a jukebox and Bellagio fountains
in the yard. I had no idea. A memory, a story,
a flavor, a wish. A sudden gift of honey. All I have
come home to.
Use whatever you have on hand,
something flashy and red, something wild
and fresh. Food is a gesture, sympathy,
celebration. I spent seven years suspended in lust
over a panna cotta. It is luscious, it will woo you.
Find a man as good; it is hard to imagine
being treated any other way. As you, my daughters,
things are better in pairs. Cucumber and wasabi,
goat cheese and fig jam, roasted marshmallows
and white wine. When you are lost in cities, take a long
walk, past the waves and empty sky, find your way
to the nearest fromagerie. Sit out on the steps
behind the bustling Italian place, fragrant
beneath the stars. Chiabatta, pane di segale. Part of fullness
is longing, half each hunger and loss.
You will grow up
amid a theater of restaurants, a sea
of white tablecloths. I am not sorry. I am tempted
to call this Eden, views of the Pacific, Dungeness
crabs in coconut and lime, bowls and blades,
messy piles of cilantro, a great teacher
on the natural state of fearlessness. Order
Shirley Temples in champagne glasses, bask
in Vahlrona and Scharffenberger. Believe
in the tender perfection of farm tables and aubergines.
Don’t do the most ladylike thing, but be always like
caramel, innocence and hedonism both.
- Melissa Mylchreest
Notes
* The photograph in this post is courtesy of Melissa Mylchreest
* Ten Bites Interview with Melissa here.
I don't get to keep a lot of memories, so I pay attention to my small collection. I can't recall many details of classes at Connecticut College, but I remember Melissa Mylchreest, sitting in a barely sunny classroom in Blaustein Humanities Center, reciting "The Waking" by Galway Kinnell. We'd been asked to memorize a poem to share with the class. Most of us chose something short and straightforward, but Melissa took on Kinnell's erotic epic and hypnotized us all. Her voice stayed as steady and elegant over the word flamingos as it did the f-word, and her face will never leave me: vulnerable yet certain, filled with the kind of beauty that is totally unaware of itself. I am happy for the world that Melissa writes and cooks, perhaps a little envious of the residents of Missoula, Montana that get to admire her up close and taste herbs from her garden. Tomorrow I will share one of her poems--a collage using bits from this blog. For now, her take on flavors and food processors, pea vines and Paul Simon. As with so much that she does, a celebration.
Melissa's Disclaimer: I am utterly incapable of “favorites” – the world is too full of variety and wonderfulness to have one favorite anything. Always, my pleasures are at the whim of the weather, the season, the company, the mood. So. Today? On this lazy April morning with a late-season snow coming down? These answers are my loves today. Tomorrow will bring something new to adore. Isn’t it grand how that works?
Food memory?
* Family gatherings at Gramma and Papa Italiano’s house, with all the women in the small kitchen fussing over the food and gossiping. Hand-making tortellini with this same Gramma and her sisters and cousins.
* In college, Earth House dinner parties and illicit nighttime picnicking at Harkness Park.
* Apple picking every year with my family at Lost Acres Orchard in North Granby, CT, followed by ice cream at the local dairy.
* Steaming mussels in seaweed on the beach of a little island off the Maine coast.
* Knocking back oysters onboard an oyster-fishing boat in Puget Sound.
* “Meat at the Pit,” a gathering held by friends far off the grid here in Montana: a bonfire barbeque on the banks of the river, willow saplings whittled down to skewers, and the guest of honor: platters of wild game cut into chunks – antelope, venison, elk, moose. So much burning of fingers, so much revelry, so many ecstatic dogs underfoot.
Flavor?
A glutton for savory of every ilk. Specifically, torrid unions involving dairy: Balsamic-fig-prosciutto-blue cheese. Goat cheese, caramelized onions and thyme. Alfredo anything. Seafood bisques. A flurry of shaved parmesan or pecorino over risotto. Smoked gouda with sausage and cherry chutney. Also, an insatiable penchant for coconut curry.
I’m not too big on cookbooks, although I should be. I like The Hay Day Country Market Cookbook, for no real good reason. It’s the grimiest of my cookbooks, which I take as a measure of how often it’s open on the counter, getting splashed and spilled upon.
Item in your kitchen?
My decrepit, cheapo, one-speed food processor. I bought it at a time that I was more-or-less broke, but was desperate to make a mammoth batch of pesto. (I was homesick. It was summer. My mom makes endless batches of pesto in the summer. Buying a $40 food processor was a coping mechanism). Remarkably, years later, it’s still powering through hummus, soup, dough, sauce, and yes, pesto, just fine. And, happily, I’m slightly less broke.
Springtime meal?
Like everyone else, when I think spring I think delicate, I think vegetables – asparagus, peas, garlic scapes, light dressings with lemon. But spring arrives tantalizingly slowly here, so there really isn’t much produce until late May, and that’s just what’s been growing in greenhouses. So invariably, before any of that, the first meal that really marks the start of spring is meat on the just-brought-out-of-storage grill; ideally, burgers and a cold beer after spending the whole day getting the garden tilled and ready to plant. Then eventually it’s greens, greens, greens, all the time. Especially pea vines! It’s delightful to eat something so whimsically curly. Best with purple potatoes, capers, and mustard vinaigrette.
People in Missoula often groan about the dearth of good restaurants. Generally, these are folks who have recently arrived from a big-ish city, and are accustomed to having their pick of global cuisine. True, there are a few glaring holes in the culinary scene – Indian food, for one. But in reality, there’s a rather astonishing number of small, swank, creative little eateries here – certainly a higher concentration here than anywhere else in the state – and an impressive number considering it’s a town of only 60k people. There’s also this absolutely rabid “eat and source local” thing going on, so the chefs, farmers and ranchers in this valley maintain a thriving network.
Some of the best: For tapas, Silk Road. For pizza and salads, Biga. For good, upscale eating, Scotty’s Table. For feeling dreadfully posh, The Red Bird Wine Bar. Also, a guy who shows up to the farmer’s markets and peddles his wares from a booth bearing the sign “Mmm, Waffles.” Imagine: chilly, sunny Montana morning, the early bustle of the market, and a buckwheat waffle “taco” of sorts, filled with blueberries, lemon curd, and whipped cream. Oh my.
Also, in memoriam: La Parilla, which had the best burritos ever (think coconut-curry-tofu, or fried-catfish-and-cilantro-slaw), and was my number one eat-out go-to. They closed in January. I am bereft.
Guilty Pleasure?
Cheetos. Appalling, yes. But so finger-stainingly good. I allow them once or twice a year, and I hide the bag so I don’t have to share.
Herb?
Culinarily speaking, basil. It might seem an unambitious answer, but it’s true. So versatile, such luscious leaves, such a knock-out scent, such an amenable plant, willing to grow in a cramped pot in a drafty kitchen all winter long, gladly offering itself to a whole world’s-worth of cuisine. Aromatically speaking, though, it’s all lavender, all the time. There’s lavender all over my house. Big dried bouquets of it in every room. Bowls-full of the loose dried flowers. It’s in the drawers, on the shelves, little pinches of it tucked in pockets or under the rug. I use it in cooking too, sometimes, but not as fanatically as I use it in my décor. Other favorites: thyme and marjoram. Oh! And cilantro too, luscious and divisive creature that it is.
Album to cook to?
Paul Simon, Rhythm of the Saints. I like to listen to all kinds of music while I cook, but for some reason this is the album that I always come back to in the kitchen. Maybe because I like to sing while I cook, and Simon’s poetry begs to be memorized and sung. I also listen to a lot of public radio.
Dish to conquer?
Bread. Seriously! I think the perfect loaf of bread is something that might take a lifetime to conquer. Good thing I’m not that old yet; my bread has a long way to go.
Notes
* All of the photographs in this post courtesy of Melissa Mylchreest.
* Read Galway Kinnell's "The Waking" here.
* For more information on the Missoula restaurants mentioned in this post, visit them on the web: Silk Road, Biga Pizza, Scotty's Table, and The Red Bird Wine Bar.
why is everything here? when the universe was born, it was born in two parts: matter and antimatter. the problem being whenever matter met antimatter, they annihilated each other. we shouldn't be here and yet, here i am writing this and you, reading it. we are, in essence, the little bit of leftover stuff. the lack of balance. the imperfect design that was exactly right.
you, me, pine trees, planets, kookaburras, tuscan kale. tuscan kale! thanks to asymmetrical origins, we have curly, crenelated, dark-vein-of-jade tuscan kale--the heady pheromone of earth. we have you and me to eat and appreciate it, because you and I like mysterious, pungent, crunchy junk like that. we're asymmetrical.
this issue of why everything in the universe is here was not exactly on my mind when i settled into a plate of artichoke hearts and homemade burrata at gjelina in venice, california. i was thinking about what it would feel like to swim in a pool of olive oil.
then came the daintiest heap of tuscan kale. those enormous, unruly leaves condensed into a lacy chiffonade, black as ancient moss on a clean white plate, strewn with radishes, fennel, ricotta salata shards, and a luscious slurry of lemon juice and olive oil for emphasis and contrast. i didn't think to thank disorder and imbalance. in fact, i didn't come up for air until the plate was white all over again.
i was in los angeles for the purpose of seeing radiolab's live performance on symmetry at ucla. do you know radiolab? it is a radio show and podcast that, by their own definition, weaves stories and science into music-rich documentaries. to me, they uncover magic and jerk tears. my mom bought me tickets as a valentine's gift, and then she bought me caramelized onion, gruyere, and arugula pizza. further evidence that i lucked out in the mom department.
in one night, i scraped the last bits of syrupy strawberries and rhubarb, polenta crumble, and almond gelato from a staub gratin, and watched zoe keating's fierce and graceful arms make this song erupt from a cello on stage. she calls the song optimist, and that i am. an asymmetrical optimist who always wondered why the world, and its tuscan kale, was so bizarrely beautiful. now i know. a little off is how the good stuff happens.
notes & recipe
* visit gjelina on the web, or at the address above.
* for more information on radiolab, visit them on the web. they plan to broadcast the show symmetry, i'm just not sure when.
tuscan kale salad
(2 large or 4 smaller servings)
1/4 cup homemade breadcrumbs, or panko breadcrumbs
2 tablespoons + 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 bunch tuscan kale
1 small garlic clove, finely chopped
juice from 1 small lemon
red pepper flakes
4 medium radishes, thinly sliced (1/8 inch or less)
1 bulb fennel, inner core removed, thinly sliced (1/8 inch or less)
4 ounces ricotta salata
sea salt & freshly ground pepper
place a medium skillet with 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-low heat. when the oil is shimmering (but not smoking), add the breadcrumbs. toast the breadcrumbs, stirring constantly, until they are golden brown. remove from the skillet and set aside at room temperature.
trim the kale stems off (up to the leaf) and discard. slice the kale, including the inner rib, into 1/4 inch ribbons. place the kale into a large salad bowl.
smash the chopped garlic using a mortar and pestle or the back of a knife to form a paste. add the lemon juice, 1/4 cup olive oil and a pinch of salt, red pepper flakes, and black pepper. whisk to combine.
scatter the radishes and fennel over the kale and toss with the dressing. using a vegetable peeler, shave your desired amount of ricotta salata over the salad. toss again. let the salad sit for at least five minutes before serving. drizzle each salad with a little extra olive oil and a finger twist of sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper before serving.
(the foundation for this recipe came from melissa clark's recipe for raw tuscan kale salad published in the new york times, and again in her book, in the kitchen with a good appetite. adaptations were made based on the salad served at gjelina)