groove food

days of magic

there are some days that have a particular mission of pointing to things.

they will call you to pause on the afterlife of a crayon. 

they will unearth a treasure from the riprap of routine. you will wonder what it means.

it means to wonder.

carrot soup with ginger and coconut milk, for any day

this soup, with all of eight simple ingredients and an even simpler preparation, is pure magic. 

(serves 8)

3 tablespoons olive oil

2 yellow onions, medium diced

2 stalks celery, medium diced

3 medium garlic cloves, minced

2 inches fresh ginger, peeled and minced until you have 1 tablespoon of minced ginger

4 lbs carrots, peeled and cut into 1 - 2 inch lengths

2 quarts chicken stock, low sodium store bought or homemade

15.4 ounces unsweetened coconut milk (1 can)

heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. add the onions and celery once the olive oil is shimmering. season with a little salt and pepper. cook for 7 - 10 minutes, until the onion and celery have softened (adjust the heat if they are browning too quickly). add the garlic and ginger and continue to cook for 2 - 3 minutes more, taking care not to burn the garlic and ginger (stir frequently).

add the carrots and enough chicken stock to cover the carrots. bring to a boil and then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. cook for 30 - 40 minutes, until the carrots are tender throughout. stir in the coconut milk.

puree the soup in batches using a blender. add a little water if you desire a thinner consistency. once all the soup is pureed, return it to a pot over gentle heat to bring it back to hot. taste. add more salt and pepper if desired. serve immediately.

so long, twenties

a new decade of life. today! 

a lot has happened since the chargers lost the playoffs thirty years ago on the day i was born. for one thing, it's been delicious. i've fallen for the flavor of lemons, sea salt, just-shucked-oysters, achinback honey, morning's first coffee. i've fallen for people and so many places. when falling was no longer adequate, i came to devotion. i got in it for the braise. 

i grew five feet and seven inches, gave birth to two babies. i took up a job in the business of making people feel good. i became a cook. all my senses surrendered to the perfume of black pepper, olive oil's sheen, huckleberries plucked from the sun. i've learned these gifts only require room. 

i discovered that the more i forgive, the better everything tastes. 

there was once a time i made out with a uniformed french police officer in front of my favorite fromagerie in paris. it was bastille day. the scent of brie forever reminds me. i'm glad i took care of this in my twenties.

i have not, not even for one day, been the weight indicated on my california drivers license. oh well. the cake was good. 

i've unabashedly sustained myself on your smile, your pleasure. i am happy all these things happened.

i decided to spend my days writing love letters and making salad. 

what do i want: to be as close as possible to the thing that makes a tomato seed and then turns it into a tomato.

who do i want to be: someone safe to talk to.  

i've taken perfectly average walks through parks. lots of them. on one i became undeniably certain there is enough food/love to go around. i know it like i know how to breathe. as a very small expression of this, i invite you to share your favorite birthday meal in the comments section. for each response, i will donate the monetary equivalent of a meal for a schoolchild in need in tijuana. donations will be made to project concern international, the nonprofit organization i am working on a cookbook for this year. i can think of no better birthday gift than this and i especially look forward to reading what you eat to celebrate your special day.

my grandfather vernon could peel an apple in one long, curvy strand. he also had an uncanny knack for responding to the question "how are you doing?"

with not even a pause he'd boom, "never better!" 

so if you ask me how it feels to be thirty, you'll know what to expect.

never better. 

thanking the fish we eat

if i thank the fish i eat,

my spirit, as well as my body,

will be nourished.

(charles & bettie chu, 1989)

there are benefits to being a morning person. for one thing, the sky turns a special intensity of blue reserved only for us early risers. then there are the quiet things you happen on when no one else is looking. sometimes these things change you forever. even as a groggy, sleep-deprived undergraduate, something within would jolt me awake no later than 7 a.m.. for as long as i can remember, i took walks in the morning. it was a way to pass time until the rest of the human world rose and joined me. on one walk across my college campus, i noticed the small figure of a man several yards ahead, caressing the katsura tree i had admired mostly for its remarkable name. as i drew closer, i heard his voice. he was confiding in the tree.

because he spoke in chinese, i had no idea what was being uttered. but the companionship between the man and the tree was unmistakable, even in the invisible halo i crossed into. when he noticed me, he grabbed my hand and looked at me with eyes full of water and light. they were jolly. "we are friends!" he said. to this day, i don't know if he was referring to me or the tree.

but we did become friends, this old man and i. i learned his name was charles chu, a poetic name  i enjoyed even more than katsura. he was professor emeritus at the college, founder of its chinese program, and also a renowned chinese brushwork artist. we continued to stumble upon each other on morning walks, and in my senior year i wrote a poem for him about daffodils we had gazed at together. my gesture inspired a flood of letters and paintings exchanged after i graduated and moved back to california. charles passed away on october 30, 2008.

one of his letters was enclosed in a notecard with a painting of a lone fisherman (another morning person?). its inscription was the work of charles and his wife, bettie. i repeat it here, as i did above, because it is lovely each time: if i thank the fish that i eat, my spirit, as well as my body, will be nourished.

gratitude is a feeling, yes. i would go so far as to say it is a sensation i value above all others. in charles i learned gratitude is an action. he expressed gratitude through loving, patient care. or maybe he dynamically cared for something and this cultivated gratitude. i will never know, but i'm certain he meant to keep me wondering.

happy thanksgiving.

care for each other.

 

longing, blackberries

at night i sit outside on steps beside my kitchen, looking over a canyon. my company is a massive ficus tree that casts its leaves with impunity, a great teacher on the natural state of fearlessness. there are cricket (no plural necessary, they all trill into one) and the occasional coyote taking back its dusty paths. i feel a sense of fullness, and part of my fullness is longing.

longing. that endless thread that is half loss, half hunger. it is knowing what it is to eat my grandfather's blackberry ice cream while perched atop his knee, realizing that all i have now is the recipe scratched out in his carpenter script, where even the B's have sharp angles like birdhouses. it is keeping an empty dog bed in my kitchen for now, choosing to bear the unbearable absence of the world's best dishwasher because, here or not, he is part of my wholeness. i marvel at how i can feel so complete, even amidst the deep pockets that have no bottom when i reach inside them.

i know that longing is like a coin, the other side of which is hunger. to wake up and desire everything the day has to offer, starting with the ceremony of black coffee and cream. i want whatever's behind the unmarked doors, all of it. somewhere, the earth is giving up a new season of blackberries. i yearn for the taste, one that vanishes as soon as it comes into focus so i am constantly reaching forward for it. to hunger is to hope.

notes

* incidentally (or maybe not), a favorite poem that deals with matters of longing and blackberries: meditation at lagunitas - robert hass

* i am off to los angeles to celebrate the wedding of dear friends. i'll return on monday with ten delicious bites from a southern gentleman.

 

woolloomooloo

my memory fails me. it is the universe's backhanded gift, for the act of it failing is an indication of how the years have been overstuffed. time is slippery, melts, and i am unable to recall the way my daughter looked even a few years ago. then, at some unassuming moment, the sunlight spreads through the room in just the right quantity, and a vision of her face arrives like a telegram, urgent, brief, and in full disclosure of itself. or, i find myself eating scalloped potatoes and an impeccable salad at my kitchen table, and something about the combination delivers back a day in avignon, eight years ago. i am sent scrambling to my old boxes to uncover this picture of dash, exiting the restaurant woolloomooloo onto the blindingly bright rue de teinturiers. 

we'd just slowly feasted on potatoes in cream and gruyere, set against a tangle of cold garden lettuces with tart, mustardy vinaigrette. even the cracked pepper tasted monumental and a water glass subjected to the sunlight flared up like diamonds. the restaurant was in an old printing house, and cazuelas set against a counter by the kitchen spilled with vegetables and typeset letters. when we left, we snaked our way through the streets, passing a prostitute basking in the afternoon and countless window boxes of fragrant geranium. we ended at the top of the city at the rocher des domes, where dash met a german acrobat who taught her how to do a backflip. then, he juggled for us.

there is clarity in each movement--dash's small, muscular arms reaching skyward before diving back, and my brown leather sandals slapping the street beneath me as we headed to the theater that evening to see a troupe of actors playing mad carnies with beautiful mechanical marionettes. all of this arrived with the trinity of potatoes, cream, and greens and not a moment sooner. i smile mischievously, like i imagine dash would, and sink in for another bite.

notes

* here is the recipe i use for scalloped potatoes, but i cut it in half so it fits in my little yellow le creuset baker. i promise to present you with my favorite salad dressing tomorrow.

* if you are ever in avignon, i urge you to eat at restaurant woolloomooloo at 16 bis, rue des teinturiers, 84000

secret reads

(me. cookbooks.)

i subscribed to the new yorker all four years i attended college. truth be told, i hardly ever actually read it. i would mostly flip to the poems and cartoons en route from mailbox to dorm room. i fancied myself a very serious person and the new yorker was an important prop. i probably would have enjoyed many of the stories had i given them the time, but college was often pabst from a mini fridge (serious people don't drink natty ice, pabst blue ribbon is a different story). the entire point of the four year subscription hinged on one issue. the august 19, 2002 new yorker was the food issue. in it was a story on sea urchin that changed everything.

chang-rae lee's story chronicled his first taste of sea urchin as a teenager living in seoul in 1980.  i went over it several times, mesmerized. a spell had been cast. all i could think of was his encounter with the split spiny spheres amidst lovers blithely feeding each other octopus tentacles at a seafood stand. i'd never read about food that way. i'd always loved to cook and eat, but failed to intellectualize the intimate relationship we can have with it.  food tells a story--how could i have missed it? i was electrified. i craved uni and any other story that would make me feel the same way.  a trip to the school library bore a collection of mfk fisher's essays. i dove in. my favorite was one following her assertion that almost everyone has something secret he likes to eat. hers were the tangerines she ate alone in her apartment in paris, plumped on the radiator, then cooled in the snow on the windowsill. as i read, an intention developed. food has been my plot line ever since.

notes

you can read chang-rae lee's story "sea urchin" here.

the mfk fisher piece is from serve it forth. you can buy it here.

when you eat

you are beautiful when you eat. i love the way you give in to the sensuousness, like a cat imbibing sunlight, without restraint, in his moment. a flavor awakens your smile by impulse. perhaps it took you back to the time you fell asleep in the piazza, clementine still lit on your lips, as the bicycles ticked by. without even knowing, your expression becomes the point of the meal.

when you eat you add to the steadily rising rates of belonging. sharing food is part of our code. the gift unfolds like a peach that transforms with each bite. first there is the taste, then there is the togetherness. i like my water better when you accidentally drink from my cup.

every meal confirms a celebration--there is enough. there is enough. when you eat, you experience a joy intensified only by knowing your greatest desire is to perpetuate that feeling wherever you go. and that makes you beautiful.

(all images from life magazine)

for the love of it

my "go before you die" restaurant recommendation is lucques on melrose avenue in west hollywood. i once had day boat scallops there that altered the course of my life. they came still nestled in their shells, opaque and delicate, perched atop forbidden black rice, coconut curry, and barely cooked pea shoots. not only was it the most beautiful thing i'd ever tasted, something else was unmistakably present. i could taste that each ingredient had been cared for--from boat to farm to restaurant kitchen. love is rare to find in a meal, rarer still in one at a restaurant. you might say i have a bit of a thing for love. in my world there are two kinds: the love that happens to us and the love that we choose. the love that happens to us is alarming and profound. it is staring at my daughters sleeping and realizing, once again, that they are not me nor are they mine. they arrived as gifts in my life, and through them i've learned that my heart is infinitely capable of great things on a moment's notice.

then there is the love that we choose. sometimes the choice is easy. the world calls out to us in different ways: "come love me!" and we run to it, to adore, appreciate, and cultivate. i was built to give a cluster of chioggia beets every ounce of my attention. my best friend is the same way with shoes (stuart weitzmans specifically). whatever it is, each of us has something to which we joyfully surrender.

sometimes choosing love is harder, even awkward and unnatural. how do we love that which we've made a commitment to but don't perceive to bring us pleasure? i am trying to love cleaning my bunny's cage, flossing my teeth, practicing yoga and the regrets i have in my past. it starts with a credo: "i love you little teeth." the more i say it and do it, the more my heart turns itself over to the task. it is the most strange and wonderful phenomena. every circumstance, monotony, and dark corner of my life can transform into an epicenter of peace and pleasure. when we do things for the love of it, they become fun.

the mom lottery

i did not get my love of food from my mom. however, her unending love of people is contagious and when you combine the two, it turns you into a cook. today is my mom's birthday. it's the day i shed more gratitude tears than any other day of the year because i know i won the mom lottery. no one in the world cares so selflessly and enthusiastically about my happiness. as a neurotic, perfectionistic high school student i would keep myself up all night, nearly hyperventilating for fear i might not get a good grade in a class. my mom then offered to pay me for any C's on my report card. years later, she spent her birthday driving around connecticut by herself because the day fell during the week of my freshman college orientation and she wanted to be there to move me in.

  

i don't think my mom loves to cook (painting is a different story). the most excited i've seen her get over a food item was a few days ago when she returned from a dental visit to mexico bearing little bags of multi-colored, miniature dragees. for her birthday i made what i believe to be her favorite cupcake--pillsbury "funfetti" with the frosting to match. i may have a soft spot for them, too. how can you not with a name like funfetti? i topped each with a few of her dragees. hopefully she won't mind. my mother does make amazing homemade granola. she produces it in such massive quantities, she gives every friend or stranger that stops by the house a bag to take home. in honor of her birthday, i'm making her granola to send to a few dear, faraway friends. i'll share the recipe tomorrow so you can make some, too.

happy birthday, mom. my only selfish wish is that one day my daughters will love me as much as i love you.

grace.

this is the first post here. it feels a bit like the moment before a meal is shared and the table falls silent, not entirely certain of everything that is to come, but grateful nonetheless. sometimes i have the composure to say thank you within or even suggest that my dining companions join me. i only know one blessing by heart. it was taught to me at a school gathering, before we ate bowls of oatmeal adorned with nothing but soft, salted butter. it goes:

earth who gives to us this food,

sun who makes it ripe and good,

dear sun, dear earth: by you we live,

our loving thanks to you we give.

i am accustomed to saying thank you after i've received a gift, but rarely before. yet, isn't that what saying grace is all about? it seems appropriate to say thank you right now, before i even begin. thank you for the inspiration prior to its arrival. thank you for the seasons of corn, squash, young peas, impossibly red strawberries, soft flour on my fingertips, stock on the stovetop, plums. thank you for colorful meals deserving record in recipe. thank you for moments so ripe they beg for language to describe them.  thank you.