Sunday, September 14, 2008
burlington farmer's market
I know I haven't posted in a while. Here's my attempt to get back on track! Nourishment is: having Colin home on a Saturday, seeing lots of beautiful things at the market, nesting.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
strength and beauty in sweetpeas and life
By Sally A. I. Wall
This afternoon, the storm clouds broke up for a few minutes, minutes enough for me to go out to the veggie patch and gently pull the newly rooted baby crab grass, which was threatening to choke out the courageous sweetpeas, who had braved the stormy blasts of May and early June. The day I planted out those tender seedlings in early May, the North wind came with a vengeance, bringing with it freezing temperatures, blasting out the life from my little sweetpeas, and laying them on the ground. Most of them succumbed. I left them alone, not believing that they'd come back, but I just didn't have the heart to turn them under. It's now the middle of June, and I'm astonished that something so fragile as a sweetpea can turn its nose up at the North wind, and with a little sunshine, plenty of rain, and some lovely muggy warmth, pick itself up by the bootstraps and start again from the ground up! That is precisely what has happened to about half the row. The roots were unscathed by Jack Frost's kiss, and they simply formed 'tillers', an Old English term meaning by-shoots, forming a stronger plant by way of a rotten trick of fate carried on the wings of the wind.
It can be that way, too, for humankind. Fate's ugly hand can come knocking at your door, and before you know it, there you are, lying alongside the fallen sweetpeas. Some really do succumb, like the little seedlings, too weakened by the blow to form 'tillers'; but many, even if they lie there for a while, will be brought back to health by the warm love of friends, the encouragement of those who have been there before, and by the grace of God find new life, stronger life, in this far friendlier environment. It's very important to make sure that this new strength is not choked out by even the tiniest, tenderest baby 'crab grass' of life; it must be kept clear and clean. Before too long, that poor devastated life has branched out, reached out, and has become far stronger than it could ever have imagined. Now that life is an encouragement to others, rather than the victim of circumstance, and people draw from that well and are nourished.
In the same way, in a month or so, I shall draw in my breath deeply, as I take in the delightful aroma of the beautiful sweetpeas, and be nourished. A scent full of memories of my childhood, so long ago, yet so present in this dear, tendrilled flower.
This afternoon, the storm clouds broke up for a few minutes, minutes enough for me to go out to the veggie patch and gently pull the newly rooted baby crab grass, which was threatening to choke out the courageous sweetpeas, who had braved the stormy blasts of May and early June. The day I planted out those tender seedlings in early May, the North wind came with a vengeance, bringing with it freezing temperatures, blasting out the life from my little sweetpeas, and laying them on the ground. Most of them succumbed. I left them alone, not believing that they'd come back, but I just didn't have the heart to turn them under. It's now the middle of June, and I'm astonished that something so fragile as a sweetpea can turn its nose up at the North wind, and with a little sunshine, plenty of rain, and some lovely muggy warmth, pick itself up by the bootstraps and start again from the ground up! That is precisely what has happened to about half the row. The roots were unscathed by Jack Frost's kiss, and they simply formed 'tillers', an Old English term meaning by-shoots, forming a stronger plant by way of a rotten trick of fate carried on the wings of the wind.
It can be that way, too, for humankind. Fate's ugly hand can come knocking at your door, and before you know it, there you are, lying alongside the fallen sweetpeas. Some really do succumb, like the little seedlings, too weakened by the blow to form 'tillers'; but many, even if they lie there for a while, will be brought back to health by the warm love of friends, the encouragement of those who have been there before, and by the grace of God find new life, stronger life, in this far friendlier environment. It's very important to make sure that this new strength is not choked out by even the tiniest, tenderest baby 'crab grass' of life; it must be kept clear and clean. Before too long, that poor devastated life has branched out, reached out, and has become far stronger than it could ever have imagined. Now that life is an encouragement to others, rather than the victim of circumstance, and people draw from that well and are nourished.
In the same way, in a month or so, I shall draw in my breath deeply, as I take in the delightful aroma of the beautiful sweetpeas, and be nourished. A scent full of memories of my childhood, so long ago, yet so present in this dear, tendrilled flower.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
café expres, a perfect date
One of my favorite things about being in Paris is the wonderful tradition of café expres (espresso). You can pop in any old place, sit with Romance at the bar, stare at fabulous people and cool your elbows on the smooth marble countertop, while you sip a little cupful of rich, fragrant coffee. It's a very romantic, European thing—to be so grandiose, so spontaneous—to make such an event of drinking a thimble-full of anything. That anybody can accomplish such a stylish, nostalgic moment for less than $2 makes it that much more appealing.
Lately, Colin and I have been making a habit—albeit spontaneous—of popping into cafes for a little restoration. In Burlington on Church Street, there are at least two good places I can think where you can experience the inexpensive luxury of espresso, elevated to an art form. But all you really need is a bar, a good atmosphere, and of course an espresso machine (there are some really wonderful restaurants in town that, sadly, do not have one).
Lake Champlain Chocolates is perfect, because not only do they serve espresso, but they also sell what is, in my mind, the best chocolate around. The two really go hand in hand (that's why in Paris and elsewhere, they always serve espresso with a chocolate-covered coffee bean or almond). It takes the edge off the dark Arabica brew. Lake Champlain Chocolates has a little bar where you can sit and enjoy your moment while watching the passersby on the street. Colin and I dropped in the other day while we were out running errands and ordered two espressos and one square of dark chocolate (to share). The entire thing cost around five dollars, but it felt much more extravagant than that.
I know I talk about Leunig's Bistro a lot, but I can't help it. We love to eat there. And while it's true that you can get a little over-the-top with the menu, some of my favorite moments there have been the simple and spontaneous ones, sitting at the bar, with just a glass of wine and Vermont cheese plate. You could just linger there all night and really feel like a neighborhood regular by the end of it (for under $10 a person). Last night, we stopped in before a movie date for some espresso and one of their amazing maple creme brulees to share—it's the best creme brulee in town, and I'm an expert.
I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. I just felt very good when I remembered these two moments. They reminded me of other espresso moments. I love that these moments are at the same time economical, romantic, and memorable. What more could you ask for in a date?
Lately, Colin and I have been making a habit—albeit spontaneous—of popping into cafes for a little restoration. In Burlington on Church Street, there are at least two good places I can think where you can experience the inexpensive luxury of espresso, elevated to an art form. But all you really need is a bar, a good atmosphere, and of course an espresso machine (there are some really wonderful restaurants in town that, sadly, do not have one).
Lake Champlain Chocolates is perfect, because not only do they serve espresso, but they also sell what is, in my mind, the best chocolate around. The two really go hand in hand (that's why in Paris and elsewhere, they always serve espresso with a chocolate-covered coffee bean or almond). It takes the edge off the dark Arabica brew. Lake Champlain Chocolates has a little bar where you can sit and enjoy your moment while watching the passersby on the street. Colin and I dropped in the other day while we were out running errands and ordered two espressos and one square of dark chocolate (to share). The entire thing cost around five dollars, but it felt much more extravagant than that.
I know I talk about Leunig's Bistro a lot, but I can't help it. We love to eat there. And while it's true that you can get a little over-the-top with the menu, some of my favorite moments there have been the simple and spontaneous ones, sitting at the bar, with just a glass of wine and Vermont cheese plate. You could just linger there all night and really feel like a neighborhood regular by the end of it (for under $10 a person). Last night, we stopped in before a movie date for some espresso and one of their amazing maple creme brulees to share—it's the best creme brulee in town, and I'm an expert.
I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. I just felt very good when I remembered these two moments. They reminded me of other espresso moments. I love that these moments are at the same time economical, romantic, and memorable. What more could you ask for in a date?
Monday, May 19, 2008
just what the doctor ordered
I came home from work tonight and found a neat little note sitting on my kitchen counter. It was from Hannah (she left this morning) and I hope she doesn't mind, but I'm writing it here, just so I can have it for always.
Dear Soupy ~
I'm so glad that we got to hang out this weekend, it really was lovely, just perfect. Thanks for having me at your sweet little home, with your cute little kitties who I adore. Can't wait for the next time to see you... in CA? Or VT? Or NY? We'll see...
Love you love you love you. Just what the Dr. Ordered—a weekend with my sistawrs...Hannah Poopy
Monday, May 12, 2008
rhubarb & custard
I grew up thinking that rhubarb and custard was some gross mush that mummy's used to make their children eat for breakfast. Rhubarb sounded gross and custard sounded even grosser.It wasn't until many years later that I realized custard is the wonderful creamy goodness that makes many of my favorite foods happen: homemade ice cream, creme brulee, yummy quiche. And it wasn't until very recently (this year in fact) that I tasted rhubarb for the first time in years and was reminded how much I do love it. I was hit by a wave of nostalgia with every bite.
Rhubarb and cream were meant for each other. The buttery sweetness is the perfect balance to rhubarb's tangy, mouth-puckering flavor. I'm determined to experiment and come up with as many riffs on the classic combo as I can.
On our recent trip to England, my Aunt Carrie served a delicious rhubarb fool (that is cooked, sweetened rhubarb folded into whipped cream). I was hooked. Now that it's rhubarb season in Vermont, I just can't get enough of it. I made my own variation on the fool this past weekend by cooking rhubarb with some lemon and orange zest and a little sugar. Then I folded it into maple syrup-sweetened plain yogurt. Divine!
Tonight, I'm really pushing the limits of ultimate creamy tart flavor: strawberry rhubarb ice cream. Strawberries & cream meets rhubarb & custard. And the result is soooo good. The secret is in the lemon juice. You wouldn't think that rhubarb would need any more acid but it really does help bring out the flavor against all that creamy custard.
What's next? Tomorrow, I'm having rhubarb in my yogurt for breakfast. I hope I don't get a stomach ache!
Monday, April 28, 2008
better to be right—or happy?
By Penelope Wall
I wrote this post last week for Penelope Post and thought it was very fitting for Eat Peas as well. Sorry if you've already read it...
Colin's been working a lot of late—I mean late—nights these days. So much so, that this afternoon when he told me he wouldn't make it home for dinner again and he probably wouldn't be home before I went to bed, I completely lost my cool. I told him this had to stop—if not for his sanity, then at least for his health. I told him he had to figure it out once and for all. Talk to his boss. Talk to HR. Just figure it out. I mean, this isn't Wall Street, for crying out loud, this is Burlington, Vermont. After a few more terse remarks, we both decided that conversation was not appropriate for the phone—or the workplace—and hung up feeling shitty and down.
"I need a run," I thought to myself. "I need to come up with a plan so that we can figure this out once and for all." I drove home from work completely distracted. Fuming that Col was so willing to come up with reasons (excuses in my mind) why this time was so important. Why this week is so busy. Next week will be different.
During my run, I almost completely missed the beautiful sunset—and the beautiful evening—because I was so worked up on working things out. But finally towards the end of my run, I started feeling better. I knew I was right and I was going to show him. In my mind, I had come up with a punch list of all the items that were wrong with our situation and all the ways he was going to fix them.
I ran up the stairs and into our apartment loaded with ammo, but feeling a sudden knot of recognition in my stomach. "We've been here before," I thought. "If this approach didn't work then, why would it work now?"
And then I wondered: Why was I so angry? Was it because he really let me down? Or was it simply because I wasn't in control? I had to admit, I think it was the latter. After all, all I really wanted was to have dinner with him. And if that was all, then I had a very simple solution.
I picked up the phone and dialed Col's work. He answered right away.
"Hello?"
"Hey Luv," I said. "How ya doing?"
"Okay." He sounded tired.
"I'm sorry about earlier." I said.
"Me too."
"Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?"
"I'm starving. All I've had to eat all day is chips from the vending machine."
"Can I bring you dinner? I can make you a sandwich. And salad. How's that sound?"
"Would you really?? That would be so awesome."
That horrible weight, that horrible knot—it immediately melted away. And after we hung up, I whipped up the best brown bag dinner ever:
I wrote this post last week for Penelope Post and thought it was very fitting for Eat Peas as well. Sorry if you've already read it...
Colin's been working a lot of late—I mean late—nights these days. So much so, that this afternoon when he told me he wouldn't make it home for dinner again and he probably wouldn't be home before I went to bed, I completely lost my cool. I told him this had to stop—if not for his sanity, then at least for his health. I told him he had to figure it out once and for all. Talk to his boss. Talk to HR. Just figure it out. I mean, this isn't Wall Street, for crying out loud, this is Burlington, Vermont. After a few more terse remarks, we both decided that conversation was not appropriate for the phone—or the workplace—and hung up feeling shitty and down.
"I need a run," I thought to myself. "I need to come up with a plan so that we can figure this out once and for all." I drove home from work completely distracted. Fuming that Col was so willing to come up with reasons (excuses in my mind) why this time was so important. Why this week is so busy. Next week will be different.
During my run, I almost completely missed the beautiful sunset—and the beautiful evening—because I was so worked up on working things out. But finally towards the end of my run, I started feeling better. I knew I was right and I was going to show him. In my mind, I had come up with a punch list of all the items that were wrong with our situation and all the ways he was going to fix them.
I ran up the stairs and into our apartment loaded with ammo, but feeling a sudden knot of recognition in my stomach. "We've been here before," I thought. "If this approach didn't work then, why would it work now?"
And then I wondered: Why was I so angry? Was it because he really let me down? Or was it simply because I wasn't in control? I had to admit, I think it was the latter. After all, all I really wanted was to have dinner with him. And if that was all, then I had a very simple solution.
I picked up the phone and dialed Col's work. He answered right away.
"Hello?"
"Hey Luv," I said. "How ya doing?"
"Okay." He sounded tired.
"I'm sorry about earlier." I said.
"Me too."
"Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?"
"I'm starving. All I've had to eat all day is chips from the vending machine."
"Can I bring you dinner? I can make you a sandwich. And salad. How's that sound?"
"Would you really?? That would be so awesome."
That horrible weight, that horrible knot—it immediately melted away. And after we hung up, I whipped up the best brown bag dinner ever:
- 2 salami cheddar sandwiches on honey bread
- Romaine salad with blue cheese, tamari almonds and homemade Buttermilk Ranch Dressing
- Pretzel sticks with my homemade Boursin cheese dip (Col's favorite!)
- An entire sleeve of Girl Scout thin mints (his other favorite!)
- And a Corona
I drove to Burton and presented my peace offering to Col with great pride. He was so excited to see me and tell me what he was working on. We set up his little picnic at one of the work tables, and there—admidst papers and charts and fabric samples—we had dinner together, while the cleaning ladies vacuumed around our feet.
Yes, it was a proud moment. Relationships teach you a lot about yourself. Tonight I learned that your faults—no matter how deeply ingrained—are easily remedied if you take the time to pause and consider your options. In the same moment that I realized I'm a control-freak, I learned to tame the "control" urge and use it for good: by taking control in a fragile situation. Not by pushing, but by leading. And that is a good feeling.
Phew! Another crisis diverted!
Monday, April 21, 2008
ramps, scapes and other foraged treats make for a great quiche!
By Penelope Wall
In Vermont, you know it's spring when ramps, fiddleheads and the like start springing up at the local market. Or, if you're lucky, in your own back-yard, fragrancing the air with earthy, oniony smells. But apart from being inspired by their fresh green goodness, what the heck do you do with them?
I'll tell you what I do when in doubt: bake a quiche. The creamy, cheesy filling and buttery crust complement just about every spring vegetable—its bright, newborn flavor balancing the richness of the custard.
I had the first sign of spring at my local market this weekend with a pile of ramps, or wild leeks, tempting my olfactive senses as I walked through the entrance. I grabbed a few handfuls and was immediately inspired to bring them home and get to work. Ramps smell and taste just like a mild onion. And they're beautiful too. Especially once you wash off all the dirt and trim off the roots. Once that's done—and you've discovered their stark white stalk tipped with a rich eggplant neck, then a bright green leaf—you're ready to make your springtime quiche!
To prep the ramps, all you have to do is saute them in olive oil, garlic, a little lemon juice, salt and pepper. (Just be sure to cook the stalks first, till tender, and add the leafy tips at the very end.)
To make the quiche, put your nicely cooked ramps in a bowl. Add some fresh chopped tomato, chopped artichoke hearts (canned), fresh minced chive, salt and pepper. Instead of shredded cheddar, a favorite go-to quiche cheese, try something brighter to complement the mild ramps. I like using a mixture of fresh goat cheese and cream cheese with Boursin herbs (from Arcana). That combo makes for a very rich and creamy quiche! Fold the cheese mixture gently into the ramp mixture. Don't mix too much—you can even leave some lumps. Pour the mixture into a prepped quiche crust (in a pinch, I love Maple Lane Bakery's frozen whole-wheat pie crusts) and fill in the holes with an egg and milk mixture. Add a little nutmeg and throw it in the oven for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees, give or take a few minutes.
The beauty of quiches—and springtime foraged greens—is: the simpler the preparation, the better. Let the fresh flavor shine through!
Fresh spring ramps
In Vermont, you know it's spring when ramps, fiddleheads and the like start springing up at the local market. Or, if you're lucky, in your own back-yard, fragrancing the air with earthy, oniony smells. But apart from being inspired by their fresh green goodness, what the heck do you do with them?
I'll tell you what I do when in doubt: bake a quiche. The creamy, cheesy filling and buttery crust complement just about every spring vegetable—its bright, newborn flavor balancing the richness of the custard.
I had the first sign of spring at my local market this weekend with a pile of ramps, or wild leeks, tempting my olfactive senses as I walked through the entrance. I grabbed a few handfuls and was immediately inspired to bring them home and get to work. Ramps smell and taste just like a mild onion. And they're beautiful too. Especially once you wash off all the dirt and trim off the roots. Once that's done—and you've discovered their stark white stalk tipped with a rich eggplant neck, then a bright green leaf—you're ready to make your springtime quiche!
To prep the ramps, all you have to do is saute them in olive oil, garlic, a little lemon juice, salt and pepper. (Just be sure to cook the stalks first, till tender, and add the leafy tips at the very end.)
To make the quiche, put your nicely cooked ramps in a bowl. Add some fresh chopped tomato, chopped artichoke hearts (canned), fresh minced chive, salt and pepper. Instead of shredded cheddar, a favorite go-to quiche cheese, try something brighter to complement the mild ramps. I like using a mixture of fresh goat cheese and cream cheese with Boursin herbs (from Arcana). That combo makes for a very rich and creamy quiche! Fold the cheese mixture gently into the ramp mixture. Don't mix too much—you can even leave some lumps. Pour the mixture into a prepped quiche crust (in a pinch, I love Maple Lane Bakery's frozen whole-wheat pie crusts) and fill in the holes with an egg and milk mixture. Add a little nutmeg and throw it in the oven for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees, give or take a few minutes.
The beauty of quiches—and springtime foraged greens—is: the simpler the preparation, the better. Let the fresh flavor shine through!
Fresh spring ramps
Monday, April 14, 2008
april showers, cakes and flowers
The shower season has officially begun. And no, I don't mean rain! Bridal showers, baby showers, weddings and the like pepper—or should I say "sugar"—the weekends on my calendar through October! If you're not careful, and don't write everything down, it can be a daunting view of the summer ahead. But once you've got it down, this is really a special time. When else do you get the excuse to dress up, travel, party with your friends, hang out with the fam, and give presents to people you adore?
Showers are a celebration of love. They are a symbolic demonstration of that love. Shower them with your love (or presents). That's the whole idea, right? Nourish them as a whole, so that they can carry on a wholesome and healthy life on their own, as a couple and as a family.
I had two showers this weekend—one for a bride and one for a baby. I could only make it to one or the other, so I chose the bride-to-be, Colin's sister Jill. It was a lovely luncheon, with lots of ladies!
Afterwards, Jill, Colin's mom and I went to a cake tasting for the wedding cake at Anjou, a sweet little French patisserie in Mount Kisco. The chef, Patrick, brought us about 12 different mousses to try and two different cakes. We mixed and matched flavors and finally decided on two mousses—raspberry and pear—with vanilla sponge cake. Yum!
Showers are a celebration of love. They are a symbolic demonstration of that love. Shower them with your love (or presents). That's the whole idea, right? Nourish them as a whole, so that they can carry on a wholesome and healthy life on their own, as a couple and as a family.
I had two showers this weekend—one for a bride and one for a baby. I could only make it to one or the other, so I chose the bride-to-be, Colin's sister Jill. It was a lovely luncheon, with lots of ladies!
Afterwards, Jill, Colin's mom and I went to a cake tasting for the wedding cake at Anjou, a sweet little French patisserie in Mount Kisco. The chef, Patrick, brought us about 12 different mousses to try and two different cakes. We mixed and matched flavors and finally decided on two mousses—raspberry and pear—with vanilla sponge cake. Yum!
Monday, April 7, 2008
4 foodie blogs, 1 fabulous dessert
Sometimes it's enough to read what other people have to say about food in order to feel nourished oneself. There are a lot of food blogs out there—they're not just about food either. Here are some that I find nourishing tonight:
Mostly Eating
Lobster Squad
Orangette
Becoming a Foodie
And here's my own contribution—a picture of what I had for dessert tonight: homemade strawberry frozen yogurt, adapted from this recipe (sans chocolate) and a real English shortbread biscuit. Yum!
Mostly Eating
Lobster Squad
Orangette
Becoming a Foodie
And here's my own contribution—a picture of what I had for dessert tonight: homemade strawberry frozen yogurt, adapted from this recipe (sans chocolate) and a real English shortbread biscuit. Yum!
Monday, March 31, 2008
the english roast
For every wonderful adventure there is a beginning and an end. These are oft the moments we remember most, because it is there we pause and take note. These moments are the bookends to an wonderful story—the first impression and the final moment.
The bookends of our recent trip to Southwest England (and to be honest, every day in between) consisted of—dare I say?—the traditional English roast. I do say this with some hesitation, for, it seems to prove a simplemindedness to be thus impressed. By crunchy crackling rather than architecture. By artful Yorkshire pudding rather than English art. By potatoes browned to perfection. Aromatic bread sauce and gravy. Oh woe is me and my vegetarian heart! The English roast had its way with me last week.
I'm sure there are more wonderful things to remember. Shouldn't I instead be raving of museums and historical sites? Of castle ruins and the Cerne Abbas giants' arrangements?
Doesn't matter what should or shouldn't be. It's not just what the roast entails; it's what the roast implies: good food tenderly prepared, sitting with family around the table, a warmth of spirit, a sip of Scotch whisky, letting the candles burn low, and singing a final goodbye to good 'ol Granny Dot.
The bookends of our recent trip to Southwest England (and to be honest, every day in between) consisted of—dare I say?—the traditional English roast. I do say this with some hesitation, for, it seems to prove a simplemindedness to be thus impressed. By crunchy crackling rather than architecture. By artful Yorkshire pudding rather than English art. By potatoes browned to perfection. Aromatic bread sauce and gravy. Oh woe is me and my vegetarian heart! The English roast had its way with me last week.
I'm sure there are more wonderful things to remember. Shouldn't I instead be raving of museums and historical sites? Of castle ruins and the Cerne Abbas giants' arrangements?
Doesn't matter what should or shouldn't be. It's not just what the roast entails; it's what the roast implies: good food tenderly prepared, sitting with family around the table, a warmth of spirit, a sip of Scotch whisky, letting the candles burn low, and singing a final goodbye to good 'ol Granny Dot.
Monday, March 17, 2008
real estate
I've been watching a lot of those reality real estate shows on TLC lately. Flip that House. Moving Up. Property Ladder. They suck you in. The people—happy couples—desperately searching for the perfect home. Always on a deadline. Always maxing the budget. Wanting more.
I wonder about that. Everyone aspires for the perfect home, don't they? Everyone has the right to. In its rudimentary form, a good home offers security and protection. To the lost and nomadic, it offers permanence. A perfect home is where you want to stay, where you feel good and happy and contained. And it proclaims this in all its physical luster to the outside world.
Even the origins of the term real estate refer to property that is immovable—that is planted to the land. The French call it immobilier.
Every human has the innate right to aspire for a home. But sometimes I wonder about the wanting more, and more, and more. We attach bits of our personal property to the house like flashy ornaments onto a Christmas tree. Adding new things/ornaments each year. Buying bigger and better houses to hold all of the things we've accumulated. The old things pile up in the basement getting mouldy. They get hauled out to the dumpster during renovation.
We do find comfort in those material possessions. I certainly do. I can't bear to get rid of my books, though they gather dust. The shiny new things are physical proof of our successes in life. But possessions can also be a burden. With each gratification, you lose a little bit of inspiration. Isn't that true? The more you build yourself up, the further you are from solid ground.
Sometimes, I wish I could just give it all away. But I'm not that strong.
I wonder about that. Everyone aspires for the perfect home, don't they? Everyone has the right to. In its rudimentary form, a good home offers security and protection. To the lost and nomadic, it offers permanence. A perfect home is where you want to stay, where you feel good and happy and contained. And it proclaims this in all its physical luster to the outside world.
Even the origins of the term real estate refer to property that is immovable—that is planted to the land. The French call it immobilier.
Every human has the innate right to aspire for a home. But sometimes I wonder about the wanting more, and more, and more. We attach bits of our personal property to the house like flashy ornaments onto a Christmas tree. Adding new things/ornaments each year. Buying bigger and better houses to hold all of the things we've accumulated. The old things pile up in the basement getting mouldy. They get hauled out to the dumpster during renovation.
We do find comfort in those material possessions. I certainly do. I can't bear to get rid of my books, though they gather dust. The shiny new things are physical proof of our successes in life. But possessions can also be a burden. With each gratification, you lose a little bit of inspiration. Isn't that true? The more you build yourself up, the further you are from solid ground.
Sometimes, I wish I could just give it all away. But I'm not that strong.
Monday, March 10, 2008
how to have breakfast at "hom"
By Hannah Wall
"Hom."
That's the name of the house that Granny and Gaffa used to stay in when they came to visit us in Pawlet, Vermont, the little town we grew up in. The house was shingled with red and green trim, and sat on the curve of a hill with a river running behind it.
This morning I had a breakfast that reminded me of home. First, I woke to the sound of Alexis' voice, which was strange, because I was dreaming about her at that very moment. So her voice pulled me out and away from her voice.
Second, I had an orange to eat from the tree in the back yard, and for me right now, this is the essence of the house I live in, and a big part of what makes it a home. We've had a lot of wind lately and there are oranges all over the back yard. I looked them over, trying to find one that hadn't been damaged by the fall, or succumbed to those weird potato bugs that also love the sweet treat inside. I found one, it was covered it dirt and webs, there are a lot of spiders living in that tree... but once rinsed it looked like a miniature sunshine, and it was warm from sitting in the morning heat. I've learned that the very best oranges are the ones that the tree gives me. Those are the ones that are at their peak of sweetness. The ones that I pick are always good, but they have less sugar.
Third, coffee. Need I say more? Well, I will anyway. I have found the most wonderful coffee shop where they roast their own coffee. I hate to say this, you know that I do, but I think it might be better than speeder's. They roast it in the same style, full city roast, to the point of the best flavor highlights for the bean, but not so dark that the bean is burnt. And, I re-confiscated my little sugar jar from Brian that he'd been using for q-tips. It's one of my favorite pieces I ever made. That and the mug I'm drinking the coffee out of...
Fourth, and the inspiration for this piece, Wasa rye crackers with butter, and honey on one, Marmite on the other. When I was staying with Granny in the summer after 7th grade, every morning consisted of this combination for us. She would make toast and place the pieces neatly in the little toast rack on the table. The we would butter each one and choose between all of these wonderful options: Marmalade, thick cut in the white jar and appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Marmite: one of my favorite things in the entire world. So wonderful to have a cucumber and tomato sandwich with Marmite, veggies fresh picked from the garden, still warm from the sun, in the afternoon. So comforting to know that even when the bank was empty, the garden was always full of the very best of the best.
And honey: all of my life I've had a love affair with honey. We had friends up on the hill in Pawlet, the Winpennys, they kept bees and had the BEST honey! Their bees were happy bees, and the honey was raw and unfiltered, like cream. (pause for coffee refill) There is a wonderful apiary in Ferrisburg, Vermont—Honey Gardens—that makes all kinds of honey products. I fell in love with their cough syrup one year when I was very sick for a long time. I don't know how effective it was medicinally, but it was soothing and tasted like heaven. Good thing you can't really o.d. on that stuff! Guess what? I found a jar of raw honey from Honey Gardens apiary at the local market! And I am savoring it like the rarest jewel, like golden flowers from that tree that grew underground where the Twelve Dancing Princesses would go every night.
Fifth, I have my Meow, Mister the Terrible, nesting at my feet in a pile of freshly hand-washed sweaters. His ear is FINALLY healing. And we are happy and content this morning.
This post was originally published on Hanushka's blog.
"Hom."
That's the name of the house that Granny and Gaffa used to stay in when they came to visit us in Pawlet, Vermont, the little town we grew up in. The house was shingled with red and green trim, and sat on the curve of a hill with a river running behind it.
This morning I had a breakfast that reminded me of home. First, I woke to the sound of Alexis' voice, which was strange, because I was dreaming about her at that very moment. So her voice pulled me out and away from her voice.
Second, I had an orange to eat from the tree in the back yard, and for me right now, this is the essence of the house I live in, and a big part of what makes it a home. We've had a lot of wind lately and there are oranges all over the back yard. I looked them over, trying to find one that hadn't been damaged by the fall, or succumbed to those weird potato bugs that also love the sweet treat inside. I found one, it was covered it dirt and webs, there are a lot of spiders living in that tree... but once rinsed it looked like a miniature sunshine, and it was warm from sitting in the morning heat. I've learned that the very best oranges are the ones that the tree gives me. Those are the ones that are at their peak of sweetness. The ones that I pick are always good, but they have less sugar.
Third, coffee. Need I say more? Well, I will anyway. I have found the most wonderful coffee shop where they roast their own coffee. I hate to say this, you know that I do, but I think it might be better than speeder's. They roast it in the same style, full city roast, to the point of the best flavor highlights for the bean, but not so dark that the bean is burnt. And, I re-confiscated my little sugar jar from Brian that he'd been using for q-tips. It's one of my favorite pieces I ever made. That and the mug I'm drinking the coffee out of...
Fourth, and the inspiration for this piece, Wasa rye crackers with butter, and honey on one, Marmite on the other. When I was staying with Granny in the summer after 7th grade, every morning consisted of this combination for us. She would make toast and place the pieces neatly in the little toast rack on the table. The we would butter each one and choose between all of these wonderful options: Marmalade, thick cut in the white jar and appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Marmite: one of my favorite things in the entire world. So wonderful to have a cucumber and tomato sandwich with Marmite, veggies fresh picked from the garden, still warm from the sun, in the afternoon. So comforting to know that even when the bank was empty, the garden was always full of the very best of the best.
And honey: all of my life I've had a love affair with honey. We had friends up on the hill in Pawlet, the Winpennys, they kept bees and had the BEST honey! Their bees were happy bees, and the honey was raw and unfiltered, like cream. (pause for coffee refill) There is a wonderful apiary in Ferrisburg, Vermont—Honey Gardens—that makes all kinds of honey products. I fell in love with their cough syrup one year when I was very sick for a long time. I don't know how effective it was medicinally, but it was soothing and tasted like heaven. Good thing you can't really o.d. on that stuff! Guess what? I found a jar of raw honey from Honey Gardens apiary at the local market! And I am savoring it like the rarest jewel, like golden flowers from that tree that grew underground where the Twelve Dancing Princesses would go every night.
Fifth, I have my Meow, Mister the Terrible, nesting at my feet in a pile of freshly hand-washed sweaters. His ear is FINALLY healing. And we are happy and content this morning.
This post was originally published on Hanushka's blog.
Monday, March 3, 2008
my grandfather's walks
By Sally A. I. Wall
Over the hills? Or by the honey lady? Whichever way we chose, it was sure to be an exciting adventure back to Pa and Gramsie's house in "the Old Grey Mare," one of the Austins that my grandparents owned in the fifties. If I knew ahead of time that we would be going through the New Forest, I would always make sure that I had a sturdy piece of string, in case we saw the wild ponies...
My mother's parents lived on the south coast of England, right on the cliffs, but far enough back from the edge to know there was little danger of the house sliding down, as was the case further down the way towards the Bears. So-named were the white cliffs, afar off. On a clear day, 3 polar bears carved by the wind into the chalky cliffs, plodded along toward the east.
Pa loved to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. "Miss A." he'd say. "Please go and get my walking shoes."
Pa's room was a room of strict order. His bed was always made, tops dusted, everything in its place, including his shoes, which were lined up under his bay window which overlooked the sea. His driving shoes, walking shoes, eating shoes, shopping shoes and shoes to wear to the barber were all lined up, ready for inspection! They all looked pretty much the same to me, beautifully polished leather, some with tiny holes that formed feathery patterns on the sides. His walking shoes were just plain brown lace-ups.
There were a few things that absolutely had to come along with us on Pa's walks: his penknife, a crisp juicy apple such as Cox's Orange Pippin, and his "ticker" pills. Invariably, we'd walk to the pier, a good 5-mile trot there and back. He'd let us choose: Along the top there, and back along the sands and up the Zig-Zag. Or, down the Zig-Zag and along the sands there, and back along the top. Really, the only way to experience the Zig-Zag was to fly down it, arms stretched out and slightly back, with a high-pitched whirring sound, Sopwith-style!
Pa was no fool! A couple of hours walking by the sea in the strong wind, and we'd be sleeping like babies before you could wink an eye. We'd have to stop every now and then, to give Pa's poor old heart a rest, and to perk it up with one or two of his "ticker pills" and off we'd go again.
If we were lucky, and it was clear, we'd watch the huge ocean-liners sailing along the English Channel, America bound. Pa was a whiz at identifying the different ships. You could tell by how many funnels they had. We saw the Queen Mary, now docked permanently at Long Beach, California. There was a band-stand at the pier with deck chairs lined up in front, so we'd sit and listen: oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. And out would come the pen-knife and the Pippin.
Everything Pa did was quite deliberate, and extremely perfectly executed. Never was anything done slap-dash, but with the utmost care and attention. And so it was when he peeled the apple. The trick was to start at the top and peel a thin snake round and round and round until you reached the bottom of the apple, and it absolutely was not allowed to break! I don't remember it ever breaking...We'd eat the snake, and he'd divide the apple equally among us. Pips and all, down it would go, even the stalk. Not one bit of the apple was wasted.
Then we'd go down Fisherman's Walk and feed the squirrels some nuts, then the dreaded walk home. The wind was always strong along the top, and he'd have to hang on to his titfer (hat) ((Tit for tat - hat)). I remember the most awful earaches in those days, from the constant buffeting of the wind, I expect. The final climb up to the house, off with the shoes, wash the sand glittering on our feet in the pan of warm water set out by the back door.
Gramsie would have warm milk waiting for us, then bath, then bed. If there was a story, after a line or two, I'd have drifted off, to the muffled voice of a loving Gramsie, and the constant pounding of the wind and waves through the open window...
—Sally Wall, Moss Fairy
Photo: The author as a girl with two of her brothers.
Over the hills? Or by the honey lady? Whichever way we chose, it was sure to be an exciting adventure back to Pa and Gramsie's house in "the Old Grey Mare," one of the Austins that my grandparents owned in the fifties. If I knew ahead of time that we would be going through the New Forest, I would always make sure that I had a sturdy piece of string, in case we saw the wild ponies...
My mother's parents lived on the south coast of England, right on the cliffs, but far enough back from the edge to know there was little danger of the house sliding down, as was the case further down the way towards the Bears. So-named were the white cliffs, afar off. On a clear day, 3 polar bears carved by the wind into the chalky cliffs, plodded along toward the east.
Pa loved to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. "Miss A." he'd say. "Please go and get my walking shoes."
Pa's room was a room of strict order. His bed was always made, tops dusted, everything in its place, including his shoes, which were lined up under his bay window which overlooked the sea. His driving shoes, walking shoes, eating shoes, shopping shoes and shoes to wear to the barber were all lined up, ready for inspection! They all looked pretty much the same to me, beautifully polished leather, some with tiny holes that formed feathery patterns on the sides. His walking shoes were just plain brown lace-ups.
There were a few things that absolutely had to come along with us on Pa's walks: his penknife, a crisp juicy apple such as Cox's Orange Pippin, and his "ticker" pills. Invariably, we'd walk to the pier, a good 5-mile trot there and back. He'd let us choose: Along the top there, and back along the sands and up the Zig-Zag. Or, down the Zig-Zag and along the sands there, and back along the top. Really, the only way to experience the Zig-Zag was to fly down it, arms stretched out and slightly back, with a high-pitched whirring sound, Sopwith-style!
Pa was no fool! A couple of hours walking by the sea in the strong wind, and we'd be sleeping like babies before you could wink an eye. We'd have to stop every now and then, to give Pa's poor old heart a rest, and to perk it up with one or two of his "ticker pills" and off we'd go again.
If we were lucky, and it was clear, we'd watch the huge ocean-liners sailing along the English Channel, America bound. Pa was a whiz at identifying the different ships. You could tell by how many funnels they had. We saw the Queen Mary, now docked permanently at Long Beach, California. There was a band-stand at the pier with deck chairs lined up in front, so we'd sit and listen: oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. And out would come the pen-knife and the Pippin.
Everything Pa did was quite deliberate, and extremely perfectly executed. Never was anything done slap-dash, but with the utmost care and attention. And so it was when he peeled the apple. The trick was to start at the top and peel a thin snake round and round and round until you reached the bottom of the apple, and it absolutely was not allowed to break! I don't remember it ever breaking...We'd eat the snake, and he'd divide the apple equally among us. Pips and all, down it would go, even the stalk. Not one bit of the apple was wasted.
Then we'd go down Fisherman's Walk and feed the squirrels some nuts, then the dreaded walk home. The wind was always strong along the top, and he'd have to hang on to his titfer (hat) ((Tit for tat - hat)). I remember the most awful earaches in those days, from the constant buffeting of the wind, I expect. The final climb up to the house, off with the shoes, wash the sand glittering on our feet in the pan of warm water set out by the back door.
Gramsie would have warm milk waiting for us, then bath, then bed. If there was a story, after a line or two, I'd have drifted off, to the muffled voice of a loving Gramsie, and the constant pounding of the wind and waves through the open window...
—Sally Wall, Moss Fairy
Photo: The author as a girl with two of her brothers.
Monday, February 25, 2008
extreme pleasures
By Emma H. W. Kouri
I’ve never liked the idea of extremism. Actually, people with extreme views really turn me off. Extreme religion, extreme lifestyle, extreme political views… it’s all so extreme!
Because I live in America, I am constantly exposed to extremism. In America, extreme is the way to go. And as an American, you must try to reach your goals via the most extremely efficient route possible.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not perfect. I am the first to admit that I get sucked in. I love being efficient, and my husband loves it too. I’m always on the search for the latest extremely cool thing, especially when it comes to luxury bath products, and make-up. I’ll call my sisters and tell them they have to try this or that, that it has really changed my life. Then 2 weeks later, I’ve forgotten about it.
Here’s another thing that I don’t like: obsessing about my weight and my body. We all do it, especially in America. Just to let you know, I am 5 foot 10 1/2 inches. I weigh between 140-145 pounds, and my size is a tall 4 or 6, depending on the brand. I’m in excellent shape, walk and run daily, and eat healthful food (I am an extremely loyal EatingWell fan). Why does someone like me obsess about my weight? Maybe it’s because I was chubby as a child and ridiculed for it. Maybe it’s because I’m addicted to People magazine so I constantly have an unattainable image in my head. I really don’t know what the reason is, but I am sick of it.
The two topics mentioned above can be combined together to form one of the other things I can’t stand: extreme dieting. Or extreme diet choices. What is this all about? Why does America love it so much? The Atkins diet, the liquid diets, the milkshake diet… I could go on forever. My girlfriend told me she is reading this new book, called Skinny Bitch, which informs the reader that they are not taking care of themselves if they are eating meat or drinking milk. So now my friend's eating lots of fish. Guess what would happen if we all did that? That’s right, there would be no fish left to eat.
This feeling of frustration with my own obsession and America’s obsession with dieting really came to a head this weekend. I was walking on Church Street with my husband, and we walked into Borders. I was browsing, and caught sight of a book: French Women Don’t Get Fat. For some reason, I picked it up and bought it. Kevin got a book too, and we went home and read together.
Only 70 pages in, and I’m hooked. Seriously, in 2 days, I have felt a total revolution and a huge weight lifted off my shoulders! Based on the philosophy of a French woman, I have come to realize that I need to love food (and I really do love food, especially good cheese and chocolate) and not hate it! What good food (not low-fat high-sugar loser foods, but the real foods) needs is to be respected—and relished. Embrace it, and embrace yourself. Take each bite slowly and seriously, and consider all the different textures that you feel and the flavors that you taste.
I immediately poured a glass of Le Freak, and made a cheese plate for my husband and me. I carefully took 1 Carr’s whole wheat cracker, and placed a slice of Cabot Private Stock Cheddar on top. Then, I placed on top of the cheese a small dollop of homemade hot pepper jelly (from Liz’s friend).
I sat down, and took a small bite. Closed my eyes, and chewed. It was orgasmic! Amazing! I’ve never tasted anything so outrageous. It took 4 bites to eat this cracker, and guess what? I didn’t want a second. Anyone who knows me will find this hard to believe. But it’s true, and I was more satisfied than I’ve ever been even after scarfing down 5 crackers with cheese.
My new-found approach can be illustrated with this: imagine that you have to drive somewhere, and you have a choice: interstate or back roads. The interstate will no doubt get you there faster, but the back roads will be filled with character, scenery, picturesque moments and maybe even a little meditation! This is what the French do when they eat. It is an experience, not a chore. It is a friend (or lover), not an enemy. Savor every moment, and you’ll find yourself only needing one bite of that cake, because one bite was enough to send you reeling into ecstasy. After a while, you’ll find yourself being more thoughtful while you eat, and automatically eating less. Then you won’t feel guilty afterwards. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself indulging in extreme pleasure every time you sit down for a meal.
Delectable fruit and cheese plate from Leunig's Bistro in Burlington, Vermont.
I’ve never liked the idea of extremism. Actually, people with extreme views really turn me off. Extreme religion, extreme lifestyle, extreme political views… it’s all so extreme!
Because I live in America, I am constantly exposed to extremism. In America, extreme is the way to go. And as an American, you must try to reach your goals via the most extremely efficient route possible.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not perfect. I am the first to admit that I get sucked in. I love being efficient, and my husband loves it too. I’m always on the search for the latest extremely cool thing, especially when it comes to luxury bath products, and make-up. I’ll call my sisters and tell them they have to try this or that, that it has really changed my life. Then 2 weeks later, I’ve forgotten about it.
Here’s another thing that I don’t like: obsessing about my weight and my body. We all do it, especially in America. Just to let you know, I am 5 foot 10 1/2 inches. I weigh between 140-145 pounds, and my size is a tall 4 or 6, depending on the brand. I’m in excellent shape, walk and run daily, and eat healthful food (I am an extremely loyal EatingWell fan). Why does someone like me obsess about my weight? Maybe it’s because I was chubby as a child and ridiculed for it. Maybe it’s because I’m addicted to People magazine so I constantly have an unattainable image in my head. I really don’t know what the reason is, but I am sick of it.
The two topics mentioned above can be combined together to form one of the other things I can’t stand: extreme dieting. Or extreme diet choices. What is this all about? Why does America love it so much? The Atkins diet, the liquid diets, the milkshake diet… I could go on forever. My girlfriend told me she is reading this new book, called Skinny Bitch, which informs the reader that they are not taking care of themselves if they are eating meat or drinking milk. So now my friend's eating lots of fish. Guess what would happen if we all did that? That’s right, there would be no fish left to eat.
This feeling of frustration with my own obsession and America’s obsession with dieting really came to a head this weekend. I was walking on Church Street with my husband, and we walked into Borders. I was browsing, and caught sight of a book: French Women Don’t Get Fat. For some reason, I picked it up and bought it. Kevin got a book too, and we went home and read together.
Only 70 pages in, and I’m hooked. Seriously, in 2 days, I have felt a total revolution and a huge weight lifted off my shoulders! Based on the philosophy of a French woman, I have come to realize that I need to love food (and I really do love food, especially good cheese and chocolate) and not hate it! What good food (not low-fat high-sugar loser foods, but the real foods) needs is to be respected—and relished. Embrace it, and embrace yourself. Take each bite slowly and seriously, and consider all the different textures that you feel and the flavors that you taste.
I immediately poured a glass of Le Freak, and made a cheese plate for my husband and me. I carefully took 1 Carr’s whole wheat cracker, and placed a slice of Cabot Private Stock Cheddar on top. Then, I placed on top of the cheese a small dollop of homemade hot pepper jelly (from Liz’s friend).
I sat down, and took a small bite. Closed my eyes, and chewed. It was orgasmic! Amazing! I’ve never tasted anything so outrageous. It took 4 bites to eat this cracker, and guess what? I didn’t want a second. Anyone who knows me will find this hard to believe. But it’s true, and I was more satisfied than I’ve ever been even after scarfing down 5 crackers with cheese.
My new-found approach can be illustrated with this: imagine that you have to drive somewhere, and you have a choice: interstate or back roads. The interstate will no doubt get you there faster, but the back roads will be filled with character, scenery, picturesque moments and maybe even a little meditation! This is what the French do when they eat. It is an experience, not a chore. It is a friend (or lover), not an enemy. Savor every moment, and you’ll find yourself only needing one bite of that cake, because one bite was enough to send you reeling into ecstasy. After a while, you’ll find yourself being more thoughtful while you eat, and automatically eating less. Then you won’t feel guilty afterwards. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself indulging in extreme pleasure every time you sit down for a meal.
Delectable fruit and cheese plate from Leunig's Bistro in Burlington, Vermont.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
frozen peas & cozy kitties
Frozen peas. That's what Mummy said to me when there was no Eat Peas entry yesterday. I'm sorry to you all. A sickness kept me feverish and bed-ridden throughout the night and I just couldn't make it to my blog. Nourishing, the experience was not. But if I had made it to the computer in time, I probably would've written something like this:
6 Things That Nourish When You're Sick
(when you're all alone and there's no one to take care of you)
When you're sick and icy-hot, achy and coughy, cough, cough, cough, it can be difficult to pinpoint what will make you feel better. Especially if you're all alone and have to take care of yourself. Last night I was alone and sick (Colin is away for work) and managed to find some nourishing options without too much exertion. Whether they're truly healthful is another story altogether, but they got me through the night and that's really what matters.
6 Things That Nourish When You're Sick
(when you're all alone and there's no one to take care of you)
When you're sick and icy-hot, achy and coughy, cough, cough, cough, it can be difficult to pinpoint what will make you feel better. Especially if you're all alone and have to take care of yourself. Last night I was alone and sick (Colin is away for work) and managed to find some nourishing options without too much exertion. Whether they're truly healthful is another story altogether, but they got me through the night and that's really what matters.
- Cheesey Toasts: Toast a piece of bread. When it's nice and crispy, take it out and layer some nice, yummy cheese on top. (Gruyere and Cheddar are my favorites). Put it back in the toaster until nice and melty. Voila! Hot cheesey toasts are the best comfort food when you're sick. Or any time really. Frank's Red Hot goes nicely with this combo.
- Homemade Peach Ice Cream: I made this last week using frozen peaches, lemon and a touch of Grand Marnier. So good and soothing on the throat and to calm a raging fever. I was lucky I had some ready to eat in my freezer. In my mind, everyone should always have homemade ice cream or sorbet on hand in their freezer. But I realize that's not very realistic. You could just chew on an ice cube. Or make a quick smoothie in the blender with ice, fruit, honey, and yogurt or milk.
- Hot Garlicky Chard: After all that creamy, cheesey goodness, you'll probably be craving some vitamins to fight the bug. Last night, I had a bunch of gorgeous yellow chard in my fridge and wanted to make something really quick and easy that required little time on my feet. Here's the trick: slice up the chard and put it in a hot skillet with a little olive oil. Cook it down a bit on high heat for a couple of minutes. Then add a clove of minced garlic and cook for another couple of minutes. Take off the heat and stir in 2 teaspoons of balsamic vinegar. Serve with Frank's Red Hot (I was all about the Frank's last night). This was so delicious, I ate the entire batch and am convinced it's the thing that drove my sickness away.
- Hone-gar (honey + vinegar): This one I learned from my mother. Combine equal parts honey, apple cider vinegar or lemon juice, and boiling water (a couple tablespoons of each; maybe a little more of the water). Stir till dissolved. Sip slowly. This is a perfect concoction for chest congestion or sore throat.
- Warm Kitties on My Belly: Enough said. When you're feeling crummy, there's nothing better than two little friends to warm you all over. It's better than hot water bottles!
- Cadbury Mini Eggs: I just had to throw this one in there, because if you know me at all you know I'm obsessed with them. And you may even have read my Penelope Post last year about the scarcity of my favorite Easter candy. Last night, since I was alone, I had to go to the drugstore myself to stock up on flu medicine, cough drops and what-not. Well, wouldn't you know it, there were shelves and shelves of mini-eggs (right next to the Valentine's hearts) and in my feverish delirium, I bought 3 lbs ($15 worth). Still, today and feeling better, I don't regret the purchase at all.
Monday, February 4, 2008
functional foodz
Nourishment also has very much to do with nutrition and eating to promote good health. Your body is your temple, right? Here's what my friend Jess has to say about that—plus 11 foods she thinks we all should eat every week.
I took a class last semester called “Functional Foods” and it has really influenced me. Just yesterday I spent a fortune on blueberries and amazing green tea without a trace of guilt. Anyway, I am just going to quote from my teacher Dr. Mingruo Guo’s book, “Functional Foods: Principles and Technology” for a little clarity on functional foods.
Dr. Guo is also a huge fan of cranberries and pomegranates because of their high antioxidant content, as well as cold-pressed olive oil for its oleic acid and antioxidants.
Hope to see ya soon and remember…we are what we eat.
—By Jessica Lynn Mateik
I took a class last semester called “Functional Foods” and it has really influenced me. Just yesterday I spent a fortune on blueberries and amazing green tea without a trace of guilt. Anyway, I am just going to quote from my teacher Dr. Mingruo Guo’s book, “Functional Foods: Principles and Technology” for a little clarity on functional foods.
“A food may have three functions: (1) providing energy in the form of carbohydrates, proteins and/or lipids, and basic nutrition; (2) giving us pleasure, i.e. aroma, color and taste and (3) having health benefits. A functional food may be similar in appearance to, or is a conventional food, is consumed as a part of normal diet and has physiological benefits and/or reduces the risk of chronic disease beyond basic nutrition.”Here are the selected foods that my functional foods teacher, Dr. Mingruo Guo, recommends consuming weekly.
- Tomatoes (lycopene)
- Spinach (folic acid)
- Broccoli (fiber, antioxidants, vitamins, sulfur compounds)
- Nuts (vitamin E)
- Oats (soluble fiber/prebiotics)
- Yogurt (probiotics)
- Pink color fish like salmon (omega-3 fatty acids)
- Berries such as blueberries (antioxidants)
- Garlic (antioxidants)
- Green Tea (antioxidants)
- Soy Foods (isoflavones)
Dr. Guo is also a huge fan of cranberries and pomegranates because of their high antioxidant content, as well as cold-pressed olive oil for its oleic acid and antioxidants.
Hope to see ya soon and remember…we are what we eat.
—By Jessica Lynn Mateik
Monday, January 28, 2008
a cool and wet winter
Every month, I receive a welcome missive from my good friend Madeleine Vedel. Together she and her husband Erick run a cooking school in Provence, France. It is there I stayed for several months after college, and the memories from that time run deep and vivid in my mind.
The most recent missive in my mailbox talked about mushrooms and reminded me of when we went mushroom hunting during a stay in the gorgeous lush hills of the Cévennes mountains in Southern France. I was very homesick at the time, and the green, rolling forests reminded me very much of my home in Vermont.
At the end of an adventurous treasure hunt, I had found a total of 3 large cèpes (also known as porcinis). A proud moment! We brought them by the local pharmacy (to check for poisonous varieties) and then whisked them home to cook up a fabulous supper.
And here is Madeleine's letter...
When it rains... mushrooms come popping up! And Provence, a land of agriculture and outdoor beauty, soaks up the gentle bounty of the skies. The beekeeper is pleased for her bees, and the future rosemary honey; the farm next door is pleased as he'll not need to irrigate this winter (and nor should he! this is "normal" winter weather for us... but the past few years weren't too normal). Already the dark fields are sprouting tender green shoots of winter wheat.
Next week brings us our special week of winter decadence: truffles, foie gras, duck confit, chocolates, Chateauneuf-du-Pape wines... mmm I can't wait! We get our barbary ducks, well fattened from a farmer in the Southwest who raises them in a small, hands-on operation. Though for many, foie gras is not "politically-correct" I must admit to truly loving it -- in moderation. In my defense, I could mention that the Egyptians already enjoyed it thousands of years' ago, after noticing that both geese and ducks store extra energy in their livers in preparation for the long flight over the Mediterranean to their nesting grounds in France...
Of course, we'll also be liberally sprinkling our food with truffles -- those rough and funky lumps that our friend Rene's dog will find for us. We'll imbibe the potent aromas of this rare species in the cafe beside the market -- now smoke free!!! Yes, France has turned smoke-free in public spaces. Amazing, hm? T'will be interesting to see to what degree they abide by the new laws.
As we begin the year 2008, I treasure the memories of 2007, and all the wonderful visits of friends of friends, past clients and so many more. We were the happy beneficiaries of oodles of word of mouth contacts. Thank you! and please, feel free to share this email missive and your stories of your time with us with any and all. Provence is our home, and we love sharing it with you.
—Madeleine Vedel, Association Cuisine et Tradition, www.cuisineprovencale.com
Photos: Penelope, Madeleine and friends mushroom hunting in the Cévennes in Southern France, 2002.
The most recent missive in my mailbox talked about mushrooms and reminded me of when we went mushroom hunting during a stay in the gorgeous lush hills of the Cévennes mountains in Southern France. I was very homesick at the time, and the green, rolling forests reminded me very much of my home in Vermont.
At the end of an adventurous treasure hunt, I had found a total of 3 large cèpes (also known as porcinis). A proud moment! We brought them by the local pharmacy (to check for poisonous varieties) and then whisked them home to cook up a fabulous supper.
And here is Madeleine's letter...
When it rains... mushrooms come popping up! And Provence, a land of agriculture and outdoor beauty, soaks up the gentle bounty of the skies. The beekeeper is pleased for her bees, and the future rosemary honey; the farm next door is pleased as he'll not need to irrigate this winter (and nor should he! this is "normal" winter weather for us... but the past few years weren't too normal). Already the dark fields are sprouting tender green shoots of winter wheat.
Next week brings us our special week of winter decadence: truffles, foie gras, duck confit, chocolates, Chateauneuf-du-Pape wines... mmm I can't wait! We get our barbary ducks, well fattened from a farmer in the Southwest who raises them in a small, hands-on operation. Though for many, foie gras is not "politically-correct" I must admit to truly loving it -- in moderation. In my defense, I could mention that the Egyptians already enjoyed it thousands of years' ago, after noticing that both geese and ducks store extra energy in their livers in preparation for the long flight over the Mediterranean to their nesting grounds in France...
Of course, we'll also be liberally sprinkling our food with truffles -- those rough and funky lumps that our friend Rene's dog will find for us. We'll imbibe the potent aromas of this rare species in the cafe beside the market -- now smoke free!!! Yes, France has turned smoke-free in public spaces. Amazing, hm? T'will be interesting to see to what degree they abide by the new laws.
As we begin the year 2008, I treasure the memories of 2007, and all the wonderful visits of friends of friends, past clients and so many more. We were the happy beneficiaries of oodles of word of mouth contacts. Thank you! and please, feel free to share this email missive and your stories of your time with us with any and all. Provence is our home, and we love sharing it with you.
—Madeleine Vedel, Association Cuisine et Tradition, www.cuisineprovencale.com
Photos: Penelope, Madeleine and friends mushroom hunting in the Cévennes in Southern France, 2002.
Monday, January 21, 2008
fat protection
By Kathleen De Simone
Much of my childhood was lived with my Irish foster mother. She was gloriously funny, always busy, loving, old enough to be my grand mom, and had a delightful brogue, so thick you could cut it with a stick. And it was so full of music... I just adored listening to her, well on cold winter mornings, after filling us with big ceramic bowls full of—made from scratch oatmeal—what she called porridge. It was dotted with butter and brown sugar, to which she would pour on top in a small river of cream.
Oh heaven, the aroma alone could make you swoon!! On especially cold days she would do this extra special thing. When we were leaving for the bus stop, on our way to school, she would walk us to the front door and hand me and my 3 half siblings rashers of crisp, crisp bacon—the thick old-fashioned kind, hand-sliced—and slabs of fresh Irish soda bread she had just fried brown in bacon fat. She would put them in our mittened hands saying in her lyrical Irish brogue, and with much solemnity…
“Here now children, take this with ya’ while your waiting for the bus, and the fat will keep out the cold.”
Now, I knew she knew everything and was so loving and good, but I was troubled. I was never quite sure how this “fat” protection worked? Did you wave the bacon in the air to drive the cold away? Did you hold it in front of you like a crucifix warding off Dracula? I would keep it in front of me at the bus stop long as I could, but eventually I would succumb and eat the delightful, crunchy, salty fatty strips and the divine toasted soda bread, willing at last to take the chance of being out in the cold without a bit of fat protection... and it was so divine I didn't even care…
Photo: The author all grown up.
Much of my childhood was lived with my Irish foster mother. She was gloriously funny, always busy, loving, old enough to be my grand mom, and had a delightful brogue, so thick you could cut it with a stick. And it was so full of music... I just adored listening to her, well on cold winter mornings, after filling us with big ceramic bowls full of—made from scratch oatmeal—what she called porridge. It was dotted with butter and brown sugar, to which she would pour on top in a small river of cream.
Oh heaven, the aroma alone could make you swoon!! On especially cold days she would do this extra special thing. When we were leaving for the bus stop, on our way to school, she would walk us to the front door and hand me and my 3 half siblings rashers of crisp, crisp bacon—the thick old-fashioned kind, hand-sliced—and slabs of fresh Irish soda bread she had just fried brown in bacon fat. She would put them in our mittened hands saying in her lyrical Irish brogue, and with much solemnity…
“Here now children, take this with ya’ while your waiting for the bus, and the fat will keep out the cold.”
Now, I knew she knew everything and was so loving and good, but I was troubled. I was never quite sure how this “fat” protection worked? Did you wave the bacon in the air to drive the cold away? Did you hold it in front of you like a crucifix warding off Dracula? I would keep it in front of me at the bus stop long as I could, but eventually I would succumb and eat the delightful, crunchy, salty fatty strips and the divine toasted soda bread, willing at last to take the chance of being out in the cold without a bit of fat protection... and it was so divine I didn't even care…
Photo: The author all grown up.
Monday, January 14, 2008
lucky girl
By Emma H. W. Kouri
I am a lucky girl. Really. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for my life and my family. Each day is filled with joy; I love my house and my dog, and of course my parents and my sisters. I also love my boss and I love school. But today, I am especially grateful for my husband.
Kevin has several unique characteristics that make him a desirable mate. First, he has a great appreciation for expensive and well-made women’s lingerie. If that isn’t enough to convince you, he also loves expensive and well-made women’s shoes. These two things together make my life much easier than most of the women I know, because I never have to think up an excuse of why I need this bra or those fabulous shoes. To the contrary, I sometimes have to convince him that I don’t need them!
Despite these amazing attributes, the best thing about Kevin is his ability and desire to provide constant emotional nourishment. Today, I am particularly grateful that he is so supportive and loving. During this busy week, he decided to do all the cooking. Right now, he is making us breaded pork chops. He is taking the task very seriously and is following the recipe to a T. A little bit of Mama Sonia came out in me tonight, as I lingered in the kitchen…
“Are you going to pre-heat the oven?”
“What are you doing with that milk?”
“Why did you cook the garlic and then throw it in the sink?! The recipe says to set it aside!”
It turns out the garlic was just to flavor the pan, and the recipe said to set it aside if you want to use it for something else. So I poured myself a glass of wine and banished myself to the office, where I should be working on my grant.
I can hear pots clanking, and I know Kevin is now working on his homemade pasta sauce for dinner tomorrow night. He is a very good boy and I am a very, very lucky girl.
I am a lucky girl. Really. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for my life and my family. Each day is filled with joy; I love my house and my dog, and of course my parents and my sisters. I also love my boss and I love school. But today, I am especially grateful for my husband.
Kevin has several unique characteristics that make him a desirable mate. First, he has a great appreciation for expensive and well-made women’s lingerie. If that isn’t enough to convince you, he also loves expensive and well-made women’s shoes. These two things together make my life much easier than most of the women I know, because I never have to think up an excuse of why I need this bra or those fabulous shoes. To the contrary, I sometimes have to convince him that I don’t need them!
Despite these amazing attributes, the best thing about Kevin is his ability and desire to provide constant emotional nourishment. Today, I am particularly grateful that he is so supportive and loving. During this busy week, he decided to do all the cooking. Right now, he is making us breaded pork chops. He is taking the task very seriously and is following the recipe to a T. A little bit of Mama Sonia came out in me tonight, as I lingered in the kitchen…
“Are you going to pre-heat the oven?”
“What are you doing with that milk?”
“Why did you cook the garlic and then throw it in the sink?! The recipe says to set it aside!”
It turns out the garlic was just to flavor the pan, and the recipe said to set it aside if you want to use it for something else. So I poured myself a glass of wine and banished myself to the office, where I should be working on my grant.
I can hear pots clanking, and I know Kevin is now working on his homemade pasta sauce for dinner tomorrow night. He is a very good boy and I am a very, very lucky girl.
Monday, January 7, 2008
figgy pudding
Sometimes things that are nourishing don't necessarily taste good—like cod liver oil or lima beans. I don't think I'll ever love those little buggers, and I don't care. But sometimes there are things that you don't like, but that you really want to like—because they're so cool—that you end up liking them eventually. Even if they still taste kind of yucky. You just crave them. Such is the case with me and Marmite. And figgy pudding.
Both foods have been passed down from my English roots. Our mummy has been making traditional figgy pudding every Christmas since we were kids. Made from lots of dried fruit and a little flour and Guinness to bind it, figgy pudding is really nothing more than a glorified fruit cake. And how many kids like fruit cake?
But then mold it in a mound, add a sprig of holly on top, a splash of Grand Marnier, light the whole thing on fire and you've got another thing altogether. A pyrotechnic site for sore eyes.
Since childhood, I've tried very hard to love it. I really, really wanted to crave the dark, rich dessert. But it was so bitter, the only way I could get it down was by drowning it in a sea of melty brandy butter. In fact, to this day, that's really only the way I can eat it. But I still really, really, really want to like it. To crave it like my parents do.
For now, at least I can still love the experience. This year, the lighting of the figgy pudding was so exciting. It was Colin's first time. We banged our forks on the table and sang, "Oh we want some figgy pudding, oh we want some figgy pudding, so bring it right now!" Papa poured some brandy on the pudd while Mummy stood by with the match. He was a little overzealous and spilled a heap of the precious Grand Marnier over the side of the dish and the tablecloth caught on fire! Then some of us screamed. And then we started laughing. And then it took forever for all of the alcohol to burn off. What a commotion. I think Kevin got it all on video—I'd really love to get my hands on that and post it here. But for now, here are a couple of photos (the second one was taken about 5 minutes later—usually the brandy burns off in 5 seconds):
Both foods have been passed down from my English roots. Our mummy has been making traditional figgy pudding every Christmas since we were kids. Made from lots of dried fruit and a little flour and Guinness to bind it, figgy pudding is really nothing more than a glorified fruit cake. And how many kids like fruit cake?
But then mold it in a mound, add a sprig of holly on top, a splash of Grand Marnier, light the whole thing on fire and you've got another thing altogether. A pyrotechnic site for sore eyes.
Since childhood, I've tried very hard to love it. I really, really wanted to crave the dark, rich dessert. But it was so bitter, the only way I could get it down was by drowning it in a sea of melty brandy butter. In fact, to this day, that's really only the way I can eat it. But I still really, really, really want to like it. To crave it like my parents do.
For now, at least I can still love the experience. This year, the lighting of the figgy pudding was so exciting. It was Colin's first time. We banged our forks on the table and sang, "Oh we want some figgy pudding, oh we want some figgy pudding, so bring it right now!" Papa poured some brandy on the pudd while Mummy stood by with the match. He was a little overzealous and spilled a heap of the precious Grand Marnier over the side of the dish and the tablecloth caught on fire! Then some of us screamed. And then we started laughing. And then it took forever for all of the alcohol to burn off. What a commotion. I think Kevin got it all on video—I'd really love to get my hands on that and post it here. But for now, here are a couple of photos (the second one was taken about 5 minutes later—usually the brandy burns off in 5 seconds):
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