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?
Showing posts with label Penelope Wall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Penelope Wall. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
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.
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, 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):
Monday, December 17, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
oranges
This time of year, we bring oranges to the table and the smell alone is enough to evoke Christmas memories and remind us of the traditions we once loved dear.In our house growing up, oranges were a holiday treat. We'd shave the zest into Mummy's English shortbread. We'd flavor the brandy butter for the figgy pudding with orange liquor. Every year we'd receive a large box of fresh Florida oranges from Mama Sonia and Papa Roger—each fruit individually wrapped. When Santa came he'd always leave an orange in the toe of our stocking. (That's how we knew we were at the bottom!)
We'd make pomander balls by poking a plump orange with fragrant whole cloves and hanging it to dry. As a child this was one of my favorite Christmas activities—and it still is! Moreso than gift-giving, carol-singing, Christmas-shopping and cookie baking. Now, whenever I smell orange and clove, I think, "Christmas, special, family, shortbread, happy, cozy, pomander ball!"
I love the idea of relegating the orange—such a special fruit—to holiday enjoyment. These days, when we're able to get any kind of food or fruit any time of the year, I yearn for the simplicity of yesteryears' traditions. When having certain things at certain times made those things special (oranges in December, strawberries in June). We find nourishment in that simplicity and we pass it on so that others may also know that feeling and grow from it. So here, I pass on our beloved pomander balls to be enjoyed during the holidays:
How to Make Pomander Balls
You'll need: 1 orange, ribbon and whole cloves.Wrap the ribbon around the orange once, then twist and wrap the other way like a present. Tie the ends into a bow. Insert the cloves into the skin of the orange until the surface is evenly covered. If the fruit is juicy, you can roll the pomander ball in ground cinnamon to absorb the liquid. Then hang the fruit to dry in an airy place. Retie the ribbon every couple of days as the fruit dries and shrinks. Eventually, after a few weeks the fruit will harden and become completely dry. At that point, you can tie off the ends of the ribbon into a knot and hang as an ornament on the tree!
Monday, November 19, 2007
gratitude
By Penelope Wall
For Americans especially, this particular week leading up to Thanksgiving is one in which nourishment is inextricably linked to the idea of gratitude. We give thanks for our bountiful feast and the bounty in our lives.
We should always be grateful, not just on Thanksgiving. But it's human nature, I think, to want to compartmentalize our rituals--and to say, for example, "On this day I'm going to be especially grateful," and "on that day I'm going to be especially loving." And to put marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes for just that one meal during the year.
What if we had marshmallows on top of our sweet potatoes all the time? For one, the dish wouldn't be special anymore. We might lose sight of its importance (do we know what the importance of marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes is?). And, we might all become overweight, because marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes is certainly indulgent.
We reserve that wonderful treat for special occasions so that all of the other days may build up in anticipation. In other words, we give our symbolic moments strength by letting them shine just one day of the year.
And we like traditions to dictate how we spend our days and how we celebrate--with roast turkey, of course.
But in our family at Thanksgiving, turkey never really took center stage (my mother's English after all). Some years, we just couldn't afford it. Other years, one of us was vegetarian and it was tofurky or bust. Other years, we'd say, "let's just have fish!" And so, when I look back and take note of the common thread throughout the years, it wouldn't be the roast turkey or the marshmallows; it would have to be, well, the gratitude--ritualized by going around in a circle and saying out loud something we're thankful for.
If you really think about it though, what you're thankful for changes every day, every hour. What you're thankful for on Thanksgiving is really just a snap-shot in time. You might wake up thinking, "I'm grateful for the sunshine on my face." And you might go to bed that night thankful for the dark to woo you into slumber. Such is the fleeting nature of human emotion. Which is why, Thanksgiving is one holiday that doesn't really benefit from the build-up of anticipation. Rather, it should glow beneath the surface throughout our days.
And so in the spirit of gratitude every day, I want to say:
Right now, I'm thankful that I didn't hit the two deer that leaped right in front of my car on the drive home from work tonight. I'm thankful for the wild (alive) turkeys in my parents' yard (and they're thankful, I'm sure, for the tofurky). I'm thankful for Suki kneading my belly and Au Lait warming my feet. For the birds on the feeder and the entertaining squirrels. I'm thankful for all the creatures in this world that live beside us nourishing us quietly and perfectly in their own way.
For Americans especially, this particular week leading up to Thanksgiving is one in which nourishment is inextricably linked to the idea of gratitude. We give thanks for our bountiful feast and the bounty in our lives.
We should always be grateful, not just on Thanksgiving. But it's human nature, I think, to want to compartmentalize our rituals--and to say, for example, "On this day I'm going to be especially grateful," and "on that day I'm going to be especially loving." And to put marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes for just that one meal during the year.
What if we had marshmallows on top of our sweet potatoes all the time? For one, the dish wouldn't be special anymore. We might lose sight of its importance (do we know what the importance of marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes is?). And, we might all become overweight, because marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes is certainly indulgent.
We reserve that wonderful treat for special occasions so that all of the other days may build up in anticipation. In other words, we give our symbolic moments strength by letting them shine just one day of the year.
And we like traditions to dictate how we spend our days and how we celebrate--with roast turkey, of course.
But in our family at Thanksgiving, turkey never really took center stage (my mother's English after all). Some years, we just couldn't afford it. Other years, one of us was vegetarian and it was tofurky or bust. Other years, we'd say, "let's just have fish!" And so, when I look back and take note of the common thread throughout the years, it wouldn't be the roast turkey or the marshmallows; it would have to be, well, the gratitude--ritualized by going around in a circle and saying out loud something we're thankful for.
If you really think about it though, what you're thankful for changes every day, every hour. What you're thankful for on Thanksgiving is really just a snap-shot in time. You might wake up thinking, "I'm grateful for the sunshine on my face." And you might go to bed that night thankful for the dark to woo you into slumber. Such is the fleeting nature of human emotion. Which is why, Thanksgiving is one holiday that doesn't really benefit from the build-up of anticipation. Rather, it should glow beneath the surface throughout our days.
And so in the spirit of gratitude every day, I want to say:
Right now, I'm thankful that I didn't hit the two deer that leaped right in front of my car on the drive home from work tonight. I'm thankful for the wild (alive) turkeys in my parents' yard (and they're thankful, I'm sure, for the tofurky). I'm thankful for Suki kneading my belly and Au Lait warming my feet. For the birds on the feeder and the entertaining squirrels. I'm thankful for all the creatures in this world that live beside us nourishing us quietly and perfectly in their own way.
Monday, October 15, 2007
transparency
In order to minimize my impact here on Earth, I’ve thought about what it would mean to lead a transparent life. What it would mean to untangle the complexity of this world, and truly understand and find meaning in the basic elements that contribute to my existence here.
It would mean taking nothing for granted. It would mean having a hand in the decisions I make. A literal hand. It would mean mixing my dough rather than pulling it from the package. It would mean raising the chicken if I’m to have eggs. Growing the wheat to make the flour. It would mean walking to work. 12 miles down Route 7. And 12 miles back. On shoes that I made from tree bark or, if I have the stomach, from the leather of a felled doe. That I felled myself. It would mean fetching water from the lake (a 15-minute walk there and 15 minutes back). And then to boil it to purify it. On fire that I built by rubbing some dry wood with a piece of stone… And that’s just to start.
To iron out the complexities of life would mean intangible things as well: being honest and true, pursuing knowledge while being sensitive to the needs of others, yearning for community, taking time to understand.
To reach transparency is a huge task. We can only get there one step at a time. I might not have room or time to raise my own chickens, but I can choose to buy eggs from my local farmer and I can make an effort to visit his farm and understand his practice. It is there in our search for understanding that we build community and sensitivity. We nourish one another. And we learn that our efforts have the power to build exponentially upon each other.
Blog Action Day
Monday, September 10, 2007
on nourishment
What does real nourishment taste like? Does it taste like an expensive meal? Does it taste of discovery or love or nutrients? Does it taste like a childhood story?
There was a crucial moment a few years back when I learned that nourishment has many manifestations. Nourishment for the body, for instance, tastes and satisfies in a very different way than nourishment for the soul. A meal that fills the tummy can in other ways leave you feeling very empty.
During that particular time in my life, I was eating very, very well. I was in good company. I was in a constant mode of discovery. But emotionally speaking, I did not feel nourished. And for that reason, my stomach was in constant turmoil.
Nourishment for the soul and nourishment for the body go hand in hand.
Nourishment does not necessarily mean an expensive full-course meal at a nice restaurant. On the contrary, the best and most memorable meals are the ones you scrape together with what you already have in your fridge and your garden (if you’re lucky). Perhaps because there’s an even greater summit to reach, the taste is that much sweeter.
Growing up, we never had much money, so we had to be very resourceful. If I wanted cookies or cake, I would make them from scratch. That’s how I learned to bake. It’s also how I learned to be experimental in the kitchen—mixing unusual flavors and ingredients to make something tasty.
I’ll never forget running out to the garden patch and plucking a cucumber from the vine. We would eat them skin and all—still warm from the sun—dipped in vinegar and salt. A poor man’s salad to be sure. But nourishing to the core.
Originally published on Penelope Post Blog, May 2007.
There was a crucial moment a few years back when I learned that nourishment has many manifestations. Nourishment for the body, for instance, tastes and satisfies in a very different way than nourishment for the soul. A meal that fills the tummy can in other ways leave you feeling very empty.
During that particular time in my life, I was eating very, very well. I was in good company. I was in a constant mode of discovery. But emotionally speaking, I did not feel nourished. And for that reason, my stomach was in constant turmoil.
Nourishment for the soul and nourishment for the body go hand in hand.
Nourishment does not necessarily mean an expensive full-course meal at a nice restaurant. On the contrary, the best and most memorable meals are the ones you scrape together with what you already have in your fridge and your garden (if you’re lucky). Perhaps because there’s an even greater summit to reach, the taste is that much sweeter.
Growing up, we never had much money, so we had to be very resourceful. If I wanted cookies or cake, I would make them from scratch. That’s how I learned to bake. It’s also how I learned to be experimental in the kitchen—mixing unusual flavors and ingredients to make something tasty.
I’ll never forget running out to the garden patch and plucking a cucumber from the vine. We would eat them skin and all—still warm from the sun—dipped in vinegar and salt. A poor man’s salad to be sure. But nourishing to the core.
Originally published on Penelope Post Blog, May 2007.
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