This Is An Exercise

I repeat, this is only an exercise.

Fall means the return of apples, but their cousins the pears are my favored fruity anticipation for the season.  They're more sophisticated and coy, with their winey richness, cello curves, and delayed gratification. They're never ready to eat when I get them home from the grocery store. They make me wait while they ripen on the windowsill, privately transforming their flesh from stringy and dry to smooth and buttery.  But they don't like to wait too long, and they need attending.  Neglect them too much, and they die of heart rot, undiscovered until I slice into that time-blushed skin.  Sometimes I salvage what soft, slippery, final-moments flesh I can carve away from the mushy spreading core and eat the pieces with a slurp, as if I'm racing time.

Beautifully Old

Good food isn't the only kind of thing shared by Heidi Swanson of 101 Cookbooks fame.  She also regularly posts favorites lists that contain varied offerings.  One link on her last list was to a video of a lovely and admirable 95-year-old with the face of a wise old woman and the agility of someone much younger. You can find it here.

I want to age like that woman: bravely accepting the passing years with grace while maintaining myself in the best fashion I can manage. There is no way to avoid being old; there are a few ways to have at least a chance of avoiding decrepitude. Eating right, exercise--the usual daunting saviors.  It probably helps to be born a Russian ballerina, but a steady yoga practice and some vegetables can't hurt.

This isn't the only Wise Old Woman I've admired.  I have a couple of other examples of feisty aging tucked into a folder I've labeled Great Old Gals.  One is lean and gray haired, apparently resting from shoveling in an urban garden.  The other is plump in the middle with spunkily short hair and a sassy look, perched on the bed of her well decorated room. Both say to me that you may have to get old but you don't have to quit doing, or lose your good taste and spunk.

I often threaten to let my hair reveal it's naturally premature silver and to then cut it off into a sassy pixie like my second Great Old Gal's or punky spikes like those I saw on a lady in the grocery store once.  I thought she looked cool.  Grandma + cool is a word pair I want to make mine someday.

For now, I'm blessed with a son who thinks I look too young to be gray-haired.  I'll honor his wish for a while and play along with the cultural fantasy that says dyed hair makes you look younger (research would disagree--read Anne Kreamer's Going Gray if you doubt), even while I know my day of reckoning is coming.

I don't mean that in a gloomy way.  I simply will not be the shriveled little old lady--and that's what I'll probably be, sweater-clad at that--with overly dyed hair that contrasts not at all flatteringly with her aged face.  I believe that there comes a time to get real and face what can't be evaded.  I want to be ready for that time when it comes.  I'm gathering my role models now--women who look their age, but look very good for it.  I want that to be enough for me, since it's a more attainable goal than forever 21.

In case you're thinking it, I'll say it: I know I'm thinking about this early.  It has always been my tendency, for good or ill, to work ahead.  But then, I may have been forced to. My gray--gads, probably white under there somewhere--hair isn't even a sign of age really, for it came early.  The first silver sproingers appeared at my crown when I was 21, a trait inherited from my mother, who never covered the evidence of her DNA oopsie.  All these years I've only been righting my own little genetic mistake.  Who wants to be the early graying mother of a preschooler?  I didn't.

Even so, the decision to start coloring my hair was a difficult one.  I am a strong believer in being as genuine as humanly possible.  It felt like fakery, which it is, to hit the bottle.  I waffled on principle until a friend said that she considered hair coloring to be an indication, not of falsehood, but of taking care of yourself.  That helped a little with my decision.  Graying when your child is three years old--and you didn't have him late in life--helped a lot with it.

Regardless of when I quit covering, which is a symptom, I want to be at peace with the bigger reality, which is that we all age and die.  There are plenty of reasons to be upset in this life.  I don't want to waste my energies being in denial of something I can't change when there are other things that I can.  I've almost stopped giving myself temporary face lifts in the mirror.  I'm getting there.

I don't know what my destiny will be, but imagining a lithe, peaceful seniority sure beats assuming useless decay. And if visualization works, I'm seeing me as a Great Old Gal.

Fennel and Apple Salad with Juniper

Oh, how I love this salad.  I love it so much that I wanted to record and share it, so much that I raced the dying-earlier light to photograph it.

And oh, how sorry I am that I had forgotten it for so long.  Again.

I first discovered it during culinary school.  A member of a final menu team for one of my classes, a far better traveled and dined woman than I, suggested it.  If I remember correctly, the recipe came from a New York restaurant's cookbook.  The name was perhaps Chanterelle, after the mushroom?  Hard to be sure since New York restaurants are alien to me.  It matters not.  I agreed to be the tester for the salad and proceeded to have one of those tiny but mind expanding taste experiences.

There are many fennel and apple salads, I'm sure.  The remarkable ingredient in this one is juniper berries.  Not your everyday ingredient in rural eastern Kentucky. Those had to be purchased in the city, and were also alien to me.  I wasn't sure what to expect, but I'm always ready to be surprised by the grace note that takes a dish from expectedly good to minorly life changing.

First of all, the fennel and apple are perfectly harmonious.  The textures are both crisp, but in subtly different ways.  The flavors are as highly complementary as a soprano-alto duet singing neighborly notes, with the sweetness of the apple taming the licorice flavor of the fennel, and the licorice flavor of the fennel grounding the sweetness of the apple. Those two ingredients are the entire body of the salad, but they're enough because they're so suave together.

The dressing is a simple mixture of lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper. Standard so far.  It gets more interesting with the addition of the juniper berries. They add a flavor that I can only describe as eating fresh air, as if the crisp piney scent of a woodland walk had become a flavor. Refreshing to say the least.  Mind expanding to a woman who didn't know that either juniper berries or such an aroma could be eaten, for pity's sake!

I have adapted things occasionally. I think the fancy Chanterelle chef used a green skinned apple.  I happen to like the tiny slices of color provided by whatever red skinned apple I have around.  I have even added grated or julienned carrot to the mix. Yep, still good. And perfect for this time of year when a little crisp is in the air occasionally, too, and the produce involved are in season.

Truth be told, I could be as out of physical touch as most Americans with what foods occur when in nature.  Seasonality is something I know about empirically, from a distance.  I don't have to live with it or by it.  Choosing produce that I know to be in season, even if the evidence isn't overflowing at my local supermarket, lets me at least approximate seasonality.  So maybe it's appropriate that I re-discover this salad only every fall, in it's own time.  Absence makes the palate more grateful. One less reason in life to feel guilty. I can now enjoy our reunion and anticipate another next year.

This salad is also my favorite kind of dish, one with a simple but elegant idea, comprised of basic ingredients with a remarkable fillip, no recipe required really, effortlessly impressive.  

My internet search didn't turn up the Chanterelle version of the salad that I remember, but a version by chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten will do nicely.  I certainly agree with him on one point.  Having tried slicing the apple and fennel with just my knife, a mandoline is definitely the tool for the job. Now you can add two things to your repertoire.

Fennel and Apple Salad with Juniper Berries
Adapted from Jean-Georges Vongerichten
Serves 2-4

1 fennel bulb (about 12 ounces)
1 large apple
Juice of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
15 juniper berries

Trim the fennel, but keep some of the top feathery fronds for garnish. Cut the apple into quarters and core it (do not peel).

Cut the fennel against the grain as thinly as you can, preferably on a mandoline. Cut the apple as well into the thinnest possible slices. Toss the fennel and apple together with the lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper.

Crush the juniper berries with the side of a knife and then mince. Stir them into the salad, toss, and let sit for 5 minutes before serving. 

This recipe keeps well for up to a day; refrigerate in a covered container and bring to room temperature before garnishing and serving.

Just before serving, garnish with the minced feathery fennel tops.

I'll Be Glad When

Tonight I was very, very sleepy at an hour more suited for toddlers than grown ups.  At 7:30 I was already drifting off in front of the computer screen.  I believe in going to bed early when necessary, but that hour was a little too early.  So here I am instead.

It's been a weird week, with my husband gone all evening for play practice. I'm fine until bed time.  Then the silence suddenly grows large and heavy and, yes, loud, with a high whine of loneliness in it.  It's hard to believe that I used to be adept at living and bedding down alone, with no discomfort.  I'm out of practice, that's all, but I'll be glad when this circumstance is over.

Always a funny thing to say: I'll be glad when....  There may not be a future "when" in which to be glad.  Better to be so now--if not generally, then about whatever there is to be glad about even if there are other things still unsatisfactory, like all the good dinners this week even if I would rather have had my husband with me to share them. 

What I mean when I say that phrase is not that I refuse to be happy or that I am incapable of being happy until circumstances change. I only mean that I will be glad about getting back to our normal life, with dinner companionship and warm feet to rest my cold toes upon as I read.  I will be glad to be spared the challenge, however surmountable I've proven it to be in the past, of starting off the night's sleep with an acute sense of aloneness and vulnerability, neither of which is any more true or false than other nights when I'm not at home alone, nor of more duration than an hour or so anyway, but which are also unpleasant. 

Let's say that I'll be more glad when this is over.  My entire happiness isn't hinging on getting back to a life circumstance that I like better, but I will rejoice just a little and heave a great sigh of relief when our regular shared schedule resumes. 

Funny how circumstances affect our perception of reality.  I am the same woman in the same bed in the same house as every other night, yet I perceive the experience differently due to the absence of one part of the usual whole--that beloved other who shares this touching-down space.  It's a phenomenon as old as time and couples, but unsettling still.  I'm very glad indeed that it is, as far as I know, only temporary and that I have a husband I'd rather have home than out of my hair.

Just now, there are sounds I can't readily identify from out in the dark somewhere, and I prick my ears, wondering.  Even the cat hasn't come back in to provide a bit of aloof relief.  If the dryer weren't running still, I would disappear into my down covered bed with a fresh novel to drown out the ridiculous feelings my badly trained body/mind can manufacture.  

Wait. These situations are why there's a fluff setting on the dryer.  I'll call in that ornery cat and give it up for the day, turn on David's crutch of a fan, and bravely surrender to the silence that I know isn't nearly as scary as it seems right now. 

Conquering the fear of being alone?  Been there, done that.  I'm glad to know that I can.  I'm equally glad to know right now that I don't have to do it again for much longer.

The dryer just buzzed, the cat is pawing at the door, and I've exorcised my ghosts here where it was fun again. I'm glad about that, too.  Let's see how the silence sounds now. 

More For Us, But...

Things are finally settling down a little at work.  Two nights ago, I actually got home a bit early for a change, a pebble on the other side of the scales weighed down by weeks of later-than-planned.  I prepped chicken stock to simmer in the slow cooker during work the next day and prepared a decent dinner while some really good jazz played.

I ate alone.  Dave was at play practice, where he will spend all evening and some weekend hours from now until mid October.  How I missed someone with whom to share my good little meal.

I had made a quickie version of gumbo, preceded by a simple salad of baby spinach, dried cranberries, and toasted almonds with mustard vinaigrette.  Nothing elaborate mind you, but quite satisfying.  As I was savoring the gumbo, I wished that I knew someone to call up and offer to share my dinner.  It was too good to be unmagnified. 

No one jumped to mind, so I finished dinner alone.  My consolation is a quart of gumbo in the freezer for a tired evening.  But I already have two quarts of emergency dinner in there.  I would rather have blessed someone with good food and the sometimes sweet relief of not having to prepare it.

That's why I mention this at all.  I didn't want dinner companionship because I was lonely.  I wouldn't have been trying to meet my own needs by finding someone to eat with me, although it would have done that, too. It just seemed a shame that someone else couldn't be made joyful by that simple food.  Somewhere, there are people wishing for a good cooked meal but unable to have it for whatever reason. It would have been nice to even those scales, too.

As usual, I had a good idea, a winning idea, but didn't act on it.  My next door neighbor might have benefited from my instinct.  I'll never know.  Unless I make a different decision about the next overly bountiful solo meal...

While leaving enough for my sweetie to take for dinner before play practice, too, of course.  Then again, he would be fully in support of sharing, even if we didn't have extras.  He's very giving like that.  I'm lucky. In all kinds of ways. Dinner is just one of them. I want someone else to be lucky, too.  Maybe next time.

Kale Chips Are the New Normal

The first time I served my trusting husband kale chips, he gave me one of those looks that says, "What are you trying to pull here?"  He's come round to liking all manner of healthy and different (for him) food, but this offering challenged him. Expecting greens to substitute for chips seemed akin to suggesting a yummy spinach and moss smoothie for breakfast because it's so good for you!  He was obviously doubtful.

That all changed when he tasted them.  I had much less trepidation, but I was enchanted, too.  Now, when I want something crunchy alongside a sandwich, I make kale chips, with nary a protest from my beloved.  In fact, he so enjoys them that he asked me to make some as a side dish for pizza when his buddies were over. (Not a pairing I would have suggested, but I do not turn down any loved one who requests greens.) They were more skeptical than he ever was, but they were won over, too. I have the photographic proof.

They all dug in and, I hope, were forever changed by the experience.

OK.  Probably not, but I can wish for nutritional enlightenment for all the world, can't I?

Kale chips could help my wish come true.  They're crisp and salty, like potato chips, but packed with about 2000 percent more nutrients (I'm exaggerating only slightly, if at all), and they're easy to make: tear the leaves into chip-sized pieces, toss with olive oil and salt, and bake until crisp. The hardest work is removing the tough center ribs, and the biggest danger is getting green shards caught in your teeth.  As a bonus, we've found that the cheapest kale, the good old curly stuff, makes the best chips, so they're budget friendly, too.

I've even read that crumbled kale chips combined with grated Parmesan make a great topping for popcorn.  Sounds intriguing, but I never quite get round to that experiment.  We just eat them.  All.  And happily!

This really isn't a conspiracy to make you like something horrid strictly because it's healthy.  It's actually proof that healthy can be good, and that, when it comes to vegetables, it may not be the food you dislike, but the format.  Cook it differently, and it's a new experience--a pleasant one, even. In this case, limp and leathery is transformed into sweet and shattery.  A whole 'nother nosh.

Many, many people have beaten me to the kale chip band wagon, like writer Michael Pollan and blogger Deb of Smitten Kitchen, who together inspired me to try them. That's a lot of exposure.  Pretty soon it might be normal indeed to munch kale chips with a tuna salad sandwich or a burger with caramelized onions and smoked cheddar. 

Greens as fun food sounds like the best kind of new normal!

Kale Chips
Serves: Depends on how well you like 'em!

1 bunch kale
1 tablespoon olive oil, if you're measuring (I don't)
Salt to taste

Preheat oven to 300 degrees. 

Rinse and dry the kale.  Remove the stems and touch center ribs. Cut or tear into large pieces.  Toss with olive oil and salt in a bowl or right on your sheet pan (line with parchment if you wish less clean up).   Arrange the leaves in a single layer on the baking sheet.  Bake for 20 minutes or until crisp.  Place the baking sheet on a rack to cool.

Tired and Happy

The month of September is half over, and I have managed one post thus far.  The main reason is that I've been working A LOT.  Fatigue does make coherent thought harder, especially when I don't even get home until 7:00 or 8:00pm.  Since this is, by my determined choice, a no pressure arena, I didn't push myself to produce here after wrestling with so many demands at work. I needed rest, and I knew the schedule would even out eventually.  I was patient with myself and my happy whirlwind.

Once I began having leisure time again, late last week, I found that I had circled back to desire tensioning with reluctance.  I'd become shy again, mostly because I'd fallen out of the habit of writing.  Decision counts, but habit triumphs.  Time to put my velvet gloves back on and rebuild the habit.

I did draft a post last week, but the old doubt kept it unpublished.  This is how I lock myself up.  I won't continue that either.  So here it is, a creaky climb back onto the horse, evidence of mere humanity--the falling down and getting back up that are possible every day. Sharing what might be mediocre is worth it for that one phrase that satisfies me greatly.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

I am very tired tonight, but happy to have gotten home from work in time to throw together a salad dinner, rest a bit, and actually think of being here, composing instead of collapsing.

Work has near consumed my life in the past two weeks--or is it more?  But I don't mind.  It's a season, a burgeoning spell--moving our culinary program into its permanent home, overseeing the students' production of cookies for the ribbon cutting, shaking a senator's hand, and opening the school bakery softly.

I really thought about just reading tonight, allowing the huge flow to continue as it has been these recent days.  Yet somehow, after dinner and a little book time on the deck, it was only 7:00, and the evening stretched long.  The usual discontent about mere time-passing or entertainment set in, and here I am to remember and record.

Tonight, I feel happy when I visually remember the organized and stocked shelves in our little bakery.   We have a permanent home to set up as we wish, with room to load up 100 pounds of flour and sugar if I want--and I do.  The shiny new pans await breaking in; tools are finding their way into efficient homes; and I have an office with a computer and printer of my very own.  It's like settling into my second home, which it probably will be.

This morning, I was gleeful about the magnificent sunrise panorama so gorgeous that I had to steal as many glimpses of it as I could without leaving my lane disastrously. The brilliant yellow-orange sun seemed to be lifting a wall of purple-gray clouds, its rays already fanning out above.  Just to see it brought me instant natural joy. I briskly fanned that flame of delight for as long as possible.

In between there were hitches and boo-boos and emails and a precious few minutes of quiet at my desk.  Also a reprieve on one of my deadlines for the week.  And under it all the gratitude that this is my life now.

I seem to be doing a lot of remarking about the difference between the past and now in my life, my thoughts, my feelings.  I don't mean to be tedious.  This is simply another season--of savoring how far I've come, of higher altitude awareness. It's another flame that will be fanned for as long as it will burn, which could be years.  I'm still not taking good love for granted, seven plus years in.  Moving from wishing to being may never get old either.  At least until I do, I hope.

I'm tired, I'm risking, I'm barely managing my anxiety, but I'm on the whole blissful. I'm inside the picture window display that still bears my nose print and wondering how I got here.

Oh, wait, I remember:  a lot of hard work and daring.  Life truly does reward action. Eventually.  In her own good time.  Late season fruit, tinged by frost, is oh so sweet.

My, I'm dreamy and rambly tonight.  That's a brain on stress for you.  When I can, I'll write about something normal, like kale chips.

What?  You don't think that's normal?  Just you wait.