Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘organic’

Sat dumbfounded on my papered seat recently when my doctor told me I had to save meat for special occasions. I don’t mean red meat; I more or less already save that for the odd barbecue, and it’s not that big of a deal to me. I mean my mainstays—chicken and turkey.

But but but but they’re low fat, I said. They’re not as high in fat as red meat, but it’s still all saturated fat, she replied. I was in shock, although I did wake up to enjoy the little verse she performed for me next. Something about eating things that walk on all fours versus things that swim. Finger-plays for adults.

I love weirdo fish like sardines, mackerel, salmon, anchovies. But I never imagined they would so easily replace poultry for me, and moreover, that it would not bother me that much. That was the second shock.

Now I’m eating mackerel with horseradish mustard stirred in, scooped up with organic blue corn chips like a bleeding hipster, and for breakfast like a crazy person. I love it. I’m having fun picking out new condiments to try as well. The mustard is great; so’s chipotle hot sauce. Trader Joe’s Thai Green Curry Simmer was a disappointment, as it’s almost flavorless and is the same stricken color of the chairs at the DMV to boot. Looking forward to making my own hot sauces again, along with a new recipe for spicy lemon pickle, a recipe from India. It calls for fenugreek seeds and has to sit in the sun for a week. Clearly I’m in.

I’ve been saving poultry, and eggs as well, for every now and then. Gave in a couple of days ago and made myself a new recipe, below. Cut the sugar back by half (see once again and unremittingly: crazy person), cut the eggs down from five to three, and enjoyed one of the smoothest, velvety-est desserts I’ve ever had: old-fashioned lemon pie. Can’t have fish for breakfast every day, after all.

IMG_0142

 

Read Full Post »

Not to brag, but I’ve really been rocking Chocolate Day lately. When, to keep migraines at bay, you can only have it every third day (today! today!) it’s a big deal, so I bust my bottom to make it count. It’s always good quality, it’s always dark chocolate, it’s usually 65-or-so % cacao, and it’s often organic. With standards like that, eating it straight up is a big enough treat, but gilding the lily now and then is even more fun.

Every year around now I make a soda bread, and riff off the traditional made with raisins. I have two recipes I love, one from Gourmet Magazine, God rest its soul, and the other I happened upon on YouTube–we’ll call it the Bread From Some Guy Online. It’s fantastic, though, made with two full cups of buttermilk (though I use plain organic yogurt because it’s easier to find than organic buttermilk, if the latter even exists); moreover, he recommends eating it slathered with Irish butter, a suggestion that cannot be criticized to any degree.

I mixed up the dough, then soaked dried sour cherries in warm Baileys Irish Cream. The whole goopy thing went into the dough along with a bar and a half of thick-chopped Belgian chocolate. Then I sliced the top into a cross as per tradition—‘to let the devil out’—though I can’t say it did much good, as once it was baked I pulled it apart like a heathen anyway.

The tart cherries + the heady Baileys + the smooth, smoooooth chocolate + the tender crumb—I just want to emphasize that luxury is sometimes a necessity, and should not be met with shame. Jungian analyst Clarissa Pinkola Estes urges her clients to be good to themselves, to ‘have pity on the thing that wants and needs.’ It’s cold. Winter has overstayed its welcome. Stand by Clarissa.

I think I ate a quarter of the above bad boy today, steaming hot, and made a happy mess. With very cold milk it soothed everything. My freezer’s full of the rest, to be messily devoured four days from now, and four days afterward. And on.

Read Full Post »

IMG_8296 (2)

Maybe 30 years ago I read Katherine Paterson’s brilliant Bridge To Terabithia*. There was a note at the end which said the illustrator drew the pictures while listening to the music of the Beatles. (To see one of Donna Diamond’s beautiful drawings from that book, click here.) Her work was so ephemeral and dreamy, and I was not surprised to learn of the particular musical influence. I’d bet you aren’t either.

In my Advanced Studio Art class in high school we always had the radio on, set to a local station, while we drew. My work was inevitably co-authored by Mister Mister, Heart, and Dream Academy. By college I’d graduated to Belinda Carlisle and MC Hammer.

lady speed stick

This is a Lady’s Speed Stick. Hammer would be proud.

Sometimes I listen to music while doing busy work like cutting and freezing produce. Once I wrote to Gourmet Magazine** and told them I spent the afternoon slicing organic strawberries while accompanied by Led Zeppelin. It was a solid choice, I thought. Gourmet agreed. They printed my letter.

But back to the vein of Donna Diamond, Bridge drawings, and the Beatles; and me, my drawings, and late ’80s power ballads: I think the music I’m listening to when I’m creating has a hand in the product. That includes cooking. This past few weeks I’ve needed some deep rest—soul-core rest. Aside from sleeping, that means comfort food; and in my case, making it.

First I went to my farm and bought some local, low-spray, ripe peaches. Then I sliced them and tucked them into a butter crust, latticed and sprinkled with demerara sugar. My co-author was The Carpenters. I felt like I was moving not through air but through Karen’s exquisite honey-colored contralto. That was a mellow-tasting pie, indeed (there it is above).

A couple of days ago I became oddly obsessed with a recipe I’ve had for years but have never made: blackberry brown-sugar cake. I took some liberties, since it was to be a breakfast or teatime cake for me, not a celebration cake for others. Omitted the buttercream and jam and half the sugar, swapped in some olive oil for part of the butter and whole-wheat pastry flour for some of the all-purpose. The recipe also called for ground walnuts and a little sugar at the base of the pan, but I didn’t have any walnuts, so I used hazelnuts instead. They were so heady and delicious that going forward I’ll never use walnuts. I topped the cake with tangy, organic plain yogurt and blackberries I’d just picked at the farm. The result was subtle and moody and surprising.

Nat ‘King’ Cole made this cake with me. You might not be able to tell by the photo, but you’d know for sure when you ate a slice.

IMG_8333

*The movie is rubbish.

**Requisite whimper that they’re gone. 😦

Read Full Post »

Let’s call this a companion piece to ‘dark & light,’ which I published a couple of weeks ago. The sunlight is fading, but instead of feeling loss, I can’t help but notice what a lovely richness it adds to almost everything.

The natural stuff is what I like to shoot best. It’s kind of like the fruit and flowers understand that light comes and goes, but that it’s okay, it’s good, it’s not worrisome. It’s as it should be. Were it otherwise, they would not gain such an extraordinary beauty in low light. They accept it and shine.

Sometimes I dial back the exposure in my shots in post-production; I like to drink in the beauty left over when there’s little light. Take some sips along with me.

IMG_7086

Golden raspberries. I shot this on an overcast day at my favorite organic farm, with grey clouds low and thick. There was no one around, and it was perfectly peaceful.

IMG_6955

Cherry turnovers. Shot in bright late afternoon light. I like how the sugar crystals glitter like snow crust.

IMG_6953

The cherries before they were tucked into the turnovers. Luscious and organic, and I eat them by the pound in late June.

Meyers 2

Meyer lemons. They really are that orange, and the low light toys with us: inside, they’re bright and sweet. My favorite kind of lemon.

IMG_5580

And a late-season hydrangea, just for fun. These grow in dense, shaggy hedges along the edge of my town’s borough hall, which is housed in a beautiful old English Tudor. The light may be low, but they’re lush and lovely nonetheless.

Read Full Post »

IMG_7302

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she feels utterly compelled to make a pie. Okay, sweeping generalization, but it is the case for me.

Whenever life gets overwhelming—as it recently has been for me—I don’t say things to myself like, ‘I need a drink’ or ‘I need an escape to the Maldives.’* No, in the midst of the whirling chaos on the outside and on the inside, I say to myself, ‘I really need to make a pie.’ Sometimes I say it to myself a few times. Who can explain these things? Hopefully me.

This past week, I winged an apple custard pie.

IMG_7305

Making a pie is soothing. Presetting all of the components, chopping the apples, stirring the custard—it’s a personal choreography that I can fall into without a thought. I can let the pattern and rhythm carry me for a while. I could do it in my sleep…and when I can’t sleep, it’s the next best thing.

Making a pie is a concrete accomplishment. How many times in our lives do we feel as though we’re just pushing paper, spending the day (or weeks, or months, or, God help us, years) feeling like a hamster on a wheel? If you sat down and really assessed what you did today, from soup to nuts, would it be a head scratcher?

Pie-making has a clear beginning, middle, and end. And when you get to the end, and take it out of the oven smelling like all of the layers of heaven plus whatever corner of Eden stayed intact after the Fall, you can say to yourself (probably quite as God is reputed to have said), ‘This is done. This is good. I can be proud of this.’

Eating a pie you made….well, this goes without saying.

IMG_7308

Vanilla custard topped with local, organic apples, sauteed in cardamom and Saigon cinnamon. Breakfast, lunch, whenever.

*Not that a Baileys on the rocks doesn’t go down mighty smooth. And if someone offered me plane tickets to those islands, I wouldn’t fight him off with a big stick.

Read Full Post »

IMG_7029

I used to hate fresh tomatoes. Growing up in New Jersey, that was as heretical as blasting Conway Twitty music on the street outside the Pony.* I said it anyway, though. And to be fair, the supermarket tomatoes I grew up eating were hardly flavorful. Grown strictly to withstand shipping and handling, picked unripe and hit with ethylene gas**, they were pink, watery, and a bore on the taste buds.

Then maybe eight years ago I had a fling with an heirloom tomato and became even more smug in my distaste of remotely grown fresh tomatoes. Heirlooms taste like the berries tomatoes are: tender and richly flavored.

Yesterday I walked into Asbury Park for lunch—well, for the makings of it. First I stopped by a local organic farm stand run by a woman in a floppy straw hat. When I picked up one of the two tomatoes on display, I asked if she had raised them herself. She said she had, and warned me that the tomato I held ‘wasn’t perfect.’ I gave it a little squeeze, and a tiny bit of juice oozed out. It was probably two hours off the vine, a youngster in a new town. I told her I don’t care about perfect, and bought it.

Then I went to the bread stand run by a gregarious Roman guy. As he talked to customers he sliced up narrow anchovy-provolone sandwiches, casually handing bits to passers-by.*** Sold me two rolls for a buck. ‘Thank you, sweet dahling!’

Then I walked home, stopping by the lake to pick some wild mint.

IMG_6639

The tomato sandwich with basil is a time-honored thing, and for good reason. I figured mint and basil are cousins, so I’d give that a whirl. Picked a bunch—some for my sandwich, more for my friend who loves to cook and wouldn’t look at me the way the anti-Conway-Twitty crowd would. It takes a rare person, Jerseyan or not, who will not look at me askance for eating plants I picked by a lake. She is one of them.****

I sliced up the roll and gutted it a bit—I don’t like too high a bread-to-filling ratio—and added a slice of Trader Joe’s addictive mozzarella, a little bit of mayonnaise, and kosher salt. The juice from the tomato mixes with the mayo and makes the bread a little soppy, but that’s a plus.

You can try to build a quicker, better, cobbled-together summer sandwich than this, but it won’t work. Okay, maybe if you use two slices of cheese. I’m reasonable.

IMG_7030

*That’s bad. Trust me on this one.

**You’re smacking your lips at that image, aren’t you? I shouldn’t tease so.

***Several turned up their noses; I almost bit his hand off.

***This just occurred to me: the friend I mention is one of three good friends who are first-generation kids (Filipino, Italian, and Japanese). I find in cases such as this there is a stronger connection to where food comes from, and less of a tendency to be afraid of it. Kind of fascinating.)

Read Full Post »

IMG_5338

It’s entirely possible* I’ve been watching too much Doctor Who, but as I picked honeysuckle this morning I wondered whether a plant growing in a particular place becomes imbued with the spirit and motivations of the people who spend time there.

It’s a sly sideways view of terroir, the ancient notion that says what’s produced in a certain area is the result of a confluence of factors that include sun, rain, soil, and more. The product, whatever it is, absorbs the qualities inherent in that particular environment. This gives it a singular flavor, one that cannot be duplicated elsewhere.

Many, many examples support this. There are San Marzano tomatoes, first developed in Italy. They’re prized among chefs, who attribute their intense richness to the volcanic soil in which they were grown. Connossieurs in India scoff at American-grown basmati rice (‘Texmati’), saying fragrant, long-grained basmati rice is not the same if grown outside India. Grass-fed New Zealand lamb has unsurpassed flavor and texture. I could go on.

If this is true, if tomatoes and rice and lamb can carry within them tangible components from their environments, how far-fetched is it to imagine they can carry intangible ones as well?

My favorite small farm is a half hour south of me. The food they grow is lovely. But I drive out there just as much for the serenity that wraps around me with the wind in those fields, for the peace that’s cultivated along with the English garden peas. I go because I know the integrity of the farmer and his family and staff. That integrity means their produce is more than an itemized scale of nutrients. It’s food plus a great deal of heart. And yeah, it tastes like it. At least to me.

IMG_5341

A hot water and sugar treatment. It’s like Elizabeth Arden for flowers.

Another example. Native nations in the U.S. often wore animal skins, bone, and feathers—not to be decorative, but because they believed in doing so they would take on characteristics of those animals. And who couldn’t use extraordinary strength (buffalo), regenerative powers (bear), and shrewdness (coyote)?

Let’s take it one step farther and throw people into the mix. I know I am the product of my many manufacturers. They include the food I ate, the sea-and-lake misty air I breathed, and the trees I played under as a kid. But they are also my parents, my teachers, my friends, the good and bad words, the wisdom and the idiocy. They all formed me as much as the pasta I ate. All were my terroir, and I’d wager so were yours.

IMG_5581

I’m mostly pasta, though.

Back to honeysuckle. It’s an invasive and grows almost everywhere there’s dirt and something to climb. But I still shopped around before I found my favorite place to pick the flowers. Didn’t want to pick too close to a parking lot, junkyard, high-traffic road, or residential yard. That’s about exhaust fume and pesticide pollution. But I’d equally dismiss flowers grown on perfect, organic public lands close to a contentious family, or near the home of someone who routinely chooses nastiness over kindness. It’s one of the benefits of living in a small town; information like this is easy to come by.

Tell me this isn’t the ideal spot: a fence maybe 12′ by 30′, and in between, a solid, opaque wall of flowers. If this honeysuckle hedge had eyes it would have within its view our little baseball field, train station, playground, and lake. Hundred-year-old trees shade it east and west, twice a day, and the rest of the time it’s blessed with full sun. All day long the flowers witness, and pick up the good vibes of, pick-up baseball games, kids on swings, canoers, dog-walkers, and families meeting tired commuters, the latter of whom always take a big breath when they step off the train.

It’s not all ice cream there, of course. Kids will get mad at other kids and yell, ‘No fair!’ Commuters have to go to work, as well as come home from it. There’s bad with the good. But that’s as it should be; and anyway, the good far outweighs. Even the honeysuckle flowers come in two different colors (orange and yellow), have two different flavors, and grow in pairs. A little of this and a little of that. Both are required for a well-rounded syrup.

It could all be in my head, this entire-environs theory of mine. But I don’t think so.

*************************************************************************************************

On the below, which I dreamed up kind of out of nowhere: I liked the idea of pairing honeysuckle with almond, as they both share floral flavors. The chocolate garnish was inevitable.

1) I made the syrup.**.

2) Next came the custard. I used Martha’s vanilla pudding recipe. I left out the vanilla, and instead, once cool, I stirred in about 2/3 cup of syrup.

3) For the tart shells, I also used Martha’s pate brisee recipe, and substituted 1.5 cups of almond flour for part of the all-purpose flour called for. Baked it in cute little tart pans.

4) Then I piled up the custard into the shells, shaved some really good-quality bittersweet chocolate (Noi Sirius Pure Icelandic Chocolate, from Whole Foods) into the middles, toasted a few sliced almonds, and added those to the top, too. Made a heckuva good teatime treat today, along with the extra custard I ate out of the bowl with a rubber spatula.

(Did I say ice cream in a honeysuckle post? Honeysuckle…ice cream! Next on the hit parade. :))

IMG_6879

Honeysuckle Custard Tarts with Salted Almond Shells, Shaved Chocolate, and Toasted Almonds. Righteous ensemble.

*Let’s call it likely and move on.

**For more on the embarrassingly simple process, see last year’s post.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »