Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘thyme’

IMG_6201

My Grapes of Wrath shot. Western meadow, Locust, NJ.

I got myself into a proverbial pickle this past weekend, working really hard and zipping all over the place for work, but forgetting to stock the larder. Well, part of it was Foodtown’s fault; I usually get ground turkey at Trader Joe’s, but the prospect of shopping there on December 23 (let alone Christmas Eve) put me in the cross-hairs for a panic attack. I love TJ’s, but not in December. A shopping trip there earlier this month compelled me to call the place a Ralph Lauren-encrusted Night of the Living Dead. With oversized tins of salted-caramel toffee.

So it was off to Foodtown, where they had ground turkey but with no price tag, and I had no energy to go to customer service to find out what it cost. I went home and did what my peasant forebears did: cobbled. Then gobbled. And gobbled well.

  1. Defrosted some chicken legs, made broth, and added bits of chicken. Dried leftover thyme went in next, and some soba noodles from my pantry shelf. Seriously capital stuff.
  2. Cut up leftover apples, mixed them with fresh cranberries and ground ginger, added oats and toasted walnuts, and made a huge pan of fruit crisp that I’m semi-embarrassed to admit that I destroyed in two days flat. Semi.

Then the craziest thing happened: The weekend kept surprising me, stretching everything that was lacking. And not just with food.

As I was halfway out the door, headed to the park to hike and take pictures, I realized I hadn’t recharged my camera battery since Hector was a pup. But it was too late to do it then; the sun had already started its decline and I couldn’t afford to lose any more light. I’d have to shoot until the battery burned out…and that might be after one shot. Or none. But it never happened. And I took nearly 30 shots.

And before I started out I remembered I needed gas. Gulped, kicking myself for not getting it the day before, because are gas stations even open on Christmas? My dashboard warning light had come on and I didn’t want to risk an hour drive, round trip, and then getting stranded while gas station workers (and everyone, really) were where they deserved to be—at home and drenched in eggnog. But first try, at my own hometown station, a guy was there. I filled up without another worry. Maybe he doesn’t like eggnog.

Even the sun hung in for me: When I arrived at the park the sun was still up but I felt it fading, and scrambled to shoot. Then out of nowhere it roared back, glowing a fierce amber and giving me another 15 minutes. I was shocked, but I shouldn’t have been by then. It’s as if the universe was saying no matter what little I have, it will stretch a bit further if I need it to.

Christmas is over and I made my way back to Foodtown (but not Trader Joe’s just yet, mind. We’re still shy of New Year’s Eve), but I’m not done cobbling in the kitchen with stuff from beforehand. I still have broth left. Guess what else I found? Two onions, bread chunks I saved in the freezer, and a wedge of Fontina.

2017 is on the horizon, and so is French onion soup.

IMG_2517

Many people have told me when they see this shot, they think of the Wizard of Oz. Minus the tornado. Locust, NJ.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

IMG_5463

I read that in some communities you don’t dare leave your car unlocked in high summer or you risk finding your backseat packed to the ceiling with your neighbors’ surplus zucchini. Hit-and-run altruism. Or desperation, take your pick.

Despite the myriad uses people have come up with to use this prolific squash*, a favorite of mine today was a Sunday morning staple when I grew up, simply called zucchini, onions, and eggs.

It’s hardly a recipe, really; like most memorable dishes, it was invented with what happens to be around. Right now in New Jersey it’s this.

Slice zucchini into rounds and saute over medium-high heat in a pat of butter or a good drizzle of olive oil. Turn them when you can start to smell them; that’s a sign they’re speckled with brown underneath.

Chop up some onion and throw it in with the zucchini, stirring often until it’s lightly browned. Hit the mixture with a little salt.

Whisk together some eggs and pour them over the veggies. Add freshly ground pepper and some Italian seasoning, or any variation of fresh or dried basil, thyme, oregano, and rosemary.

If you want to get fancy and have good wrist skills, by all means flip that dude over and call it an omelet. Or just stir gently until set through. I like it lightly browned as well.

There, you’re done. Wait! I just thought of this—a shaving of Parmigiano-Reggiano or Pecorino Romano would be incredible.** That’s new.

I upped my game with the dish this year by using local ingredients and it was so good: zucchini and ‘candy’ red onion from Silverton Farms in Toms River. I also sliced in some of their sweet uncured garlic.

IMG_5438

The eggs were from Wyman Farms, from in county. Then I dressed it up even more by making fries with some of the first of Silverton’s itty bitty fresh-dug potatoes, oven roasted with olive oil and tossed with salt. This is breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

I don’t have a garden. But if you do, let me know and I’ll leave my car unlocked for you.

IMG_5484

* I also read people use them as baseball bats—good for precisely one hit, I’m guessing. I need to stop reading so much.

**Caveat: if you’re at all tempted to use anything that started in a green can, please disregard entirely the above suggestion.

Read Full Post »

That’s Dana above, stirring onions for our spaghetti sauce.  She came over yesterday with my other friend Casey, just because we felt like cooking together.

Cooking with these two is new. But working with them isn’t. We’ve done lots of local theatre shows together—not as actors, mind you, but as crew. We’re stage technicians.

Many people aren’t sure what that means, so here you go: During a show, have you ever seen the lights onstage dim or go out entirely…and then you see faint shadows of people moving set pieces on and off stage…people rolling, pushing, lifting, spinning a bunch of things into place for a scene, usually within seconds? That’s us.

Working in close quarters backstage, having to whisper, feeling the pressure of having to get something right night after night in the dark, in a scant amount of time, trying to avoid injury to ourselves and to the actors who are trusting us, you can imagine it feels like a war zone at times.

But there are plusses inherent in this work, too: We become very, very good at reading each other from across the darkened wings, at knowing each others’ strengths and weaknesses, and we build trust whether we plan to or not. (Not surprisingly, it’s my theatre friends who gave exceptional, much-needed practical support and know-how when I’ve changed addresses, or when, say, when I’ve gotten into an accident.)

When the rapport’s not there, it will be a nightmare backstage, guaranteed. But when you click, and everything moves like a Rolex dipped in extra virgin olive oil, there’s no high like it. It’s GOLDEN.

In planning this lunch, I asked Casey to bring pasta and a colander and Dana to bring soda. I did not worry about them bringing the wrong thing or about forgetting entirely. And they did not.

So here we are in a kitchen. A real one for once, not a two-dimensional set.

Casey’s in his thirties and is comfortable in the kitchen; Dana’s a teenager and is not. Yesterday I taught her how to slice an onion, and she did it beautifully. Then we all went across the street to a patch of herbs I planted years ago and snipped off some thyme and oregano.

I made the sauce a few hours earlier from pureed fresh tomatoes that I bought at my favorite farm. Seemed incongruous to buy canned tomatoes in high summer. (Well, it is. Especially in New Jersey.) The tomatoes took a while to cook down, though, full of water as they were. I added a bit of tomato paste for its intense concentrated flavor.

Then we all tasted the sauce to see what it lacked, and Casey thought we should add a bit of sugar. I come from a family that would throw your clothes out onto the street at such a suggestion, but like I emphasized above, I trust this guy. So we put in a couple of pinches of brown sugar.

This is Dana and me above, pulling off bits of fresh herbs and dropping them into the simmering sauce.

While we waited for the pasta to come to a boil, I painted musical designs on Dana’s arms. (She’s a techie AND a singer.) As I painted, Case manned the pasta.

And this is the two of them tucking in.

Later we went to the beach, ate some junk food, played vintage video games and pinball, and then dropped Dana off to the show she was crewing in Red Bank. It was a good day.

P.S. The sauce was pretty good with the sugar.

Read Full Post »