Overthinking Happiness: Mashed Parsnips

The other day, a very kind person gave me a happiness jar.  Maybe you've seen these on Pinterest, or on some crafty friend's blog, or on Facebook; the idea is that you use the jar to store scraps of paper with notes or pictures of happy memories, moments that make you laugh out loud, surprise gifts, successes, acts of kindness, etc.  At the end of the year, on December 31 (or on whatever arbitrary date you decide, I guess), you empty the jar, and marvel at all of the happiness in your life.  The idea seems to be Elizabeth Gilbert's, originally: back in October, she posted her own happiness jar -- which is several years old -- to her Facebook page, and invited followers to participate in the project with her, and like many things do in social media, the idea took on a life of its own.

I follow Liz Gilbert's page, partly because I think that she's a pretty fabulous, thoughtful, intelligent human being, and partly because she's a local celebrity where I live, even showing up occasionally to take a yoga class at the studio where I practice.  So I saw the happiness jar when it made its first appearance and thought "wow, that's cool.  I should make one of those."  Except I never did.

And when I ask myself why, I don't know the answer: is it because I was afraid I wouldn't fill it?  Because I wasn't feeling crafty enough?  I don't know.

In any case, this lovely little specimen found its way to my house and took up residence on my dining room table.

Where, as I do over pretty much everything, I agonized over it.

I wondered how I would judge if something was important enough to be included in the happiness jar.  What were the jar-worthy criteria?  What if I didn't do enough happy things?  Or what if I didn't fill it?  Or what if I didn't choose well, and put in things that weren't really the happiest after all, and ran out of room?  It was too much pressure.

S. watched the happiness jar stay empty for several days and then commented one day at dinner that he had some money that said the jar would stay empty all year.  Indignantly, I denied this.  After all, I'd already had two things happen that I was going to put into the happiness jar.

So why hadn't I put them in the happiness jar?

Performance anxiety.  The drive to perfection.  These things prevent me from experiencing happiness, or perhaps from acknowledging happiness when I do experience it.  When really, all I need to do is breathe it in, pure and simple.  It's not as if you'll run out of happy if you celebrate it as often as it happens.  Happiness doesn't come in limited supply per customer.

So I took a deep breath, and I started.  I dropped the first two pieces into the jar yesterday.  Because happiness is something you really shouldn't overthink.

Do you have a "happiness jar," real or virtual?

(Updated to add: Do yourself a favor and go read Mel's response to the Happiness Jar phenomenon ... because it will make you laugh out loud.  I totally need both of her jars, too.)

Mashed Parsnips
This is a decidedly un-fancy side.  But really lovely in their simplicity.  Because there are some things you just don't need to overthink.

1 1/2 lbs. parsnips, cut in 1/2" cubes
water to cover
2 to 3 T. butter from happy cows, or margarine, or oil of your choice (flaxseed oil might be a nice nutty option here)
A dash of nutmeg
Salt and pepper to taste

Place parsnips in a large pot and just cover with water.  Bring to a boil and lower heat to medium; continue cooking until almost all of the water has evaporated, about 20 minutes.  (You should test the parsnips after about 20 minutes anyway; if they begin to fall apart on your fork, you have my permission to drain them.)  Transfer the parsnips to a large bowl and mash to your hearts' content.  Add the butter and mash some more.

Add nutmeg, salt and pepper, and continue to mash and stir until smooth.  Serve immediately.

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Thoughts on Diversity, Understanding, and Justice: Kale and Fennel Salad with Apples and Cinnamon

When I went to graduate school for the first time back in 1995 for a PhD in English, my plan was to study "comparative ethnic literatures of the U.S." -- which meant, to me, studying the creative writing of non-white America, the experiences expressed in fiction and poetry by writers whose voices were less prevalent in the literary canon.  I'd written a thesis on Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston and Alice Walker, because the language of their characters was like subversive music to me.

My own identity was conflicted: I was more or less a white girl with a father from Spain who immigrated to the U.S. via France (as a Jesuit charity boarding school student) and then Cuba, a place he lived for many years and left in order to avoid being executed.  I often checked the box marked "Hispanic" because that was what I'd been advised to do, because my cultural experience at home wasn't like other white families I knew, and because there wasn't really any box I felt could describe me.  I won a fellowship for underrepresented students, and felt guilty because I came from a middle-class family, even if my parents had worked hard to achieve that status.

I can't count the number of graduate school classes in which we engaged in impassioned debate about race, about whether people who could not self-identify as [African American, Black, Latina, Chicano, Korean-American, Asian, etc.] could write with any authority about the literature written by people who could.  We talked about whether people who were white literary critics were co-opting and colonializing literary studies.  And I wondered a lot about where I fit in, and whether I was deluding myself, thinking I could speak not necessarily for these writers and these literatures, but about them.  I wondered, too, whether there were any core elements common in human experience.  If we could ever sit down together and feel like the most important thing was our shared humanity.  I hated those discussions; they always made me feel bad about being, for all intents and purposes, white.

Though I ended up leaving that graduate program, the difficulty of advocacy stuck with me.  That difficulty had dimensions, too: it wasn't just about race, but about sexuality, about anything we couldn't change about ourselves.  How could we ever create a world in which people worked together for peace and justice if we could never fundamentally understand each other?

About ten years ago, I took a trip to South Africa with a group of educators and future teachers.  We were there to visit South African schools, to see the effects of apartheid on the educational system, and to make a contribution to South African education.  And to be honest, the more our hosts talked about difference,  described the ways in which apartheid had fundamentally shaped an unjust and well-entrenched system, and complimented our ability to overcome racism in the U.S., the more I felt like we were the ones who needed to learn something from them.  Because, of course, our racism is a lot more insidious.  A lot less obvious, perhaps, but in that way even more dangerous.

My friend KeAnne wrote a powerful post on Monday in honor of Martin Luther King Day, about how we continue to struggle to deal with difference in this country, in ways that are both transparent and invisible.  (Go read it; I'll wait.)  It got me thinking about my very racist father (his ideas always shocked me, given that he was also, technically, the minority), and about my own actions and beliefs.  About what I would have done in her shoes.  I think I probably would have done the same thing, and maybe I'm naive, but I don't think that it was racist.  Because I'm not sure whether she could have helped bring about change in that neighborhood from within it.  It's a tricky, and delicate, question.

My son and I did our annual viewing of the "I Have a Dream" speech on Monday.  He doesn't understand it all yet, because he's six, and the language is pretty complex, but I try to paraphrase for him as best I can.  I love this part best:

"I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.'
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. [...]
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Sitting down together at the table of brotherhood.  That's really what it's about, isn't it?  Not necessarily being able to live another person's experience, but to know that our destinies are bound up together.  The "salad bowl" metaphor for diversity in the U.S. has given way to other metaphors, and then lack of common metaphors at all.  We are a complicated place, and we don't all mix together easily.  I try to teach my son, and hopefully, one day, my daughter, that there's a lot that is the same about all of us and that the sameness doesn't make the differences any less important.

But here's what I think now, more than a decade after my graduate program days: you don't need to understand someone, exactly, or to have lived their experience, to be willing to listen, to be willing to work for justice, and to talk openly about what justice really means.  You need open eyes and an open heart, and you need to be willing to cultivate trust.  Maybe that's naive, too, but I need to start somewhere.

Kale and Fennel Salad with Apples and Cinnamon
adapted from Cooking Close to Home
I love this salad because it's both mixed and separate, because the flavors both blend and are unique.  It's a good salad to serve beside a warm winter soup.

Dressing
2 T. olive oil
2 T. honey
2 T. cider vinegar
1 t. garlic, minced
1/4 t. cinnamon

Salad
1/2 c. fennel, julienne
1/2 c. apple, julienne
1/2 c. carrots, julienne
1/4 c. red onion, julienne
1 1/2 c. kale, very finely chopped
a handful of toasted pumpkin seeds

Blend dressing ingredients together using an immersion blender (great for emulsifying) or a whisk.  Set aside.

Combined julienned ingredients in a large bowl and toss with dressing.

Evenly divide the kale among the serving plates, and top with mixed vegetables and fruit (this is also a fun job for the almost two-year-old).  Sprinkle with toasted pumpkin seeds.

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Difference at the Table: Moroccan Root Vegetable Stew

Despite my love of the harvest, and the falling leaves, and the apples and squash, and even the raking, I don't love November.

It's something about the darkening sky, the full-tilt rush towards Christmas and the pressure to give extravagant gifts, the starches of the Thanksgiving meal, the conversations I'm doomed to have around our Thanksgiving table.

World War Three, the Passive Aggressive version, came early this year.  With my mother's fall down her stairs, and her move to our house for her recovery, we've been dancing around difficult conversations for weeks now, me sometimes biting my tongue, and sometimes not.  Imagine Thanksgiving, with all of its family land mines, stretching out for three, then four, then five weeks, and you'll get some sense of what it has been like around here.

Reflecting on the difficult topic of religious pluralism in church this week, our minister reminded us of another meal that wasn't exactly the most congenial of meetings.

Edward Winslow wrote, in a letter dated December 12, 1621:

Our corn [i.e. wheat] did prove well, and God be praised, we had a good increase of Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our peas not worth the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown.  They came up very well, and blossomed, but the sun parched them in the blossom.  Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors.  They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week.  At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others.  And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

Can you imagine?  The Pilgrims had invited Massosoit to sign a peace treaty, and spent three days eating with ninety surprise guests with whom they couldn't communicate (except through Squanto), warriors who were bearing arms, not really sure whether they were going to be killed.  And you thought your Thanksgiving table conversation was a little tense?  Not that I am entirely sympathetic with the colonists, but it sort of puts things in perspective, doesn't it?  At least we're not armed.  And the one thing I've noticed is that over time, even if the conversations are still difficult, they've become less charged, as if time has diffused them, just a little bit.  Maybe we are figuring each other out, even if that understanding doesn't make us best friends.

Much has changed since 1621; though we haven't entirely abandoned our "roots," there's a lot on our Thanksgiving tables that is hardly "traditional" fare.  This dish is a nod to those early settlers and to their native American guests at the table, a stew made with traditional root vegetables, most of which actually were around for that first Thanksgiving (no potatoes, since they hadn't yet made their way across the Atlantic).  It's a perfect example of the meeting of cultures, American vegetables fused with the flavors of the Middle East.  Even if peace may be hard to imagine, perhaps at least we can appreciate the result of the marriage of flavors, knowing that the longer we sit around the table together, the more likely it is we'll at least achieve some kind of understanding, if not agreement.  And we can give thanks for that.

What--and who--will be at your Thanksgiving table this year?  What do your Thanksgiving roots look like?

Moroccan-Style Chicken and Root Vegetable Stew

4 c. canned low-salt chicken broth
1 T.olive oil
1 lb boneless skinless chicken
1 1/2 c. onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 t. garam masala
2 t. ground cumin
1 cinnamon stick
2 c. sweet potatoes, peeled, 1/2" cubes
2 c. parsnips (I used kohlrabi, because I had one) peeled, 1/2" pieces
1 1/2 c. turnips, peeled, 1/2" pieces 
1 large carrot cut in 1/2" pieces
1 c.  rutabaga, peeled, 1/2"pieces
1/4 c. golden raisins or apricots (chopped)1 14-oz can fire roasted diced tomatoes, drained
Juice and zest from one lemon

In a small pot, bring chicken broth to a boil, continue to boil until reduced by half, then set aside.

Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper. Sauté chicken for about a minute until light golden and remove from pot; set aside.

Add onion to pot and sauté until golden and translucent, about 4 minutes. Add garlic and stir 1 minute. Add spices and stir 30 seconds until just fragrant. Add sweet potatoes, parsnips (kohlrabi), turnips, carrot, rutabaga, broth and currants. Cover and simmer until vegetables are tender, about 20 minutes. Add tomatoes, lemon zest with juice, and chicken, and simmer over medium heat about 5 minutes, or until chicken is thoroughly cooked. Sprinkle with cilantro if desired.

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A Love Letter from New Jersey to the Power Crews, and Kohlrabi Puree

On the way to yoga last night, I passed about ten power trucks.  I have a lot of "Sandy heroes"--the volunteers who rescued people, the volunteers at churches working triple shifts to shelter those who have been displaced (many still have no homes to return to, at the shore, in Staten Island, and all over where trees fell into people's bedrooms), the people organizing drives for underwear and personal hygiene items, the people who came to pump water out of people's houses for free, even the school maintenance workers that have managed buildings turned into shelters--but among the unsung ones, for me, have been the power crews.  They've been here for almost two weeks now, since the day after the storm -- crews from Texas, Ohio, Virginia, North Carolina, Pennsylvania -- working around the clock, in the cold weather, trying to restore the damaged power infrastructure.

The work has been slow, not because of the lack of manpower, but because of the sheer magnitude of the task.  So many lines are a tangled mess, so many poles were snapped, so many trees down, preventing access to make repairs.

And while by and large people have been patient, they've also started to complain.  At times it feels a little like the Star-Bellied Sneetches.  Why do they have power but we don't? they ask, looking down the street to their neighbors' houses, ablaze with light.  When will it be our turn?  We see each other in the grocery store, and we no longer want to ask the question, because we're afraid of the answer, afraid that we might rub salt in the open wound.  We open our homes to each other, we share what we can, but we know that in some ways, it's not enough.

I've taken to waving at the power trucks, my window open, screaming "thank you!!" at the top of my lungs.  I don't know if they hear me, but I want them to know that I'm grateful.  That regardless of the union politics (which I can understand, too--people are trying to protect your jobs in the long term, even as you give so generously of your time in the short term), the lack of supplies, the people who are grumbling and impatient, we are grateful.  You've come here under the least desirable conditions, because you felt that you could help.  You took risks, left loved ones behind.  You rise at the crack of dawn when the temperature is still barely above freezing, and work out of cabs where the floor is littered with Red Bull.  You labor by flashlight long after the sun goes down.  Every time I see a power truck pass by, especially those from another state, I find myself moved almost to tears.

Our CSA season is over; it was supposed to end anyway, even without factoring in the effects of the hurricane, though I was impressed by what my farm was able to pull together on the day after we got our power back, even when they still had no power themselves, and weren't expected to get any back for some time.  There were turnips, and rutabaga, and celeriac, and carrots, and kale, and kohlrabi.

Kohlrabi gets a bad rap.  One of our neighbors, a fellow CSA member this year, refers to it as the "evil kohlrabi"; their son actually now draws comics in which the kohlrabi stars as the main antagonist.  But it's really an impressive little vegetable, not beautiful by any means, but hardy enough to resist being destroyed by the hurricane, resilient, versatile enough to have a presence in soups and stews and curries without taking over, and surprisingly tasty even on its own.  A little knobbly around the edges, but tasty when you get to know it, and salvagable even when it's been split wide open.  Sort of like the people of New Jersey in general, really.

So, to the power companies from across the nation who have come here in our time of need: thank you.  From the not-always-beautiful, but remarkably resilient and strong-willed people of New Jersey.

*I am still taking interested bakers for the online Sandy Relief Bake Sale/Auction.  So far my bakers include JeCaThRe of Bread, Wine, Salt ... (Not)Maud of Awfully Chipper ... KeAnne from Family Building With A Twist ... Ilene from The Fierce Diva Guide to Life ... Jennie from Still Life with Crockpot ... and ManyManyMoons of Many Many Moons ... (all of whom, by the way, absolutely rock as bloggers, and you should go read them).  If you're interested, please leave a comment on the original post by this Sunday, November 11 at midnight.  I will be in touch with all of the participating bloggers next week with details.

Kohlrabi Puree
My mother used to puree kohlrabi.  I don't remember it tasting this good; this version could actually find a place on your Thanksgiving table.  The original, from the New Basics, includes leaves and mushrooms, but I have mushroom haters in my family, and the leaves were no longer attached.

4 kohlrabi bulbs
2 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic , minced
3 Tablespoons vegetable or chicken stock
Salt and pepper to taste

Trim the kohlrabi bulbs, peeling them if the skins seem tough.  Cut the bulbs into 1-inch chunks.

Bring a saucepan of lightly salted water to a boil, and add the kohlrabi chunks. Reduce the heat and simmer until tender, about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a skillet. Add the onion and sauté over medium-low heat until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, another 1 to 2 minutes. Don't let the garlic brown.

Drain the kohlrabi chunks and place them in the bowl of a food processor. Add the stock. Purée until smooth. Salt and pepper to taste.
Transfer the purée to a saucepan and reheat over low heat, stirring, 2 minutes. Serve warm.

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Changes: Thai Roasted Carrot Soup

It's that strange in-between here in my corner of the universe: the point in the fall when you're not sure whether to wear long or short sleeves, whether to pack a jacket or an umbrella, whether to pick up the branches and leaves or wait for the next gusty storm to do it all at once.

It's also that time of in-between for the local markets.  There are two weeks left in our CSA for the season (our end of season potluck is tonight), and some of the summer markets are closing, which makes me pine for the dog days of summer (which I hated when they were here).  But the fall and winter markets are starting; I discovered that this year one has opened in the old pottery factory just two blocks from our house, and, local foodie that I am, I'm looking forward to regular Saturday morning walks there for coffee and tea and bread and eggs and wine and cheese and honey and whatever else is on offer.  We ventured there this morning and noticed empty spaces where some vendors have had to staff two markets at the same time.  I hope that it thrives; I've offered them help with social media to get the word out.

I both love and hate this time of year.  On the one hand, I've never been comfortable with liminality.  I want to be either one place or another, to know where I stand.  On the other hand, this moment in time is so excruciatingly beautiful that I feel like I don't mind giving up certainty for the experience of being here.  And I know that the winter is just around the corner; if the wooly bear caterpillars I've been seeing everywhere are any indication, it will be a long and cold winter.

This morning I also got a call from my mother.  She fell down her basement steps, breaking several of her ribs and her scapula, and injuring her head.  They are talking about releasing her from the hospital tomorrow, and she will be moving into our house for the foreseeable future.  Which you know, if you've been a longtime reader, will be an interesting change, to say the least.

I've made soup.  Because there were carrots from the CSA share, and because soup is comfort food, and fall food, under any circumstances.

Are there changes--seasonal or otherwise--afoot in your corner of the universe, too?

For some reason my carrot soup
appears to be glowing.  It's not, really.

Thai Roasted Carrot Soup

1.5 lbs. carrots
drizzle of olive oil for roasting plus 1 T. for cooking 1/2 onion, chopped
1.5" piece of ginger, grated
2 stalks lemongrass, finely sliced (or 1 T. grated lemon peel)
2 cloves garlic, minced/crushed
1 Thai hot pepper, minced finely (optional)
2 t. cumin
dash of nutmeg
4 c. broth (vegetable is fine)
1 can coconut milk
2 T. lime juice (or less if you prefer)
Thai basil for garnish

Preheat oven to 400°F. Spray large rimmed baking sheet with nonstick spray.  Add carrots to prepared baking sheet; drizzle with oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast until tender and brown, stirring occasionally to prevent burning and sticking, about 55 minutes. Don't be afraid of brown; you want to bring out the caramel flavor in the carrots.

In a medium saucepan, heat olive oil over medium and add onion through hot pepper (optional), sauteeing until the onion becomes translucent.  Add cumin and nutmeg and saute for another minute.  Add roasted carrots and broth, bring to a boil, and simmer about 20 minutes.  Add coconut milk and puree with an immersion blender (or transfer to a regular blender).  Add lime juice just before serving, and if available, garnish with Thai basil.

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Time Warp Tuesdays: Hope, and the End of CSA Season

Kathy over at Bereaved and Blessed is doing the Time Warp Again!  Time Warp Tuesday is the monthly blog hop in which Kathy invites us to revisit an old post from our blog, and think about where we are now, how our thoughts about the post may have changed from its original writing.  This month, Kathy directs us to find an old blog entry about hope:

It might be a post where you wrote about something you hoped for, how hope got you through a difficult or uncertain time in your life or more generally what hope means to you. Then write a new post on your blog about why you chose the post that you did and what has happened in your life since.

I've written a lot about hope on this blog.   Much of it has been around issues of successful pregnancy and finding a new job.  But those posts were not as profound, to me, as the one about last year's CSA.

It had been a pretty horrible year.  Rotten produce.  Weeks on end of cabbage.  And in our own garden, decimation due to all manner of local herbivores.  I reflected on 2011 in general on that post, thinking about how so many people experienced it as a year of despair, uncertainty, and hardship.  And how, during the harvest time, which begins the Thanksgiving/Christmas season, it is sometimes hard to feel grateful.

But I believe now as I believed then that the human spirit is indominable, and that we hope anyway ... because it's in our nature to do so.  And that the hope itself is a gift to be thankful for, even when our well has run dry.

It's now three weeks away from the end of this year's CSA season.  We loved our CSA this year.  Was it perfect?  No; there were caterpillars in the broccoli that destroyed the crop, the squash were mostly killed off by a fungus, and there was still an awful lot of chard.  But a few things happened to make this year different: first, our farmers told us what was going on, so we were able to better manage our expectations.  Second, I have another year of experience under my belt, so dealing with the uncertainty of the harvest (or the bounty of a single vegetable) is a little bit easier.  And finally, our farmers are hopeful people, too; from the beginning, they've been talking about things they're looking forward to doing differently next year.

And that's what makes hope useful.  When we get stuck on the same things we've always wanted, in the same form: that's not hope.  That's obsession.  But when it can open our hearts wide enough so that we might be able to accommodate a different vision of that hope, and work--to the best of our ability--towards that new vision ... well, that can change us.

It turns out that I found a better CSA this year.  It also turns out that I have two beautiful children, that I left my job and am now home with my daughter until  I find something else.    We don't always get that we want, but often, we can achieve what we hope for.

Here's hoping y ou do, too.

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Working Mama: Crockpot Southern Greens with a Kick

I can't remember exactly how the conversation started.  We were eating dinner together, my kids and I; S. was at an important dinner meeting for work.  Maybe my son had asked about S.'s recent spate of late nights.

"But you don't work," he objected.  "You just hang around here all day with N."

Hello, what?

"VERY interesting," I said, trying not to reveal that he had pushed my biggest button.  "That is one of the things that not even adults agree about.  You've hit on a very sophisticated conversation.  So: changing diapers, making meals, making snacks, entertaining your sister, teaching her things ... none of that is work?"

"Nope," he said, confidently, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

"Well then how do you define work?" I asked.

"Something you get paid to do," he replied.

"Huh," I said.  "So when you rake leaves in the back yard, is that work?"

"Nope."

"How about when we ask you to make your bed?"

"Nope."

"Let me tell you something, Buster," I said, looking him square in the eye, "taking care of your sister during the day is quite possibly the hardest job I've ever had.  And I've worked for some pretty challenging people."  I paused.  "So tell me this: what if I took N. to day care, and the person there did all of the things for her during the day that I do, and the only difference is that she gets paid.   Is that work?"

"Yes," he said.

"Well," I said, thoughtfully.  "I guess if what I do isn't work, if it's just for fun, and it's not hard, and it doesn't have value, then it won't matter if I stop, right?"

He looked at me quizzically.

"I mean, I'm not going to bother to bus your plate.  Or run your bath tonight.  Or do laundry."

"Whoopeee," he said, running into the living room, full of six year old glee, "no bath!"

I ran N's bath, and collected her from her booster seat.  About two minutes later, my son came back into the kitchen, hopping around, with his shirt stuck on his head.

"Moooooooom," he called from under the folds of striped fabric, "help me, I'm stuuuuck."

"I'm not working," I said, amused that he was clearly going to take a bath anyway.  "And I have to go tend to your sister."

Horrified silence.  "But Mom, I'm stuck."

"You'll have to get yourself out.  I love you, and I'm happy to help you, but I'm on strike until you recognize that I work."  I make like I am going to head into the bathroom, where N. is calling for me and drinking the bathwater.  sigh.

A beat.  He calls after me.

"On strike?  There's no such thing as being on strike."

"Sure there is.  When you don't like your working conditions, you can strike to request better ones."

"You can't go on strike."

"Well, I'm not helping you take your shirt off."

I can see him chewing his lip, from under his shirt.  Then: "okay, OKAY, you're WORKING."

"Right," I said, removing the entangled button from its hole.  "And don't you forget it."

Southern Greens with a Kick
I made these with the new tsunami of kale and chard coming in our CSA share these days.  Or rather, my crockpot made them.  Because I wasn't working, right?  Right.

2 bunches greens (collards, kale, mustard or turnip)
1 large sweet onion, sliced
1 T. olive oil
4 -5 garlic cloves, pressed
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded, minced
1/4-1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 turkey leg, or 2 ham hocks, or for a vegetarian version, use a T. or so of Spanish smoked paprika/pimenton and salt more liberally
2 -3 cups water
salt and pepper
balsamic vinegar

Tear the greens into large pieces, wash under running water to clean well, drain.  Preheat a heavy skillet with olive oil, add sliced onion and garlic; cook stirring frequently until onions begin to lightly brown, add minced jalapeño peppers.

Place the cooked onions in the bottom of the crockpot, add the drained greens, pimentor or turkey leg or ham hock, crushed red pepper and water. Cook on low for 5 to 6 hours or until greens are tender. Remove meat from bones, discarding bone and fat. Shred the meat and return to pot, mixing well; adjust salt and pepper to taste. Top each serving of the greens with balsamic vinegar to taste.

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Friending My Mother, and the Need-To-Know Basis: Tomatillo Stew

About a month ago, I got a facebook friend request from my mother.

I sat, staring at my screen in disbelief for a while, and then, I confess: I pretended that it never happened.  The notification is still sitting in limbo in the friend request tab, glaring at me accusingly every time I open that page, shaking its virtual finger at me, neither accepted nor ignored.  Because I simply didn't know what to do with it.

I've been on facebook since July 2005, a bit longer than most people my age.  I originally used it as a professional tool, for the purpose of hunting down students, because they weren't responding to email any more, and hadn't yet been sucked into their little text bubbles.  It worked remarkably well: my students both responded more promptly to my questions or requests to see them, and sought me out more often, saying that they found me more approachable because I had a facebook profile.  My policy was not to friend students unless they friended me first, using the tool primarily as a messaging device until they made the decision to use it to build a relationship.

A few years later, my high school and college friends found facebook, and my personal and professional lives collided online.  Suddenly I'd been tagged in pictures from the third grade.  Not long after that, my family started to find me on Facebook, and I could see who my brother had been out with, and where my father-in-law had taken his homemade rail bike.  Unlike some of my colleagues, I have been OK with this collision, because I felt like it represented a more complete picture of me to my students.  I've never posted anything particularly objectionable.  I don't really have anything to hide from one group or another.  There are no pictures of me with a red Solo cup in hand (mostly because those pictures don't exist).  I've never (as far as I can recall, anyway) used facebook to gossip or to say anything derogatory about other people.

Now.  My mother isn't exactly a Luddite, but she is a slow technology adopter, and not an avid user.  As of a week ago, she still receives and forwards chain mail with animated gifs.  Google isn't exactly a verb for her.  Even if I were to accept her friend request, it's unlikely she'd troll through my archives looking for dirt.  She may or may not look at the pictures I've posted, most of which are dated.  She certainly would not read my status updates with any regularity.  At least, I don't think she would ... though the fact that she only has 14 other friends might make me stand out.

So why am I so hesitant to friend her?
 
When I lived in West Hollywood, I was mugged at gunpoint late one night by a small group of teenagers while on my way to Starbucks for a cup of coffee.  I'm sure it was a small time gang dare, because they seemed nervous, and the "give us your money, bitch" that they whispered in my ear as I felt the cool barrel of the gun at my head inspired more indignance than fear.  I'd grabbed my purse back from them, told them to "hang on a minute," and gave them the $20 I had for groceries, taking my credit cards back and feeling pissed off because I was a poor graduate student.  They seemed satisfied, we parted ways, and I called the police to make my report.  I didn't call my parents to tell them until about a week later, because I didn't feel like they needed to know; they were 3000 miles away, and would have been upset about something they could do nothing about, something that was already over.  I didn't want to dwell on it.  When it finally did come up, I told my mother that the situation was information I shared on a "Need to Know Basis," and that at the time, she didn't need to know.  Though I didn't mean them hurtfully, I know that she has carried those words in her heart since then; it colors all of our interactions, all of our careful stepping around one another's lives.  As I've been thinking about the facebook problem, I've been wondering if I could draw parallels between my reaction to my mother about her friend request, and the fact that I didn't tell her about getting mugged.  Is this about trying to control what I think she Needs To Know? [updated: I am aware of, and use, various custom groups for making some posts more private.  For some reason, that doesn't affect the way I feel about this situation; I would feel uncomfortable accepting the friend request and then excluding her from my posts.]

The other night, I was talking with a friend whom, I was surprised to hear, was experiencing the same dilemma.  Only in her case, her mother was demanding that she friend her.  Unlike my mother's friend request, which was quietly brooding, only creating guilt because I was inviting it to make me feel guilty, her mother's friend request was like a Howler arriving at Hogwarts, screaming in real life, at the top of its lungs: "you'd better friend me or else."  Her mother was actively looking for pictures to which she didn't have access, feeling left out of an imagined circle of communication.  She threatened my friend with hurtful consequences if she continued to exclude her from her friend list.

I told my friend that this amounted to harrassment in my book.  That she shouldn't have to experience this.   That it was wrong of her mother to make such an unreasonable demand of her adult child who, in my opinion, should be allowed to decide whom to friend.

When we were talking about this, I compared my facebook account to a private room in my virtual house.  I may not have anything to hide in that room.  There are no sex toys, or hidden drugs, or anything that my mother should be worried about.  I bring anything that might be of interest to her directly to the recliner in my virtual living room, where I've invited her to sit.  In fact, she has more access to the things in the rest of my virtual house, where she gets to browse freely.  But if I found her in that one room snooping around, or felt like she demanded to have access to that room, I'd be upset.

The irony, of course, is that I find it perfectly acceptable for mothers of children going off to college to expect that their children friend them (which is a conversation I had with another friend just the day before).  I'm not sure if this is a generational division in my mind.  Do I find it acceptable because the younger generation has always lived with their parents looking over their virtual shoulders?  Or because these children are not yet old enough to be completely individuated?

Facebook friends are not really our friends.  It's a poorly-conceived term.  Some of them are friends, some are acquaintances, some are colleagues.  Some are people we probably don't care very much about at all, especially if we're not vigilant about purging our friend list.  And maybe that's just it: the people I don't care about at all are like people on the street who see my public self when I'm walking downtown with my children; what I post on facebook means nothing to them.  My real friends are the ones for whom my posts have meaning.  So perhaps if I considered my mother my friend, I would friend her ... or, ironically, if I didn't care about her at all, I wouldn't mind accepting her friend request?  What does this say about my attitude towards social media?

I'm stewing.  What would you do?

Tomatillo Stew
Here's something different we decided to do with our CSA tomatillos last week.  It requires a green sauce, but uses that green sauce in a slightly different way than usual.  It's easy to make vegetarian/vegan by using chayote squash as a substitute for the chicken.  Adapted from here.

1 1/2 lbs. tomatillos
2 T. canned chopped green chiles (mild)
1 clove garlic, chopped
1 t. kosher salt
2 T. lime juice
pinch of sugar

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into 1" cubes & patted dry OR 3/4 lb. chayote squashkosher salt & freshly ground pepper, to taste
extra virgin olive oil
2 yellow onions, chopped
1 t. ground cumin
1 t. ground coriander
2 more cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 c. chicken or vegetable stock
1 t. dried oregano1 bunch fresh cilantro, chopped

Preheat the broiler to high. Line a baking sheet with foil and set aside. Remove the papery husks from the tomatillos and slice them in half. Place them cut-side down on a baking sheet about six inches from the broiler and roast for 5-7 minutes, until blackened in spots and cool enough to handle.

Add the tomatillos, any juice they released, chiles, garlic, salt, lime juice, and sugar in a blender and puree until well blended.

Heat enough olive oil to coat the bottom of a large skillet over medium high heat. Salt and pepper both sides of the chicken or squash and drop it in the hot skillet. Brown the cubes on each side (they don’t have to be cooked through); remove from the pan.  Reduce the heat to medium and add the onions. Cook until softened and the browned bits on the bottom of the pan have loosened.  Add the cumin and coriander and stir until fragrant. Add the garlic and cook for a minute more.

Once the garlic has become fragrant, add the browned chicken or squash back to the pan. Stir in the tomatillo sauce, stock and oregano. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook, partially covered for 20 minutes, until the chicken or squash is cooked through. Add cilantro just before serving.

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Aloo Baingan and the Art of Efficiency

I pride myself on efficiency.  When I had boring jobs back in high school and college like stuffing envelopes, I would spend the first few minutes figuring out how I could optimize envelope and paper placement so that I could move at the fastest speed.  When I'm cooking, I tend to try to do as many things at the same time as I can, stirring two pots with two spoons at the same time, doing dishes while something is simmering.

Which is why I had such a hard time in graduate school figuring out why I simply couldn't get it all done.  I found out later that no one else was actually doing all of the assigned reading, so my whole efficiency approach was shot to hell; it wasn't physically possible to do all of the reading.

Post-BlogHer, I made a commitment to myself to be more active in social media.  I already comment as much as I can on other people's blogs, especially if I know that that person is reading this blog (with apologies to WordPress people whose blogs don't always show up in my reader).  I have a Pinterest account where I pin beautiful food that I publish here and that I find elsewhere.  I created a Facebook account for this blog so please go make my day and like me there, and I've made more connections on Twitter (tweet me!).  Part of my previous reluctance was an attempt to keep my "real" identity separate from my blog identity; I think I've finally given up on that semi-anonymity.  So now I'm trying to keep up with all of it.

I still haven't figure out yet, though, how to be efficient about all of it.  Reading and commenting take up a lot of time.  And then reading Facebook.  Forget the Twitter feed, which is gone instantaneously if you're not watching it scroll by on your phone, or managing it on Tweetdeck, and if you follow a few people who post things every thirty seconds.

The efficient perfectionist in me hates this.  I keep thinking, there must be an easier way.

The SITS Girls tweeted on Thursday, asking tweeps what advice they'd give a new blogger.  I replied, "Build a supportive community by being a supportive community member."

But what does that mean?  How do you keep up with the social media maelstrom, especially if you want to engage people in meaningful conversation?

One place I love to be efficient is in the use of our CSA veggies.  When I can find a recipe that combines several vegetables from the share for dinner, I feel like I've conquered the box.  Here's one we ate this week.

Aloo Baingan
(adapted from here)

1 T. olive oil
1 medium eggplant, cut in half lengthwise, then cubed in 1/2" pieces
1/4 c. water
4 medium tomatoes, chopped
salt and pepper to taste

2 T. olive oil
1 t. mustard seeds
1 t. cumin seeds
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 1/2 t. grated ginger
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 large red bell pepper, seeded and cut into rings (1/2" thick)
4 medium potatoes, peeled and cut into 4 wedges (you can also cut them into cubes)
2 c. water

1 t. coriander powder
1 t. curry powder
1/2 t. garam masala
1/4 t. turmeric

Heat 1 T. oil in a non-stick pan on medium. Add the eggplant, a little salt and cook for a few minutes on both sides until it turns slightly dark and starts to soften. Add tomatoes, water, season with salt and pepper and cook covered for a few minutes until the fresh tomatoes are soft.  Set aside.

Heat 2 T. oil in a pan on medium. Add the mustard and cumin seeds, cover and let them splatter. Add garlic and ginger and sauté for a few minutes until fragrant. Add the onion, a pinch of salt to help it soften faster, and cook covered for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add the red pepper rings and sauté for a few minutes. Add the potato wedges and cook covered for another few minutes, turning them around from time to time. Finally add the water, enough to almost cover the potatoes, the spices and cook covered for 10-15 minutes until the potatoes are tender but not easily breakable and the liquid has reduced.

Add the eggplant/tomato gravy and cook together for a further 10 minutes. Taste and add more salt if needed. If the curry is thick enough, keep the lid on for the last minutes. If it's still liquidy, keep it uncovered until it has the right consistency.

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And the Livin' Is Easy: Tomato Tart

About mid-way through the summer, I get really sick of cooking.  Unfortunately, this always coincides more or less with tomato season, during which a CSA member must cook early and often, or face rotten tomatoes.  I've never really canned food, partly because I have an inexplicable fear of the process, and partly because canned things remind me of my mother's basement, which, unlike our basement or pantry, is well-stocked for the next nuclear fallout, and covered in a quarter-inch-thick layer of dust.

Luckily, tomatoes are often best when they're not cooked, so we end to eat lots of tomato and cream cheese sandwiches, and tomato salads.

There's also something like this, which is ridiculously easy and comes together in less than half an hour, even though it looks like you labored over it.  If you didn't want to be a cheater, you could make your own puff pastry, or use home-made pizza dough.  But who wants to do that?

What are your favorite ways to use fresh tomatoes from your garden or farm?

Fancy Tomato Tart

tomatoes, 5-6, sliced about 1/4" thick and laid on paper towels to dry a bit
cherry tomatoes, 6-7, halved, for color
fresh basil, about 6 leaves, cut in chiffonade
fresh parmesan, grated, about 1/2 c.
puff pastry, 1 sheet, thawed! (takes about 40 minutes)

Preheat oven to 400F.  On a sheet of parchment, roll out puff pastry a bit so that it's slightly larger than it was when you unfolded it.  Bake pastry for about 15-18 minutes or until golden brown and puffed.

Remove from oven and sprinkle with a small amount of the grated cheese.  Lay tomatoes in a decorative pattern on top of the pastry, pressing slightly so they don't fall off.  Top with more cheese and fresh basil.

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Summer Vegetable Soup

N. has taken to playing in the kitchen while I work there, making meals or washing.  Sometimes she simply empties cupboards, and often she demands to be up in my arms so she can "SEE?  SEE?  SEE?" but lately, she's also been "cooking."  When I ask her what she's making, she usually says, simply, "soup."

I'm not sure how she got the idea to make soup, since she's only really started talking this summer, and there hasn't been a whole lot of soup-making around here, what with the temperatures in the triple digits and all (yes, I know one can make cold soups; we tend not to).  Still, it's nice to be "fed" by my toddler.  I love it when kids "make soup," because they become so creative with the ingredients.  "BOK-key?" N. tells me.  "BEEEEn?" and then: "PAPAYAYAYA?"

Despite the record heat and humidity in these parts, I could have used a little comfort soup today.  The I-bug was still at home sick and will likely be home tomorrow, too; I had a job interview; and I am developing a complex about the fact that I really only have one pair of shoes--sandals!--to wear to BlogHer.  (My shoe-buying phobia is even worse than my clothes-shopping phobia. And I happen to really like wearing my one pair of sandals.)

If I did make soup, it would be something along the lines of the food we ate at a little B&B in Nominigue (now under different ownership, I believe) when we stopped there for a night during a bike trip through the Laurentians in Canada.  I've been thinking about our host Guillaume a lot lately as I've been using up CSA produce; the meals he made us were filled with produce and herbs from his garden, and inspired, he told us, by his grandmother.  His chickpea salad, which I tried to recreate the other day with some chickpeas, lemon juice, fresh ground pepper, and fresh herbs, practically leapt into my mouth.  I don't remember if he made tomato salad, but if he did, it would have been like the tomato, balsalmic vinegar, and fresh Parmesan dish I threw together to go with the chick peas. It's funny, but I think that those simple meals were some of the best meals I've ever eaten, anywhere.

Here's to you, Guillaume.  I hope you're still making wanderers feel at home.

French Vegetable Soup
adapted from Twelve Months of Monastery Soups
This is supposed to be a spring vegetable soup, but it could also work well with some of the summer produce arriving in a CSA share or at your local northern hemisphere farmer's market now (onions, potatoes, tomatoes, beans).


3 T. butter
2 c. cauliflower
1 c. fresh peas (or beans)
1 c. chopped spinach (or chard or kale)
2 carrots, sliced
2 onions or leeks
1 c. chopped celeriac (you could also use turnips or potatoes)
2 quarts water
1 c. sherry or white wine
2 bouillon cubes
2 sliced tomatoes, peeled and chopped
pinch mixed herbs
salt and pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a soup pot and saute the vegetables (except for the tomatoes) for 1-2 minutes.

Add the water, sherry, bouillon cubes, tomatoes, herbs, salt, and pepper.  Cook the soup slowly, covered, over medium-low heat for about 1 hours.  Stir occasionally and add more water if necessary.  Let soup sit for 10 minutes.

When ready to serve, add more fresh finely chopped herbs.

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ICLW July 2012: Do You Want Fries With That?

It's been a while since I got my act together and put myself on the ICLW list.  But I'm glad to be back! Thanks for visiting here.  A bit of housekeeping:

• If you want some background about why I'm on the ALI blogroll, you can read my post for the 2011 Resolve Bust A Myth challenge.  It's not for the faint of heart.
• You could also start with the Things I'm Afraid To Tell You, which will give you insider information about my laundry habits.  Or you could just salivate over my cupcakes.
• I'm doing NaBloPoMo this month.  Because I need more acronyms in my life.
• Even before I had a blog, I wanted to go to BlogHer.  I wanted to meet the amazing writers I found online.  And this year, I'm going!

Which brings me to the meat of today's post.

~~~~~~~~~~~

From an early age, I thought of myself as a writer.  I spent hours in the ditto room during lunch in the fifth grade, with my best friend, inhaling purple ink fumes and co-writing an adolescent romance complete with hand-drawn illustrations which we actually--this is completely laughable now--sent off to a publishing agency.  In the seventh grade I authored a short science fiction story that my teachers swooned over, and which I was sure would sell hundreds of copies.  In eighth grade and in high school, I dominated the literary magazine with my poetry.  I majored in English in college, and even won a poetry award one year.

Like most of my fellow English majors, I tired of people asking me what I was going to do with my major.  How many times did I have to hear "do you want fries with that?"  Why yes, yes, I was preparing myself for a career in the food service industry!  How did you know?

Somewhere along the way, my passion for writing got swallowed up by term papers, and then a thesis, and then my dissertation: the ultimate writing killjoy.

Years passed.

Then, two and a half years ago, I started this blog.  I don't know when I started reading blogs, but something about the genre appealed to me.  Since its birth, it's been quite the wanderer, venturing into pregnancy loss, food porn, yoga, infertility, career uncertainty, parenting, mindfulness, even--though less frequently--politics.  I've often found myself wondering, sometimes aloud, where it's going.  And whether that matters.  Whether my meandering might lose me readership.

Last week, Jjiraffe posted something that rocked my world a little bit.  She suggested that maybe, just maybe, good writing wasn't about finding a niche, but about finding--and using--your voice.

The weird thing is that despite the fact that I write here, I often don't think of myself as a writer.  Which is sort of silly, right?  Every once in a while, someone like Mel waves a magic wand and BAM. I'm a writer ... but then something happens, I lose my glass slipper, and I'm back doing laundry again.

The funny thing is that in my own way, during these past few years, I've made myself a career in the food service industry, just as those jokers predicted long ago.  I feed my readership, one post at a time.  (My new business card says "food for the palate. food for thought." Congratulate me on my cleverness.)  But in the process, I think I've also started to find my voice.  Here's what NaBloPoMo is reminding me: if I just write (*thanks, again jjiraffe), I'm a writer.  The paralysis that comes from some overblown idea of what my writing should be, or consistency of topic, or impressing readers?  I never had that problem when I was in the fifth grade.  Because I wrote.  I was a writer.  And that was enough.

Our CSA has had a particularly successful potato harvest this year.  So like a good food services employee, I'm offering you some fries.  I hope you don't mind; I'll be serving them up with a side of prose.

Perfect Oven Roasted Fries
I don't usually even like fries.  But these?  Damn.

3 russet potatoes (about 24 oz. total), peeled and cut lengthwise into even sized wedges
5 T. vegetable, canola or peanut oil, divided
kosher salt to taste
freshly ground black pepper to taste

Preheat the oven to 475F.  Place the potato wedges in a large mixing bowl. Cover with hot water; soak for 20 minutes. Put 4 tablespoons of the oil onto a heavy, rimmed baking sheet or a heavy baking pan. Tilt the sheet side to side to evenly coat the pan with oil. Sprinkle the pan evenly with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Drain the potatoes. Spread the wedges out on layers of paper towels or on clean kitchen towels. Pat dry with additional towels. Wipe out the now empty bowl so it is dry. Return the potatoes to the bowl and toss with the remaining 1 tablespoon of oil. Arrange the potato wedges on the prepared baking sheet in a single layer. Cover tightly with foil and bake for 5 minutes. Remove the foil and continue to bake until the bottoms of the potatoes are spotty golden brown, 15-20 minutes, rotating the baking sheet after 10 minutes. Flip each potato wedge keeping them in a single layer. Continue baking until the fries are golden and crisp, 5 -15 minutes. Rotate the pan as needed to ensure even browning, and feel free to flip them again.

When the fries are finished baking, transfer to a paper-towel lined plate to drain some of the grease. Season with additional salt and pepper to taste. Serve warm.

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Comfort and Red Curry

I went to yoga last night for the first time in about two months.  Between our own travels, my husband's travels, and missing a week or two to do something with my son, I lost momentum.  Knowing that there are more dates coming up in the next month that I won't be able to get to class was making me feel like there was no point in going, anyway, because I'd begin to practice and then backtrack again.

Of course, I become a much grouchier person when I don't go to yoga.  When I don't take time for myself.  Even when I go to the Y, I know that my daughter is in Child Watch and that all hell could break loose at any moment (most often this happens in the form of an emergency diaper change requiring that I leave my class at once).  And considering that I haven't been in weeks, and that I've been solo parenting on and off during that time, I admit, I have gotten grouchier than usual.  For me, yoga is a spiritual practice that offers me peace, and reminds me, as Rumi says, to "visit myself," but it also helps me to get out of myself, to think outwards, to gain perspective.  I love what Pema Chodron says about this:

For many, spiritual practice represents a way to relax and a way to access peace of mind. We want to feel calm, more focused; and with our frantic, stressful lives, who can blame us? Nevertheless, we have a responsibility to think bigger than that these days. If spiritual practice is relaxing, if it gives us some peace of mind, that's great-- but is this personal satisfaction helping us to address what's happening in the world? The main question is, are we living in a way that adds further aggression and self-centeredness to the mix, or are we adding some much needed sanity? (from Taking the Leap)

In the interest of potentially adding needed sanity to the world, I finally decided to go, despite feeling tired, and when I arrived, I discovered that there was a sub for my usual teacher.  Great, I thought.  I sacrificed the time and money and it's not even my favorite teacher.  I made my way into the room, unrolled my mat, and closed my eyes, feeling grumpier than ever.

I sat listening to my breath, and imagined what my regular teacher would say, about honoring the intention that brought you to class, about putting aside whatever you left to get to class and whatever you were going to have to return to after you left.  I heard her voice suggesting that I let the breath breathe me.  Slowly, the attitude melted away.

And the class was actually just what I needed.  It wasn't my usual teacher's pace, or her humor, but it was gentle enough to allow me to be gentle to myself.  I found myself grateful, in the end, that I'd gone, and that the sub was there after all.  And I felt renewed, able to tackle the world again.

It reminded me of my pickup at the farm two weeks ago, when I was just starting to get over being sick.  I didn't want to go; I almost called my neighbor to ask her to pick up my share for me.  I knew I'd have to carry N. on my back, in the heat, and venture into the fields if I wanted tomatoes.  I felt depleted, and wondered whether perhaps it would just be easier not to go.

But when I arrived, there were two curry dishes to sample, waiting inside the pickup space.  Our farm always has one or two seasonal dishes to sample at pickup, using part of the week's share, along with the recipe.  I've written here before about curry as one of my comfort foods, and it was as if they knew what I needed.  I don't even eat white rice much anymore, that small flowered Dixie cup full of warm rice and coconut milk and squash and red curry was like a small miracle.  It was the first real food I'd eaten in days.  I was grateful, and I told them so.  I know I was a better parent that night.

Sometimes it's hard to go where we need to go, or do what we need to do.  We don't want to go to yoga.  We don't want to write for the fifteen minutes we promised ourselves.  We don't want to see that friend who has been nagging us.  It's inconvenient.  We're tired.  We're grumpy.  But sometimes the nourishment we need is waiting there.

Where do you go or what do you do to nourish yourself?  Is it always easy to make that commitment?  Do you find that this practice, or this space, is self-centered, or does it help you to add sanity to the world?

Red Curry with Summer Squash 
This is slightly different from the previous red curry recipe I posted.  You can still make your own curry paste, but I like the convenience of the bottled kind.

3 medium summer squash cubed (I also tossed in 3 small eggplant)
1 sweet onion, sliced
2 cloves of garlic sliced
2 T. olive oil
2 T. red curry paste
2 c. coconut milk
1 T. fish sauce
1 T. brown sugar
Salt
Sweet (Thai) Basil

Sauté curry paste in olive oil 1 – 2 minutes to bring out flavor. Add 1 c. coconut milk; simmer 4 minutes. Add onion, garlic and squash. Cook until beginning to get tender. Add 1 1/2 c. coconut milk, fish sauce, and sugar. Add salt to taste, remove from heat and add sweet basil May use other vegetables as well

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Choosing Difficulty: Chard Frittata

My husband often teases me that I make things unnecessarily difficult.  I belabor decisions, second-guessing myself and often initiating the same conversation with him several times in different ways to make sure the answers haven't changed; I do too many completely unrelated things at the same time; I create challenges (like signing up for a CSA when I know that it creates stress to figure out how I'm going to use all of the produce creatively and effectively in a week) ... you get the idea.  It's an expression of my tendency towards perfectionism, I guess, but also a way for me to test ideas and processes so that I can optimize efficiency.  In my own little mind, making things difficult temporarily makes them easier somewhere down the road.

In cognitive psychology, there is a concept called "desirable difficulty" which actually supports this approach to problem-solving.  The theory is that introducing hurdles into the learning process makes the lessons "stick" better: examples include spacing lessons farther apart, varying where the learning takes place, having learners generate material by creating puzzles rather than just reading it, making learning less clearly organized, even using fonts that are harder to read.  (See this article for more information about the theory and its applications.)

I choose difficulty, because I like a challenge, but also because I guess I've always suspected I'd learn more that way. And also because I'm a stubborn so-and-so.

Our farm continues to produce chard, though now the supply is dwindling and it's pick-your-own, and no one seems to be picking it.  I don't even really like chard all that much, and I've been feeling out of ideas for things to do with it, but I'm also a sucker for "free" (and "pick all you can" is about the same as "free" to me, even if I hadn't won our half share), so on Tuesday, when it was about 97 degrees, I set off with N. on my back in the huge Kelty backpack (I won't let her down in the fields because I can't chase a child trampling the tomato vines and pick vegetables at the same time).

My husband would have told me that I was a nut for going picking optional chard, which I don't love, on a day that was so hot, carrying N. on my back.  And then I asked him to go raid our garden for the usable chard when he came home.

But I love the CSA challenge.  It's like a puzzle, trying to figure out what to do with it each week.  I've learned a lot about cooking by having to cope with what the farm has made available.  And every year I get a little bit better at it.  One of the things I've learned this time around was also something that they covered in the NYTimes yesterday: that if you set aside time to cook some of your produce as soon as it arrives (or soon aftger), you'll be a bit less at a loss for what to do with it later.  For example: once you cook the chard, this frittata comes together easily.  And if you have a lot of chard, you could cook it all up this with the overabundance of green or spring onions that you may also have, and use some for the frittata, some for chard pie, some for a side dish, even throw some in a pasta or rice salad.

Do you make things "unnecessarily" difficult for yourself?  How so?  Do you think there can be a productive purpose for doing so?  When does creating difficulty become unhealthy and unproductive?

Chard Frittata

1 tablespoon olive oil or butter (sauteeing in butter seems to make the chard less bitter)
1 small yellow onion, diced
3-4 green onions
1 bunch Swiss chard, leaves removed, stems and leaves chopped separately
6 eggs
Pinch of salt
Black pepper to taste
1 1/2 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese
cooking spray

In a large (12-inch) skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat until shimmering. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Add the chard stems and cook over medium-low heat until just translucent, about 5-7 minutes.  Add green onions, cook a minute or two, and then chard leaves; cook until the chard is completely soft and water evaporated, stirring occasionally.  Allow to cool.

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the salt and cheese, then stir in the chard and onion mixture.

Spray an ovenproof medium skillet with cooking spray and heat over medium until sizzling, then add the egg mixture. Cook until the bottom and sides begin to set, about 2-3 minutes, then transfer to the oven and continue cooking until the center is solid, abut 12 minutes depending on the shape of the pan.

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Massage, Massage: Kale Salad

If you have kids, or even if you occasionally care for kids, you know how hard it is to put sunscreen on them in the summer.  They're squirmy.  They don't like being smeared with slimy goo.  They run amuck and ensure that all of your hard work goes to pot about an hour after you've rubbed the last of the stuff in.  If you have given in to the spray sunscreen approach (which doesn't work as well as the goo approach, IMHO), they probably complain about getting it in their eyes.  Or the smell.  Or who knows all what else.

I don't remember wearing sunscreen much as a child, and when I did, usually at the beach, it certainly did not have a UV protection rating of 50SPF (in fact, I think it was more of the cooking oil variety, the kind that smelled like coconut).  I have an olive complexion, and I tend to tan in the summer, provided I pace my time in the sun and don't go whole hog on the first nice day.  I take after my father that way, who used to tell us that he was called "morenito" (little black boy) in the summer by people in his town, because he used to get so dark.

Every morning, before my son goes to camp, we have to put sunscreen on him.  He's five, remember, and is about as much of a drama queen as they come (case in point: once, in the shower, when he got water in his eyes, he screamed: "AAAA!  Help!  Help!  I'm BLIND!  I'm DYYYYYYING!").  So you can imagine the hilarity that ensues when we're trying to protect him for the day, knowing full well that they will not enforce re-lotioning at camp.  I've told him several times now that there are many people in this world who pay a lot of money to have their body rubbed with lotion, and that I should be charging him for my services.  He doesn't yet see that irony, unfortunately.

His sister watches this process with great interest. At this point in her life, she still actually likes sunscreen.  As I did with my son when he was an infant, I've tried to make it into a game, saying "massage, massage," as I rub it onto her arms, and she will occasionally, out of the blue when she's in the car or walking around the house, make motions like she's putting on her own sunscreen, saying in her inimitable little voice, "masssaaaaaage, masssaaaaage."  During the past week, she's taken to holding one of her toy cups in her hand, pretending that it's a bottle of sunscreen, patting my skin with it (presumably to get the lotion out), and then rubbing my arm, saying "massaaaaaage, massaaaage."  Which is pretty stinking cute.  And which almost makes up for the times she's screaming bloody murder because--heaven forbid--I've just fed her a carrot.

I learned this summer that kale also likes a good massage; that if you're eating it raw, if you spend some time massaging it with your fingers, until it almost resembles steamed kale (warning: this does take some patience, but it can be oddly relaxing), the end result will be a green that is a lot easier to eat than the poky, curly item we tend to put in soup.  I would have taken a picture of myself doing this, but since I had my hands in kale, it was sort of difficult to hold the camera.  You'll have to use your imagination.

Raw kale also likes a good raw dressing, and provided you're not allergic to nuts, soaked cashews make a lovely accompaniment.  You can do it like this:

Cover 1/3 c. raw cashews in water and let them soak. (The longer the cashews soak, the creamier the dressing will be. Soaking for a few hours is ideal, but not a deal-breaker.) Drain them and blend them with 1/4 c. water, 1-2 cloves of garlic (start with one unless you like a garlicky dressing), a splash of lemon juice, and a dash of soy sauce and/or tahini.  The longer the dressing sits, the thicker it will become.  I keep mine in a mason jar, because it looks pretty in my refrigerator that way.

Toss the massaged kale in the dressing, and sprinkle your salad with some toasted walnuts, and anything else you like.  Eat great quantities of it, and feel virtuous.

Have you ever had a massage?  Have you ever given one?  Have you ever given kale a massage?  Do you like getting sunscreened?  If you have kids, how do you deal with preparing them to be outside in the sun?

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Practicing Compassion: Kale Spoon Bread

Apropos of my recent Things I'm Afraid to Tell You post, yesterday the NY Times had an intriguing article on the science of compassion.  It turns out that feeling compassion for one individual actually makes us more likely to feel compassion for other people, even people we don't particularly like or people who have wronged us somehow.  Moreover, drawing even a simple association between ourselves and someone else (such as walking in step together) can increase the amount of compassion we feel for that individual.

DeSteno, a professor of psychology at Northeastern University and the author of the article, suggests that the "meditation, prayer, or moral education" practiced by the world's religions, may therefore not, in fact, be the only way to cultivate compassion; rather, a simple "recategorization" of people, to see how they are similar, may help us to feel more empathy.

I had a few reactions to this.  The first was "well, of course."  Of course the more we identify with someone, the more compassion we feel towards them.  The ALI blogging community is a perfect example of how this works.  Despite the fact that we are a diaspora, that we have a wide variety of experiences that we bring to our blogs, we tend to express empathy when another member of our community is going through an especially difficult period.

But the first finding was the one that I found more thought-provoking.  The Dalai Lama teaches that the experience of compassion at the level of the individual increases our capacity for compassion and has ripple effects that create greater harmony in the world.  That always sounded sort of loosey-goosey to me before, sort of like the ripple effect of the butterfly flapping its wings, but now it makes more sense: that practicing compassion, getting better and better at it, makes us more likely to act compassionately towards other people, even when it is more difficult to do so.  And in fact, I think it's happened to me, as I've become more involved in the ALI blogging community over the past three years.  It's not that I wasn't a compassionate person before.  But the more I read, the more I reach out, the better I am at reaching out, and the more, perhaps, that outreach finds its way beyond my own comments.

Have you found blogging and commenting changing the way you interact with other people?

Cornmeal and Kale Spoon Bread
This recipe makes something more like custard than bread, but it would be great with the onions, corn, and peppers that are now in season here.  Spoon me.
Adapted from the original at epicurious 

1 pound kale, thick ribs and stems cut away
1 T, olive oil
1 bunch sliced green onions (white and green parts)
1 c. white corn (frozen or fresh)
1/2 c. chopped red peppers (roasted)
1 garlic clove, minced
2 c. water
1 1/2 c. yellow cornmeal
2 1/2 c. reduced-fat (2%) milk
1 t. salt
Cooking spray
4 large eggs

1/2 c. shredded cheddar cheese

Cook kale in large pot of boiling salted water until tender, about 10 minutes. Drain; cool. Squeeze dry. Finely chop kale.

Heat oil in large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add onions, corn, red peppers, and garlic; stir 3 minutes. Mix in 1 1/2 cups kale. Remove from heat.

Preheat oven to 350F at this point. Spray 13x9x2-inch baking dish with nonstick spray (I use a small piece of wax paper to evenly spread the non-stick spray over the bottom and sides of my baking dish).

Whisk 2 cups water and cornmeal in bowl to blend. Bring milk and salt to simmer in heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Gradually whisk in cornmeal mixture. Stir until mixture boils and thickens, about 5 minutes. Be very careful; as the mixture thickens, it will start to “pop” and the batter will splatter a bit. Cool slightly.

Whisk eggs in large bowl to blend; gradually whisk in warm cornmeal mixture. Stir in kale mixture, cheese, and hot pepper sauce. Transfer to prepared dish; smooth top. Bake until set and golden, about 35 minutes. Test with a toothpick in the middle of the dish. Serve warm.

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Potato Humor

I'd read the prompts for NaBloPoMo in advance before we left for vacation, and honestly, some of them had me stumped.  Like the favorite joke, for example.  For all of the pranksters and jokesters in my family, I don't have an arsenal of jokes at my disposal.
 I asked my son, and he told me this one: "What kind of shirt does a golfer wear?  A TEE shirt!"

"Do you know why that's funny?" I asked him.

"No," he admitted.

I explained the joke, and then asked, "so how did you learn that joke?"

He shrugged.  "I read it on a popsicle stick today."

And really, isn't that just the sort of place you learned some of the favorite silly jokes from your elementary school years?

I asked around at the family reunion we went to, and the really funny thing?  Is that most people are still telling the same jokes they told in the third grade.

Potatoes are in season at my CSA.  So here are some seasonal third grade jokes for you ... and a potato salad.
 
How do you describe an angry potato? Boiling Mad.
What do you call a baby potato? A small fry!
What do you say to an angry 300-pound baked potato? Anything, just butter him up.
Why did the potato cross the road? He saw a fork up ahead. Why didn’t the mother potato want her daughter to marry the famous newscaster? Because he was a commentator.
Why wouldn’t the reporter leave the mashed potatoes alone? He desperately wanted a scoop.
Why do potatoes make good detectives?  Because they keep their eyes peeled.

GROAN.

Potato Salad (the bad-for-you old school kind)

A few red potatoes, boiled and sliced attractively
The spring onions (not to be confused with green onions) you didn't use from your CSA share last week
Some parsley that is about to go to seed, chopped finely
Hard cooked eggs, if you like them (I'm against segregated eggs, myself)
Anything else you feel like throwing in there, chopped finely
Stir together:
Mayonnaise, to your liking
Apple cider or red wine vinegar, a splash to thin the mayonnaise
A splash of water
Salt, preferably sea salt, to sprinkle liberally


Taste off the dressing.  If you don't like it, add something.  If you like it, pour it all over the top of your potatoes.  Refrigerate to let the flavors blend.

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