Post-holiday Tradition

Shepherd’s Pie has become our post-holiday tradition.  Always fearful of not having enough mashed potatoes for holidays, I generally mash up a truckload; of course, that means I end up with half a truckload left over, warring for space in my fridge with sweet potatoes and ham and dressing and salads. I don’t know why I get worried about a possible lack of potatoes, because there are always so many other foods vying for our attention at the typical Thanksgiving spread.  Maybe I'm subconsciously planning for the post-holiday menu.  There are oodles of ways to use leftover mashed potatoes—potato pancakes, pierogies, and potato dumplings, to name a few—but one of our favorites is shepherd’s pie.

This Thanksgiving was no exception.  I had a large bowl—probably six or seven large potatoes’ worth—of mashed potatoes left over.  So I thawed a pound of ground beef from Triple S and a pound of ground lamb from the Moore’s in the refrigerator for a couple of days (I wasn’t sure if these competitors would get along, so I put them on separate shelves in the fridge to be on the safe side).  I chopped a huge onion from Greg at Claybank Farms; if you do this recipe, you may want to do two medium-sized onions instead.  These babies are enormous!  I peeled and coined four or five beautiful Blue Moon carrots and set them to boil a few minutes, and chopped up some fresh thyme, also from Claybank.  So, when I do my simple recipe, ground beef and lamb get mixed together as they’re crumbled up and browned.  In goes the enormous chopped onion for a few minutes, until translucent.  I then add about ¼ cup of unbleached flour to the meat mixture, then stir it up until the flour has absorbed the fat and combined well with the meat.  Then I add a few cups (probably two or three) of vegetable stock, a few shots of Worcestershire sauce, a boatload of fresh thyme (around a tablespoon, but don’t be afraid to put more; less if dried), and bring the whole thing to a boil.  I add my boiled, drained carrots and any additional water or broth to make the mixture the thickness of stew.  I reduce the heat and let it cook a few minutes to make sure it’s all mixed together.  Meanwhile, I add water or milk to my mashed potatoes and microwave them for a couple of minutes to make the mixture more spreadable.  I spray the sides and bottom of two glass casserole dishes.  In goes the stew, then I use a spoon to deliver large “globs” of mashed potatoes onto the top of the stew, spreading it like a very thick crust with the back of the spoon.  I bake these two dishes at 350 for around 30-40 minutes.  Don't be alarmed if the yummy gravy seeps through the potato layer, it's just all part of the fun.  If golden crests don’t magically appear on your potato “crust”, you can finish the shepherd’s pie in the broiler for a few minutes.

After delivering one shepherd’s pie to the table, I let the other cool until I can seal it up with aluminum foil, cool it the rest of the way in the fridge, then stick it in the freezer for another cold winter’s night.  The second one is almost better than the first, as the flavors have had a chance to meld together.  I can’t think of a better way to warm up and shake the post-holiday blues than to have a meat pie with potato-y goodness.  I can’t wait until I make too many mashed potatoes for Christmas!

Local from Gobble to Oink

For me, planning Thanksgiving dinner is almost as fun as eating Thanksgiving dinner.  A couple of weeks before, I start menu planning and recipe gathering.  I make lists, gather ingredients, and go shopping.  A couple of days before, I make sure meats are thawing and bread is drying.  I figure out which parts I can do the day before, including chopping onions and celery, cooking cranberry sauce, and making desserts.  I plan out the timing so I can carry out the precise choreography to not crowd the oven, yet keep everything hot until the moment it’s served.  I always include a few traditional must-haves, such as cranberry sauce, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie; I always include as many local ingredients as possible.  My cranberries are from far away, but bread from Pekara with herbs and onions from Claybank Farms will be made into dressing, the potatoes are from the Moore’s in Watseka, and the sweet potatoes (grotesquely large ones, I might add) are from Claybank Farms also.  This year I’m throwing in an oyster-mushroom appetizer (oysters from Claybank Farms), a kale salad, and roasted Brussels sprouts with gorgonzola and pecans (kale and sprouts from Blue Moon).  And a French tart, because, well, the French side of the family must be represented (apples from Monticello’s Wolfe Orchard).

My husband and I have been together almost sixteen years, and yet this was the first year we’ve been able to admit to each other a deep, dark secret we didn’t know we shared:  neither of us likes turkey.  For many years I’ve been going to the trouble of pre-ordering a free-range, organic turkey, thawing it, brining it, stuffing it with citrus and herbs, roasting it for hours, cutting it and keeping it warm for guests (once we even drove a thawing, brining turkey all the way to Virginia).  Then, after the event, I would dutifully wrap up the leftovers and put them in the freezer where they would stay for...years.  Until I would pull out the package, the meat unrecognizable with freezer burn, struggle with my conscience over the waste, then finally throw it away, knowing none of us would eat it.  We seem to have passed the turkey-hate gene to our son, who eats all of Thanksgiving treats with gusto, except the turkey.

No more.

This year I bravely cut turkey out of the Thanksgiving menu.  I know, to some it’s an atrocity—possibly anarchy—but I believe I can successfully celebrate the giving of thanks for nature’s bounty without turkey.  It can be done.  I am serving instead a gorgeous smoked ham from our favorite Triple S Farms, and a roasted, stuffed chicken (also from Triple S) for the non-ham eaters, or for those who seem to think a Thanksgiving without fowl is indeed foul.  And I will feel thankful, and my guests will be full when they leave, and we will gladly look forward to eating a few ham sandwiches after the last platters and dishes and roasting pans and glassware are clean and put away.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

A Word on Diets

My friend recently emailed me to let me know she was coming to town this weekend to visit family and go out for a nice dinner with them.  She asked if I could suggest good area restaurants, since she's now doing the Paleo Diet.  I started googling.  Yes, I've heard of the Paleo Diet, knew the basic tenets, but wasn't exactly sure of what was included/excluded.  Through my search, I came across a video called "The Perfect Human Diet".  What a load of crap!  I am so tired of diets based on half-truths and fuzzy science!  Sorry if anyone else I know is following this diet, but I just have to tell how I feel.  I hope I don’t step on any toes.

So I watch the video.  I get the main premise:  prehistoric man was able to grow a huge brain and make cognitive advances only after he started eating meat.  The evil in our present day diet is because we've gotten away from that caveman diet of meat, nuts, berries, and greens.  And I follow the logic.  All of our modern diseases come from the fact that we now eat cultivars--grains and legumes included--and dairy, and foods processed and over-processed from these cultivars.  OK. Then the "documentary" moves to an interview with a doctor, who walks around the grocery store telling us what we should and shouldn't eat.  Fruits and vegetables, OK.  Meat, OK.  (Only a brief reference, however, to how/where the animal was raised and what it was fed; no reference at all to the advantages of eating local and/or organic--BOO!).  Bread, no. Pasta, no.  Dairy, no.  Legumes (including peanuts), no.  Rice, no.  The much-maligned potato?  No, of course not.  Even GREEN BEANS are out.  WTF?!  I daresay that prehistoric man ate whatever crossed his path.  He probably dug up sweet potatoes and potatoes and other roots, if they were available.  He probably found some wheat-like grain and chewed on it until the gluten made it like chewing gum (something my husband used to do with wheat at the farm). Unlike our ancestors, we are going to the grocery store to find food, instead of foraging for it.  And all the fruits and veggies that the doctor said were supposedly OK on the diet?  Cultivars.  That's right.  BECAUSE THAT'S THE ONLY THING AVAILABLE TO US, unless we go out in the woods and forage for plants and berries, of course.  I'm thinking about these fabulous tiny wild blueberries we saw in the woods on a walk in Belgium this summer; but how many of those would we have to find to make a meal?  Just to get a handful was a lot of work.

Grrr.

That having been said, I know I feel better when I eat fewer/less grain-based foods in general, and have an easier time losing weight when I avoid them.  But that's because they are the most efficient way to get calories in!  Duh!  That must be why my growing 10-year-old craves them!  And of course diets that avoid grains and other simple carbohydrates will make you lose weight, because it becomes too difficult to make up the difference in meat--it takes too long to chew and process, and does make you feel fuller.  And so, de facto, if you follow this diet you will most likely eat more fruits and vegetables, thereby improving your cholesterol numbers, blood pressure, etc.  But why make up crap to make people believe that we're somehow able to eat like Paleolithic man?  And how do we really know what Paleo man ate?  (Oils are OK on the diet, which I'm not sure Paleo man had figured out how to make, by the way; I’m also not sure how many vineyards were around in Paleo times, but red wine is determined to be OK, while beer is out.  Hmmm.) Not to mention that exercise--the one factor that is undisputedly different from cavemen to present-day man--probably allowed them to eat whatever the hell they wanted.  If they had been foraging for Cinnabons, they were still foraging, and the activity alone would have probably negated any effect from simple carbohydrates and the ensuing insulin resistance.

Not to mention, if our diet now is solely causing our obesity and autoimmune epidemics, how do some people continue to stay thin and healthy?  Wouldn't everyone be susceptible to the effects?  What about those centenarian populations in the Mediterranean or Okinawa, who are eating rice, grains and/or potatoes and/or legumes like crazy?  How about those people in the south of France who eat the most saturated fat and meat (often with legumes, think cassoulet), and still live longer than the rest of France?  And why has the epidemic waited to swell until the end of the 20th and beginning of the 21st century?  Couldn't it have something to do with the invention of cars and drive-thrus and the domination of Monsanto instead?

Sorry, this video made me totally hot around the collar, as you can tell.   The whole thing just made me sick and tired of the "newest, best thing."  We know fruits and veggies are good for you.  We know the government food pyramid (now the “plate”) was devised by politicians, and is most likely not a good guide for nutrition.  We know that sweets should be avoided, or at least just saved for a special occasion.  But the human body is a marvelously adaptive organism, and tells us (pretty loudly) when it's not getting the right thing or enough of the right thing or too much of a good thing.  We just need to listen.  Clearly, that’s where the problem lies.  We’re not good listeners. 

I’ll freely admit, I have always been searching for the best diet for my own situation.  I still don't know why I have this autoimmune disease that makes my body attack its own connective tissue.  But I’ve found through my searching that there is no magic bullet, no amulet I can wear, no single nutrition advice--beyond the common sense advice--that will solve it.  Maybe it was something I was exposed to in childhood, some chemical or drug.  Maybe it's genetic.  Maybe it's dietary, but because of some fertilizer or insecticide or genetic modification that I don't know about and have no control over.  Maybe--and probably--I will never know in my lifetime.  Why do I eat the same or less as people who weigh so much less than I do? I may never know that either.  After sifting through thousands of pieces of nutritional, diet, and lifestyle information, I have come to one conclusion:  I only have to use my intuition and listen to myself.  This is of course both disappointing and liberating.  For myself, I do know that:  1) I have to watch portion control, especially around special occasions; 2) I have to watch alcohol consumption, those sneaky, empty calories; 3) I have to get enough sleep, or as much as I can; 4) I have to exercise, probably every day, probably an hour each time; 5) I have to eat lots of veggies and fruit and other foods that I know are good for me.  That's it.  That's all.  A full time job, of course, but frighteningly simple.

How to Strrrreeeetcchhh a Chicken

No, I am not talking about the classic rubber chicken.  Since I quit my job over eight months ago, I’ve been trying to focus on a bit of penny-pinching, while not compromising on the quality or sources of our meals.  Sometimes this takes some ingenuity; sometimes it just takes being willing to eat a bit more simply.  When I defrost two packages of leg quarters of chicken, I try to make a plan how the meat can be used for multiple meals.  It helps, of course, that we’re only three, and although one of us is a growing child, still eats relatively small portions for dinner.  So our four Triple S chicken leg quarters—specifically, four thighs and four legs—can be stretched to use for three meals.  And, hey, now that keeping chickens in the yard is legal in our small city, some of you may be even more interested in more chicken recipe ideas...

Meal One

I baked the leg quarters in a leftover three-quarters-full jar of green salsa.  Most of the salsa ended up on the skin, but it did flavor the meat enough to give a little kick.  I paired this with steamed farmer’s market green beans that I had frozen this summer.  They were bright and beautiful.  My son eats his with ketchup.  My husband complements everything with a country grain bread from our local bakery.  We each had either a leg or a thigh.

Meal Two

Some mushrooms were crying out to be used (unfortunately, not my favorite local oyster mushrooms, but these were organic criminis), so I sliced those up.  I started with a half-pound of Triple S uncured bacon, sliced into ½-inch thick-cut pieces, and thrown into my giant cast iron frying pan.  When it was almost done, I chopped a Claybank Farms onion and threw it in.  When it became translucent, I added the deboned and chopped leftover chicken.  A few more minutes and I could add the mushrooms.  The chopped green beans were then ready to be thrown in, and I kept it stirring until everything was really hot.  This dish—a sort of unnamed hash—was an unmitigated success with the 10-year-old due to the presence of bacon.  There are even a bit of leftovers for my lunch tomorrow.

Meal Three

While my hash/stir-fry was cooking, I slipped the bones and skin (with green salsa remnants) into a stock pot and covered it with water.  It’s simmering on the stove even as I write this.  Tomorrow night will be vegetable soup with whatever else is clamoring for attention from my vegetable drawer in a slightly-peppery chicken stock.  Soup is with out a doubt the perfect antidote for a cold night.

Look at that gorgeous stock simmering!

Buying organic, pasture-raised meat directly from the farm is not cheap.  Two packages of leg quarters were around $7.50, even with my buying club discount.  But if I can make three meals out of them, the cost evens out considerably (and the bacon didn’t add that much to the total).  And I have the confidence to know that we are eating responsibly grown, tasty, and nutritious food.

Late Summer's Signature Dish

For those of you who saw the movie Ratatouille ages ago, but have never really had the Provençal dish, I want to let you know one thing:  traditional ratatouille doesn’t look anything like the dish in the movie.  A picture of perfectly mandolined and shingled vegetables does not resemble what I first tasted in France.  (There is, of course, a recipe out there from a fancy chef, from which the movie took its visual representation. Kids who saw the movie begged their mothers to make something so extraordinarily delicious, and were quite disappointed that it didn’t actually look like that.  My guess is that it doesn’t taste nearly as good as the real thing).  My first ratatouille experience came from a roommate’s mother; one weekend she brought home three or four jars of what looked like spaghetti sauce, but what tasted like the sun in the south of France.  Since then, I’ve been on a quest to recreate that ratatouille each and every summer.

This is the best time of year to make ratatouille.  All of the basic ingredients are in season:  eggplant (aubergine), zucchini (courgette), tomato (tomate), garlic (ail), onion (oignons), bell pepper (poivron), herbes de provence.  Some ratatouilles add different ingredients or make substitutions.  The basic recipe is wonderful, however, as long as all ingredients are fresh.  The little secrets I’ve learned throughout the years?  Grill or roast the eggplant chunks before adding them to the rest; you will avoid the bitterness and strange texture of sautéed eggplant.  Also, this is a stew, but don’t cook it too long.  After the ingredients are all sautéed, mix them together (without completely destroying the tomato chunks) and simmer for only about five minutes or so.  Third, take the thing off the stove, let it cool, put it in the fridge, and wait until tomorrow to re-heat and eat it.  The flavors meld together perfectly overnight.  Finally, don’t make the mistake I’ve made for years and make army-sized batches.  Like jam or preserves, for some unknown reason the flavor is superior in small batches.  It’s delicious by itself or over couscous or rice.

My jar of summer deliciousness

So, my loose attempt at a recipe:

One medium-sized eggplant or 2-3 small Japanese eggplant, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes

One large onion, chopped

Three cloves of garlic, chopped

Two small or one large bell pepper (I prefer yellow, orange, red or purple, but green is OK too), cut into 1-inch pieces

One medium-sized zucchini, cut into ½ inch quarter rounds

Two 14-oz cans of whole tomatoes, cut into large chunks, and the juice of one can OR 3 large/5 roma tomatoes, cut into large chunks

Herbes de provence (1 T. or to taste); alternately, use a combination of any of: fresh rosemary, thyme, basil, marjoram, savory

Salt and drain cubes of eggplant on paper towels for a few minutes, then toss in a tablespoon of olive oil.  Roast under broiler or at 400 degrees until lightly browned on all sides.  Meanwhile, sauté onion in another tablespoon of olive oil until starting to brown, add garlic for a minute, then pepper and zucchini.  Saute for a few minutes, then add in roasted eggplant, tomatoes and herbes de provence.  After it’s brought to a boil, turn down and simmer for 5-10 minutes (no lid) or until the very soupy tomato liquid is reduced and you could eat the stew with a fork.  Serve over couscous, rice, or pasta, or as a side dish of vegetables.

It might even taste good while watching an animated movie about a rat who’s a chef.

Harmony in the Home

Yesterday I made a soup, and I have no idea what many of the ingredients are.  I bought the soup mix from a local Amish bulk store, and the only thing on the label was “Harmony Soup” and how to make it.  I could see dried split peas, kidney beans, red beans, navy beans, wheatberries, and a few other things I couldn’t immediately recognize.  I can only think that they shoved together the leftovers from other bulk items and called it soup mix.  I thought I’d try my luck.

The instructions said to soak the mixture overnight.  I took my time and soaked it a couple of overnights in the fridge, as Monday night became too busy to do the prep.  Tuesday morning I threw some leg quarters of chicken from my sweet Triple S folks into the slow cooker with some water and cooked it until I got home from an appointment early afternoon.  Then I removed the cooked chicken, leaving the stock.  I sautéed a huge bunch of baby celery (with a lot of leaves) and some garlic ramps from my last winter order with Claybank Farms, a large onion, and 4 carrots.  (Carrots were on sale at my Co-op, not local, but organic).  I dumped the sautéed mixture into the stock with the soaked and rinsed harmony soup mix and cooked on high, setting it for four hours.  I de-boned and minced the chicken when it cooled, and added to the mixture, filling the slow cooker to the brim! I added a teaspoon of salt, and let the flavors meld together all afternoon.

And then…a family argument.  About something rather trivial that got blown up because everyone was hungry and could smell the soup wafting through the house.  When my husband finally asked what was for dinner, I couldn’t help but express the irony.  “Harmony Soup, as luck would have it,” I said.  He paused, and then filled a bowl.  I stormed about for a few more minutes, then filled a bowl for myself and took it to the table.  By the time we were done, he was complimenting my soup, and I was calmed down enough to enjoy a bit of seconds.

Harmony Soup, after all. 

Leftover Pizza

No, I’m not talking about that nasty pizza that’s been left out overnight. I know your hungover self doesn’t care about the grease that’s congealed on the top or the fact that you aren’t sure if you just swallowed the bit of cardboard that’s missing under the piece you just shoved into your mouth.  

No.  

When I say “leftover pizza” I’m referring to pizza made home fresh with leftovers you can find in your [relatively] healthy collection.  I’ll leave the other kind of leftover pizza to be the weekend breakfast of college students everywhere.

I just found a couple of flatbread pizza crusts on sale at my co-op.  Tonight is the night before Easter, so I don’t want to burden myself with something elaborate, nor do I want to stuff my people so they aren’t hungry for that amazing feast I’m going to dream up for tomorrow.  The problem is, do I really have the ingredients for a pizza?  My mind goes through the classic list:  pepperoni?  Sausage?  Mushrooms? Onions?  Nope.  Neither do I have some of the more “exotic” flavors:  ham and pineapple, barbecued chicken.  [Ick.]  I always have some pizza sauce and some frozen shredded Italian cheese blend, so I could stick with a classic cheese pizza, but I open my fridge and gaze in, looking for inspiration.  I see a partially-used bag of wilting arugula (Blue Moon Farms), a swiss cheeseburger (Triple S Farms) left over from last night, a sad unfinished jar of marinated artichoke hearts I had used for a quiche.  I just bought some dried oregano in bulk, and I can smell it as I sweep the fridge door closed.  I spread some pizza sauce on the crust, then wash and throw on the arugula. Amazingly, my leftover cheeseburger patty cut into little pieces is enough for a whole pizza topping.  I cut up a few artichoke hearts, and then throw on the Italian blend cheese.  I add more oregano, because it just smells so good I can’t resist.  Fifteen minutes in the oven, and I’ve got a “gourmet” pizza, and I’ve cleaned out the fridge.  Now, if only my Easter menu would come together so easily…

Pardon my French

I’m suspicious of anything that calls itself  “French”.  French fries are, as everybody knows, Belgian.  A salad in France would spontaneously wilt if adorned with what we call French dressing.  I have seen more French doors in homes in the U.S. than in France.  When a person says, “Pardon my French,” well, let’s just say that nothing that follows sounds like French to me.  And the kisses one experiences most often in France—on both cheeks—are definitely not French kisses.  When bread is toasted in France, it doesn’t magically become French toast.  What we think of as French toast is known as le pain perdu, “lost bread”, or more aptly, bread that is past its prime.

Whenever I think of "French" anything, I'm reminded from this scene from "Better Off Dead...."

So it was with much hesitation that I chose a recipe for potato salad called “French potato salad” in my America’s Test Kitchen Family Cookbook.  I skimmed through the ingredients, though, and was cheered by finally finding something that actually could have come from a kitchen in France.  The alternate recipe version includes some of my favorites:  radishes, cornichons, and capers.

French potato salad 

The recipe starts with three pounds of red potatoes, sliced into ¼ inch rounds, but not peeled.  The cooked potatoes are tossed in white wine vinegar, salt, and pepper, then chilled.  When at room temperature, they are tossed again with a vinaigrette (Dijon mustard, white wine vinegar, olive oil), a small red onion, sliced radishes, sliced cornichons (no dill  or sweet pickles!  The little French cornichons are required in this recipe), and drained capers.  The potato salad is served at room temperature.

The potato salad came together really quickly. Triple S pork steaks, sprinkled with sea salt and white pepper, went under the broiler, and I quickly sautéed a shredded head of cabbage in a bit of butter, and served it with a dollop of sour cream, to round out this lovely meal.  This is a meal that could actually be served at a country table in France.  A French dinner, if you will.

The finished product

Now, what do the French call “French green beans”, you might ask?

They call them haricots verts, I’d respond.  

Green beans.

Local and Exotic

Since my trip in 1997 to Bangkok, I’ve been in love with Thai food.  Some of the meals we had during my ten days there came from hilariously translated menus, one was eaten literally in a dark alley with stray animals wandering around, some breakfast items with that ubiquitous red pepper paste threatened to blow the top of my head off before I’d even had coffee, and for many of them I didn’t recognize whether it was animal or vegetable on my plate; but all of them were utterly fantastic.  Fresh seafood, fresh ginger, coconut milk, lemongrass, green curry, red curry, coriander, peanuts, fresh vegetables, exotic fruits, puddings, iced coffees….pure gastronomic bliss.  I’ve only tried to cook Thai food once or twice, though, intimidated by being able to correctly balance the flavors.  Even pad thai from a box gives me pause.

So I was searching for a soup or stew recipe, something to warm me on a chilly January evening, and found The Best Thai Coconut Soup.  The reviews on Allrecipes concurred:  it really was the best.  Ha! you say.  Thai food is definitely not local!  Let me remind you that I’m in central Illinois in mid-January, and there’s not a whole lot of local fare to be found, unless it comes from my freezer.  But, sticking to my philosophy, I had to have at least one local ingredient.  Lemongrass?  Coconut milk?  Fish sauce?  Nope, not only not local, but not always easy to find.  But what I did find is a miracle:  local shitake mushrooms.  Grown right next to my beloved Triple S farm, the shitakes almost lured me to them in the refrigerated case at the co-op, Common Ground.  Solid, beautiful, and delightfully pungent, and the perfect reason to make this soup.

Another part of being a locavore is extending that philosophy a bit to buy local.  Lemongrass, coconut milk, fish sauce and red curry paste are all available at my supermarket, but I went instead to a local store called World Harvest.  The place is a crowded maze of every kind of ethnic food you could think of.  The people who work there will lead to you what you ask for, (not just point in the vague direction of aisle 7) and have amazing expertise.  I described my soup, and one woman helped me find all the ingredients in a matter of minutes, even telling me that the jar of preserved lemongrass was probably not as strong as the fresh, but many people seemed to like it.  Leaving the store, I smiled, happy to have in some small part helped our local economy.

So, click here for the recipe, straight from Allrecipes.com.  I followed the recipe to the letter otherwise, but substituted extra firm tofu (much cheaper and more environmentally responsible) for the shrimp.  (The recipe could in fact be made vegetarian, as I spotted “vegetarian fish sauce” at World Harvest.  If, indeed, fish sauce can be made vegetarian.  Hmmm.  Vegetable broth could be used in place of the chicken broth, but not sure how it would change the flavor.)  I rounded out the soup with a scoop of jasmine white rice on the side and doubled the chopped cilantro.  Local + global =delicious!

Enjoying Vegetables 101

Exhibit A:  Creative presentation of the minimum RDA of green beans

Getting nine year olds to eat vegetables should be acclaimed as a skill akin to brokering accords between Middle East nations or getting the first HeLa human cells to reproduce outside the body.  It is so difficult I have started to wonder if I’m fighting against some invisible force of nature, some deeply ingrained evolutionary response.  Perhaps vegetables aren’t really necessary at the age of nine.  Perhaps a teaspoon of healthy soup or two green beans smothered in ketchup is the RDA of vegetables for a nine-year-old boy.  Perhaps I am forcing something into him that his body is rejecting because it is poisonous or harmful to him in some way.  What other reason could there be for making the taste of cooked cabbage so repugnant?  To his credit, he gobbles up raw veggies, so I usually set aside a portion of whatever I’m cooking for him to eat raw.  The minute it touches heat, however, it is an instant candidate for the compost pile as far as he’s concerned.  Only certain raw vegetables pass muster as well, nothing mixed together in a salad or grated or in a sauce or dressing.  Cole slaw is out. Potato salad is out.  Mixed green salad is out.  Anything with vinegar, oil, mayo, lemon juice, mustard, or ranch dressing is out.  Meanwhile, I attempt to ratchet up the creative presentation of vegetables, the sneaking in of vegetables, the humor and tactile enjoyment of vegetables.

They say that to learn a new vocabulary item you must be exposed to it in context seven to nine times before you retain it.  I’ve taken this principle and applied it to teaching Enjoying Vegetables 101.  I figure that after my child has fully rejected a certain food nine times, he is entitled to say he doesn’t like it, and ban it forever from his plate.  Until that time, however, he must continue to try eating it in new ways.  And, generally speaking, very few foods have gone the way of sauerkraut (which passed nine times very quickly during my German craze).  And occasionally I have some success in making him accept a new food without too much fuss.

This weekend was a success in that department.  I bought all the ingredients for a falafel sandwich:  grape tomatoes and mixed greens to chop; lemon juice, Greek yogurt, garlic, fresh dill, and cucumbers for the raita/tzaziki/cacik (cucumber dip); falafel mix (from a box, sorry); and, finally, pitas.  This time of year the only local ingredients were the mixed greens, the dill, and the pitas.  My usual store was out of pitas, so I went to Strawberry Fields, a local grocery and health food market.  They have a fantastic bakery there, and I often buy bread and rolls there.  Lucky for me, they had whole-wheat pitas, which felt fresh to the touch through the bag.  I passed up the other bakery items, happy they were out of seeded bread, which tempts me beyond all others.

I baked my falafel, which was in retrospect why my family liked them and I was “meh.”  You see, as much as a health nut as I am, I still love fried food.  Falafel, like anything else, should have a crunchy outside, but a tender, steamy inside, insulated by a lovely layer of olive oil.  Nevertheless, I baked the falafel, then lightly toasted the perfect pitas, then showed my son how to stuff them with all the ingredients.  Food in a “pocket” that you have to “construct?”  Ding-ding!  I win!  He ate all the baked-but-should-have-been-fried chickpea “cake” with all the veggies, including the cucumber sauce!!  He didn’t even ask what was in it!!  AND (be still, my heart), while we were eating it, he chatted with me about….FOOD!  He was comparing the quality of the pitas to ones we had bought before, he was asking about what falafel was, exactly, and how he had first thought we were having giant cookies for dinner before he tasted it.  I had a brief moment of hope, of what the future could look like, of when he’s older and we’ll go to fancy vegetarian restaurants together and critique their hummus and rave over their black bean roasted vegetable burritos and slurp up their carrot soup and gobble up their salads…

And then he started talking about Minecraft.  And all was normal in the world again.  And I will go back to my Battle of the Vegetables.

Tomorrow night, shepherd’s pie.  Thank goodness he likes mashed potatoes.

Happy New Year and the Glorious B.L.T.

When I was a wee girl, my maiden aunt visited us from Washington, D.C.  She was the glamorous aunt, who went to fine parties, who hobnobbed with government officials, and who always sent me the best birthday and Christmas presents.  I remember in particular a pair of silver strappy high heels and a “diamond” tiara; what little girl wouldn’t love feeding her princess obsession with that?  So when she came to visit, I was thrilled when she suggested taking me shopping.  We went to one of the last living real department stores and looked at everything from ladies' brassieres to luggage to dishes and crystal.  Then we went to the lunch counter, and I had my very first Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato.  I had to know and experience what the sandwich with the mysterious letters was.  I have been enamored of the BLT ever since.  The bacon was slightly crunchy but not burnt; the tomatoes were sliced thinly and fit perfectly inside the borders of the toasted white bread.  The lettuce was not iceberg, but a big, beefy leaf straight from somebody’s garden.  The mayo glistened, squirting out when I flattened the sandwich to better grasp it.  The sandwich was cut diagonally, something I would pester my mother to do for me from then on.  And, best of all, I was a big girl, sitting on a high stool at the counter with my aunt, having lunch at a real restaurant with real plates and little tiny glasses of ice water and coffee cups with saucers.  There were old men drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, and I was sitting right up there with them.  God, how I loved that sandwich.

Never mind that the years have made me aware that it was a little run-down greasy spoon in a little run-down antiquated department store; never mind that the bread was Wonder Bread and that it seemed like a fancy place because I was there with my aunt, and because it wasn’t McDonalds.  Never mind that my tastes have become more sophisticated, and my aunt has become much more, well…human.  I still love a good BLT, and it never fails to bring back memories of a happy time in a little girl’s life when she felt important and grand.

So, it is with a certain amount of forward thinking paired with a healthy dose of nostalgia that I ring in 2013 with something new and something old.  For breakfast I invented “Eggs Prud’homme”:  a small slice of Hubby’s whole grain bread, toasted, spread with my herbed goat cheese spread, then smoked salmon, topped with a poached egg (all accompanied by a fantastic fruit salad that I got up ridiculously early to prepare).  

I finished the day with my version of the classic BLT. In preparation of New Year's Day I had thawed some steak, and even had some foie gras and lovely salad fixings, but it just didn’t happen.  Instead, I cut up some organic grape tomatoes—the only tomatoes with any flavor this time of year—and washed a healthy head of leaf lettuce.  I sliced a few slices of Hubby’s bread, then opened a new jar of fancy organic mayonnaise, and then fried some thick slices of Triple S nitrate-free (a.k.a., headache-free) bacon.  We each partook of our own version:  Hubby’s was open-faced, no mayo; son’s was a lettuce roll-up, also no mayo; mine was a chopped salad with a dollop (official measure) of mayo.  It was filling and satisfying for my family, my present-day self, and the little girl within.  Happy New Year to all of us.