marfax brown

I have a thing for vegetable varieties I’ve never heard of, especially when they are supposed to be well-suited for my climate.  And a reputation for exceptional tastiness doesn’t hurt. So I had high expectations for Marfax Brown. I planted more of them than any other variety. And they did not meet my expectations. Check out the results of the fall harvest. (They’re the pretty yellow beans that barely cover the bottom of the smallest bowl.)

Given their poor yield, I had pretty much decided against planting them again next year. Tonight, however, I cooked up the entire pitiful summer 2009 crop and now… I’m wishing I kept back a few for seed. 

I brought them to a quick boil before yoga this morning, then left them to soak awhile. When I tasted one later, I was startled to find that it tasted like a cross between a bean and a boiled peanut. Hmm.

Beans are something of a blank canvas, and I tend to throw a lot of strong flavors at them.  These guys are interesting, but subtle, so it’s tricky to enhance them without overwhelming. Here’s what I came up with:

 Beanut Ginger Soup

1. Thinly slice an onion and put it in a lot of olive oil, over very low heat for a very long time, until melted but not browned. At some point, add a heap of minced fresh ginger and let it cook along with the onion.

2. Simmer the beans until tender. Add a large diced carrot, a large diced potato, a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter, some salt.

3. Once the vegetables are soft, add the onion/oil/ginger mixture and cook together a few minutes. Season to taste with salt and cayenne, and add some chopped green stuff before serving.

next to normal

Ten years ago today, I was in a car accident that resulted in, in the words of one of my doctors, an impressive “constellation of injuries.” That same doctor predicted that once I graduated from the wheelchair, I would still have limited mobility, chronic pain, more surgeries, more pain… 

So I took up yoga in fierce pursuit of normal—“normal” being the range of motion I had had in my feet, ankles and legs before the accident. And yes, I’ve probably regained a hairs-breadth or so of movement with every passing year. But here’s what’s really cool: in the absence of full control of the feet, I’ve learned to strengthen other muscles that keep me upright when standing. When the ankles just won’t give in a seated pose, the hips have opened instead. And not too long ago, I figured out that normal isn’t something one pursues with ferocity. My norm is defined by the body I wake up in each day, by my genetic material and my experience (with a little influence from the barometric pressure). Sure, my gait would be different today if my legs hadn’t been smashed and screwed back together 10 years ago. But a decade on planet Earth is going to do a number on the human body no matter what. And when I consider where my body—my self—might be today if the accident hadn’t led me to yoga, I’m content with today’s norm.

cold house? bake cookies.

Following recipes is not really my thing, therefore baking is not really my thing. But I’ve learned that biscotti can take a fair amount of experimentation/abuse. Once I accidentally doubled the butter (measurements aren’t my thing) and they were fine. Actually, better than fine—as one might expect on any occasion that includes double the butter.

I still have a pile of kumquats from my recent travels, so I thought I might try making some sweet-savory biscotti with candied kumquat and coriander.

I used Mark Bittman’s recipe… more or less. I substituted extra virgin olive oil for the butter and cornmeal for some of the flour. I interpreted “pinch salt” quite liberally. I added a bunch of sliced almonds and chopped candied kumquats with (lots of) coriander. I skipped the whole business about buttering and flouring the pan—lining with foil is much simpler and also allows you to easily lift out the logs for slicing.

Cook’s treat: leftover coriander-kumquat syrup is very nice with gin.

in the bleak midwinter

black, black, black is the color

Ever since my college days, I’ve had an appreciation for dried beans—at a dollar or so a bag, they provide a creative outlet for a cook AND a week’s worth of meals.

After growing them myself, I’ve moved on from appreciation to something more like reverence, and not just because they taste better when they’re only a few months old. Now I look at a 1-quart bag and I see not just a staple foodstuff but an entire row of beans that has been cultivated, harvested, hulled.

When I think of the times when I didn’t finish a bean pot before it turned—or before I just got tired of it—I’m astonished. It’s taken me this long to break into this year’s harvest because some part of me has been waiting for a special occasion—as though dinner is not occasion enough.

This is my third year planting Cranberry Beans. I also added Marfax Brown, an heirloom variety that’s supposed to do well in rough northern climates, and—on a whim—Black Turtle Beans. I didn’t expect much from the latter, as black beans are so associated with southwestern cooking. But they turned out to be my heaviest producer of the summer.

The problem with black bean soup is that the inky beans turn any other vegetable an unappetizing gray. I suppose this is why so many black bean soups in restaurants are pureed. But somehow pureed soups seem too fancy for Roseboom. I considered supping on beans alone, but then I found some purple potatoes in my pantry… the perfect solution!

While I was in Baton Rouge for the holidays, I raided my Granny’s backyard kumquat tree. (Yes, Virginia, there is citrus to be picked in Louisiana this time of year.) I used these to make a kind of chutney of sliced kumquat, onions, coriander, honey—just right for brightening all that dark earthiness.

Lo, how a rose e’er blooming, from tender stem hath sprung

This time of year, there isn’t a lot of tenderness in this landscape—vegetation tends to either toughen or collapse in the hard, cold air. We know from experience the greens and pinks will return, but if you look around and try to imagine this happening, it takes a mighty effort to suspend your disbelief. Cyclical or not, the coming of spring is pretty incredible if you stop to think about it.

Gardening is full of little miracles. I had been in my house two summers when a funny-looking sprout appeared in the narrow bed along the front of my house. Something about it looked distinctly non-weedy, so I decided to let it go and see what happened. The next time I looked, it was not only unlovely but large and forbidding. If I were not so lazy, that would have been the end of that experiment, but I just wasn’t prepared to put on my gloves and dig out the thorny thing that afternoon. Or the next or the next or the next. Which is a good thing, because when the next year rolled around, the messy mystery plant revealed itself as a rose. 

Furrows be glad, though earth is bare,

one more seed is planted there.

Give up your strength the seed to nourish

that in time the flower may flourish.

After spending the last year or so getting up close and personal with my dirt, I’ve been hyper-aware of botanical content of so many Christmas and Advent carols. Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown. Winds through the olive trees softly did blow.  Then down came the tallest branch—it touched Mary’s hand. And the first tree in the green wood, it was the holly. The tree of life my soul hath seen, laden with fruit and always green.

For department stores and five-year-olds, Christmas 2009 is already a memory, but according to the liturgical calendar there are a few days left to enjoy those once-a-year tunes. Here’s one of my favorites.

hitting refresh

I started working for a summer opera festival while still in college, and have organized my professional life around this summer idyll—if such an intense period can be properly called an idyll—ever since. So I’ve never lost touch with the back-to-school feeling; September, much more than the new calendar year, always feels like a fresh beginning to me.

Over the past few days, I’ve been emptying and scrubbing closets and cabinets. You have to be in the right frame of mind for such a task. The rules vary according to the object—a bag of dried chiles is one thing, a blazer another—but if it has gone unused for too long, whatever that is, it has to go.

Unless it can be used immediately. Saturday I found lots of half-bags dried fruits and nuts, plus a half-can of oats, so I made granola. The basic technique comes from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything, the idea of using some olive oil comes from something I read in the New York Times, the ingredients and proportions were dictated by my pantry, and the seasoning… well, that was just me.

Savory-sweet granola

1. Toast a scant cup of steel-cut oats in a baking pan set over two stove burners.

2. Once they begin to color, add 2 cups slivered almonds and 1 cup walnut pieces. Stir until these color as well.

3. Mix together about a tablespoon each of honey and olive oil, then drizzle over nut mixture.

4. Lightly crush about 2 tablespoons fresh dried coriander, and distribute this, along with some salt, over the nut mixture.

5. Combine so that nuts and oats are slightly sticky all over. Hands are the best way to accomplish this.

6. Bake in a 300-degree oven for 20 minutes.

7. Stir in about 2 cups of random dried fruit (I had cranberries, cherries, golden raisins) and several grinds of black pepper. Taste—maybe a little more salt? pepper?

8. Let cool in pan, stirring occasionally.

Fall cleaning is one way of marking the change of season. The Cherry Valley Harvest Party is another. And since it’s a potluck, it’s yet another opportunity to rid yourself of some excess. It’s tricky, though. Decluttering your garden for a potluck does not offer the easy virtue of packing up your unwanted stuff for Goodwill. For Goodwill, not only is the donator (of Dan Brown novels bought in an airport, of rayon dresses with colossal shoulder pads) anonymous, the recipients are theoretical: someone will surely be very glad for that coat with the enormous lapels. Surely.

At a potluck, no one is anonymous.  It is a performance, and for your neighbors—those who have always had their doubts about you, anyway, as well as those who have shown you so much kindness and generosity that if you sacrificed your few non-blighted tomatoes, it still wouldn’t be enough. If you’re going to get rid of squash in this forum, it better be good.

 Potluck Pasta Salad 

1. Pick all the summer squash that are ready to be picked (this year I have green scallop, along with the regular oblong yellow). Slice, salt, and sauté in olive oil. You only want one layer in the skillet, so you will probably need to do this in several batches. As you remove each batch, place in a bowl and tear lots of fresh basil on top. Continue layering warm squash and basil.

2. Start some water boiling for pasta. Put in a handful of peeled cloves of garlic, as well as some salt. When the water comes to a full boil, fish out the garlic cloves and throw in the pasta. The pasta shapes should be about the same size as the squash pieces.

3. Chop the garlic roughly, then use a fork and some salt to mash to a paste. Scrape into the bowl with the squash and basil. (If you like your garlic extremely pungent, use it fresh, without boiling. If you want it even more mellow, you can leave it to boil with the pasta… good luck finding it, though.)

4. Drain pasta. Add to bowl. Give it a stir. If everything isn’t nice and shiny, add a little more olive oil.

5. I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I have a nifty pot with a strainer that fits right inside. So I can lift out the pasta and keep the boiling water for the next step. OR you could just start boiling the corn water at some earlier point. OR you could put another pot under the colander when you dump the pasta…. in any case, throw a few ears of fresh sweet corn into salted boiling water, then let it come back to a boil, then drain. When the corn is cool enough to handle, cut off the kernels and add them to the bowl.

6. Stir, taste, adjust. If your party is tomorrow, put it in the fridge. If it’s in a few hours, leave, covered, on the counter.

7. Just before leaving the house, give the dish another stir, and taste. Do what needs to be done. The basil will have fully infused the squash by now. It will also be wilted and blackish, so add some more fresh green leaves, along with some crumbled feta.

When I dropped off my stuff at the Herkimer Goodwill, the guy accepting it shook his head. “I don’t know how people do it.” To my mute question, he replied, “Give away books.” Yeah, I don’t know either. For a moment I found myself rethinking my choices—but then I walked away. I had that same flash of the hoarder’s instinct when I tasted the squash—but then I picked up my Pyrex and off I went. Turns out that between the barbeque and the beets and the brownies, I didn’t even have room for my little masterpiece on my plate. And I didn’t miss it one bit. Let the new year begin—I got everything I need!

monday evening

undaunted

I pulled up this plant a month ago… it’s STILL producing!

transitions

After a summer of being pulled in many directions, I’ve finally had the luxury of spending a week mostly at home. And after months of yearning for some relaxed time to putter in the garden and kitchen, I suddenly found myself craving foods some distance from the ground. I made macaroni and cheese (more than once). I enjoyed assorted pastries at the coffee shop. Coconut shrimp. Grilled cheese with bacon. An ice-cream sandwich with neon green mint filling.

Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that, at least once in awhile. But what of my beloved garden? Was I just getting bored? (It is, after all, the season of squash…)

I think it’s actually something more complicated, something not unlike the semi-conscious self-protective distancing that can come to summer romances when participants fear a terrific new habit of being will not survive the winter. I know, of course, that I can maintain some contact with my soil in the cold months ahead—there will be shell beans and potatoes and winter squash, and if I get my act together there will be a freezer full of pesto, gleaming jars of beets, and who knows what else. But there will be no more lettuce growing outside my kitchen window. I’ll have to find my elbows and learn to shop at Fairway again. This is not a bad thing, but it is a little sad. As all transitions can be.

But why anticipate the chill ahead? Yesterday evening I determined to devote myself to the garden, and what began as mere duty immediately felt both comfortable and thrilling.

Time to bring in the coriander.

The green beans don’t produce much anymore, but I’ve left the plants because they provide an occasional slim, sun-warmed pod for snacking. As for the shell beans, there are dried pods on just a few of the plants, but I went ahead and brought those in, too. Starting the bean-bowls makes me feel better about the winter ahead.

Brussels sprouts still aren’t ready, but they’re fun to monitor.

The beets and carrots are thriving, but they can be left for later. The squash, on the other hand, cannot. I grilled a pile of them in the shadow the sunflowers, which are finally coming into their own, then layered them, warm, with lots of basil and a feathery fennel-tasting leaf that is part of my patch of salad greens.

Summer is on its way out, to be sure, but all the more reason to fully embrace its last days.