Eating

As I write this, it's another grey, drizzly day outside and the world is glowing with a jade-green intensity that is almost unsettling. The chartreuse hues of early spring are seductive. The lilac is blooming, sending out its sweet perfume. The columbines are about to unfurl their showy blossoms. The early morning birdsong is loud enough to wake the dead. Yesterday I dug into the damp earth and planted lavender, rosemary, lemon verbena and my beloved scented geraniums. Also a few purple-striped jack-in-the-pulpit, trillium and bloodroot that were carefully and respectfully foraged from a nearby woodland. Time in the garden is precious as I have been inundated with client work. It's also kept me from the kitchen and from you, dearest readers. I've got a new recipe for you, though it's nothing fancy. Just something simple and practical that has become a popular staple in our house.
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I have a confession: I've never found a ramp in the wild. Embarrassing but true. Over the years, my foraging has turned up many prized mushrooms and choice plants, but the wild leek has remained elusive (as has the much-coveted morel). I am determined that this will be the year. In future, though, I won't have to leave it to chance. Because my crafty husband planted masses of Allium tricoccum in a shady cornder of our garden! The first patch, planted last year, came up successfully, so we planted another one last week. You're supposed to leave them mostly undisturbed for several years, allowing them to get established and really proliferate. But I've already taken a single leaf here or there. I've also bought ramps at the farmers market, where ramp frenzy is in full swing. Quite a few vendors are now selling only the leaves, because ramps have been over-harvested in many areas due to unsustainable practices. The trick is to leave at least as many bulbs behind as you take.
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Soup, salad, sandwich. It's the holy trinity of lunch. Of course modern times have brought us wraps and personal pizzas and pad thai, but those original three standbys never get old—if you don't let them. Did your mother pack your lunch for school? Mine did, and I still vividly remember the  sandwiches on whole grain bread: tuna with alfalfa sprouts, cheese and avocado, liverwurst with mustard and (wilted) lettuce. On colder days there might have been a thermos of chicken-noodle soup or some leftover bean stew. On the side there were carrot and celery sticks. Maybe a small bag of Fritos. A crisp apple. Sometimes fig newtons or animal crackers. I was never ashamed of my lunch as I've read some kids are, nor did I ever trade with anybody. It was love from my mother and I ate it up. 

Now that I work from home, I can make myself whatever I like (or have time for). And yet it's still most often soup, salad or sandwich. I use what's in the fridge, generally focusing on vegetables, though not as a rule. If there are leftovers, that's always a possibility but I like to give them new life beyond a simple re-heat. Don't fall down when it comes to your lunch. Power your brain and body so you can get through that mid-afternoon slump. Take a real break and eat something meaningful, ideally something you've cooked yourself.
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My love of white asparagus started early in life. I was 8 years old and living with my family in Madrid during my father's sabbatical year. We traveled around the country quite a bit, often staying at wonderful paradores. These are state-owned hotels in historic castles and monasteries, many in spectacular locations, and generally decked in musty brocade with full suits of armor lurking in corners.

It was quite standard for us to order three courses whenever we ate out—which was a lot—and my choice of appetizer was often a vegetable. I loved judías blancas, meaty white beans in a chorizo-flecked tomato sauce; and judías verdes, green beans cooked to within an inch of their lives in plenty of garlic and olive oil. But my very favorite was white asparagus: three or four jumbo spears, as silky and tender as can be, cloaked with a rich veil of yellow mayonnaise. (In Spain, the best white asparagus come from Navarra, and a great many of them are preserved for sale in tins and jars, which does not diminish their flavor at all.) It's a taste of childhood that has haunted me over the years, cropping up with reassuring consistency.
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I watched a wonderful film this weekend, Which Way Is The Front Line From Here? It's an HBO documentary made by Sebastian Junger about photojournalist Tim Hetherington who was killed on the job in Libya a couple of years ago. Junger and Hetherington collaborated on an another stunning film, Restrepo, about a group of American soldiers in Afghanistan. Hetherington was clearly an extraordinary human being. The compelling photographs he took and humanitarian work he did in war-torn countries reveal the soul of a poet and the heart of a lion. Cut down by mortar shrapnel in Libya, he bled out from a wound to his femoral artery. Junger made the film as a tribute to his friend and colleague, and also started RISC (Reporters Instructed in Saving Colleagues), a free intensive training in basic combat medicine for freelance journalists headed for the front line. Listen to Terry Gross' moving interview with Sebastian Junger here. In it he refers to the way in which we continually "re-traumatize" ourselves by watching the same distressing news footage over and over. It reminded me of the coverage of the tragedy in Boston this past week and the relentless replaying of the same gruesome images. I question the value of this.

And now, on to brunch. Somehow trivial in light of these terrible events, and yet necessary to celebrate any given Sunday.
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It's a holy trinity. A tempting trifecta. To me there's nothing better than an exquisite balance of sweet and salty with a stealthy infusion of heat to kick it up just enough. It's why I love fresh summer fruit—mango, melon, pineapple, strawberries—macerated with jalapeño or sprinkled with chile salt. And it's the magic behind my all-time favorite caramels, made with chocolate, chile and Maldon salt. That same combination infuses a stellar treat dreamed up by baking maven Dorie Greenspan. Her new business, Beurre & Sel, run by son Josh and staffed in part by my very own sister-in-law (a talented baker in her own right), has been tantalizing tastebuds with cookies both classic and creative. My favorite are the ones that play savory elements (sesame, parmesan, rosemary, cayenne) off sweet ones. Dorie has dubbed these "cocktail cookies" because of how well they complement a drink. I've tweaked her recipe for the cocoa-cayenne cocktail cookies slightly, using gluten-free flour and incoporating the earthy crunch of cocoa nibs, but I think it still it does justice to the original.
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Ten years ago today, the man I was married to died of cancer. Adenoid cystic carcinoma. Diagnosed when he was 19, it had spread over a period of many years from his parotid gland to bones and organs throughout his body. Ultimately it went to his brain, causing a stroke from which he never recovered. I can't forget how he was in death, but I prefer to conjure him up in all his vital glory. He was a man of great appetites that ranged toward the high-brow: foie gras, foreign travel, fine cashmere. When I met him, I had left my glamorous life as a freelance writer in New York for what I imagined would be an even more glittering Hollywood phase, but things hadn't really turned out that way and I was a little lost. My thirties were rapidly running out, my second divorce was nearly three years behind me and I had a sneaking suspicion I was wasting valuable time on a number of fronts. But then I fell in love and the world turned. There were trips to China and Africa, pilgrimages to the French Laundry and Babbo, and a wedding—followed less than two years later by a funeral.
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We have adopted many things from the French, as earthy as their eponymous fries in all their crispy golden glory, and as ethereal as the featherweight macaron, surely one of the world's most refined cookies. The ne plus ultra has always come straight from the motherland courtesy of Ladurée, but of late they've been given a run for their money by some very worthy domestic contenders. So imagine my delight when the kind people at Sucré—a New Orleans confectionary known for artisanal sweets—sent me a box of 15 of their award-winning macarons to sample at my leisure. Bon temps rouler! In my time, I've eaten my fair share of these tiny meringue sandwiches (bonus: they're gluten-free) and I'm pleased to say that these are among the finest. I think you know me well enough to be sure that no amount of free anything could coerce me into false praise. Not only are macarons from Sucré delicious, each one is a visual feast, crafted in a style that can only be referred to as gilding the lily.
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Spring has sprung. Out my window, however, winter is still having a party. A thick layer of snow covers any tentative signs of growth, making me doubly glad that we're headed to Antigua. Sun, sand and surf? Yes, please. In the week before I go on vacation, deadlines are piled precariously high and the to-do list stretches to the horizon. But, come Saturday, I will be on that plane. In the meantime, a short but very savory post for you about the glories of making your own cheese powder. Nacho Libre, indeed.
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Smoothies have been one of several breakfast options for me for years, but it wasn't until recently that I started to have them every single day. And it has really made a difference. Somehow I am no longer stressing over what to eat in the morning, especially if I'm trying to get out of the house quickly. And I'm not worried about eating "too much," or too much of the wrong thing. I guess this makes me sound neurotic, but it's been life-enhancing so I wanted to share it with you. The smoothie is an opportunity to pack all sorts of nutrition into a drink that is light yet substantial, irresistibly creamy and smooth. We are hard-wired to crave something sweet and, rather than trying to reinforce some Draconian regimen of denial, I like to address that first thing in the morning. So will you, once you start your engines with a scintillating smoothie.
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