I have a big collection of salts—Indonesian, Himalayan, Japanese, smoked, curried—and I am not shy about liberally sprinkling them as finishing touches on everything from salad to oatmeal. I've also experimented with adding my own flavors (black trumpet mushroom, wild lime, shiso seed) and recently was inspired by this lovely post to try some new ones. If you have not yet discovered the wonders of sea salt in all its sparkling, saline glory (maybe you missed this post?), this is your chance. Of late I have sprinkled black trumpet salt on mushroom risotto, smoked salt on ricotta, cacao salt on beans, citrus salt on tempura and cumin salt on lamb. It adds a wonderful crunch and a pure burst of flavor that dissolves on the tongue. Irresistible.
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Yes, yes, the hair is mostly grey now. People congratulate me on having a "good" color of grey. But what if it weren't "good"? What if I had a weird, ashy, muddy color? Would I be forced to keep coloring it in order to look "good"? There is often some level of discomfort when I get into these conversations, because inevitably people (read: women) start to question their own commitment to artificial color. I do not judge. I religiously colored my hair for 15 years and, if the inconvenience of spending precious city time in the salon chair were not a factor, I might still be doing it. But the move upstate and all it has engendered do seem to have connected me to a more authentic expression of myself I find gratifying. That said, this post is about a different sort of grey altogether. Read on to find out more, and to check out my latest list of inspiring links.
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You go along in life, understanding the course of things, but never really imagining that what you see others endure will befall you. That might be the definition of youth. Because, inevitably, it happens to you. To paraphrase Mia Farrow, life is a series of losses and it's all about the grace and resilience with which you respond. My former mother-in-law once looked at a photo of Liv Ullman on the cover of the New York Times Magazine and said, "Ugh, she's really let herself go." Never mind that the Swedish actress was being lauded for directing a film, what mattered to this woman was that a former beauty now looked like the 62-year-old she was. And I remember feeling disgusted by that, and vowing to forever construe "letting oneself go" as something quite liberating and wonderful.I let my grey hair come in over the past 2 years and there was a certain loss that needed to be mourned there; quietly, mind you. I went from a tousled brunette to an elegant silver without more than a whimper. But now that I am finding it difficult to fit into any of my clothes, now that my skin is becoming slacker and my muscle tone less defined—all those clichés of middle age—I begin to feel a bit of that desperation that sends women under the scalpel. I'm not going to start in with the whole I'm invisible routine. Unless you're Elle Macpherson, that pretty much sets in after age 40. And I'm lucky enough to have a husband who tells me I'm beautiful all the time. But, pathetic as it may be, I am newly committed to holding on to what I have for as long as possible. That entails lots of exercise and watching what I eat. Because, to me, being a glutton is all about expanding your palate not your waistline. It's being greedy for the things that are good and good for you. It means that lunch is about salad.
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Angelica, known in some parts as Holy Ghost or Wild Celery, is a member of the genus Umbelliferae, which also endows the kitchen with parsley, carrot, parsnip, fennel, anise, coriander, celery, dill, cumin, lovage and caraway. Its subtly sweet flavor hints at many if not all these sister plants, with prominent notes of licorice and celery. Its botanical name, angelica archangelica, derives from the legend that it was the archangel Michael who told of its medicinal use, and every part of the plant has been prized for centuries for remedies addressing diverse complaints, especially digestive and bronchial problems. The leaves are used for tea; the roots and seeds flavor wine and spirits, including gin, Chartreuse, Bénédictine, vermouth and absinthe; the ground dried root and candied stems are added to baked goods; and the fresh leaves enliven salads, soups, stews, custards and ice cream. A flute-like instrument with a reedy sound can even be made of its hollow stem (entertaining for kids), and I’ve also seen the stems used as straws for drinks.
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A much heralded character throughout history, the virtues of the pomegranate are extolled in the Koran, the Book of Exodus and Homer's Hymns. Punica granatum has been cultivated in the Caucasus since ancient times and continues to be popular amongst the antioxidant-slurping, fountain-of-youth-seekers of modern day. It's in season now in the Northern Hemisphere and widely available in supermarkets and Korean delis near you. The name comes from the Latin for "seeded apple" and, indeed, its leathery red shell breaks apart to reveal a spongy web nestling a treasure trove of glittering garnet jewels. So glorious is this fruit that the ancient city of Granada in Spain was renamed for the pomegranate during Moorish reign. The flavor is most often a combination of sweet and tart, with a mouth-puckering quality from the tannins contained in the juice of the aril, as the watery part surrounding the seed is called. These have a slight crunch to them and a hint of bitterness that adds to the complex flavor of this fruit, as delicious eaten out of hand as it is mixed fresh into salads, cooked in stews, or rendered into syrup to flavor all manner of drinks and traditional dishes from the Middle East.
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You may remember the Dreaded Bathroom Renovation that commenced around this time last year. You know, the one that was supposed to take a week and took many, many more? So many in fact that I came dangerously close to the edge and even broke out in shingles on my neck. In the end, it all turned out fine and we remain quite pleased with our new loo. And G finally brought home the right lens to shoot the tiny, narrow space in which we conduct all our ablutions, so I can share the outcome of all that suffering with you. Normally, you would show the before pictures as well, but I am just too ashamed to do that. Suffice it to say that I turned to G one day and said This looks like a poor person's bathroom. That may seem like a terribly elitist statement, but I think it begins to give you the right visual. It was so bad that you would think only a total lack of funds could be keeping the owner from fixing the situation. It was rotten through and through. Cracked and loose tiles meant years of seepage and leaks, and there was a permanent air of mildew. Our towels stank just a day or so after washing. Oh, the horror. And now? Something worthy of showing you. (Though please bear in mind that the lighting does not do it justice.)
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I'm not one of those people who's at a loss for what to cook. I have a repertoire of favorites and a list as long as my arm of new things I want to try. This is not bragging. There are plenty of things I do not have: Children. A Pulitzer Prize. Thin thighs. Yet on some nights even I don't have it in me to start whirling around the kitchen like a culinary dervish. On those nights, I just want something delicious to appear on my plate. But there's no takeout up here, remember? So I like to store a few tricks up my sleeve. Nothing wrong with a little help from your friends, though I can't recommend fast food. Nor canned food, for that matter. Not to harsh your mellow, but do you know about the epoxy liners in most cans? They're made with Bisphenol A (BPA), a chemical that can mimic human estrogen and is linked to breast cancer and early puberty in women. (The horror, the horror.) The Environmental Working Group tested canned food bought across America and found BPA in more than half, at levels they call "200 times the government's traditional safe level of exposure for industrial chemicals." So much for those canned beans, my darlings.
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It's pretty fascinating how the internet has opened up so many avenues of opportunity for art and commerce—sometimes separately, sometimes together. There are jillions of blogs and online stores and social networks of every stripe. And now, there is a fantastic source for affordably priced art from the roster of talented illustrators represented by my dear friend Stephanie Pesakoff. Stampa, which just launched last week (as per this mention in the Times), offers limited series of prints, with 4 artists at a time each selling their exclusive work for 4 weeks only. Once the edition is closed, Stampa will never offer the same art work again. A new series is added every week, so there's always something to discover. (There are actually 5 artists available currently, but that will change to a permanent format of 4.)
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I have always had a passion for beets. Never a picky eater, I enjoyed these somewhat polarizing purple root vegetables from an early age. I can still remember the thrill of seeing my pee, subtly pink, circling the bowl. In college, I seemed to be the only one helping myself to Harvard beets, a sweet-tart staple of the dining hall salad bar. Although beets are now widely embraced as part of the unavoidable farm-to-table syndrome, they rarely make an appearance in our home as they are one of the few things for which my husband simply does not care. With their assertive color and distinctive earthy sweetness, they're not exactly the sort of thing you can just slip into a dish. Although I may roast a few on occasion for my own consumption, I am not in the habit of adding them to our morning juice or recreating the divine beet crumble from The Fat Radish. So you can imagine my delight when G urged me to go ahead and make that borscht I was daydreaming about. Not that I needed his permission, but it's kind of lonely to cook up a whole pot of soup and then have to eat it alone. Cooking for one is a very specific thing that lends itself more to simple pastas, elaborate salads and the occasional pot pie, don't you think?
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I turned 49 yesterday. Slightly surreal. I'm a little thicker around the middle than I'd like to be, but otherwise I'm pretty damn happy with things. I've always been a little superstitious about the evil eye, never wanting to call too much attention to my good fortune. I remember my mother telling me about a moment she had while driving, feeling the sun on her face, the breeze in her hair, and thinking to herself Everything is wonderful and then, suddenly, my dad was diagnosed with cancer and her own health began to fail rapidly. Life can change seemingly in an instant, which is why we must pay such close attention to the here and now, seeking joy in the moment. Lofty ambitions and long-term plans have their place, but there's also something invaluable in the simplest pastimes: a long walk in the snow; organizing your drawers; playing catch; baking a loaf of banana bread.
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