One of my earliest memories is of being handed a small saucer of fresh cajeta by a tall, dark-haired neighbor of ours in Mexico. A sweet seduction like this you never forget, no matter how chaste. This amber-colored elixir is the taste of my childhood: dizzyingly sweet, with notes of burnt sugar and barnyard commingled in a sigh of pleasure. The name allegedly comes from the Spanish phrase al punto de cajeta, which means a liquid thickened to the point at which a spoon drawn through it reveals the bottom of the pot. But I've also heard it said that it takes its name from the small wooden boxes in which it was traditionally packed. There is simply nothing like goat's milk caramel, cooked to a dark satin swirl and touched with hints of salt and vanilla. It's delicious with cheese, believe it or not, and drizzled over or mixed into ice cream, but I enjoy it best spooned sinfully straight from the jar.

 

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For the current Charcutepalooza challenge, we've moved on from simple salt curing and brining to the added step of hot smoking. Given a choice of making tasso ham or Canadian bacon, I made both. Perhaps I should say "we," as without G's smoking prowess I would just have lots of incredibly well-seasoned but essentially raw pork on hand. Having come out the other side of this process, I have to tell you how incredibly rewarding it is. The meat is so delicious, and it was great fun to see it through the relatively few simple steps it took to create all this rich and complex flavor. If you held a gun to my head, I think I'd have to admit I prefer the tasso—it's made from pork shoulder (otherwise known as Boston butt, the same cut we use for our July 4th pulled pork), and slow-cooking melts its generous fat through every fiber. I can't wait to use it in some traditional recipes like gumbo or jambalaya. The Canadian bacon is also remarkably good, especially when you consider that every bit of fat has been removed. I added an extra rub to mine, just a simple mixture of brown sugar, cayenne and cumin, but I like the extra kick it gives the smoky pink meat.
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Television: opiate of the masses or educational medium? Depends on how you use it, I guess. We prefer our entertainment commercial-free, so that means Netflix or downloading content from iTunes. (Although I was riveted by an episode of American Idol the other night when we were staying at a hotel in the city. JLo looked like an extra from Scorcese's Casino...) There have been some incredible shows on in the past few years, thanks in no small part to HBO. If you didn't catch The Sopranos, you missed out on a culturally defining moment. It's not too late to start from the beginning; you can buy the complete series here. If you missed The Wire, you may want to consider treating yourself to some of the greatest television ever made. It's where I first became aware of the up-&-comer Pablo Schreiber, brother of Liev and an acting force in his own right. He's now part of a powerhouse ensemble on FX's Lights Out, a fantastic new show that I await eagerly every week. I don't understand why there isn't more buzz about it.
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Seeds. Water. Light. Life! That's all it takes. Just shy of 5 days, and hardy little shoots are springing out, so vibrant and crisp. A reminder of how eager cells are to divide, and how little they require to thrive. The pea shoots are tender and crunchy, full of vivid pea flavor. The broccoli sprouts are smaller and more tender, with a delicate but recognizable taste. They are ready to eat now: stirred into soups, tossed in salads, layered in sandwiches, simply dressed with a little lemon juice and sesame oil, blended in juice.
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OK, I'm going to say it: I'm OVER winter. Jeez. More snow? Is this really what we need? And still no working sink or shower in our bathroom. So where's the motherfucking silver lining? (Wow. In real life I have a mouth like a truck driver, but on the blog I rarely stoop so low.) But wait. Yesterday I made marmalade, and today there are five gorgeous jars of the stuff glowing on the kitchen counter. Canning doesn't have to be such a big deal, you know. It's not imperative that you slave over a hot stove for hours and hours, putting up jar after jar of whatever it is. You can simply look in your fridge and see that you have an enormous bowl of malingering kishu mandarins left over from the 10 pounds you ordered on a lark in January—plus the odd Meyer lemon and pink grapefruit—and decide that you're going to make a discreet quantity of marmalade, just for yourself and the occasional very lucky friend.
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I don't care that there's snow on the ground and that more is predicted for tomorrow, I know what I saw this weekend, and I'm not backing down from thoughts of spring. I stepped out onto the front patio on Saturday night and basked in the glow of the super perigree moon, a rare sight that happens only every 18 years or so, when the moon is about 31,000 miles closer to Earth. On Saturday it was not only closer, but totally full, and about 14% bigger and 30% brighter than normal. It shed its monstrously beautiful silver light on me and I asked for its blessing, inspiration and guidance. Kooky? Perhaps. But that day, in honor of the equinox and this moon, G and I had already gone over to our new property in Forestburgh and had a little ceremony to bless the land and imbue it with good intentions. We have such high hopes; it felt good to say them out loud with the waterfall across the lake roaring in the distance and woodpeckers flitting high above in the trees.
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Would it surprise you to hear that last night we busted out the barbecue and grilled up some pork, and awoke this morning to the first day of spring covered in snow? During a stroll around our yard yesterday, I was so thrilled to spy the first signs of life: snowdrops, rhubarb, mint (photos tomorrow). The chipmunks were dashing about, shaking off the winter doldrums and nibbling on green shoots. All just a tease. We'll be out snowshoeing again tomorrow. Not sure if I'm complaining, but I think I am.Anyway, we were lucky enough to get in our first grilled dinner—steaks, but featuring the other white meat. Whoever heard of a pork steak? At Dickson's, where we get our meat in the city, they frequently have interesting new cuts. If I'm not mistaken, this has to do with the fact that they are buying the whole animal. They like to find appealing ways to showcase parts that don't often show up in the butcher case. It's also why they can sell things like homemade suet, stocks, patés and terrines. So when G spied these pork "sirloins," he had to give them a try.
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My hemp sprouting bags arrived this week, so I wanted to give you a little update on the whole sprouting project. I ordered two bags, plus dried green peas, broccoli seeds and sunflower seeds, from the good people at Raw Guru. They say hemp breathes and dries even better than cotton or linen, and is naturally antibiotic, so it's the perfect environment for sprouting. That website is a real rabbit hole for me, I can get lost for way too long poring over dehydrators and sprouters and raw agave and virgin coconut oil...yet another resource from which I can obsessively stock the larder. Anyhoo, I "sterilized" the bags per the instructions by dousing them with boiling water and then, after soaking a cup of peas and a couple of tablespoons of broccoli seeds in two clean jars filled with water for about 6 hours, I poured them into the bags. And there they hang.
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For those of you not lucky enough to be eating your own corned beef tonight, here's a quick peek at how mine turned out. Overall, I'm quite satisfied. The meat was just the right balance of tender but firm. It was a gorgeous pink, perfumed by the spices and very buttery from that extra layer of fat that my butcher did not remove. (Thanks, Jake!) I let the vegetables get a tad soft perhaps, but they have a melt-in-your-mouth quality that is irresistible. It makes me realize that I do not eat enough velvety cooked cabbage. Both the sauces—coarse-grained mustard with shallots and a dash of stout, and creme fraiche with horseradish and chives—are addictive and the perfect pungent, spicy counterpoint to the rich meat. The one surprise was the broth: copious amounts of it (so much so that I'll be using it to make beans), and delicious poured over the whole dish. Served in a broad pasta bowl, everything can run together into one delectable hot mess. Would love to hear how anyone else's turned out.If you thought we were done with root vegetables—not so fast! After all the squash soups and mashed parsnips and potato-leek gratins and beet salads, I came across a root previously unknown to me: parsley root. Have you encountered it? Apparently it's big with Eastern Europeans and Jewish grandmothers.

My passionate love of beets dates back to my early childhood. I can remember staring delightedly into the toilet as a lovely pink-tinged rinse circled the bowl. Their gorgeous color is a way of signaling how rich they are in minerals and antioxidants. (Beet juice, incidentally, makes a wonderful dye. Stay tuned for the transformation of my new white linen caftan!) The beets we know and eat are descended from the sea beet, Beta vulgaris subsp. maritima, which is native to the coasts of Europe, North Africa and southern Asia. Also known as wild spinach, it's the common ancestor of beetroot, sugar beet and Swiss chard.In my desire to help you squeeze the maximum out of your winter store of root vegetables, I can't forget to mention these wine-colored jewels. We don't eat them much in our house because G is not fond of them—something which is apparently rather common among men. I wonder why? He thinks they taste of dirt, which of course they do, but isn't that the whole point? I love them in all their guises—raw, steamed, roasted and pickled—and will often indulge when the cat's away.
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