Eating

Though the skies are perpetually grey, snow still covers the yard and a sleeting rain is now falling, I know that spring is coming. For one thing, I saw a green hellebore bud forming on a plant that's one of only a few not under snow. Oh, joy! For another, the cat keeps standing by the back door, waiting anxiously to go out to the porch. (She never lasts out there more than a minute or two, but still.) And there's my own restless anticipation. I am on a detox this week, having mostly smoothies, fresh juices and green soup. Visit that post and you'll see how last year at this time I was doing exactly the same thing. If you're at all connected to your animal instincts, you've probably noticed the way the body prepares for the change of season. I crave green.
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I have a culinary crush on Alison Roman. She's an editor at Bon Appétit and, lately, so many of the recipes I grativate toward there are created by her. The magazine has a one-page feature towards the front that always showcases a single ingredient—like grapefruit or peanut butter or pomegranate—and several interesting ways to cook with it. In the March issue, it's cabbage and, though all three recipes look great, it was Alison's that really jumped out at me. It's for cabbage chips, an unusual idea and especially timely now that kale chips are wearing a bit thin. (Blasphemy, I know.) Pieces of tender cabbage—you're instructed to use the inner leaves—are roasted in a low oven for a couple of hours. They pass through a slightly stinky phase, when the cabbage wafts a bit of sulphur, and wind up with a sweet, concentrated vegetal flavor and a nice crispy crunch. I devoured these and felt positively virtuous.
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It's bloody cold. There have been snowstorms, ice storms, windstorms and rainstorms. The grey skies have wept frozen tears; these have melted and re-frozen, accumulating in big crystallized drifts that are beginning to lose their charm. And there's no end in sight. We're heading to Florida for a few days next week to visit G's parents and I'm looking forward to a little sun on my face. My bones are cold. But my heart is warm and it's filled with love. I know, kind of corny, but I think this meditation practice has really helped me. I've also been reading Pema Chödrön's Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living and it's given me so much to think about. You might be the most depressed person in the world, the most addicted person in the world, the most jealous person in the world. You might think that there are no others on the planet who hate themselves as much as you do. All of that is a good place to start. Just where you are—that's the place to start. In other words, don't wait until you're better, or thinner, or happier, or richer, or less stressed. The time is now. For what? For whatever you've been putting off. Like loving yourself. Having real compassion for yourself. Start there.
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If there are any Puerto Rican, Dominican, Nigerian, Peruvian, Honduran or Jamaican people in your neighborhood, there are probably plantains in your local market. You've seen them in those dusty bins next to the waxy brown yucca tubers, hairy coconuts and ancient sweet potatoes, right? I'll bet you've never even given them the time of day. But if you've had Cuban food, you may have experienced the unforgettable pleasure of digging into a pile of soft, caramelized plantain slices, right next to your moros y cristianos (black beans and rice). It's hard to imagine that this delicious golden sweetness can emerge from such a black, wrinkly source, but plantains are sort of the culinary equivalent of pearls from swine. Read on for a gateway recipe to this ghettoized ingredient.
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About once a week, the Glutton and consort abandon their coveralls and shit-kickers, their nature walks and woodpiles, for the hustle and bustle of the big city. How else can we keep up with all the important goings-on and connect with the clients who make this rural existence possible? A mere two-hour drive southeast and we enter another world, far removed from our daily existence and yet deeply familiar—after 25 years of living in Manhattan, it's in my blood. My life is utterly changed from when I used to inhabit those mean streets, and I truly do prefer our little country cottage, but I can still appreciate all the city has to offer. It's actually been hard for me to relinquish that sense of being so plugged in to the latest restaurants, the new boutiques, the exhibits and plays that are the cultutral currency of a true New Yorker. I can't help imagining myself as both country mouse and city mouse.

You remember that children's story, right? Beguiled by his sophisticated city cousin’s amazing tales, the country mouse ventures into town. But his cousin has neglected to mention the deafening noise, the frighteningly tall buildings and those dangerous dogs! The city presents a spectacle at once gorgeous and disturbing. In the end, the reader comes to understand why the city mouse loves his exciting life and why the country mouse is content with his peaceful home. With a foot in each camp, I try to make the best of both worlds.
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On Valentine's Day, I handed my husband my new copy of Mast Brothers Chocolate: A Family Cookbook and told him I would make him whatever treat he picked. He was hard pressed to decide. This gorgeous effort from Brooklyn's now legendary sibling duo is dedicated to the many uses of their artisanal craft chocolate. Its pages are packed with mouth-watering, full-page photographs in a hypnotically monotone palette of dark, mysterious browns. After gazing long and hard at various layer cakes, G chose the chocolate gingersnaps. I was thrilled because the recipe is simple and I love ginger. Little did I know how hard I would fall for these wickedly good confections.
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Globalization means that you can buy Pringles wherever you travel. That plastic is the default material, even in the jungle. And that, no matter where you roam, a hamburger is not far away. But in rural Oaxaca, the locals have little money for these indulgences and outside influences are still regarded with suspicion. The indigenous Zapotecs live very close to how they have for centuries, farming the same crops as their ancestors and hunting and gathering in terrains virtually unchanged. It's a highly sustainable lifesytle, when avocados and pomegranates drip from the trees in your courtyard, and beans, corn and squash grow in the fields out back. A couple of goats or a cow provide milk, then cheese—the local quesillo is sort of like mozzarella—and, eventually, meat. These people don't have a lot, but they really make the most of it and they're proud of their traditions. I tried to sample as many local foods as I could, and it wasn't hard since those are what's featured in all the markets and restaurants. You don't exactly go out for Chinese when you're in Oaxaca.
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Until you delve into the world of mezcal, it has a sort of hazy outlaw connotation, what with the worm and all. It's easy to imagine it as the drink of choice for that bad-ass bandido with the glinting gold tooth and a bandolier of ammo criss-crossed over his chest. But then you travel into the heart of artisanal mezcal terrain and you discover that this mystical spirit has a complexity akin to that of wine, with a similar display of terroir. A product of the ancient Aztecs, mezcal is thought to derive from an even older drink known as pulque, the fermented sap of the agave plant that is milky and lightly alcoholic. Once cooking and distilling entered the process, the flavor and potency of pulque were amplified into what is known as mezcal. It has been made for centuries from the many varieties of the agave plant or, as it's called in Mexico, maguey. This is not actually a cactus, but a type of succulent that includes the espadín, pictured above. During our recent trip to Oaxaca, we were lucky enough to get a glimpse into artisanal mezcal production under the tutelage of local connoisseur and scholar, Ulises Torrentera. A writer who fell in love with the mysterious poetry of small-batch mezcal, Ulises has a deep collection of carefully sourced spirits he serves at his groovy little mezcal bar in Oaxaca City, In Situ. Spending the day with him really left us in high spirits.

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Wherever you live, if you're mired down in winter you've probably grown sick of root vegetables and chicories and begun eyeing a bunch of foreign-grown produce, am I right? Stray not from the way of locavore righteousness! Instead, follow me down the garden path to these wonderfully-comforting-yet-healthy-&-nutritious creamed winter greens. I've discovered that you can make a very respectable béchamel sauce with buttermilk (the real, filler-free stuff) and it is the perfect foil for toothsome leaves, like mustard greens and kale. In a strange twist, I found myself craving this intensely green dish for breakfast. I like to start the day blowing on a spoonful of something hot, and when it's not oatmeal, a baked sweet potato or a bowl of miso soup, this does very nicely. It's also great for lunch or dinner, obviously, can be made ahead and even freezes well. Unlike me. Enough with the sub-zero temps.

(By the way, the reason I am not yet posting more on Oaxaca is that I am pitching a number of stories to a certain magazine and I am waiting to hear back on what, if anything, they would like to publish.)
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Happy New Year! I have been so wanting to share with you all that we experienced on our trip, but I'm sad to report that I was felled yet again by a horrible illness almost immediately upon our return, some sort of nasty chest infection accompanied by high fever that may even have been the flu. Let me not immediately launch into telling you about the rounds of self-flagellating that went on: Why is my immune system so weak? What is wrong with me? etc. Instead, just let me say that I am now well enough to thrust myself into the new year with the gusto and optimism it deserves. 

During our glorious ten days in Mexico, we journeyed into the complex and mysterious heart of Oaxaca and discovered, with the help of knowledgeable and passionate local guides, amazingly colorful corners we would never have been able to see without this special access. It was such a rich and full vacation that I'll have to break it up into several posts so you can take it all in without feeling overwhelmed. I can't wait to go back and I'm excited to escort you there now.
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