Eating

Today is the summer solstice and I can almost feel the earth tilting toward the sun. It is a time to be outside, to lift our faces to the sky, to bask in the longest light of the year. And, while we're at it, to always, always wear protection—melanoma is on the rise and the FDA has recently released new guidelines for wearing sunscreen. Most important is to choose "broad spectrum" coverage that protects against both UVA and UVB rays; to apply it every day, even if you're not going outside (UVA rays penetrate glass); and to reapply it every 80 minutes. Not so poetic perhaps, but then neither is cancer.

This month has whizzed by in a blur of work, but I have a renewed focus on dedicating time to my well-being. This has meant doing more yoga, riding my bike, hiking and even playing around with my hula hoop (highly recommended). I've also spent time in the garden, where weeding and picking pests off the plants give me a strangely wonderful satisfaction. Everything has exploded because of the rain and I love all the birds that come to visit this time of year.
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I guess the photo tips you off that isn't a typo. And the gardeners out there are probably familiar with a corm. Also known as a bulbotuber, it's a short, swollen underground plant stem that's like a bulb, though when cut in half it appears solid rather than layered. That's what a water chestnut is—the corm of a grass-like sedge that grows in marshes, underwater in the mud. Eleocharis dulcis is native to China and cultivated in flooded paddy fields all over Asia, as well as in warmer stateside climates like California and Florida. You've undoubtedly eaten them at your local Chinese restaurant, maybe even opened a can of them to add to your stir-fries. I've always enjoyed their satisfyingly juicy crunch and slightly bland, sweet flavor, not unlike jícama. But only recently did I try fresh water chestnuts and the scales fell from my eyes. 

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Ain't nothin' going' on but the rain. I don't know what's happening in your neck of the woods but over here it's sopping wet. I'm talking monsoon. (A taste of things to come? Climate change may ultimately convert the Northeast into something like a rain forest.) The first promise of a break in the deluge had me pining for the grill. Nothing says summer like firing up the barbecue, and this beautiful Thai-style grilled chicken from the pages of Hot Sour Salty Sweet is a great way to usher in the season. The flavors are bold and bright, and the dish comes together with minimal effort. If chicken's not your thing, you might try this with firm tofu. A little sticky rice, some crunchy slaw and a spicy-sweet dipping sauce take this meal over the top. And if it's still raining? I ended up making mine under the broiler and so can you.
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Now these are baby carrots. Scarcely wider than a gentleman's ring finger and half again as long. Look for them at your farmers market and for bunches of hot pink French breakfast radishes. Munch on them raw for a sweet, crunchy snack, or roast them together for a light seasonal meal. And if your carrots have vibrant bushy greens attached? Do not toss them into the trash, nor even the compost pile. Turn them into an earthy pesto and enjoy the thrill of vegetarian nose-to-tail cooking.
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It was a sweltering day in the city yesterday but I had a bee in my bonnet about getting down to Chinatown to score some young ginger. I was so inspired by this post but I despaired of getting my hands on the right ginger, and then a Japanese friend told me the Chinatown street vendors had it. Having lived in close proximity to New York City's Chinatown in my time, I'm quite familiar with how the heat ratchets up its already heady perfume and by midday it was quite ripe. But so were the beautiful tropical fruits!

It's been two years since I was in Asia (remember?) and I yearn to traipse through sultry streets to foreign markets where unknown produce is piled high and the sweet scent of tuberose mingles with those of smoke, sweat and cooking. How amazing it is to feel like a visitor in an exotic land just walking up and down Canal Street. If you've never shopped for mangoes, yellow chives or fresh lychees down there, you must treat yourself to the experience.
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You can't knock water, especially if you're drinking it fresh from your own artesian well, as I am. If I weren't lucky enough to have this, I would probably be using a filter on my tap. Bottled water? I try to avoid it. I object to all that plastic from an environmental standpoint, not to mention whatever it's off-gassing into my system. But drinking water seems so virtuous, doesn't it? The hydration, the lack of calories... On a hot day or after a workout, it's just the ticket. Other times, it can be a trifle dull. Come on, I know I'm not alone here. Yes, I add fresh lemon or a few slices of cucumber or sprigs of mint, but stil. Unsweetened tea works but I prefer it with a bit of sugar or honey, and then it starts to feel like something I shouldn't be drinking lots of on a regular basis. I've already ruled out fruit juice (unless significantly watered down) and soda was never in the picture so, until recently, the options for quenching my thirst had been rather limited. Until, that is, I discovered kombucha.
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My husband has a green thumb. It turns out that, in addition to gorgeous, generous and good (and George, of course), G stands for gardener. Not only has he built three new enclosed raised bed areas to add to the two we already had, but he has planted them with a chef's dream of choice vegetables and herbs. Last night I picked succulent fresh mustard greens and tender young garlic, sauteed them up with little chunks of chorizo and tossed it all with some brown rice pasta. Dinner happens in an instant when it comes from your backyard. At first I was a little cranky that I have been working too hard to be involved in the planting this year, but now I just feel spoiled. But enough about me. How are you spending this first holiday weekend of the season? If you've got any free time, check out some of these interesting ideas and resources I have been collecting for you this month.
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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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