Eating

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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Spring is on its way. I saw the first chimpunk today, quite frisky after his long winter's nap. Beneath last year's detritus, the mint patch is already stirring greenly, and the first bulbs—snowdrops—have emerged under the river birch in the side yard. Soon we will be tramping into the wet woods in search of vernal pools and the salamanders and frogs that inhabit them. I am dreaming of what we will plant first and itching for morel season. At this time of year I get a serious jones to clean out drawers and closets, reorganize the attic and generally freshen up the place—and myself. Now is the moment to undertake cleanses, juice fasts and detoxes, as you prepare to shed the protective layers of winter and emerge into the sunlight.
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Are you eating your vegetables? It's becoming quite trendy to eschew meat at the center of your plate. This style of eating has long been embraced in Asia and out of necessity in many poorer countries. In fact, it's not so dissimilar from the Mediterranean diet, which was endorsed yet again in a study released last week. It's really no big news that a vegecentric diet is the way to go, as evinced by this 1819 quote from Thomas Jefferson: I have lived temperately, eating little animal food, and that not as an aliment, so much as a condiment for the vegetables which constitute my principal diet.

I love the notion of animal products as a condiment and often use them this way in my cooking. Small amounts of highly flavored meat or fish—smoky pork, spicy sausage, salty fish roe, pungent anchovies—add just the right hit of umami to salads, pastas and vegetables, raw or cooked. Look to what some of the more ingenious chefs are doing for ideas on vegetables dishes with heft. Consider the oven-roasted slab of broccoli I had at The NoMad. Daniel Humm made it the star, with a little bacon to keep things interesting. This cauliflower dish is from Dan Barber, who never met a vegetable he didn't like.
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Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,


And never stops—at all,



 

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard,


And sore must be the storm


That could abash the little bird


That kept so many warm,



 

I've heard it in the chillest land—


And on the strangest sea;


Yet, never, in extremity,


It asked a crumb—of me.

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