The storm came and it took so much from us: our electricity, our water, our phones, our internet. It took our connections. Our lights. Our power. We became vulnerable, alone and in the dark. We were frightened. And then we rallied and made do. We foraged for water. We built roaring fires and lit candles. We strapped on battery-run headlamps and cooked hands-free. We traveled to friends' houses to swap stories, plug in and reassure each other that all was well. Everywhere we went, the horribly splintered and gaping maws of downed trees reminded us of Sandy's strength. When we finally saw the images of those places truly under water, we were humbled. For what does a little time without the trappings of civilization compare to life irrevocably changed by devastation and death? We were the lucky ones. As I always say, those of us left behind must lift our heads, set our jaws and move forward. One sure way to reclaim our power? We voted.
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I grew up in a family obsessed with language. To this day, try as I might, I sometimes cannot stop myself from correcting someone's grammar or droning on about semantics. I still remember the day it dawned on me that the word breakfast was derived from the act of breaking the fast. Another interesting tidbit that has stuck with me is something my father taught me: all the Spanish words that start with "al" are of Arabic derivation. "Alambre" means wire, a material used by the Moors in their ornate filigree; "Alhambra" is, of course, their castle in Andalucía; and "alcachofa" means artichoke, cultivated by the Moors as early as 800 AD in the countryside around Granada. I grew up in California near the epicenter of artichoke production and have been eating these delicious thistles my whole life. I recently shared a plate of them "alla Romana" with G at Boulud Sud, where they were fried to a greaseless crunch and accompanied by a lemony aïoli—perfection! I also adore the big globe artichokes, steamed and doused in lemon. I love to scrape each leaf with my teeth, savoring the green mineral flavor, until I've worked my way to the heart in all its creamy glory.
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Rhubarb abounds at the moment. Driving along the little country roads out here, you see many a luxuriant patch with broad, lofty, ruffly green leaves and the occasional gorgeous flower soaring above. The markets are full of the celery-like stalks in shades that range from rose to raspberry. I'd been feeling a tad deficient for having produced such adamantly green rhubarb, but then I looked up the variety we planted and it turns out Victoria rhubarb is meant to be green! Naturally, it's not the one most commercially favored, since everyone is attracted to the gaudy red stuff, but I'm now quite proud of my green stalks with the discreet hint of pink at the very base. It tastes just as wonderful, and I find the color makes a lovely counterpoint to the vivid strawberries with which it's so often paired. Food52 continues to be an inspiration (even though my strawberry-fennel ice cream, nominated last week, did not win—#$@$%#!), and I think you'll love this simple but flavorful poached rhubarb that I've topped with strawberry preserves that deliver a bit of heat. Make it now, before all that beautiful red (or green) rhubarb has seen its best days.
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