Dear readers, thanks so much for checking out my blog.  I will not longer be posting here but skip on over to Grub & Grist for mounds of juicy tidbits, ramblings and recipes.

Happy feasting!

The Last Supper, and the first

I arrived hot and sweaty, hair plastered to neck, drowning in a sea of exhaustion. Pushing my key into the unfamiliar lock I wrestled with it for what seemed like hours, growing ever more flustered by the moment. After much trial and error the door gave way and I tumble into my new apartment, suitcases cascading through the entrance as I collapsed in the hallway.

I had arrived. One day after leaving the plush evergreens of the Pacific Northwest I was in London, plunged into the middle of a bustling, monumentally large, noisy, and vibrant city. It was, to say the least, quite a change from sleepy Whidbey Island.

After blearily reading the note left for me in the kitchen, shuffling down the hall to find my room, and collapsing again onto the bed, I shut my eyes against the lurching, plunging world. Five minutes passed and I noticed that my body was still swaying, even with eyes firmly shut. Perhaps it was the combined effect of transatlantic air travel, a serious deficit of sleep, and little food. (Bored and hungry as I'd been, I couldn’t face the rubbery muck that airlines shamelessly call food, and it wasn’t long before I ran out of tamari almonds and black licorice.)

There was only one solution, and I grinned stupidly at the ceiling as I remembered my planned first feast in the motherland. Just the thought of it gave me the strength to stagger upright, splash cold water on my face, and slip on my boots. Within minutes I had marched outside, located a store and seized upon my objective. Paying for the wax-papered bundle, I strode back to my building and dashed up to the kitchen. Not knowing where the plates were I didn’t bother but simply sat down, tore open the paper, and beamed at my prize. It was a small, heavy, pastry-clad round. Taking a knife, I sliced carefully into the center and drew out a wedge. The thick crust encased a thin layer of translucent jelly and within this lay a center of indistinguishable pinkish-gray meat, not altogether appealing to the uninitiated.

I do not remember the first time I ate pork pie. It was one of those childhood memories that subsides into the shadowy depths of the mind. Yet when I bit into this rather unexceptional specimen as a 25 year old girl newly arrived in London, a sea of sense memories flooded my body. Aunt Jojo’s chickens, the smell of her kitchen, picnics, Granny Bun’s pony and cart, cow shit, hay, New Market high street, the clattering motion of a train, the heavy feel of pound coins in the palm of my hand . . .

The power of food to evoke memory is mysterious. Surely everyone has had the experience of biting into a certain food, or simply smelling a specific aroma that sends them back to another time and place: a brand of hot chocolate perhaps, or mom’s recipe for mac and cheese. No matter their source, these memories are incredibly visceral and strangely emotive.

I sat in the kitchen munching on that evocative pork pie and looking out at an unfamiliar jumble of roofs, trees, and snaking streets. And simultaneously a portion of my past surged through my body, carried by that particular configuration of texture and flavor. It was strange moment, quiet whirlpool in which past and present formed, merged, and dissolved leaving a clearing in my mind and body.

In that moment I knew. I found the answer to the question I’d been asking for months. Fifty-Two Feasts is over. This is the last supper. The project that inspired and sustained me for a year on a rainy island near Seattle is not meant for London. It belongs to another nexus of time and place. And this pork pie is like a benediction, blessing and releasing the project for good.

The pork pie is also a beginning, marking my first meal in this country that feels so old and familiar yet so very new—a place brimming with possibilities and kindling other fires within my mind.

Flames and the Charred Remains

As we sped home through the dark, bottles and pots clanking in the back seat of the car, our clothing reeking of smoke, my mother and I sat in silence. It was a silence that can hardly be described as companionable; a menacing, prickly silence threatening eruption. We were both exhausted, drained by the elaborate events of the day and by the frenetic activity of the past week.

Utterly overwrought, I felt my every nerve straining for sleep. After two big feasts in seven days, feverish wrestling with my blog, a phenomenally busy weekend at the coffee shop, a half marathon run earlier that day, and too much sangria at my latest feast—a birthday BBQ on the beach—I was in a sorry state. Mum and I snapped at each other, arguing pointlessly and circuitously over invented disagreements, and then retracted again, mute and wary.

This, I reflected, is the dark side of a feast, the side I rarely write about but that surely everyone who loves to entertain has experienced. You have plotted and planned, you have prepped and cooked and served the food. For a greater or lesser span of time you have poured every ounce of your energy into this event. And then, in one mad delicious dash, it is over. For the most part feasts end blissfully, lingering on and slowly sighing out like a retreating tide. And you are left basking in contentment. Yet sometimes these festive gatherings blow out like a candle, leaving you lost in darkness, stumbling in an unfamiliar chaos.

The beach barbecue had been one of the latter, enjoyable while it lasted yet violent in its death throes. I was drained and depleted. In the retreating wake of food, friends, and the communion of a good meal, it was ironic that I felt starkly, earth shatteringly alone. The words of the poet philosopher John O’ Donahue swam into consciousness complete with his lullaby Irish lilt:

One of the lovely things about longing is the way in which it remains so faithful to us. And when you think of different times in your life; you know really good times when you feel that everything you want is on your table, . . . that everyone that you really want is there in your life right now, and you are really happy that they are. And you feel that your life has kind of come together and that you are at one with the call of your destiny and with the subtle kind of wisdom of your soul. And yet it is precisely at such times that another uneasy voice awakens within us; a voice that whispers to you that there is something missing, or that there is someone still missing in your life. This is an awkward voice and it often awakens and becomes audible at the most inappropriate times, often when everything is completely as it should be. . . .This voice at times can bring you to tears and qualify in a frightening way everything that you believe about yourself; the voice that says there is something missing.

Although I have experienced this voice in many places and at many times, it can sometimes form the gnawing vacancy, the dark underbelly, of a feast. Perhaps I am surrounded by the debris, the chicken carcass and ragged beef bones, onion peel and heap of pans. Perhaps I am with several friends or one in particular, or perhaps it’s just me and the dogs—it makes little difference. This voice catches you off guard and brings you tumbling to your knees in one annihilating instant. Every passion has its fire and, necessarily, its antonymic shadow, the charred remains destroyed in ceaseless search for its untamed and untamable fulfillment.
I do not want to make this sound more dramatic than it truly is. The dark side of a feast, its accompanying voices and the sense of annihilation that it produces, all of this emerges and evaporates within moments. Yet to leave it unacknowledged, or worse to repress it, would be to falsify and perilously ignore an insistent, essential truth.

Once a Chef . . .

Danny hauled up the lid from the barbecue and peered inside. He prodded the coals speculatively, “We’re about there. Whenever you’re ready.”

It was the eleventh hour before my July 4th feast. The guests had arrived, the booze was disappearing at a healthy pace, and I was—as usual—dashing about the kitchen like the proverbial, decapitated chicken. No matter how I strategize, no matter how I meticulously prepare all ingredients, I never manage to evade that frantic 20 minutes before dinner. In a matter of moments the organized calm of the kitchen morphs into a war zone. Everything demands attention; the carrots are in danger of burning and the beets need more heat. The burgers must hit the grill and where is the wretched corn?

Given my state of delirium, Danny’s help was wholly welcome. I forgot to be self conscious around this seasoned chef and instead pointed to a platter. “Corn,” I muttered. He nodded, grabbed the pile of husked ears, and strode out to the grill.

That is the joy of having a chef in your kitchen. Amateurs, bless them, are often helpful, but generally require detailed direction and constant vigilance. Battle worn chefs however, magically find your knives and uncover your roasting pans. They pull your carrots off the heat before the delectably charred exteriors turn to inedible crusts. They monitor the grill and gently remind you when the burgers are hitting that juicy pinnacle of pink-singed perfection. I am jealous of the ease with which they move about the kitchen; their perfectly programmed sense of timing; and their ability to fix what I would consider hopelessly destroyed sauces.

I wondered out to the grill where Danny stood, tongs in one hand, a glass of red in the other. “It’s funny,” he mused, looking down at the grill, “wherever I go I always find myself cooking. . . No matter whose house I’m at, I always end up doing something.”

I nodded comprehendingly, his words confirming my suspicions that love of food, fire, and kitchens is a hard habit to kick. “I suppose it’s a case of once a chef, always a chef.”

“I guess so,” he answered and then prodded a burger with the tip of the tongs. “They’re getting there,” he remarked.

I smiled inwardly. I was good to have a chef in my kitchen. Even if I would always be just a little awestruck, just a little bit jealous of their competence and the grace with which they dance that wild kitchen dance.

Sweat and Cherries

On an impulse I swerved to the roadside, crammed on the brakes, and jumped out of the car. “Won’t be a moment,” I called behind me as I dashed across the street. I had spied a small, makeshift kiosk backed up to a pickup truck. Under the awning, in wobbly red capitals, a banner announced the goods for sale: CHERRIES! My stomach was rumbling and dinner was still far off and so, after sampling a couple varieties, I bought a little bagful of Rainiers to ward off the wolf.

Thanking the seller I grabbed my bag and began sprinting back across the street. Then I stopped, and struck by a thought swiveled around. “Do you ever give discounts?” I asked the man, “like if I wanted to buy lots of cherries for jam.”

“Well,” he mused, “I do have boxes of what we call ‘seconds.’ They’re the less than perfect fruit, but fine for jam.” He rummaged in the back of the pickup and hauled out a large cardboard box. I scrutinized the wine-red orbs. They looked perfectly fine, with nothing more serious than a few cosmetic nicks and bruises to mare an otherwise healthy appearance. “And how much would this crate cost?” I asked, bracing myself. “Well, I’d say that’s about 10 pounds or so . . . How about 10 dollars?” I was sold.

Speeding home with the cherries bumping around in the back of the car, I thought about my purchase. It is eminently satisfying to score such a bargain, and it could not have occurred in a supermarket setting. There, the rigid standard for appearance is absurd, placing cosmetic perfection above taste, nutrition, or any other more holistic measure of goodness. Thus, it is rarely possible for the consumer to get affordable deals on good—if slightly tarnished—local produce. It is yet another reason to praise alternative trade. Long live roadside fruit stands, farmers markets, and all other rebellious, gritty, and refreshingly real marketplaces!

The next day was my birthday, and I could think of nothing more lovely to do on such an auspicious morning than swan about drinking coffee and making jam. First, however, I had to tackle the mountainous task of pitting 10 pounds of cherries. I would like to say it was an unadulterated pleasure but that would constitute a wild fabrication. Truth be told it was pleasant for the first ten minutes but from then on descended into a morass of monotonous plucking, slicing, and twisting. Within 15 minutes my hands were stained burgundy and after half an hour the knife slipped and slit my thumb, not badly but enough to require a plaster, making further pitting slow and unwieldy. But I soldiered on and eventually reached the bottom of the crate. Surveying the heaping bowlful of cherry halves and the dark fissures in my fingers, I thought wistfully about investing in one of those nifty cherry pitting gadgets.

Sometimes it takes a day of backbreaking labor in the sun to appreciate the virtues of mechanized farming equipment. Similarly, it is easier for those who have never pitted ten pounds of cherries to romanticize an apron-clad grandma sitting contentedly on her porch for hour upon cherry stained hour. That poor woman!

Yet after this tedious endeavor, the rest of the jam making process was far more entertaining—the slow softening fruit, the mound of dissolving sugar, rapid darkening boil, and the suspense of waiting, stirring, and watching for that perfect gel point. Cook the fruit too long and it will begin to caramelize, losing its brightness and intensity. Remove the fruit from the stove too soon and it will never thicken, yielding a syrupy concoction that dribbles pathetically off the edges of your buttered toast.

Successful jam requires patience, a watchful eye, and one simple test of doneness. When you start boiling the fruit, place a few saucers or other small dishes in the freezer. Then, as you think the jam may be ready, take a saucer out and spoon a small dollop of jam onto it. Return to the freezer and check it after a minute or so. If the mixture wrinkles slightly when you nudge it with a finger the jam has gelled and is ready for canning.

Taking a hint from my favorite cherry tarts, I added a light swirl of almond extract to the fruit and sugar thickening on the stove. There are some flavor pairs that are soul mates—bringing out the best in each other, it seems that they were always and forever destined to marry. Cherries and almonds are one such couple. Worrying that I had overdone the almond however, I dipped a finger into the jam. Au contraire, I swooned. It was a divine fusion of flavors, the round richness of cherry fruit made ever so slightly mysterious when infused with a whisper of almond.

That afternoon I slathered the first of my jam onto a teatime scone. It was still warm from the stove—a potent elixir of cherry sweetness—worth ever moment of sweat, stained skin, and tedium.

Feasting the Fourth

There is a saying in this corner of the world that summer doesn’t truly begin until the 4th of July. Until then, it is assumed by pessimistic islanders, sun and warmth are capricious, and that winter sweaters should not be packed away until fireworks and flags are unpacked. This year however, summer is taking even longer to crawl out of bed and get on with her work.

I arose on the morning of July 4th to chilly air and a fine, gray drizzle. It was an utterly depressing prospect. How can one possibly barbecue under cloudy skies? And what about the sundress I wanted to wear? I stared militantly out at the gloom and almost returned to bed. Yet the day lay before me—crammed with shopping, harvesting, and cooking to do—and curling up under covers was not going to tempt the sunshine. So I braved the cold and donned my sundress despite the damp; it was Independence Day, damn it, and I would celebrate whether nature cooperated or not!

The first order of business was to make baps for the burgers. These milk and butter softened rolls originated in Scotland and make a perfect pocket for a juicy beef burger. The dough is simple and fairly quick to make so they are easy to whip up the morning before a big cook out. After ten minutes kneading, during which I inadvertently powdered my pajamas with flour, I set the round of dough in an oiled bowl, covered it with a damp cloth, and had breakfast.

Next I went to town to search for some last minute ingredients. The local grocery sadly did not stock either padrón or shishito peppers so I had to abandon plans of making pan-fried peppers as an appetizer. File that one away for another day.

Then it was on to the café’s garden where I harvested a massive bag each of beets and peas, as well as a small box of the last, lingering strawberries. Finally I dodged the hungry, as yet un-caffeinated hoard inside the shop, grabbed a large cup of drip, and headed home for the kitchen. There, I spent the rest of the morning readying the vegetables—washing the beets and greens, peeling and chopping carrots, husking corn.

A large part of this time was spent shelling the peas I’d picked earlier. I must say, the laborious process of extricating the sweet, green spheres from their pods gave me a profound appreciation for this diminutive vegetable. It took great effort on my part not to eat every single pea straight from the pod—so bursting with succulent flavor; so utterly and essentially refreshing! Peas are in fact one of those vegetables that freeze so well we rarely bother to buy them fresh. But after gorging myself on this year’s crop, the mere thought of frozen peas is frankly uninspiring. That said, fresh peas take work, and after a good 30 minutes during which both my mom and I sat shelling peas together while watching a 70’s British sit com, our combined efforts only yielded a small bowlful.

The afternoon passed in a flurry of further activity: I made a honeyed butter laced with smoky paprika and chili, finished organizing things, and then abruptly suffered an attack of kitchen fever. This malady is similar to cabin fever, but is caused by too long spent by the stove. It is assails me often when preparing for an elaborate feast. All of a sudden the heat of the oven, the mounds of produce and bowls of concoctions will overwhelm my senses so that I feel as though I am suffocating under their weight.

Over the years I have learned how best to deal with kitchen fever. It used to overtake me and I would find that by mid afternoon I was sweaty, irritable, and heartily sick of cooking. By the time guests were due to arrive I would be positively glowering. Now however, I remedy the situation with a short sharp dose of fresh air. Swapping apron for running shorts, I attacked the street breathing in the warm, humid air with satisfaction. This ritual has become a savior; reviving my spirits and freeing my mind from a culinary fog that can often be sufficient to sour even my voracious passion for cooking.

I jogged up the road a couple miles and then dropped into the woods. The air was cooler there, yet still humid and rich with that potent vegetative smell of soil and growing things. I drank in the aroma, and, as I turned towards home, the air began to tinge smoky with the scent of a hundred barbecues and the stillness rent with the first experimental blasts of exploding fireworks. I felt my fever dissolve to be replaced with a deep sense of satisfaction and anticipation—all the food was ready to roll, and now I had an entire evening of fire, feasting, and friends to look forward to. Perhaps it was merely a case of runner’s high, but as I trotted home I thought to myself, as I so often do before a feast: This is it! Right here, right now.

Strawberries, Memory, and Sweet Summer Tart

I had my eye on them for weeks; inspecting the sprawling tangle of leaves each time I passed by. The fruit grew from tight green-white knobs in May, gradually plumping and softening, flushing red in the June sun, and finally reaching a startling ripe rosiness in the waning weeks of June. Now the strawberries were ready for harvest and I attacked them with gusto, staining my fingers fire engine red as I picked and ate and picked some more. Eventually, despite eating at least half of my pickings, I managed to resist temptation and cart a bagful home. In the kitchen I presented my hoard to Mother who lost no time in appropriating them and adding them to the contents of a bubbling cauldron on the stove.

“Strawberry jam,” Mum muttered as she stirred in a mound of sugar. I peered over the pot and inhaled. Then I reeled.

The steaming contents plastered the back of my hair to an already sweaty neck. A fan whirred monotonously nearby, Crackers the dog continued panting in the darkest corner of the kitchen. The heat and humidity were cloying, invasive, leaving you no choice but to surrender to their lethargic pull. In this weather you couldn’t do anything with speed.  I watched as Mum stirred and stirred, dropping her spoon now and then to minister to an army of jam jars, ferreting in the cupboard for lids, counting them out, muttering to herself, and occasionally tripping over one of the dogs.

From my perch on the stool I stood looking into the pot of ruby colored lava. Gone were the other smells of summer—the dusty dried grasses, the wisteria and clover, the chlorine from the pool still coating my hair, the scent of horses and leather and salty sweat. Instead my nostrils were brimming with nothing but this dancing, heady sweetness of slowly melting berries . . . .

I have always been fascinated by the connection between smell and memory. Who has not been walking absently down the street one moment only to be jolted back in time the next by a distinctive smell? Perhaps it is the perfume your ex wore or the coffee your mom brewed. But whatever it is shoots you right back to another time and place more vividly and emotionally than any sound, sight, or wordy description. Smell is the most cunning and evocative of senses.  

That jam my mum made last week sent me sailing back to the sticky Pennsylvania summers of my childhood. All that messy, chaotic abundance of relived experience assailed my being. And then it passed and I resurfaced in the cool drizzle of a June afternoon in the Northwest.

It was that vivid remembrance that rekindled my current obsession with strawberries. And, for the last week or so, I have had a voracious appetite for these emblems or summer. They are one of those edibles that resist the most zealous efforts of industrial agriculture. Yes, you may be able to buy strawberries in January, but they will be hard and anemic—mere shadows of their summer selves. The best specimens are found locally and for a fleeting season. They do not travel well and tend rather to disintegrate into a juicy mess within mile of the field.  So my advice is to buy locally and gorge yourself silly while they last. Then wait until next year. Anticipation, as everyone knows, is half the fun.

While I love eating strawberries fresh with nothing but the tiniest sprinkle of sugar to coax out every last ounce of their sweetness, there is one recipe to which I return each year. It comes from my absolute favorite cookbook, Anne Willan’s From My Chateau Kitchen. It is a tart with a sweet crust and luscious almond filling that works not only with strawberries but as a canvas for many a summer sweet. Yet, as strawberries are the first berry, it is a special moment when this tart arrives at the table, piled with a glorious jumble of this sumptuous fruit.  

Fresh Fruit Tart

Adapted from Anne Willan

Pâté Sucrée:

1 1/2 c. flour

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 c. sugar

3 egg yolks

1 tsp. vanilla extract

7 tbsp. butter  

Frangipane filling:

1/4 c. butter

1/3 c. sugar

1 egg

1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1/2 c. ground almonds

Fruit topping:

3-4 c. sliced strawberries, other berries, or sliced stone fruit such as peaches, plums or a mixture or fruits.

Make the shell: Mix together flour, salt and sugar in a bowl. Make a well in the center. Pour egg yolks and vanilla into the well. Dice the butter into large cubes, place between two large sheets of wax paper and pound to soften a little. Add pounded better to the well and mix with the egg yolks and vanilla to form a paste. Slowly add in surrounding flour until it comes together into a soft dough. Work as quickly as possible and don’t over work the dough. Form into a ball, wrap in wax paper and chill in fridge for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350F. Roll out dough and press into a tart dish.  Poke a few holes in pastry with a fork to prevent air bubbles while cooking. Press wax paper on top of pastry and blind bake for about 12 minutes or until hardened and slightly golden.

Meanwhile make the filling: beat the butter until soft. Add the sugar and beat until creamy. Beat in the eggs, then mix in the vanilla and ground almonds. When tart is blind baked, pour filling into shell and return to the oven for another 12 minutes or so until browned and firmer. Remove from oven and let cool. Top the filling with prepared fruit just before serving.  

Perils of the Modern Dinner Party

One of my greatest pleasures in life lies in preparing and enjoying delicious meals with solid friends. It is, after all, the principle behind Fifty-Two Feasts, this sumptuous project in which I have been indulging for almost a year now. And although I have often eulogized on the joys of dinners, brunches, birthday meals, and festive parties, I rarely reveal my ugly side—my few pet peeves and pent up acidic grievances.

Primary among these objections is the glittering world of food intolerances. It seems almost fashionable today, like chatting about your sun sign in the 70s. I’m a Cancer, what are you? Today, however, a growing portion of the population recites the litany of their own personal “sensitivities” to break the ice with strangers or form heartfelt bonds with friends. “I can’t eat wheat, gluten or dairy,” Angela chirrups cheerfully. “Oh my God, me too!” Jessica responds with delight. An animated conversation follows, one that is as absorbing to its participants as it is tedious to everyone else.

They discuss each minute detail of their mutual affliction, from the description of physical symptoms to sanctimonious recitations of the food they can “handle:” “I’ll have fruit for breakfast,” Jessica admits, as though even this is a sinful indulgence. “Although nothing acidic  . . . . And no fruits with too much sugar or starch. So I’ll have like blueberries with like half a teaspoon of agave.” Angela nods attentively, making a mental to research the symptoms of intolerance to acidic/sugary/starchy fruits. Who knows, it is quite possible that she too is unwittingly poisoning her body with venomous oranges!

At some point during this tiresome conversation you will inevitably encounter a stream of advertising for the so-called natural health and wellness industry; the sharing of information on the hoard of vitamins, minerals, oils, and miracle herbals supplements that these sufferer take on a daily basis to banish their multiplicity of ills. These safety measures, in concert with vigilant adherence to dietary commandments, seem to ward off the grim reaper and enable our heroines—or less frequently heroes—to sail ascetically through the day.

Still fascinated with their own digestive systems, Angela and Jessica continue on to exchange recommendations on brands of alternative cookies, breads, and tofu which meet their stringent requirements. (Wait, cookies? I thought . . . okay it’s too complicated for me.)

 And all the while they are massacring my carefully constructed, hand rolled ravioli, gouging out the filling and leaving the delicate pasta torn and stranded on the plate. I offer them salad, thinking naively that this is a safe bet, and after cautiously removing the rounds of mozzarella so fresh they barely hold shape and after picking off the warm, herb encrusted croutons, they take a few, insipid bites. Offers of dessert, however, are received with horrified protestations. Coffee? No, the caffeine keeps them awake. Fair enough. I persevere and suggest decaf, trying valiantly to remain cheerful. Alas there is still the problem of acid. It wreaks havoc on their stomachs. Finally, I win with an innocuous herbal tea; victory at last.

In observing the phenomenon of these intolerances, I have noticed some strange and seemingly inexplicable patterns. Firstly, 90% of the time the sufferers are female. Secondly, from time to time these life threatening allergies disappear late at night, perhaps outside a taco truck at 3 am after an evening of bar hopping.  Strange.
After years of observing the patterns I’ve come up with many theories on food intolerances: that they are fashions, here today gone tomorrow, a doctor approved alternative or accompaniment to the more base, materialistic obsessions with designer shoes. They are interesting, distinguishing you from the crowd; they make you “unique.” Or perhaps they are the disguised form of an eating disorder—a manifestation of desperate attempts to control and restrict. Then again they may have deeper roots, flowering today as a modern residue of the puritanical rigidity of early American settlers. Whatever the explanation, it is as fascinating to observe the devotees of this new cult as it is frustrating to have them at your dinner party.

And now I want to qualify everything I’ve just said. Firstly, this is a rant, and rage is notorious for skewing the vision and warping the truth.  Angela and Jessica are figments of my imagination, monsters dreamed up from a compilation of the worst behaviors I have witnessed, heard, or read about. Secondly, I am aware that some people have totally legitimate allergies to food. In fact a dear friend of mine is relegated to the sofa for days if she upsets her body with the wrong food. But I hazard a guess that she is in the minority as a genuine sufferer. And the difference is that she is far less loquacious about her condition and refers to it in a completely different way. Basically it sucks when you can’t eat 99% of the dishes on a restaurant’s menu.  And she’s been like this ever since I’ve known her. Even at 3 am after a night on the town she still can’t eat wheat.

My own theory is that many of the intolerances people experience today are not caused by the food per se but by the toxins in our food system and the methods for processing and preserving that food. Not all milk, cheese, or wheat is created equal! This isn’t just a wacky theory: Read nutritionist Sally Fallon’s book on the subject, Nourishing Traditions or look into the West on Price Foundation. There is a growing body of research to back up this more nuanced, deeper analysis of food intolerances.

Chili, Chocolate, and Cheesecake

The cousins were coming to visit. That is to say the highland dwelling contingent from my dad’s side of the family had landed in the new world for a summer of rambling adventures. They did New York, spent time in Maine, and then—quite sensibly—hopped over that great swath of Jesus land separating the east and west coasts of our great country to arrive in Seattle.

I wanted to welcome them with a truly American meal. And what, I wondered, is a more American custom than appropriating and bastardizing a dish from another culture? So I penned the menu. We would eat chili con carne as the main course followed by an all American fat n’ wobbly cheesecake—two ubiquitous dishes that I’d never attempted to execute.

As a complete amateur, I consulted various recipes for chili and found that within the realm of this craft there is constant warfare. Diced or ground meat? Smoked peppers or not? Should one add cinnamon? Chocolate? Bourbon? Beans or no beans? The debates were endless with belligerent voices on all sides. Clearly, the search for any semblance of authenticity would be long and arduous. I shrugged, gathered together what I considered to be the most exciting recipes, and patched together my own chili: ground beef and finely diced pork, medium heat, a little quirky chorizo, and substantial smoke in the shape of both chipotle and pimentón. And beans, definitely beans for the rather prosaic reason that I wanted to stretch this chili to feed ten people. Finally I tossed in a cinnamon stick and some cacao—fantasizing vaguely about the Aztecs . . . . Or is it the Mayans whole handed us this intoxicating combination?

Equally uninitiated in the process of constructing a cheesecake, I decided not to be overly ambitious and instead to follow a simple recipe for white chocolate hazelnut cheesecake from my favorite dessert book entitled—with self confident simplicity—Chocolate. Unfortunately, I forgot to factor in the time necessary for chilling the cake so that when I plunged a hopeful knife into the center and extricated the first slice, the rest of the cake, in a display of defeat, began melting lugubriously in all directions. Fortunately, the sinfully decadent taste and texture of the dessert made up for its aesthetic failings. 

All in all the meal was not only a succulent success, but also ridiculously easy to prepare. In fact to anyone looking for easy menu ideas I can safely say this one is a winner. Chili is a one-pot main course that actually improves slightly if made the day before. Serve it with sour cream, crusty bread and a salad—y ahí lo tiene! And as for the cheesecake, it too is quite literally a piece of cake (tee hee, sorry) to prepare and as I learned, it requires a good chill out in the fridge before serving.

Battered and Fried

“You’ve got Maris Pipers.” I beamed at the potato lady, my new hero. “I’ve been looking for these everywhere.”

“Yes,” she responded brightly, “we have them year round.”

I was at the U-district farmers market on a promising Saturday morning. The sun was lazily making its way out of bed, shrugging off a morning mist and gathering strength for the day’s work ahead. The market had just opened its gates and I was there—unusually bright and brisk for the hour—with the farmers, the dedicated locavores, the foodies, and those unfortunates who had been woken at dawn by bouncing bundles of youthful energy. “One day,” I imagined parents saying soothingly to each other, “one day they will become civilized and require a decent amount of caffeine before erupting into wakefulness. Until then, honey, we’ll just have to muster patience and fortitude.” Having already had my caffeine I was in excellent spirits, made even brighter by the discovery of Heston’s lauded Maris Piper potatoes at the Olsen Farm stand.

Deciding that perhaps H. Blumenthal Esq. wasn’t the only expert whose advice was worth noting, I asked the potato lady which variety she would use for frying. “Bintje,” she answered without hesitation, pointing to a pile of spuds that were in shape, texture, and color very similar to Maris Pipers. “They’re starchy enough to fluff up well but they still get nice and crispy on the outside.” So I bought a couple pound for good measure.

There wasn’t much in the way of fish at the market so I opted for Whole Foods. What would the fish guy recommend? Halibut and rock cod. Since the latter was half the price, I bought 1 1/2 pounds of it and a mere 1/2 pound of halibut, just to test the difference. Potatoes, check; fish, check. A couple hours and a particularly exasperating ferry line later I was back in the kitchen.

The process of frying fish and chips is great fun, but I found the most gleeful part of making this meal was the preparation of the batter, a matter I attended to with child-like delight. It involved concocting a mixture of plain flour, rice flour, baking powder, honey, beer, and—surprise surprise—vodka. So boozy, I knew it would be a winner. The beer is added last, and immediately afterward the batter is poured into a whip-it canister and injected with a cartridge of CO2. The canister is then chilled until you are ready to fry the fish, at which point you simply fire the contents into a bowl, coat the fish, and then fry immediately. The batter is wonderfully aerated and once fried it transforms into a delectably light, bubbly, crispy coating for the melting softness of fish.

And the final verdict on the fish? The rock cod won by a landslide over the halibut. The flakes were larger and more ethereal and the chunks cooked through without drying out. Plunge the battered fish into hot oil, let sizzle for a minute, gently turn over and continue frying until golden brown, about another minute or two. The fish may not be totally cooked but the residual heat from its sizzled envelop of batter with finish it off before it reaches the table.

The Second Batch

“I don’t vant any nasty soggy chips. I vant mine crisp und light brown.”
(Captured German soldier, in the BBC’s Dad’s Army)

Having consigned Cook’s Illustrated and it’s mediocre French fry recipe to the trash, I turned again to Blumenthal’s instructions. These called first for the use of Arran Victory or Maris Piper potatoes—two varieties I’ve never heard of and could not find at the local shop. So I compromised and opted for the only high starch spuds available: the ubiquitous Russet Burbank.

The first step to Heston’s chips (See note) was to peel potatoes, cut into ½ - ¾ inch sticks, and rinse under cold running water for a few minutes in order to remove excess starch from theirs surfaces. Next he called for a gentle simmer in salted water until potatoes are just cooked through but not falling apart. Then they are laid on a wire rack and left to chill and dry off in the fridge. When cold, a pan of peanut oil is heated to 250 Fahrenheit and the sticks are simmered until just beginning to color, after which they are removed and chilled again. Finally the oil is heated to 375 degrees and the chips are finished at this high sizzle for about 5 – 10 minutes until crisp and golden brown.

It worked like a dream. A near-paradisaical chip: thin, fiercely crisp exteriors and fluffy, feather-light interiors suggestive of edible cumulus clouds. So now my ambition is increasing and I intend to experiment with a variety of high starch potatoes to find the pinnacle of chipped perfection.

Note: Obviously here I am speaking of “chip” in the English sense and using the words chip and fry interchangeably, although there is a difference. A true fish and chip chip must more substantial, plumper, and generally earthy. No doubt there is a place for the thin, elegant fry but in my opinion these should not be seen nestling up to a pile of battered fish.

The First Batch

Deciding to save Heston and his pursuit of perfection for tomorrow, I attempted a much simpler method of frying potatoes this evening.  It came from a spattered old issue of Cooks Illustrated, and I had made a mental note long ago to give it whirl.  The author proposes two unlikely components: low starch, Yukon Gold potatoes and cold oil. I blinked. Of the little I had read about frites, two of the most oft preached principles were the use of high starch potatoes and sizzling hot oil. And yet he seemed tremendously scientific about process, so much so that I put misgivings aside and bustled to the store for a bag of Yukons.

Following his instructions precisely, I washed, scrubbed, and dried the potatoes, squared them off and sliced them into ¼ inch sticks. Dutifully I dropped them into the cold oil, turned on a high flame, and waited for a rolling boil. I let them cook until the outsides were beginning to harden. I stirred them and watched with mounting excitement as they turned from creamy white to pale gold and then to warm caramel brown. Then I whipped the finished fries out of the oil and onto a bed of paper towels.

At first the batons appeared perfectly crisp and burnished brown. Almost hysterical with excitement now I flung a bit of sea salt onto the pile, extracted a particularly alluring specimen, and popped it in my mouth. It was very good indeed. But then I eyed the potatoes with growing panic: here I was with a mound of chips and no one to eat them. I tested another and frowned: were they getting soggy? Already?

Desperate for my imperfect yet decidedly edible fries to be shared, I whipped together a Belgium style dipping sauce in the space of thirty seconds, grabbed the plate of fries, and ran out the door. Sprinting across the road I charged though the neighbor’s yard, across to the next street, and down to my friends’ house.

In the course of my obsession, there are times at which I find myself behaving in an utterly bizarre manner.  This was one of those times. The door was open and taking this as an invitation I flew straight into the sitting room. Glenn was on the sofa, one hand tapping at a lap top and the other clasping a phone to his ear. Failing to notice these things I shoved my fries under his nose. “Eat,” I commanded. He looked up, politely bewildered, and reached for a fry. “No!” I hissed. “The little ones, the thin ones are crispier. Quick, eat.”  Perceiving that I was borderline delusional, Glenn motioned upstairs. “Molly’s up there.”

I galloped up the stairs, banged on Molly’s door, and let myself unceremoniously in. “Try these.” I thrust the dish determinedly towards her. It would have taken a brave soul with courage—and possibly body armor—to refuse these fries with the cook in such a state of blind hysteria. She smiled diplomatically and ate one, then another. Then we trooped down stairs.

Now that I had shared my fries, sanity returned to my muddled mind, only to be replaced by acute embarrassment. I found myself sitting in Glen and Molly’s sitting room, a plate of fries on my lap, wrapped in my tattered, grease stained polka dot apron, attempting to make ordinary conversation. Only it’s not that easy when you’ve just burst into someone’s house and forced fries on them. Returning to the only topic occupying my consciousness at that moment I looked down at the plate: “They’re soggy,” I commented despondently. “I’ll have to try again.”

Lo Que Corta el Bacalao

This time I’m going deep. Instead of a smorgasbord of food, a tapas party, or roast with battalion of trimmings I am in search of something different for my next feast. I’m in the mood for serious research and the mastering of technique—I want to feast on flawless fish and chips.

As usual with a new idea, it was an odd confluence of happenings that led to the budding of this desire. Firstly, I was given a book that I have long wanted to read: Cod, by Mark Kurlansky. In this beautifully written work, Kulansky follows the journey of this fish as it comes into contact with and later is shaped by human history. It is a fascinating story, surprising in its significance and inspiring in the kitchen. I am still happily swimming in the text, currently drifting by the cod as they unwittingly fuel the fire of 18th century American revolutionaries.  But I’m also salivating at the thought of really good battered and fried fish. Secondly, I remain committed to my spring resolution to explore the world of aquatic cookery. On this point, I have been shamefully lazy of late. Furthermore, an old class mate was making fish and chips the other day. “Do you have any tips?” he asked. I had none, having never attempted this wonderful classic, this cornerstone of my culinary heritage. In fact I am woefully ignorant on the subject.

Thankfully ignorance can be remedied, especially now that I’ve got a couple vital tools to aid comprehension: a cast iron fry pot and Heston Blumenthal’s meticulously authoritative cookbook, In search of Perfection, both lent to me by Boss Man, who also generously volunteered to taste test any of my experiments. So, the exploration begins. As the matter of choosing and sourcing the ideal fish is going to be quite a process, I’ve decided in the meantime to start with the chips.

I’ve got a pan, a thermometer, two varieties of potato, and two strikingly dissimilar methods to try. Tonight, let the frying begin! Whatever it takes I am determined to master this meal. The Spanish have an apt idiom for describing who is in charge in a given relationship or situation. It is the one who cuts the salt cod—la que corta el bacalao! That’ll be me, baby.

The Great Cleanse

Justin and I had arranged to go on a ride. “Let’s go on a long one,” I suggested, full of zeal for my new-found love of cycling. But when I showed up at his house, the place was mysteriously wreathed in silence. I called out several time and finally heard a weak voice reply from somewhere in the bowels of the house. Clunking in with my biking cleats, I made my way down the hall. “Come in,” Justin’s voice murmured feebly. I opened the door to find that my friend, rather than clad in one of his usual stream-lined cycling outfits, was curled up in an easy chair, wreathed in blankets and reading a book. “Oh Justin, hurry up. What are you doing?”

He let out a hollow groan of despair and huddled further down into the blankets. “Oh yes, of course!” I exclaimed, recollecting what he had told me earlier. “You’ve started then, have you? You’re really doing it?”

My friends were undertaking the master cleanse. Having thoroughly flushed their digestive systems with salt water, they were now subsisting on a concoction of lemon juice, cayenne pepper, maple syrup, and water. And they planned to complete ten days of this ascetical penance.

At first I was horrified at the mere idea of a ten day fast. Surely, I mused aloud, ten long days living on nothing but this strange concoction must be bad for the body. And what about having the energy to work? I supposed that even the life-saving elixir coffee was banned under this Nazi-like regime. But they were resolute; they were going to cleanse and that was that. And so I shook my head and wondered at the impenetrable motives that would induce anyone to submit themselves to such a clearly masochistic endeavor. I for one would simply raise a glass of Jameson and ginger to their efforts, fanatical as those might be.

My suspicions that this cleanse was in fact deleterious to the body were confirmed when I persuaded Justin out of his cocoon and onto a bicycle. We had not ridden five miles by the time he began grumbling, uncharacteristically bad tempered. Then later, around mile 18, he dropped out entirely and headed home. Just as I though, I said to myself, legs pumping vigorously. Cleanses are fundamentally a bad idea.

That was on day one of their penance, and since our habitual happy hour beers were now off limits, I saw little of Justin and Glenn until day 7, when they came over to my place for a party. By this point neither looked on the point of death as I suspected they would. Rather they both exuded a radiant aura of crystalline purity. Effortlessly forgoing the sangria and tapas, they chatted awhile, sipping on glasses of water, and then virtuously departed. I was thoroughly impressed.

The next morning as I wallowed in a fog of overindulgence, I began to contemplate the idea of a cleanse. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all. And imagine the sense of success and vitality that I might feel after having achieved such a feat. I might even lose those stubborn five pounds I am always vaguely—although somewhat noncommittally—meaning to drop. I did some research and got mildly excited. The master cleanse claimed to cure all manner of ills, improve hair and skin, revitalize body and mind. Maybe, just maybe . . . .

Well I thought, after visiting my friends one evening, (Glenn was almost finished his penance at day 9 and Molly had survived day 3) if I don’t do it now I might never have the guts to try again. So I rushed to the grocery store and bought a massive bag of lemons. Tomorrow the fast would begin.

Like a dutiful penitent I completed phase one of the cleanse, drinking a liter of salt water on the evening before beginning to fast. (This is a food blog and I have no desire to kill anyone’s appetite so will not explain the rationale behind this salt water flush.) Next morning I awoke with a feeling of grim-faced determination. The prospect did not appeal, but I was going to follow through. Usually I am an early bird, ready to leap out of bed with the sun, but today I already felt unusually irritable. What is the point of leaping out of bed if you have no steaming cup of coffee and crunchy pile of toast to leap into! For a while I lay there cursing into my covers. Then, deciding that a bike ride might raise my spirits, I mustered the courage to sally forth. Once on the road, my mood did indeed improve. Spring was in full force, the sky swirling between sunshine and showers, the heavy scent of growth rich in my nostrils. I must make elderflower cordial soon, I thought, sailing down Swede hill on a honeyed, elderflower breeze.

Towards the end of my ride the shower turned into a determined torrent and I arrived home after 24 miles tired, wet, and ravenous. Worse still I was due at work in an hour and my head was beginning to ache from caffeine deprivation. I stood in the kitchen, shivering and staring fixedly at a jar of Costa Rican coffee beans the color of burnished mahogany. Unscrewing the lid I bend down and inhaled deeply. The aroma ebbed softly into my nostrils, wrapping my mind in a warming blanket of solace. That was enough. My cleanse was over. The beans clattered into the grinder.

The only reminder of my great cleanse was a large bowl of lemons that now dominated my kitchen table. And as they invoked a sense of guilt and failure every time I passed by, I decided that they would have to be dealt with immediately. So after work that evening I came home, retrieved Julia Child from the book shelf, and spent the next hour making her classic tart au citron.

After dinner, as I sat at the table half listening to the conversation, I dug my fork into a slice of ethereal, buttercup yellow tart. And as the sharp tang of lemon bit into my palate, I could have sworn that the acid was washing away all impurities, invigorating my body and rejuvenating my mind.

Julia Child’s Lemon Soufflé Tart

A 10 inch, blind-baked, sugar-crust shell (any basic pâte sablée should work)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
4 eggs, separated
Grated rind of one large lemon
3 tablespoons lemon juice
A pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Beat a half cup of the sugar into the egg yolks until the mixture thickens and pales in color. Beat in the lemon rind and juice. Pour this mixture into a bowl set on top of a sauce pan of barely simmering water. Stir until the mixture has thickened and is just too hot for your finger (165 degrees F). In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites and salt until mixture forms soft peaks. Add the sugar and continue beating until mixture holds stiff peaks. Gently fold egg whites into yolk mixture and pour into the tart shell. Bake for about 30 minutes. Keep an eye on the tart and when it begins to rise and color, sprinkle remaining sugar on top. It is ready when a toothpick or knife comes out clean. Serve hot. (This recipe was taken from Julia Child’s book: Mastering the Art of French Cooking.)

A Feast of Frocks

They arrive with boyfriends and bags full of clothes. The former are promptly sent to the liquor store with instructions to purchase triple sec for the sangria. Grabbing their bags, the girls and I head up to the boudoir; we must attend to the important business of outfits.

Whenever the occasion calls for festive garb, my girlfriends rarely arrive already in dress. Rather they show up in jeans and scruffy tee shirts, lugging bundles of prospective items through the door. It is half the fun, this process of stripping down and slipping on different constructions of fabric, cut, and shimmer. Within moments my bedroom is a battlefield strewn with discarded boots, belts, and coats and the four of us giggling and tumbling all over the place as we shimmy into slinky dresses, frilly tops, towering heels, and bottom-flattering pants.

Amidst this furor of activity, we yak and laugh and demand opinions from each other. “No honestly. Tell me. . . .Don’t you think it's a bit summery for today? . . . Oh shut up, listen, can you see a line? . . . Look! They’re completely falling out. . . . Oh no, what’s that mark? . . . Shut up Hannah. . . . No it’s not!

“I can’t decide,” I wail plaintively.

“Well, it depends what you’re going for,” Danielle replies. “That dress is verrrry Frrrrench,” she continues rolling her eyes and R’s in a caricature of Gallic mannerisms.

“Yes, that one says cute and sweet,” adds Hannah.

“What about the brown one?” I speculate, “I really like that one.”

Hannah snorts knowingly. “That one just says sex pot.”

“Yeah, you know I am in the mood to wear brown anyway . . .” I remark, innocently adjusting the sleeves. “Yes, I think I’ll keep this on.”

After each outfit has been duly scrutinized, we descend to the bathroom to add the finishing touches to our visages. With all four of us crammed into the tiny space, it is a chaotic jumble of powders, pencils, creams, and brushes. I escape a near collision with Danielle’s blackened mascara wand; Hannah neatly dodges Aleah’s hair straightener. The feasting and drinking will soon begin, yet already I am filled with a sense of delicious satisfaction. I’ve got my girls with me—my dearest, long-time crazy ladies together again. And friends, that is a magnificent feast of its own.


Photography by Hannah Wahl

Anticipation

Focaccia warm from the oven and redolent of rosemary; butternut squash hummus drizzled in olive oil; rich chicken liver pâté; mussel salad spiked with Thai chilies, lime and cilantro; rhubarb-custard tartlets. . . . The kitchen is silent and permeated with an air of anticipation as I sit here sketching out a menu for the coming celebration.

It is to be a welcome home party for my great friend Aleah and her boyfriend Reilly. These little shits have spent the last seven or eight months in Europe, first ensconced in a canal cottage in the Netherlands, then wafting dreamily around la ville d’amour and regaling all of us, in less fortunately situated locales, with tales of their gastronomic good fortune. (In Reilly’s case this developed into a seemingly ardent obsession with those proverbially smelly French cheeses.) And so, to hail them home in style we are going to hold a festive evening of tapas and drinks.

This feast also marks the midpoint in my journey with fifty-two feasts. To be honest I have more or less lost track of the precise number of feasts to date, but I know we’re vaguely in to realm of the mid-twenties. Time to take an executive decision and declare this to be feast number 26! As I have mentioned before, exact numbers are not the issue; indeed they are quite contrary to the spirit of the project. Who’s to say we can’t feast forever? 26 is a pleasant enough number and I like the metaphorical symmetry that it invokes. Aleah was there at the birth of this blog, at the inaugural feast, but flew off to Europe soon after. Now she is back and I am looking forward to feasting in her company. There are a further 26 feasts to anticipate—a spring and summer filled with culinary explorations even more delectable than the last!

The Excesses of Spring

The word feast has many nuances of meaning, many of which I have been reflecting on for the past few months. One of these is a certain suggestion of excess; a tendency towards indulgence. It is that sizable slab of butter on your baguette; that third glass of Chianti; that generous ladle of cream on your rhubarb crumble.

This Easter I explored this immoderate aspect of feasting. My studies of the subject began early in the day and—I will steadfastly maintain—were no fault of my own. I had an opening shift at The Coffee Shop on Sunday. Given that it was a holiday, and Easter at that, I felt slightly resentful of my position. Any satisfactory Easter, I commented to a coworker, should begin not by sweating over espresso at 7 am, but rather with a refreshing mimosa sipped in the sunshine at 11 am. Sighing at the injustice of life I went back to my beans.

Eleven o’clock rolled around and I was enjoying a break and when another coworker ambled over and sat down beside me. He wasn’t working that day and we began chatting. Soon I was reiterating my thoughts on Easter mimosas, glad of a fresh ear to hear my woes. He stared at me, eyes glinting and beard twitching with glee. “The Braeburn has mimosas, right next door. Let’s go over. I’ll buy you one.”

I grinned back. “I have 15 minutes.”

And that is what started off the string of excess which characterized Easter Sunday. One glass of champagne and orange juice later I went back to work in a more amiable mood and spent the rest of my shift beaming benevolently at customers and producing ever-so-slightly wobbly latte art. The feeling of bonhomie lasted until I got home, at which point the booze was already flowing swiftly and I had no choice but to join in the toasting. Then there was dinner and accompanied by more wine and finally I finished the evening in style by polishing off my dad’s bottle of Rémy Matin in a fit of pique. He had irritated me by offering the last of his whiskey to my male friends and neglecting to give me even a drop. Simmering with feminist indignation I headed for the liquor cabinet and seized the bottle of cognac. Hah! That should teach him.

As for the main event of the evening, the lamb from Sea Breeze farm was as good as those cheeky smiles had promised: rich, juicy, and aromatic with the windswept freshness of Northwest meadow grasses. This final characteristic was deliciously framed by the sauce verde that I made to accompany it. The recipe for this most excellent concoction came, yet again, from Boss Man. It was as great a pleasure to prepare as to eat. And, after a day of alcoholic excess, the simple task of macerating fresh herbs together with mortar and pestle had a cleansing and invigorating effect on my bleary intellect.

Sauce Verde
2 parts parsley
1 part basil
1 part mint
1 clove garlic
Coarse sea salt
Anchovy fillets
Capers
Dijon mustard
Olive oil
Lemon juice

Finely chop the herbs and set aside. Using a mortar and pestle, combine the garlic, several anchovies, salt, and a smattering of capers and mash into a smooth paste. Add the herbs, a dab of Dijon mustard, and a generous portion of olive oil and whisk together well. Adjust the acid with lemon juice and season to taste with salt and pepper.

My tiramisu turned out to be slightly uninspiring. I think blame can be laid on the crappy ladyfingers I bought—there was only one brand in the store and they looked, smelled, and tasted vacuous to say the least. Also, they didn’t absorb enough booze . . . or perhaps I wasn’t diligent enough in painting the mixture of espresso and brandy on them? The result wasn’t offensive; it just wasn’t the celestial, palate melting experience I was going for. And, after all that work, Mum (the patron of this feast) decided that two desserts are excessive and struck tiramisu from the menu. So we’ll have to scrape by with a rhubarb-ginger crumble.

This morning we woke early and took a trip to Seattle’s U-district farmers market. We bought eggs with alarmingly golden yolks; cream-rich raw milk; butter the color of buttercups; and a handsome leg of lamb. All this was procured at the Sea Breeze Farm stand—my favorite of all the many wonderful booths at this excellent market. Not only do the boys from Sea Breeze farm offer a sumptuous array of pates, sausages, cheeses, and roasts, they are also quite gorgeous themselves (with an I’ve been up since 5 am milking cows and tossing hay bales about like they weigh 5 pounds sort of aura lingering around their cheeky smiles). And, as if this isn’t enough of an allure, they clearly know good meat. What greater virtues, I sigh and speculate, could a girl want in a man . . . or in a shopping experience.

Faithless Buns and Party Provisions

The wind whips a thin rain against the windows as I sit in the kitchen on this Good Friday morning—a dogwood winter day. I am still ensconced in my dressing gown mentally preparing for Easter Sunday dinner as I savor the last crumbs of a hot cross bun. When I announced yesterday that I planned to make these religious edibles for Easter, a friend asked doubtfully if I was Christian. Not particularly, I replied. But when there’s a culinary tradition to celebrate I’ll happily convert for the day. Perhaps it was my lack of devotion then, which caused the crosses on my lovingly made buns to dribble pathetically all over the place so that only a mere hint remained after baking. Ah well, the dough itself rose like a dream and the resulting pastries—flecked with currents and redolent of spices—are eminently satisfying.



Easter dinner will be a true spring feast: roast leg of lamb strung with anchovies, rosemary, and garlic; roast potatoes; glazed carrots and onions; a minty salsa verde; and, for my vegetarian guests, a handmade eggplant and tomato lasagna. And I do mean “handmade” as I even constructed the sheets of spinach pasta from scratch. Not that this was a chore however, as I adore the soothing process of making fresh pasta.







For dessert I proposed a rhubarb crumble, as the long pink stems are ready for harvest. Mum had other ideas, her heart set on tiramisu. (Not a big dessert eater, my mother has a definite weakness for any concoction laced liquor: she goes wild over brandy buttered mince pies, crazy over English trifle, and is alarmingly possessive of liqueur filled chocolates.) Fine, I sighed. I would make both desserts. Although, this being my maiden voyage with tiramisu, I insisted on making a test batch ahead, which is currently chilling in the fridge awaiting an afternoon analysis. A full report will be forthcoming.