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.