Down the Rabbit Hole Soup (vegetarian)

Christina sat on the other side of the kitchen counter, her pointy boots rested on the chair opposite her. She looked like a lanky teenager, and she was telling goofy stories trying to lighten my mood. I was chopping my way through a thick cloud of post holiday depression. My knife was too dull, causing me to have to work hard to get through the springy outer skin of the potatoes. I looked up just as the knife came down to miss its mark and slice my left thumb. The pain throbbed instantly. I looked up at Christina, who had a worried look on her face. "Is it bad?" she said. "No" I said, but the pain in my thumb just bubbled up all the emotion that I have been keeping inside. The feelings that lay beneath the surface, the distance I feel from my family, the fear of being a disappointment, the resentment for expectations unmet, the friends that have moved on. I tried to freeze over, but the cap had been cracked and the emotion began to ooze.

My pity party was interrupted by a message of divine inspiration.

"I saw that coming"

"What?" I said to Christina.

"I swear, I just saw you cut yourself..and then, you did"

"weird" I said, although I was not one bit surprised.

"and remember how we both were oddly struck by the look of that one woman last night, and then she told us that she was pregnant"

"yeah, that was strange" I said, feeling lifted by the notion that the universe is guided by some sort of intelligence which can be accessed by keeping an open heart.

The stock

water

1/2 white onion

1/2 bunch celery, diced

2 bay leaves

1 tsp peppercorns

1 Tbsp salt

1 large parsnip, peeled and diced

2 carrots, peeled and diced

3 large purple cloves of garlic

the carrot tops

Simmer the onion in 1 cup of cold water while you prepare the remaining ingredients. Add the rest of the ingredients as they are prepared and 8 cups of cold water. Simmer uncovered for 1 hour. Strain.

While the soup stock is simmering, cook 1 1/2 cups black eyed peas in 3 cups of water. (throw the peas and the water in cold and bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer until tender. Do not add salt or seasonings at this point, because the beans will take longer to cook.

The soup

4 oz cippolini onions, diced

3 medium Yukon gold potatoes, diced

1/2 bunch celery, diced

4 cloves garlic, minced

1 head fennel, diced

4-5 carrots, peeled and diced

the black eyed peas (the food not the band)

some salt and pepper for seasoning

In a soup pot, heat 2 Tbsp grapeseed oil. Add 4 oz cippolini onions, diced, and a little salt. Add the potatoes, cook on high until the onions are caramelized. Add 1 cup of water and the garlic and celery and cook for 5 min. Add the fennel and cook for 5 min. Add the soup stock, carrots and black eyed peas. Season and serve.

Rock Your Own Style Tomato Leek Soup

The sky spits out a constant rain of glitter. It intoxicates the imagination from a safe distance, like crackling runaway sparks of a fire that dance their way through chimney smoke. The scarf wrapped tightly around my neck is unbearably scratchy, and the groceries pull my shoulders into a submissive shrug.

The grocery store was a tumultuous ocean, a sea of arms in winter coats, hat tassels and little feet poking through grocery carts. We steered our way through moms wearing furrowed brows, with children crying salty tears, and ruddy faced dads with a far away look as though searching for signs of land.

"Go pick out some brown sugar" I say to Christina "I am going to go get us some water".

"Alright" she says as she clunks her way through the billowing swells of grocery carts down the baking aisle. When I get back she is still standing in the aisle empty handed, while a little old lady stands by her side, helping her navigate through the selection. I laugh "what is taking you so long?" The woman shoots me a scornful look as though to say I should have known better than to send Christina off by herself in these rough waters. The woman turns her cart in a huff and sails down to the cereal aisle.

We part ways again, I send Christina to the tea aisle and head over to the produce. When I get back I find her pacing slowly. "What are you doing? Did you find the tea?" "No" she said "I forgot what I was looking for". Christina, who can take on a job in technology with no previous experience and in weeks climb her way to the ranks of the top performers, is lost in a grocery store. On the way home I wondered if anyone in the history of the world has ever had as much fun together as Christina and I do.

Christina wears cowboy boots with snow pants and a big weathered motorcycle jacket with a sheriffs badge pinned to the front. Sometimes she likes to catch total strangers off guard by saying "there's a new sheriff in town" causing them to crack a nervous smile. The sight of her winter ensemble throws me into fits of laughter. "Ma'am" Christina said to the 20 something in the elevator one morning "does this outfit make me look like a freak?"

"Are you talking to me?" the woman looked up surprised. Christina nodded "Naw, you look like you just like to rock your own style".

Rock Your Own Style Tomato Leek Soup

Quick veggie stock:

throw 1 diced onion, 1 bunch celery, the ends of 1 bunch asparagus (the part you wouldn't serve), 2 bay leaves, 2 carrots, some peppercorns, and the greens of leeks into a pot and cover with water (about 6 cups). Add a pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until fragrant and flavorful (about 1 hour).

Strain stock and bring to a boil. Add 4 large tomatoes, and 2 packages heirloom cherry tomatoes (pierce the skin of tomatoes with a knife first). In a separate pan, saute 2 yellow onions in a mixture of oil and butter (~2 Tbsp) with a pinch of salt until brown. Add to the simmering tomatoes. Cook about 30 min. Blend with a hand blender, then strain. If you prefer a more textured, fuller tomato soup, add 1 can crushed tomatoes (or just don't strain!). Add 4 sauteed leeks using the white ends only, some diced fresh dill, some fresh diced basil and some fresh ground pepper. Before serving add a little cream if you like. Enjoy!

Summer Visits Winter Soup

Wind blew fierce and wild onto the cold winter’s morning, scattering wayward snow like sand along the jet black streets. Our blinker clicked, and the windshield wipers squeaked hard against the glass, which was tired from fighting chilly winter battles. The rhythmic back and forth of the wipers unveiled lighter shades of morning continually until we were paused at the airport terminal. We eagerly scanned the smiling, red-faced travelers for signs of our own family. An icy shell encased our car, and there was a sound of shattering glass as we cracked the trunk open...

I am caught between a memory and a premonition, rhythmically stirring the vegetables and lavishing the pot with salt and basil. The holiday storm has unloaded banks of red and white Starbucks cups unto the garbage cans lining our town. The grocery stores are sampling eggnog and the flower shops carry wreathes and poinsettias. Everyone lingers a little longer at the coffee shop, weighing in with the Year’s Christmas card milestones. We cheer each other into the conversation, as though the finish line to 2009 stretched right around our circle of chairs. I will miss this place when it goes.

“Do you have to squeeze the tomatoes and make a mess like that when you make a tomato based vegetable soup?” Christina asked. “Shhhhh” I whispered, as though trying to convince her not to discourage the soup from going through this process of transformation. For some reason, she obliged and looked apologetically at the soup. It was a funny moment.

Summer Visits Winter Soup

4 cups vegetable stock (here is my recipe for vegetable stock)

3 onions

1 bunch celery

2 cloves garlic smashed

1 Tbsp peppercorns

salt

1 tsp fennel seeds

1 bunch carrots, peeled

2 cups mushrooms chopped

8 cups water (or to cover

2 bay leaves

Simmer vegetables for 1 hour in cold water (add the water and the vegetables in increments. Simmer the three onions in about 2 cups of water for awhile. Then add the celery and more water..etc..) Strain into the vegetable soup.

The Soup

3 medium potatoes

1 large yellow onion

8 peeled diced carrots

3 summer squash diced

2 cloves garlic minced

Basil

Salt

Pepper

2 cups green beans

2 cups kidney beans cooked

2 cans peeled whole tomatoes

Dash of Worcestershire sauce (optional)

Dash of hot peppers (optional)

Cook the potatoes, onions and salt in a little oil. Add the remaining vegetables and cook, uncovered (about 10 min). Add vegetable stock and tomatoes (squeeze them in). Cook covered until tender.

Thyme and Patience Soup

Clunk, clunk, smash, the muffled sounds of catastrophe rattled my pillow, reverberating into my eyelids and snapping them open like blinds. I shot out of bed and skidded across the smooth hardwood floor toward the sound of the noise, like a child playing around the house in their socks. I stood at the entrance of my bathroom door, where the scene inside confirmed my worst suspicions about the origins of the sound. Sasha, and Charlie frozen by my sudden appearance, stared wide eyed up at me from their perches on the toilet and bathroom floor (respectively). Eugene, too mired in mischief to notice my arrival, was helping himself to the contents of my medicine cabinet. Toothpaste smeared on the sink with little tufts of cat hair sticking out, my jewelry dish was smashed to pieces on the counter.

Sasha blinked her wide blue eyes, which against the dark background of her face fur, seemed to hover in space. Charlie, propelled by a train of meowing that characteristically starts the moment I open the bathroom door and ends when his little orange nose gets to the food, waddled right past me. Eugene pricked up his grey ears and turned toward me, one white paw still hovered in the air as though to say, one false move and I'll knock the rest of this loot right off the shelf. My anger subsided when he twisted his little face in an awkward way that reminded me that he was a cat.

I picked him up and placed him down on the living room carpet. The winter air delivered a cold blue stillness to the morning. It was beautiful and calm, but soon was chased away by the yellow light that climbed across the carpet. I was feeling irritable and inconsolable. I walked out into the afternoon, too bundled to feel the light of day. The farmers market was closed. It was too cold to smell the pine trees at the Christmas tree lot, and I walked by un-enticed. It wasn't until I exited the elevator on our floor of the apartment building, and smelled the root vegetables cooking from all the way down the hall, that my chilly mood began to lift. This soup is made of bitter vegetables that can only be sweetened with thyme and patience. It has a creamy texture and the flavor of the crispy caramel richness that gathers at the bottom of the frying pan. It is the perfect way to sooth a winter mood.

Thyme and Patience Soup

3 golden beets

4 parsnips

3 Yukon gold potatoes

1 1/2 Vidalia onions

salt

1 Rutabaga

1 leek

thyme

6 cloves garlic

vegetable stock (or chicken stock, or water)

olive oil

3 Tbsp butter

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Peel beets, rutabaga and 2 of the parsnips and cut into 1/2 inch pieces. Place in a roasting pan, salt bath veggies in oil. Add 1/2 sliced Vidalia and the garlic cloves (peeled). Roast covered for 40 min, then remove cover, add 3 Tbsp butter and roast for an additional 20-30 min.

During the final 20-30 min of roasting, heat a soup pot and add 1 diced Vidalia, some olive oil and some salt. Cook the onions until they begin to brown, stirring patiently and constantly to release their sweetness. Ignore the noise around you. Ignore the noise in your mind. Focus. Enjoy the time you have set aside to stir the onions. Add a little thyme to the mix and inhale deeply. Now add the potatoes, peeled and diced, and the remaining parsnips. Stir until they begin to soften. Add 1 cup of stock and cover.

Now is a good time to clean off the counter. When you are done, add another cup of stock, and a pinch of salt and cover again. When the timer goes off for the veggies in the oven check to see if they are done..not yet? add another ten min. Continue cooking the potatoes. Add the white part of the leek (diced) and continue cooking. When everything has reached it's desired softness, pour the roasted vegetables into the soup pot, add stock to cover and cook together. Blend with a hand blender and serve thick (Christina said she likes it when she finds a potato or beet that has escaped the blender in her soup, so if you prefer, don't blend it all the way!)

Refrigerator Drawing Soup

“Jeuicy, get down!” I blew a gust of air into the cats little gray face. It ruffled his fur and made him squint and glue his little paws even tighter to the back of the kitchen stool, which we were now sharing.
“Get DOWN!” I blew a stronger gust of air, which rustled past his ears causing him to wag his tail slowly from side to side. His ears were pinned back, and his eyes were squinted low. We were having a stare down; me kneeling on the edge of the chair as though it were alter, Eugene hanging on for dear life braced against the chair as though it were a raft. We both turned as the clomping of Christina’s cowboy boots, rounded the kitchen corner and halted to a stop. The pointy toes pulled back like two bridled stallions.
“What is going on in here?” She said. We both looked up, as though to say “s/he started it” Christina pulled Eugene off of the chair, and put him on the ground, from where he looked up at her with bruised eyes. She turned to me.
“What are you doing?” Christina looked inquisitively up at me. I had a wet towel in one hand, and a jar of peppercorns in the other. The entire contents of our kitchen now lay littering the counter tops, and I was stark naked.
“Cleaning” I replied. She shrugged her shoulders and walked out of the kitchen. What I was really doing was taking inventory. Each item in our kitchen connected me to an intention I once had while walking the labyrinth of the grocery aisle. The time I bought that jar of rose petals because I was going to cook an Iranian dish weekly. The coriander that was going to be ground into a salmon rub, still sat unopened. The dried limes we were going to use for iced tea in the summer. These were the promises yet to be fulfilled. Then there was the container of bay leaves, almost empty, the last of which floated like fish food on the top of a simmering soup stock on the stove beneath me. There was the cumin, half of which swam away in an ocean of yogurt sauce, and the brewers yeast emptied from movie nights with ritual popcorn. I followed the ingredient trail through my kitchen cupboards, and gradually a picture emerged. Who am I in these moments when I am creating my potential? What sort of person do I want to become? I sprinkle the last of the white pepper into the soup and give it a stir.

Refrigerator Drawing Soup
1. make a turkey stock (see last weeks soup for instructions on this) If you prefer the flavor of mystery, substitute fresh bay leaves.
2. Simmer 1½ cups of dried black eyed peas in 3 cups of water for 1 hour (until soft)
3. Cook 1 ½ cups wild rice in turkey stock

In a soup pot, heat 1 Tbsp grape seed oil. Add 1 diced yellow onion and 3 diced peeled carrots. Pour in 2 cups soup stock. Add 1 head diced kale and 1 Tbsp salt. Add 2 more cups soup stock. Let simmer until the kale is cooked to your liking. Add the beans and the rice. Add a few more cups soup stock. Add 2 cups diced turkey. Season with salt and pepper, French basil and a few drops of tamari (soy sauce).
Enjoy.

Thanksgiving Turkey Leftover Soup

"Hey, can you meet me in the garage in 5 min? I have a turkey" I shouted, phone balanced on one ear.
"you have a what?"
"Just meet me in 5 min and I'll explain"
"Alright" Christina said.
As I backed into the parking space, Christina appeared in my field of vision and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy.

It had been a strange morning. Through fate, circumstance and cooking, I have recently become acquainted with a friend who is a very active member of a Catholic church. We are planning a cooking project together based out of one of their kitchens, and while trying to come up with a time to meet and tour the facility he asked me if I would like to join them in handing out food boxes for Thanksgiving.
"Sure" I said, without thinking.

So at 8am on Saturday morning, I got in my car and headed to Saint Philips church in North Minneapolis. I walked up to the massive wooden doors with the curiosity of a cat discovering a cabinet ajar. It is not that I haven't been in a church before, however in the current religious political climate with media images of evangelical Christians holding anti same sex union signs, I wondered if I might be tarred and feathered at the door. Inside the walls of the church there was holy water, a giant crucifix, and an organ. These images reminded me of itchy tights and hard wooden pews and controlling my manners.

The volunteers stood around the coffee and donuts. They were nervous and fidgety, and eager be of service. I got the sense that I was not the only person in the room feeling that they were waiting to be found out and expelled from the premises. The group was so diverse, that no comfortable division of "us vs them" mentality could be constructed as the shelter of false intimacy.

It seemed everyone there was trapped in their own labyrinth, seeking answers to the riddle of which parts of them fit in with the group. It was the perfect opportunity to investigate the question of which pieces of me are mine alone, and which ones are common to fabric of the quilt of humanity? And then their was turkey. Fifty five boxes of turkey came and went in a flash, the remaining boxes sat, and sat, and we in the church began to slump into chairs in the sunset of our exhilaration. At around noon, a little girl showed up alone for her family's box of food. "Where are your parents child?" one of the volunteers asked. "They're sleeping" she said. It was a heartbreaking moment.

Many of the families who had registered for turkeys never came to pick up their dinner boxes, and the volunteers ended up taking boxes home. I backed my car slowly into it's parking spot, Christina waiting with open arms to help me carry the 15 lb turkey up to our apartment. "What are we going to do with a whole turkey?" she said. "Well roast it and share it for soup on Sunday!"

Thanksgiving turkey leftover soup:

Step one: have a delightful thanksgiving dinner. Save the carcass once the turkey has been carved (carving is meditative for me. I try slice and lift each piece off balanced carefully between fork and carving knife, just like my father always does.)

Step two: make a turkey stock. Break up the carcass and put it into a soup pot with the pan drippings (if you have any left), some peppercorns, 5 bay leaves, 1-2 yellow onions, and 4 stocks of celery. Cover with water bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 3-4 hours.

Step three: When the soup stock is almost done, place a small rice pot on the stove and add 1/2 small diced yellow onion and a pinch of salt. Add some dried sage and 1 cup of rinsed wild rice. Pour 2 cups of turkey soup stock directly from the stock pan into the rice (avoid vegetables and fat layer on top). Cover rice and cook until tender.

Step four: In a separate pot, place 1/2 small onion diced, some salt, 3 stocks celery diced, 4 mushrooms diced, 4 small carrots peeled and diced, and a pinch of salt. Add some cut up turkey leftovers. Add 6-8 cups of turkey stock (strained) and the wild rice. If you prefer, use a gravy separator to skim off the fat layer on the top of the stock before pouring it in. Season and serve!

Cream of Broccoli, Tarragon and Fennel Soup

Patience is a virtue. I wonder if the original statement was something like patience has a virtue, or perhaps the inverse impatience has consequences. I am standing over a steaming, rich, creamy, fragrant cream of broccoli soup. Green flowers bubble to the surface, ensnared in thick white lava. I am hypnotized by the intoxicating smell of it, and the promise of tasting memories of cafe lunches and coming in from the snow. The bright lights of our kitchen, which Christina has recently transformed into a television set for filming instructional cooking episodes, beads sweat on my brow like an Island sun. I bring a steaming spoonful to my lips, the steam burns me before I even get the soup into my mouth. I have to drop the spoon and get an ice cube to sooth the burn.

As soon as the pain subsides, it is forgotten. I put the ice cube down walk over to the stove and take a huge scalding spoonful to my mouth. A large tree of broccoli with both flavor and heat trapped in its branches, releases steamy wrath on first my left cheek, then over my tongue before finally clearing all the taste buds from my right. My whole mouth, having suffered a brush fire, is now devoid of taste buds. Once again, I had gotten ahead of myself. I allowed my actions to become a chain gang, tethered together working toward some imagined outcome with no individuality of moments.

A few days ago, while driving through the city, I was whining about my life. Not that I have much to whine about, I really don't, but restlessness has a way of finding useful and beautiful things to toss in the trash. "I feel like I have missed my chances, that I reached the edge of my potential, and jumped just short of the other side" The minute I said it out loud I felt foolish, but also relieved. "That is ridiculous" Christina said "you are just getting started. You are just upset because you imagine the payoff to be more than it is. You are working toward something, and that is your life. The working. You are upset because you want more than you have worked for, and you want it because you imagine it to be something that it isn't". I looked at her for a moment in shock. How funny that I have forgotten. We have played these words back and forth, because one of us always forgets. Sometimes we hold them in the same moment, and at these times we can have a good laugh at ourselves.

Christina walked into the room looking for the soup. "I hid it in the oven, be careful it is really hot." "I don't think it is" she said, and she popped it into the microwave for a min. When cooking, it is important to know your audience, and listen to their likes and dislikes. You can present your own idea of perfection and still some people will think that you have missed the mark completely. Fortunately, Christina and I like similar flavors, although we have a very different idea of temperature.
"This soup is amazing" she said, finishing her bowl "the flavors are really unique. It has to be shared. "

Cream of broccoli, tarragon, fennel soup (makes 4 servings)
3-4 Tbsp butter
1 small vidalia onion diced
2 large heads broccoli
1 head of fennel (use the fronds)
1 bunch tarragon (to taste)
3 cups chicken stock (or vegetable stock)
salt, pepper, white pepper
1 cup cream, half and half, or milk
3 Tbsp flour
2 Tbsp cave aged smear rubbed redstone cheese (or some other slightly pungent cheese)

In a large saucepan heat 2 Tbsp butter and add diced onion (with a little salt). Add broken up broccoli flowers, shaved stems (diced) and diced fennel. Pour in chicken stock and add tarragon. Cover and simmer for 20 min, until broccoli is tender. Season with salt and pepper.
In a separate pan, heat remaining butter and add flour. Cook until flour begins to brown. Add ~1/4 cup of soup to the flour and stir until thickens into gravy consistency. Add this "gravy" to the soup and simmer until the soup thickens a bit. Mash up the broccoli with a potato masher. Add milk/cream/half and half and cheese and stir until cheese melts.
Cool slightly and serve!

Designing the Impossible Potato Leek Soup

Dark blue slices cut through a flat, billowing sheet of clouds in the dawn sky, lighting it into the face of a shivering fall pumpkin. I lay on the down comforter trying to remember, the feel of the shag carpeting, the smell of my room, my parents house. I begin to deconstruct it, remove the decor, peel the wallpaper, down to the wood placed by the previous owners. Each time I remove an object, I imagine the decisive moment of its placing. The driving force, invisible and gravitationally compelling: houses need walls, walls need wallpaper, beds have bedspreads, cultural ideals passed through generations by bucket brigade. The bucket of "baby blue is an acceptable color for a bedroom" splashed onto the bedroom of my youth. I slice leeks down the center and imagine a room painted from the center out in the spectacular bright yellows and smooth greens of the leek. The thought makes my heart open but my head ache. Too bright. Culture will set your mind free of indecision, but parameters allowed to set too long unquestioned will broaden the moat of shame around your castle.

The rules that built my parents house frame my expectations, but in the end we each become our own architect fitting our lives to accommodate growing technology. To replace the existing structure takes work and understanding of its original function. These are the thoughts that drive me to deconstruct my parents house.

The apartment is filled with the aroma of leeks, onions, peppercorns and bay leaves. The cats are curled up with Christina on the couch. Our walls are decorated with beautiful paintings into which a person can steal an intimate moment with their own psyche. Last night we huddled into the glow of candlelight across from each other at the restaurant table. A gold rimmed coffee cup, the size of a children's tea party set turned upside down between us. The cardamom sweetness of the Turkish coffee still lingered on my breath. We waited for the coffee sludge to fall before flipping it over to read the grounds. I held the cup close and stared into the shapes like it were one of Christina's paintings.
"What do you see?" she asked, leaning forward.
"I see a pregnant unicorn".

Potato leek soup
2 giant leeks (use the greens for the stock and the whites for the soup)
6 peeled carrots
1 yellow onion
3 cloves garlic
6 bay leaves
a handful of marjoram
1 tsp peppercorns
1 tsp chicken base (optional)
in a wide pot, build a soup stock using the ingredients above (about 8 cups of water). Allow to simmer uncovered for about an hour. In the meantime, dice potatoes and leek whites (leave skins on potatoes for added nutrition).

"Spice Trail" tangine spice (recommended) (if you live in the Twin cities, you can get this from chef Sameh Wadi of Saffron, who took the title of Iron Fork in the 2009 competition.)
cumin and turmeric (optional)
5 cups diced yukon gold potatoes
salt
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp olive oil

Melt butter and olive oil in a soup pot. Add potatoes and leek whites. Season with seasonings (have fun with this). Drain soup stock into potatoes. Cook 30 min until potatoes are tender and blend with a hand blender (leave some chunky if you like). Garnish with fresh crisp celery (much better than crackers, seriously!)

Christina's vote: "Genius!"

Alien Acorn Squash Almond Soup

6:45 am. I stood in the dark at the bus stop, looking for signs of the mobile fluorescent waiting room to zoom by, but it was too early for buses. I shook out my umbrella and began following the school of workmen headed toward campus. They were uniformed in dirty Carharts and had coolers swinging like briefcases from their giant hands. The rain painted streets reflected headlights in all directions, and my mind stirred with the transient reflections of a passenger waiting on an airport runway. I was late, but hesitant to quicken my stride due to the dull ache of my left shin. A nagging reminder of where I was going and what I didn’t want to find out.

As I walked through the revolving doors, I marveled at the pristine cleanliness of the university hospital. Everything was perfectly squared or curved, with clean glass and polished edges. The whites were perfectly white, like new teeth, as though born from a paintbrush overnight. The hospital workers had a relaxed alertness about them. They were immune to the predawn haze that fell on those of us coming from the world outside.

Down the long white corridor, on the left, there was a little waiting room. There I sat, shuffling my feet and assessing the germ content of the side table magazines. Like everything else in this building, the edges were crisp and pristine, germ free. A short stocky man with a helmet of dark hair and the protruding ears of a politician approached me. He wore a white coat with gold buttons and shoulder bars. He looked like a Star Trek character. I blinked.

“My girls are Cinderella characters this year, I am supposed to be prince charming. Follow me please, right this way.” I had forgotten it was Halloween. I followed the little man as he guided me to a large room. In the middle of the room, was a circular white machine with a smooth human-sized hole. I lay obediently on the table while he strapped my feet together.
“How does it work?” I said, my voice echoing into the vacancies.
“We will be shooting magnetic waves into your body. The waves will bounce off of the iron in your blood. We will be capturing an image of your insides by capturing those waves.” He then turned and walked out of the room.

If I leaned my head back on the table I could see wide eyes peering though the tinted glass of the control room, peeping out, then disappearing behind square monitors. Aliens. The machine began to hum. The operator spoke to me in a gentle voice over a loud speaker, parroting an automated machine voice “next picture, three minutes”.

We are all aliens. Everything we imagine comes from our experiences. Every day we operate machines we don’t understand from bodies we don't understand. We poke and prod at ourselves trying to figure out how it all works. Then, one day, the aliens of our future become the ghosts of our past. The magnetic waves pulled at my ring and I heard Christina’s voice in my head. She had interrupted me in the car when I was whining about not being able to run.

“Reinvent yourself" she said, with little sympathy for my self pity. Her mother once warned me that one would have to be a strong person to be with Christina. Reinvent myself, yes.

Here I stand, with my aliens and ghosts just at the doors of my beginning. Here I revolve, changing uniforms as I build myself, or work myself, or break myself down. From Carharts, to lab coats to hospital gowns, building, working, studying, breaking down, shifting, building. Sundays are good days for aprons.

Alien Acorn Squash Almond Soup
1 large acorn squash (a lot of people don’t think highly of this variety, but it can be very amicable once you get familiar with it)
½ yellow onion
1 Tbsp oil
1 Tbsp butter
2 cups almond milk
1 tsp vanilla
fennel seeds
salt
ground clove, cinnamon, nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 390 degrees. Cut a LARGE acorn squash in two (this recipe only feeds 2-4 people). Scrape out the seeds and rinse and drain them in a colander. Place the squash face down in a casserole and pour 2 cups of water into the pan. Cover with tinfoil and bake for 40 min until soft.
When you take out the squash, turn the heat down to 300 and bake the seeds (toss in oil and salt and lay flat on a cookie sheet)

Dice ½ yellow onion. Saute in a soup pot with 1 Tbsp oil and 1 tsp salt. Add 1 Tbsp butter. Scrape the squash into the onions (you may want to wait until it cools a bit). Add about 2 cups of almond milk, 1 tsp vanilla, 1 tsp fennel seeds, a sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves (optional). Use a hand blender to puree the soup. Garnish with a drizzle of maple syrup and toasted squash seeds.

Christina's vote: "Best soup I have ever had"

Never Too Muddy for Lentil Soup

We walked up the long winding steps and into the party. Christina carried a wrapped painting as a housewarming gift. The painting was titled "Separate Lives", but I had a feeling it should have been called "Separation Anxiety" which is what I knew she would be experiencing later in the night. Christina misses her paintings, deeply, when they are gone.

Having been unusually busy over the past year, the party was a Christmas card style reunion. Everyone was a little older, a little more married, a little more settled into a career, a little less fearful and searching. There was no time for gossip, there was simply too many other things to talk about. The new kids, the job, the cooking lessons, the house, the summer vacation, the workout plan. I was in the middle of explaining to Noah how I was thinking about giving up running and finding a new sport. Apparently he had heard this story of mine before because because he looked at me in bored disbelief and said, "yeah, sure, ok.."

"Speaking of running, do you ever see Matt anymore?" someone asked as I stuffed caramel drizzled apple into my mouth. At that exact instant, my pocket buzzed. A text message from Matt. "Funny you should mention" I said. I opened the screen to find a cryptic message [trail run. Tomorrow morning. Early. I'll pick you up.] Trail running? We never go trail running. I haven't run a step since the marathon. Adventure is a seductive temptress. Of course I would go.

At 6:30 sharp I found Matt waiting in his car outside, drinking coffee and listening to Sting, which I found to be really funny. I have probably spent thousands of hours running with Matt and up until this morning had no idea what kind of music he listens to. We drove about five minutes out of the city, and pulled up to a foggy parking lot from which began a little trail. I looked at the shiny leaf plastered path ahead

"It's raining" I said. "and it is dark."
"I know" Matt said "I probably should have brought a flashlight".
We set out slowly and carefully through the muddy woods. The chill in the air caused the moon to wrap herself in cloudy blankets, and our trail was a flat shadowless abyss. I bounded with the cheery spirit of adventure, wet leaves clinging to my shoes like toddlers. The rain was not an adversary, but a diamond cut detail in the story of that time we went trail running through the mud and forgot flashlights. We dodged tree branches, hopped over rocks, shimmied down rock ledges and jumped brooks. At times we were climbing vertically through mud paths sculpted by descending water, grasping at branches to secure new heights. The view from the top of these climbs was autumn leaves against a purple sky, breathtaking.

When I got home, I immediately went to the farmers market. It is the last market day of the season. I loaded up on root vegetables, because, like me they were covered in mud. I must have carried 50 lbs of root vegetables up to our apartment, still my expression was that of a 10 year old kid just coming in from building forts in the woods. Christina looked cold in the apartment. The cats looked curious. I turned the oven on and the cooking was magic.

Never too muddy for lentil soup.

1 local ham hock purchased from a farmer who has been thoroughly questioned (your education is a part of the soup preparation)
1 1/2 cups of lentils purchased from the woman who grows only "soul food" ingredients (we are lucky to have such interesting characters at our farmers market!)
5 stalks celery (watch out for the really bushy celery, it is bitter and has ladybugs all over it)
5 carrots sweet enough to eat without peeling (you are already covered in mud, you don't to be covered in carrot peelings too!)
1 red and 1 yellow onion (for diversity!)
1 clove garlic
3 bay leaves
3 medium potatoes (not the green ones)
1 rutabaga
Salt, muchi curry powder, cumin, turmeric, sweet basil, pepper, 1 chili pepper (if you like it hot).

Fill a soup pot with water and add the ham hock, red onion and celery trimmings. Allow this to cook for about 40 min. Then, in another soup pot, add 1 cup ham hock water, bay leaves and onions. Dice potatoes and add to onions with another cup of the liquid. Add more liquid and the lentils. Add another cup of the liquid and the rutabaga diced. Keep adding your ingredients and the liquid from the ham hock. Season to taste. When you are done simmer uncovered until the lentils are cooked and the potatoes are soft. Adjust your seasonings. Dice up the meat from the ham hock and add to the soup.

~enjoy~

Hopping the Apple Train

I spent most of the chilly morning on Saturday at the Minneapolis farmer's market. I sat huddled around a propane heater with three lovely Midwestern ladies, we were chatting live on AM950 talk radio. We began the show lined up across a long table under a little white tent, a microphone perched before each of us as though we were announcing at a sporting event. It didn't take long for our formality to break, and the excitement of sharing trade secretes with fellow vegetable lovers brought us huddled together like a couple of freight hoppers standing over a trash can fire. All of us were heaped with layers of winter clothing and cheeks whipped pink by the wind. Our boisterous chatter was as loud and continuous as a long steam train, heirloom tomatoes leading into spaghetti squash, followed by basil, fresh garlic, and roasted chicken. The caboose came trudging in brimming with seasonal apples, Harelsons, Honeycrisp, Zestar and Golden Delicious!

After the show I walked slowly through the aisles of the farmers market, the chill in the air made the public scarce, and the tables were packed with colorful and fragrant treasures. My toes were like two blocks of ice and my nose was in need of a plumber, but I was too exhilarated to care. One of the ladies on the show, the one they call the herb lady, had given me some lovely fresh basil from her farm -Dehn's Garden-which I carried on my wrist. Another lady from the show, Gwen, took me over to her family farm stand -Smith Gardens.

At Smith Gardens I found some spicy icicle radishes (for Christina), some delicious homemade blueberry and blackberry jam (yum), and a diverse array of fresh snappy apples. If only I had brought a shopping cart! I left weighed down by two giant bags of apples, three of each variety, with the intention of getting to know my local varieties. What is apparent thus far, is that seasonal apples bought from the farm stand can not be compared to their grocery store cousins. A Gala picked from the top of the grocery bin speaks a softer, milder dialect than the sweet and snappy Gala from Smith Farms. My first exploration with the apples involved the assembly of an apple pie with a butter crust.

Crust:
1 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp salt
1 1/4 stick unsalted butter
cold water

Using two knives, cut the butter into the flour salt mixture until little the butter is pea sized (do not over mix, and do not use hands. The butter needs to stay cool and not completely mixed into the flour for the crust to be flaky). Add cold water slowly, folding it into the flour. When the dough is just wet enough to be gathered, gather into a ball and knead one or two times. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.

The filling:
Peel and cut
3 medium Prairie Spy apples: tart, starchy, mild
3 medium Fireside: sweet, a perfect snap (it will be hard not to eat these before they make it into the pie)
3 medium Sweet 16: soft, anise flavored
juice from 1/2 lemon
brown sugar, to taste
cinnamon
pinch salt
a shake of cornstarch (to thicken the juice)

Roll out the dough and place in a pie pan. Add apple filling. Roll top crust over the top and pinch around the sides. Cut steam holes in the center of the pie. Bake at 425 for 15 min, reduce heat to 350 and bake for about 30 more min.

~enjoy~

Soup on Sundays!! Cold Buster Soup

The sun turned on the white painted walls of our 6th floor apartment bedroom. I opened my eyes in the blinding light to the feeling that I was being choked by a very strong grasp. Feeling my neck it became apparent that, overnight, my glands had swollen to the size of golf balls. "I think I am getting sick" I croaked to Christina. I suddenly felt waves of depression and anxiety, which hurled me through a minefield of potential horrors until I fell tentatively to rest on the bank of denial.

Denial, although I find it both shallow and bland, seemed an appetizing option when the alternatives were considered. I ran through each scenario over the span of about an hour before I settled on denial and Christina and I left for the coffee shop.

The discarded alternatives are as follows:
1) reveling in the illness, shuffling around with a pitiful look, channeling the soft weepy eyes of my neediest inner child. I did this for about ten minutes, but Christina was not at all biting at the bait of my whine.
2) conjuring up some anger, at all the people who may or may not have given me their cold. Feeling hostile toward those vengeful souls who had the nerve to sneeze and cough in public. This I decided was not a good option, because I have to go to school tomorrow and today's self-righteous anger would result in tomorrows self-deprecation.
3) Start in with a dose of self flagellation today! I searched my mind for all the ways I allowed for my immune system to run down. How could I let this happen!! This got old quickly.

After my hour of anger and pity and victimization was up, we cheerfully headed out Starbucks; Christina appeared slightly confused by my polar changes of mood.

On the way home, we stopped at the Asian grocery store to pick up some kaffir lime leaves. The Asian market smelled strongly of fish, and was chilly inside. The aisles were lined with cans of exotic fruit jellies and mochi balls, and cuts of meat that revealed the animal of origin. We walked slowly through the aisles. It gives me a thrill to imagine the unfamiliar flavors and textures. Foreign foods deliver the promise of recreating childhood first food discoveries.
"I wish we had a Chinatown" I said leaving the store, feeling slightly embarrassed about my lack of home city pride.

Making soup is a beautiful form of alchemy. The most tired vegetables revive themselves to a sort of creamy, soothing, liquid gold. The kitchen windows gather steamy blinds, which turn the contrast of day and night to a foggy shade of gray. Making soup puts me in a timeless world, and with the loss of "day" and "night" go "past" and "future", "depression" and "anxiety".

I felt my throat loosen in the misty kitchen, and my voice return back to it's original form. It was like brewing up a magic potion, and experiencing fairy tale voice box transformation from frog to princess (it's my story, I can say I have a princess voice if I want to!!!)

As the soup simmered on the stove, I looked up some stuff about Tom Kha soup (Tom yum soup with coconut milk). Apparently it is a wonderful natural immune booster and a remedy for colds and the flu. I haven't checked the research on this, but I am happy to accept the idea based on folk wisdom alone. Tom Kha soup is an easy pill to swallow :)

Ingredients
4 cups chicken stock
6 cups water
Salt
3 stocks lemon grass (fresh)
6 large slices ginger
1-2 carrots
15-20 kaffir lime leaves (buy fresh at Asian food store in produce section)
1 tsp oil
1/2 yellow onion
4 cloves garlic
1/2 pkg firm tofu, drained (shrimp can be substituted)
a dash soy sauce, miso or fish sauce (fish sauce is the traditional ingredient, I didn't have any so I went with other high glutamate ingredients. The cells of the immune system are fueled by glutamate)
1/4 cup dried shitake mushrooms
1 can coconut milk
cilantro to garnish

In a soup pot, heat 4 cups of chicken stock and 5 cups of the water with 2 tsp salt. Add lemon grass (peel outer layers, cut tip of bulb and dice bulb until the stalk gets woody texture. Add diced lemon grass to soup pot, then smash the stalk tips and add them whole to the pot (you will discard these later). Add ginger slices, lime leaves, and peeled diced carrots. In a separate pot, saute onions and garlic lightly in oil (with salt) and add cubed tofu. Pour in remaining cup of water and a few dashes soy sauce. Add the tofu mixture to the soup pot and toss in 1/4 cup chopped shitake mushrooms. Add 1 can coconut milk. Season and let simmer to release flavor. Serve with rice.

~enjoy~

Iron Fork Competition Minneapolis 2009

Today I will share my recipe from the Iron Fork competition, In which I was the sole amature competitor against 5 local chefs from some of the great restaurants in the Twin cities. The competition was a fundraiser for Second Harvest sponsored by City Pages. Over a thousand people were watching as we battled to prepare tasty and inventive dishes in one hour featuring one secret ingredient. What an honor to be a contestant!

Before the competition, I got to rub elbows with the chefs. The sous chef from the "Happy Gnome" introduced me to fermented garlic, a black sticky substance with a flavor of roasted garlic and the sweetness of a date. I love it when I meet a new flavor!

The secret ingredient was squash. The "Happy Gnome" chef (who came in second place) made an acorn squash and ouzo cocktail (which I thought was very clever) and a halibut dish that looked amazing! The winner of the competition was the chef/owner of "Saffron", who let me use his olive oil (imported from Pakistan) in my arugula fennel salad. The olive oil was so wonderful that it made my eyes tear up and my knees go weak. He used his own line of spices in all of his dishes. They were delicious.

I made a tarragon and butternut squash ravioli with fresh lemon zested pasta and a golden beet reduction, coconut cream sauce (our friend Jelena said that complicated layers of flavor are all the rage in restaurants these days, which based on my iron fork experience I would have to agree with!) The side dish was an arugula, fennel, orange salad and a single carrot flower.

The weeks leading up to the competition I was like a traveller in a foreign country isolated by an unfamiliar language. I kept searching the minds of people I came in contact with, for clues as to how to get around in this thing. I looked at every person I met as a potential guide, a messenger placed in my path to reveal some secret which would help me be able to cook something impressive for my moment in the culinary sun. It did seem that angels were appearing in my path that week. The morning of the marathon I met a woman who told me how to make hollindaise without using heat (I decided this would be too risky, I wouldn't want to give the judges salmonella!) When I got home from the race, Christina and I went out for Thai food at "Ruam Mit", and the chef came to our table to show us how to make little carrot flowers (which I decided would be Christina's job for the competition, and she plowed through three bags of carrots practicing!! The things we do for love.)

So here is the recipe, the whole thing takes about an hour. It wasn't the winner but I was happy with how it turned out!

Ingredients:
~2 cups unbleached white flour
2 eggs
salt
1 Tbsp olive oil
lemon zest
1 small butternut squash
1 orange
1 can coconut milk (use the cream)
fresh tarragon
thyme
pepper
2 golden beets
1 lime
1 Tbsp brown sugar
1-2 tsp cornstarch

The pasta:
Make a volcano of flour with a pinch of salt in it on a sheet of wax paper taped to your kitchen counter (it is less messy if you use wax paper, but you don't have to). Make a well in the flour and add egg, olive oil, and fresh lemon zest. With a fork, beat the egg and slowly bring the flour mixture into the egg mixture. When the dough begins to come together, knead with flour until smooth (you may not need all the flour). Roll the dough thin with a rolling pin (as thin as you..or your sous chef..can get it!) Cut into squares using a knife or a square cookie cutter (we found a great set at Cooks of Crocus hill on Grand Ave).

The filling: Boil a pot of water. Peel the skin off of a medium butternut squash and scrape out the seeds (you can toast these and use as a garnish). Add the squash to the water and boil until tender (~20 min) remove the squash and mash with a drizzle of coconut milk, orange juice and fresh diced tarragon using a food processor (or a fork if you prefer rustic squash) Salt, pepper and thyme to taste.

Assemble the ravioli by filling one square, lining the edges with a wet finger, and then adding the other square.

The sauce:
Peel and cut 2 golden beets. Place in ~1 1/2 cups water and boil until the water gets yellow. Remove beets (you could have as a side dish, but we did a crisp salad instead) and continue to cook liquid down, adding a few Tbsp coconut milk. Cook your ravioli in this liquid (about 3-4 min). Remove ravioli and set aside. Add 1 Tbsp brown sugar and the juice from 1/2 lime to the sauce. Remove some of the liquid and mix with a little corn starch (1 tsp) then pour the cornstarch liquid into the sauce and cook to thicken. Put the ravioli back in the thickened sauce. When you are ready, plate your ravioli and garnish with an arugula, fennel, orange salad (olive oil, garlic and orange juice dressing) and a bit of orange zest and sugar over the top!

~Enjoy~

Meeting Winter

Last weekend I tucked away my journal articles, I left the dirty dishes and the carpet covered with cat hair, I packed up my computer and I drove four and a half hours North through the golden leaves to meet Winter on his journey to Minneapolis.
It had been so long since I had seen the quiet and mysterious blue of Winter that walking out into a snowy dawn felt somewhat like discovering the tracks of a Bigfoot. Friends in the cities widen their eyes in polite amazement when I tell the story of waking up to run the Whistle Stop marathon in Ashland, WI and discovering an October snow.

The reality of winter is just as elusive to them as it was to me. Winter painted slowly over the long summer days is a gentle creature, with soft fur and rosy cheeks and a warm chocolate laugh. Winter painted in the eve of February is a viscous unforgiving beast, with heavy eyelids, scratchy wool and a runny nose. Last Saturday morning my lungs drank their first sip of cold air while I stood smoking my breath in the society of a thousand runners who wore numbers and arm socks. We all danced a few hundred precious calories away just waiting for the start, and we stood awkwardly close together, desperate to absorb some heat.

The trail on which we trotted, scrambled or scuffled the entire 26.2 miles was not the soft, forgiving, yet compact ground I had been dreaming about. Recent rain and joyriding tires of teenage four wheelers had made a loose beach out of our route. We filed into the tent at the finish line, one by one, collapsing onto the shoulders of those whose faces we would never remember. I sat on the pavement by one of the tent posts, and a woman rushed to my side.
"Are you okay??" she asked.
"Yes" I said.
"Then would you mind sitting on this bucket?" Out of nowhere, a giant white bucket, with dirt stained circular rings was hovering inches away from my eyes.
The woman's features were large and distorted. She looked worried. Was she worried about me? No,the tent. She feared I would knock down the tent. I must not lean on the post. I must...but it feels so good to lean..just a little...Suddenly I came to my senses. I pulled myself off the ground and reached for a sugar cookie from the table. I decided I needed to focus on something besides my own pain.

"HI!" I said, in a half manic shout fueled by false energy to a group of older masters runners sitting on buckets. "I'm Emily" I said, popping a miniature doughnut into my mouth. "Am I hallucinating or is that a heater you are sitting in front of?"

"wha?? I didn't even notice the heater haha" one of the runners said. "Please, pull up a bucket!"

The rest of the afternoon flew past. I forgot about missing my goal of running a sub 3:15 marathon while reveling in the joy of the 60 year old man who had just qualified for Boston for the first time. I listened to the sad story of the woman who had to drop out, regretfully, at mile 18. Fueled by the desire to achieve goals, I had become rigid with expectations. Their stories set me to thaw. Their stories were my stories. I was sitting on a bucket, in a tent, laughing and crying at myself in various caricatures. There was the time gave up, the time I succeeded, the time I just came to have fun. There was the first time, the best time, and then their was this one. This was the time that it was never easy, not even for a moment. The story falls delicately among my shuffle of persona's collected over years, which are stacked like leaves and stored like costumes perfectly fit for that one occasion.

Iron Fork Amateur Competition

Video by George Prine:

Olfactory Tales

I shook open the flat sheet and kicked up a wind of memories hidden in the heavy damp smell of the linen closet. It was the smell of holiday tablecloths, sun soaked curtains, and cool summer evenings slept away on the porch (the year we decided to put a bed out there, just for the fun of it). Every evening I would watch the silvery moon through the screens, and watch the leaves toss shadows on the still grass. The crickets, whose brilliant song in the evenings fades in and out of backgrounds like a classical tune at a cocktail party, would play a live symphony for me in my porch bed. I often had the fear that if I payed too close attention I would discover that the sound was not real and the crickets would disappear. They never did.

I stayed out there every night through soccer season. The musk of the muddy leaves, which had been crunched by cleats kicking soccer goals in the make believe championships of my backyard, would rise up through the cool air at night. When the fall air turned to ice, and tinted the night sky with softer shades of blue, I simply piled on more blankets and trapped my hair and feet in wool. Every morning I awoke triumphant, and refreshed and arrived at the breakfast table with ice cold air still clinging to my pajamas wrapping me in the spirit of adventure. The best pancakes, it seems, are always those eaten while ruddy faced and wearing winter air and wool socks.

Christina just walked into the room carrying a steaming plate of crispy rice (Tadig) and my latest creation, thinly sliced stir fried pork with Bok Choy and pickled ginger. The smell of maple syrup saturates the air, which must be imagined, as neither recipe contains the stuff.

2 portions pork tenderloin
2 small baby bok choy heads
1/4 small onion
2 cloves garlic
1 Tbsp toasted sesame oil
1 Tsbp grape seed oil
salt, soy sauce, white wine vinegar to season
2 Tbsp flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup cooking wine (white) or wine for cooking. You could substitute apple cider.

Slice the pork thin and coat in a mixture of flour and baking soda. In a frying pan, heat both oils until they are very hot. Put the onion (diced) and a little salt in the pan. Add pork and brown on all sides. Pour in the wine, and be careful not to excite the fire. Add garlic (minced) and bok choy (diced) and a bit of soy. Garnish with pickled ginger!

Recipe for Rejuvenation

Three years have gone by and I am sitting in the exact same lecture hall, in the front row, while the hungry eyes of the undergraduates try to figure out where my good side is and how they will secure a seat for themselves on it. We, the teaching assistants in the front row, are the graders. As professor drones on about grading percentages and study habits, I can feel the eyes of the students boring their way into my brain. The power they think that I have is imagined, largely because in a class of 200 students, I cannot even keep track of their names. There will be no favoritism, no easy A’s. This doesn’t discourage the students from flashing enthusiastic smiles, laughing too hard at my jokes, and boldly stopping by to introduce themselves to me after class.
We are all trying to be noticed. No one wants their genius to go unrecognized, their voices to be lost in the thunder of the trees falling in the woods. I wish that I could sit with every one of these fresh minds and have them tell me their most brilliant moment. Instead I sift through essays, and read carefully from the lines, and sometimes try to read between the lines, searching for the wisdom I once had but have forgotten. I have changed, and the shoes they are wearing don’t fit my feet, which have grown calloused from traversing paths of resistance. I am more guarded with my battles now.
Walking swiftly from the classroom, I am floating in a sea of bouncing backpacks. The occasional bike whizzes by. Scruffy teenagers and twenty something’s wave paper flyers with caged and tortured animals bearing the PETA logo. There was a time where I would have talked to them. A bearded man hands out information on socialism. I did not stop to hear about where and when the meeting will be. A young boy wearing a tie recites the King James Bible. I ignore him.

I feed the love in my heart and it repays me with an abundance of energy. It sweetens the mealy apple, and fills my day with meaning.

Recipe for rejuvination:

Find someone.
Anyone.
Sit with them for a bit.
Listen to their words, and hear what they say with their actions.
Don’t try to help them.
Don’t try to think of answers, solutions, jokes, or something to say to break silence.
Forget about your own problems and how they relate to theirs.
Just let them talk.
Be with them for the discomfort between words.
Offer love.

Now go home and repeat this recipe for yourself.
Find yourself.
Here.
Sit with yourself for a bit.
Listen to your words and hear what you say with your actions.
Don’t try to help yourself.
Don’t try to think of answers, solutions, jokes, or some thought to break the silence.
Forget about their problems and how they relate to yours.
Just listen to your thoughts.
Be with yourself, even though it may feel uncomfortable.
Offer love.

Culture in a Pill

How to live. How to get the most out of life. Somehow we have become convinced that the treasure chest of life's enjoyment is unlocked by the key to perfect health. Perfect health is something that we measure in numbers, for no other reason than because we have found no better measurement and it fits into the protocol of modern science.

We can't really rely on asking people how they feel, because how one feels is not objective, so we instead measure weight, height, bone density, blood pressure, muscle mass, tooth color, hair texture, oxygen consumption. If you fit into the ideal, that you have achieved success and therefore qualify for the gift of happiness. Of course, there is always room for improvement, so if for some reason you have achieved the right measurements and are still un-fulfilled, you might want to try getting your teeth a few shades lighter.

The concept of the "French Paradox" illustrates what happens when one culture tries to describe what is happening within another from outside of the cultural context. What is the French paradox? As Americans who struggle to tailor our diets to fit within the recommended pyramid structure (in order to stay healthy) we are baffled by the French with their diet of fine cheeses, white bread, rich sauces, and wine. The French seem to have lower incidence of chronic disease and trimmer waistlines, and yet they eat from the top of the pyramid! How can that be, we cry out!!

Nutrition sciences, do to lack of funding, rely on technology from pharmaceutical companies when analyzing food. As a result, we place a lot of significance on what is in food, and less significance on how the food is eaten. American scientists rush to find the key to life hidden within the French diet rather that observing the differences in how the two different cultures approach the dinner table (or the drive through dinner drop-off).

A team of young scientists in white lab coats are unleashed on France. They take out the measuring tape and calculate BMI, and abdominal fat. They measure blood pressure, insulin resistance and cardiovascular disease. Yes indeed, the French seem to meet the requirements for optimal health and therefore the gift of happiness. The American scientists sit back and scratch their heads. There must be something in their food that we don't know about.

In 2006 a team of scientists at Harvard medical school purified a polyphenolic compound found in red wine which originates in grape skins called resveratrol and fed it to mice, along with a high fat diet. (reference: Vol 444| 16 November 2006| doi:10.1038/nature05354) The results were amazing. The mice, while they had no less propensity toward obesity, maintained youthful liver profiles. They lived much longer lifespans than their non-resveratrol consuming controls. They had improved insulin sensitivity and cholesterol, and decreased organ pathology.

Current regulations in the United States do not require FDA regulation of supplements. Anyone can place a supplement on the market, and until somebody reports getting hurt, people are free to experiment on themselves at will. Resveratrol, though it is a promising longevity pill in certain animals, has not been tested much in humans yet. The team of scientists from Harvard launched a product line of resveratrol and could probably all now retire!

One recent human study reported that resveratrol is metabolized quickly and is not highly bioavailable in humans from supplements. The study found reveratrol to be safe in the short term at doses of up to 150 mg 6 times per day, however. (Mol. Nutr. Food Res. 2009, 53, S7 –S15). (The S in front of the reference means that this article was published in a supplement journal and did not have to be scientifically peer reviewed, so take it with a grain of salt!)

If you are looking for the key to health as measured by western science, you can play lab rat with yourself in the supplement aisle of your local co-op or by clicking on the ads which have no doubt found their way to this page by my mention of the word "resveratrol". Of course you could also try the pursuit of a perfect moment and enjoy a fine cheese, some fresh baked bread, and some grapes with a loved one, at a leisurely pace, under the umbrella of a late summer sky.

Hide and go seek

"12..11..10..9..8..7..6..5..4...3..2......1 here I come ready or not!!"

I am walking gingerly through the cleared path between the trees, which are newly colored with autumn. I place my feet carefully on the soft grassy dirt, until I reach the edge where the sun cannot reach and no longer feeds the grass with her light. The earth is much cooler here, forcing a chill up my legs, which are still free with summer shorts. I hear whisper, and evil chatter, which I am certain is a part of some scheme to terrorize me. I peer behind a tree, my heart lurches and then settles into a strong pound.

They are going to get me, I am sure of it. If I don't find them first, they will find me. I begin to walk faster.

I am frantically looking now. Running, from tree to tree, branches crunch beneath my feet. Just when I see one, it eludes me and I feel crazy, like I have imagined it there. I run faster, eyes bulging, breathing rapid and shallow, frothing like a racehorse, I am hyper-vigilant. AHA! I swipe with my hands at a figure, but my hands come up empty. I am crazy. I am sure of it.

I slump against the tree, sliding to the cool earth, resigned, surrendered, they will get me I am sure but my legs are cramped and my stomach uneasy and I cannot go on looking.
"Hi"
I look up into soft brown eyes and hair golden with sun.
"Hi" I say.
"What are we looking for?" She asks.
"Problems" I say.
"They are all around us" she says. I look beyond the little girl to the trees in the forest, and snickering little problems camouflaged to blend in with the trees and the rocks and the dirt are doing somersaults and handstands and playing games with one another. They are mischievous, but innocent little creatures.
"Who are you?" I say.
"Solution". She says, and she takes me around the woods and introduces me one by one to my imagined attackers. One of them steals my wallet and leaves me spinning in circles trying to catch him, another one trips me until I fall on the forest floor. Innocent little creatures looking to have a laugh. I make a mean face at them, yelling and trying to look threatening.
Solution begins to giggle, "You should really see your face right now, it is hilarious" I imagine myself terrified of these little tricksters, and using my strongest defenses, and I start to laugh too.

I often find problems to be impossible to see clearly without the help of solutions. When I am in the woods, I try to call out for the hidden solution before seeking out problems.

Squash soup:
The comfort of nutmeg in the early fall.

Preheat the oven to 400.
cut in half (and remove seeds) 1 large butternut squash
place squash face down in a baking dish and add a little water to the pan.
cover with tinfoil or a lid
bake for ~40 min (until tender)

in a soup pot, heat 2 Tbsp olive oil and a little salt
add 1 large yellow onion diced
cook until the onion is sweet

Scrape squash and onion into a food processor and blend
add back to the soup pan and thin with

EITHER
1 1/2 cups milk
OR
1 1/2 cups almond milk (yummy)
OR
1 1/2 cups half and half
OR
1 1/2 cups orange juice

What you add depends on your personal beliefs, preferences, tastes, politics, etc...

grate some fresh nutmeg on the top. Serve with love.

3000 a day keeps a runner at play!

"You don't look like you love food enough to be a decent chef." One meal with me would eradicate this statement from the mind of it's deliverer. I am never good company at restaurants, because I have to read the entire menu slowly, imaging each flavor combination and how it would feel in my mouth at that very moment. Fortunately for my waistline I have always had a preference for the crunchy, the tart, and the more acidic foods, leading me toward binges of tart apples and crunchy salads instead of cakes and ice creams. I remember as a little girl sitting on our shag carpet, crunching through apple after apple and lining the cores in front of big bird as he danced happily in the square television before me. I felt satisfied when I had completely blocked out his scratchy voice with my crunching.

According to an old school mentality, a proper chef must have "dimples on the elbows" as my grandmother used to say. Of course, my grandmother lived most of her life in the days before American culture developed a strong taste for endurance exercise. ~3000 calories a day. That is what I am supposed to eat to maintain my body weight in these days of high intensity marathon training. I remember reading recently that it is common for chefs to be marathon runners, and for marathon runners to be foodies. Makes sense.

Here is an interesting scientific bit of information: the hungrier you are, the more your brain releases pleasurable chemicals in response to food. We might say something like "food tastes good when you are hungry" but what is really happening is the brain is being bathed in mood altering neuropeptides including endocannabinoids and endorphin which make us feel a heightened sense of pleasure. Since the brain's response to a calorie deficiency is to make food more rewarding, dieters are told not to get too hungry.

Today, on my run, I saw an old friend who I used to work with. He was on the grass stretching, his bike lay obediently beside him. I recognized him from the prominent scar on his shaved head.

"HEY!" I stopped (I always forget I don't have to scream for the other person to hear me when my music is on).
"Hey" he said rubbing his finger in his ear.

"sorry" I laughed. I looked at the bike, bicyclists seem to have a relationship with their bike that goes beyond appreciation of it's function. "you are biking again???" I pointed out, as if he didn't know. It really surprised me to see him on his bike, because he had spent weeks in a coma after a near death bicycle accident a few years ago. His whole head is covered in scars, and he lost entirely his sense of smell as a result of the accident.

"Yeah" he said "I took some time off, and then one day I thought to myself 'what am I so afraid of' and now I am back to doing tricks on my bike and riding fast on the street." This caused me to feel a little embarrassed about my own refusal to bike after a minor accident I experienced two years ago which caused me to chip a tooth. "I have been meaning to ask you" I said. "Without a sense of smell, can you taste anything?"

"Nope" he said. "Well, I can tell if it is sweet, salty, bitter, or sour, but I can't detect flavors like cherry or watermelon. I know if something is good!" I had a million more questions, but I was starting to get cold and stiff muscles from standing there. I ran off with my questions, wondering if his food preferences changed at all after the accident, or if he lost his appetite for certain foods entirely. I wondered what he thought of fast food now that their aroma enhancers were powerless over his olfactory blindness.

As I write I am having a delicious lunch of pasta with cauliflower, green onions and shredded cheese. I have an ice pack on each leg. For breakfast I had two sandwiches with almond butter and raisins, for first lunch I had grape-nuts cereal and a protein smoothie, for second lunch I am having the pasta. Dinner tonight will be Thai coconut soup with chicken and some spring rolls. I think that should come out to about 3000, and if not I am sure my brain will let me know.

Stacked and Elegant Vegetable Towers

Here is one of the dishes I will be preparing at my "market talk" at the Minneapolis farmer's market on Saturday, Sept 5, beginning at 10:30 am. If you live in the area, please come out and join us!

Stacked and Elegant Vegetable Towers

2-3 eggs

1-2 cups yellow cornmeal (plain, don’t accidentally use cornbread mix)

1-2 cups flour

Canola oil (for frying)

salt

1 medium eggplant

2 medium zucchini

2 heirloom tomatoes (or beefsteak, or whatever kind tastes good to you)

2 medium balls fresh mozzarella in water

1 bunch basil

salt and pepper to taste

Slice the eggplant thin and lay out on toweled surface. Salt the eggplant liberally and allow to sit until it starts to sweat brown liquid. Mop up the brown beads with a paper towel, flip eggplant and repeat on the other side. Slice zucchini thin and tomatoes (salt the tomatoes if you like).

Crack the eggs into a bowl and beat with a fork. Pour flour and a little salt onto a plate (about 1 cup). Pour cornmeal onto a separate plate.

Heat ~1/2 inch of oil in a frying pan until very hot. Dip eggplant in flour, then in egg mixture, then in cornmeal to cover. Fry carefully in the hot oil until tender and brown. Repeat with zucchini. Using a fork, carefully transfer fried zucchini and eggplant to paper towel.

Assemble stacks layering first eggplant, then basil, then sliced cheese, then basil, then tomato, basil, zucchini, basil etc.. until you have the desired tower height. Season with fresh pepper and salt!

Late August delivered big red jellyfish to long island sound, bringing a deterrent to the waters just as they became warm enough to comfortably swim. I remember the courage I needed to summon just to dangle my limbs into the salty abyss. Home, in the late summer months, was a portable fiberglass hull with an enormous white billowing sail. She was a beautiful family sized sailboat. We bought her when I was five. That evening my family sat around the dinner table, shouting out names and competing to be the one to come up with the most clever. "Panacea" my parents settled on "because it is the cure for what ails you".

Panacea was not a part of my 5 year old vernacular, but I thought it was clever that it had the sound of "sea" in it. The accompanying dinghy (most sailboats carry a small motorboat or rowboat to use for emergencies, or when at anchor or mooring to bring passengers to shore) was named "the little pill".

I felt a certain pride about being a boat kid. I loved to show off, how I could climb around on the boom, how I could balance when the boat was heeling, her rails skimming the water. Some days we heeled over so far that the sound threatened to devour us, it seemed. On these days, the really windy days, I would beg my father to allow me to take the wheel. I especially wanted to steer when it was rainy or stormy, so that I could imagine myself as a heroic captain battling with a turbulent sea. "Not right now", he would say. When the sound had returned to a calm glassy pool, he would call below for me and, swelling with fatherly pride, ask me if I still wanted to steer. He would tell me where to point the bow of the boat and I would old the wheel steady, feeling the thumping of waves against the rudder as we glided along.

Our home port was just to the left of a blue tower with a smoke stack attached. It had two square windows, which resembled two black eyes to me. When my father said "point to the left of that tower" my heart would sink a little. I knew it was time to leave our summer adventures behind, and school concerns would soon take residence in my curious mind.

The salt flakes, the tangled hair, the tanned skin, these things were badges of honor as far as I was concerned. When we got home my poor mother used to have to chase me around the house with a comb to relieve me of the salty dreadlocks that I so desperately wanted to keep, in an attempt to hold on to the last glow of summer as she set.

Cucumbers, because hydration means life

The two hours of leisurely running felt as colorful and relaxing as flipping through a magazine. No matter how much faster I believed I wanted to go, my legs resisted. My quads felt like they were draped in vests of lead, the kind you put on before taking an x-ray. I wondered if this humbling challenge of pushing unrested legs is a step to the magic arch a person must push through to enter the ranks of an elite runner, or if it is simply an exercise for my ego. The meaning depends entirely upon the interpretation. I was drifting down the street, like a lazy boat carried by an asphalt river, while others zoomed by. I felt the sun soak into my skin, the last lingering heat of summer. Soon there will be reds and golds and autumn smells.

Food is a constant desire in these 60 mile weeks. I left behind the salads in favor of more energy dense foods to keep up with my training, like crackers and cheeses, meats, almonds, Eggs Benedict and cupcakes. Today I felt a longing in my heart for heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers. Last year I worked, briefly, doing marketing research for farmers markets. My job was to surf the Internet all day extracting material about the nutritional and nutraceutical value of different types of produce. I had a long list of vegetables to research, all of them were very marketable: blueberries, a powerhouse of antioxidants! Apples, soluble fiber to help lower cholesterol! Carrots, beta-carotene for night vision! Tomatoes, heart healthy lycopene! and then I came to cucumbers. Cucumbers are....hydrating.

Suddenly cucumbers seemed totally uninteresting to me. They had no fancy pharmacological activity, not many flavonoids or polyphenols to brag about or fancy pants phytosterols, no great vitamin contribution, no omega 3 fatty acids to ward off inflammation.

They simply hydrate.

Then it hit me. Hydration is really important, although generally not very marketable in the food product world (unless you are selling beverages). Our bodies contain about 65% water. Manufacturers of food products have a different relationship with water in food, it increases the likelihood of spoilage causing a limited shelf life. A limited shelf life is a major roadblock for a country that relies on shipping food around to keep everyone fed. This is one reason that the frozen foods and the snack sections of the grocery store seems to just keep spreading. Many of the snack foods available in stores are dehydrated or low in water, so that they keep for longer.

Cucumbers, because hydration means life.

The Salad:

dice 1 whole large cucumber and put it in a salad bowl. Add some sliced heirloom tomatoes (or heirloom cherry tomatoes yum!!) Dress with red wine vinegar and oil. Top with 1/4 avocado, 2 slices of turkey, 1 slice of nice Italian salami, and some broken up mozzarella cheese. Garnish with crackers.

Christina's vote: (Poor Christina, I ate this whole thing by myself! By the time she got home I was licking the bowl)