Cumin-Scented Fall Grain Salad

This weekend, after two years of grumbling and surreptitious back rubbing, we finally bought a new mattress! It's a luxurious pillow-top queen with memory foam that we plan to spend lazy weekend mornings in before the baby arrives. Sure, we don't have any sheets that fit it and our feather-bed will droop over the sides like my great aunt's upper arms, but these are piddling concerns when met with the fact that we will sleep like babes in arms.

But that's not the only good thing to happen this weekend. The other one involved black rice, millet, butternut squash, onions, cumin, garlic, cilantro, avocado, lemon and olive oil. Not only healthy and beautiful to behold, this fall salad is hearty enough to comprise a vegetarian meal and flexible enough to act as a side dish or potluck contribution. So where's the picture? In my pregnant belly, which is increasingly capable of eating large amounts of food before I find the camera. But I promise you, picture or no, this is worth cooking. You'll feel virtuous and happy eating it, and those two sensations don't always go together.

Cumin-Scented Fall Grain Salad (adapted from Bon Appetit 11/11)

You can substitute any rice and whole grain for the millet and black rice I used in this salad. The original recipe calls for red quinoa, as well as some parsley and chives. I had millet and cilantro on hand, so that is what I used.

1/2 C short-grain black rice

1 C millet

2 C butternut squash, cubed and roasted with some olive oil and coarse sea salt

1/4 C chopped cilantro

1 onion, finely chopped

3 garlic cloves, minced

2 tsp cumin seeds or 1 tsp ground cumin

1-2 lemons

1 bay leaf

4 T olive oil

1-2 avocados

sea salt and pepper

1. Combine the black rice with 1 C water in a small pot. Bring to a boil, cover and lower the heat, and simmer gently until the water is absorbed, about 20 minutes. Set aside.

2. Combine the millet with 2 1/2 C water or stock and the bay leaves. Bring to a boil, cover and lower the heat, and simmer gently until the water is absorbed, about 20-25 minutes. Fluff, remove the bay leaf, and set aside.

3. In a pan, cook the onions in 2 T olive oil until softened. Add the cumin and garlic and cook until aromatic, about 2 minutes.

4. In a large serving bowl, combine the millet with the onion-cumin mixture. Add the rice, cilantro, roasted butternut squash, 2 T of olive oil, and lemon juice to taste. Season to taste with sea salt and pepper.

5. Serve the salad with additional lemon wedges and sliced avocado. I like to top a big bowl of salad with avocado slices, and then drizzle a bit more olive oil and lemon juice on top.

This keeps well in the fridge, but let it come to room temperature again before eating leftovers (or zap it in the microwave--sans avocado--for 1 minute). Definitely taste the leftovers to see if additional lemon juice, olive oil, or seasonings are needed, as grains tend to absorb flavors over time.

Cry Baby Likes It

I know the pregnancy hormones must be getting to me because the Glee cast's rendition of "True Colors" just made me cry. This is not a good sign, folks. Tomorrow I'll be weeping at long distance telephone commercials, and then woe betide the day I watch a movie with an actual baby in it.

This excessive sentimentality might also be a symptom of the September heat, which has been keeping me up at night. The only thing that gets me to sleep is envisioning little pink baby feet (the bottoms, specifically, which are so wrinkly and soft), and that just loops back to the above issue of my becoming a baby-bearing, infant-centric human weep-a-thon. But before you judge me, O Unpregnant Peoples, know this: There is no stopping the onslaught of irrational feelings that besiege the pregnant female. You might say to yourself, "This is not my beautiful mind." And you might be right...four months ago. Because now you have a brain that might misplace the keys, burn dinner, and forget entire conversations, yet it can spot a fellow mama from a distance of .6 miles and smell any baby in the greater metropolitan area. You don't ask for these changes. They're part of the experience of pregnancy, like painful breasts and frequent urination. And since you have to live with them for nine months, I say revel in them.

I like crying easily at stupid television shows and cheesy songs, because I've never been like this before. I like my little belly, because I've never had one before; and I especially like to rub it absentmindedly while I read or when I'm falling asleep. I like being careful with myself, and taking a rest from heavy lifting and biking to work. I love yoga class. I love eating coffee ice cream (it's safe) with chocolate chips after dinner every night and not feeling guilty. There are still lots of scary thoughts and sometimes experiences to get through, and the never-ending sense that this is so fragile and needs the tenderest care, (and all of these feelings may change when I can no longer see my feet), but right now pregnancy is mostly nice. It's rare to get the opportunity--or to be more honest, feel comfortable giving yourself the opportunity--to treat yourself like a goddess, and pregnancy allows you to do that. At least, the first one does because you don't have to take care of anyone else and everyone wants to take care of you.

The Pickles at the End of the Garden

Today is one of my favorite kinds of days (the others involving tropical beaches, wineries, rainstorms, fireplaces and movie theatres, though not all at once). It's the last day of a long weekend vacation, the majority of which we spent in Bend, Oregon performing at the inaugural Bend Shakespeare Festival. It was awesome. The audiences were huge and enthusiastic, howling with laughter and thoroughly bent on enjoying themselves--and us--as much as possible. The stage is in the beautiful Drake Park, right in front of the river, which makes the matinees picturesque if brutal (the heat, oh the heat) and the evenings perfect. We spent Thursday through Sunday morning in Bend, swimming and sunning when not onstage, and then joined our friends and cast mates Christy and Jason at the Oregon State Fair in Salem. It had been years since either T or myself had been to the fair, and it did not disappoint. State fairs have to be the tackiest American custom, with the deep-fried candy bars, garish game booths and evangelical stations (our favorites included the "Are You Going to Heaven Booth: Free and Only Two Questions Long" and the anti-abortion booth that was giving away little plastic fetuses, available in Caucasian and ambiguous ethnic). T ate a fried Twinkie and I happily drank frozen lemonade while petting the miniature horses and ogling the piglets. The evening ended with dinner at my in-laws, which is always a pleasure.

But perhaps the greatest pleasure was going to sleep knowing I had today off, too. I love lazy weekday mini-vacations; I always get loads of laundry, cleaning and cooking done, and yet still feel luxuriously unburdened. Today's major project involved converting excessive numbers of zucchini and wilty tomatoes into Zucchini Dill Pickles, Bread and Butter Zucchini Pickles, and Tomato Jam.

Pickles are fun to make because they're both labor-intensive and easy: all you do is prep the veggies and make a brine. The mildly tricky part is sterilizing and processing the jars so that you can safely store the pickles in the cupboard for fall and winter eating. Plus, just as with jam, there's tremendous satisfaction to be had to gazing at all of your gorgeous filled jars in the pantry. I ogle mine several times a day until the new wears off.

I haven't tried the pickles yet (they need to soak up all of the flavors in the brines for 1-2 weeks), so proceed with the above recipe links knowing that they were tested in the Bon Appetit kitchen and so are likely reliable. The August issue recommends serving the bread and butter pickles--a wonderful sweet and sour pickle that I grew up eating, but know is new to many people--with grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. I also love them with cold cheese and charcuterie plates and with tuna sandwiches. The dill pickles, which like the bread and butter pickles are normally made with cucumbers, should go well with any deli-type sandwich, burgers, and again, tuna salad. The tomato jam, which is kind of like a fancy, chunky ketchup with a smoky punch, will taste amazing with chicken and ham, sturdy seafood like swordfish or sturgeon (I can even imagine pan-tossed prawns dipped into the stuff, mixed with a spoonful of horseradish), grilled tempeh, and smeared onto any sandwich with flavorful cheese. And if you don't feel like going to the trouble of canning the jars, just sterilize them and refrigerate the pickles for a month's worth of happy noshing.

One last tip is that while you can experiment with the spices in the brine, don't alter the amounts of sugar, vinegar or salt in pickle recipes. These amounts are carefully measured to kill harmful bacteria; likewise, follow each recipe's instructions for sterilizing and processing the jars. You want a full belly, not an aching one.


I also want to say that it is infinitely lovely to be back to writing on my blog. I've had an amazing summer of rehearsals and performance, but for once I'm eager for the summer to wind down (if not for the sunshine to disappear) because I'm taking this year off from theatre and so will have more time to cook and nest and write. I'll still be working like crazy for the bookstore and the college, but not having evening commitments should mean more grading during the week and more fun projects on the weekends. (Two plans for this fall: apple and pumpkin butters.) Plus, I feel a bit shy but I suppose the time is ripe to mention that T and I are expecting a little buddy in February, which will for sure send our lives into noisy, messy, hopefully adorable arrears, but also slowly afford me more time at home to learn to be a mommy and to teach my little one the pleasures of the kitchen.

-

Stem Pickles, of the Swiss Chard Variety (Part 1)

Leafing through one of my cooking magazines the other day, I came across (and have since been unable to find!) a blurb about a bartender or chef who turns swiss chard stems into refrigerator pickles. After last summer's success with pickled sugar snap peas, and in my effort to use every edible part of all of our vegetables, I have decided to give the pickled stems a try. Tonight. Because I have nothing better to do and a huge bowl of fuchsia stems in the kitchen, winking prettily at me, asking to be made into something other than compost.

Because I can't find the official recipe (did I dream it up? and if so, what does it mean that I'm dreaming about pickles?), I altered a promising recipe for asparagus pickles that I found online and followed the sugar snap pickle protocol:

1. Sterilize a quart jar and lid.

2. Boil equal parts water and vinegar with some salt and sugar--in this case, 2 C each water and cider vinegar, with 1/2 T salt and 1/8 C sugar.

3. Put 2 smashed garlic cloves, 2 red chilies, some dill and some mustard seeds, along with the chard stems, into the sterilized jar.

4. Pour the boiling vinegar brine into the jar, using a funnel if you're spill-prone.

5. Seal and store in the fridge. Can be made up to a month in advance.

In my (trivial) pickling experience, the pickles will start to taste snappy in about 24 hours, but will increase in flavor over the next couple of weeks. I'll keep you posted on the result, but my intended use for the pickled stems is for cheese and pickle sandwiches, or what we around here call "jungle style." I imagine they'll also taste nice in Bloody Marys, for those of you in the cocktail set.

Japanese Turnips

Before you navigate away, because the word "turnip" is not only boring but sounds like something your grandparents were forced to eat as children, know that I am discussing Japanese turnips. And unlike their American relatives, which are rock hard and rooty, these delicate white veggies are crisp, juicy, sweet and fresh. They can be enjoyed raw like jicama, or roasted or sauteed in olive oil and garlic. The first method is refreshing, the second as savory as potato and as juicy as fresh pear.

We've been getting large bunches of them in our CSA tote each week, and at first I sliced them thinly and ate them for breakfast on buttered toast with a sprinkling of smoked salt. Then I shredded them into a lemony salad with young beets and sunflower seeds. The next time I parboiled them and rolled them in a bit of butter and coarse salt. And yesterday I did the best thing yet, which was to slice them thinly, toss them with a bit of olive oil and a lot of minced garlic, and roast the bejeezus out of them. The resultant "chips" were salty and golden, and juicy as hell. I nibbled a few out of the pan and tossed the rest for lunch today with brown rice, black beans, cherry tomatoes and feta.

If you think you dislike turnips, or are finding large quantities of them at the farmer's market or in your own CSA tote, try the below recipe. It would make a nice accompaniment to any type of roast or richer fish; or, eat them on their own, as I did, standing at the pan with a glass of wine.

Simple Roasted Japanese Turnips
Note: All of the literature I've found on Japanese turnips say they're spicy and strongly flavored. Ours have been sweet without even the slightest radishy kick, but it might be best to taste one raw before determining what to do with your bunch.

Japanese turnips
olive oil
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
coarse salt
pepper

Preheat oven to 425 F.
Trim and thinly slice turnips (1/4"), setting aside the greens for sauteing.
Toss the turnip slices with a healthy lug of olive oil, the minced garlic and a pinch of salt, and spread into one layer.
Bake until the turnips are starting to turn tender and golden, then flip with a spatula.
Continue baking until golden and somewhat shriveled, but not dry or burnt.

This all takes roughly 45 minutes, but as I didn't watch the clock (I was watching Buffy), be sure to check the veggies occasionally to get the texture you like.

Fudgesicles, Jessica-style

It's happening.

The rainy hours are growing fewer and the blue skyed moments are beckoning us outdoors to sit in puddles of sunshine. My brandywine and roma tomatoes are reaching upwards, and the yellow squash adds a new leaf each week. The strawberries are putting forth green fruit, and the sage looks like it will take over the world.

It's springtime in Portland. When summer seems almost possible.

And because we Portlanders go a little crazy when we see the sun, we drag out the summer dresses and the pale ale and tbe BBQ well before the weather warrants. We do crazy things, like shiver sweaterless on the patio and make popsicles that we have to eat indoors.

As if to tease, and in the time-traveling way of all food magazines, my Bon Appetit and Food and Wine are arriving with the brazen heat of midsummer in their recipes, all ice creams and cold seafood salads. And even though no reader above the Mason-Dixon line has access yet to local heirloom tomatoes or watermelon, it's hard to resist the urge to run out and buy all of the shipped-from-overseas produce that you can hold, so that you too can eat fig and feta salad and fried squash blossoms. I practically sit on my hands on our backdoor stoop, whispering to my plants to grow, grow, grow into such marvelous meals.

Luckily, one doesn't need to wait for hot weather to make popsicles. And when I saw Deb's recipe for fudgesicles on Smitten Kitchen, all of my memories of the 3pm summer camp ice cream ritual arose and I knew I had to make them, rain or shine.

First I went out and bought the cheapest, most colorful popsicle set I could find (Jelly Belly brand, in case you're interested). And then I bought organic dark chocolate and hemp milk, because my sister Jessica can't eat dairy. And then I got to work.

This recipe takes ten minutes. Substitute whole milk or any other alternative "milk" for the hemp; I like to use hemp milk in vegan baking because it's tremendously rich and creamy, and full of omega-3 fatty acids. It doesn't taste great straight out of the box, though. A little...plant-y. You can also use semi-sweet chocolate for a milder flavor; again, I had to avoid dairy and dark chocolate is a lot more appealing than carob.



Fudgesicles (makes 4)

2 T chopped semi-sweet or dark chocolate

1/3 C sugar

1 T cornstarch

1.5 T cocoa

1.25 C whole or vegan milk

pinch of salt

1/2 tsp vanilla

1/2 T butter


Melt the chocolate in a heavy pan over low heat. Whisk in the milk, cocoa, cornstarch and salt and cook (5-10 minutes) until thickened. Remove from the heat and whisk in the vanilla and butter. Cool slightly and pour into the popsicle molds. Freeze.

the girl next door

We have a new neighbor.

She's like chartreuse molasses, or something else similarly vibrant and spaced out; maybe she's a neon flower through the haze in an opium den.

She came to the door in black clothes and a beige beret and stayed for an hour. I know about her previous relationship in Georgia; her injuries as a dancer and photographer in New York City; her need to repaint her bedroom turquoise because the sage color is too deadening. Her love of curtains, and how she doesn't really drink much, but a beer on a hot day in the backyard is really nice. And she'll be drying her unmentionables on a laundry line out back.

I was in the middle of playing hooky to grade papers all day when she rang the bell, and the whole time she stood here, petting the cat, drawling sweetly about this and that, I couldn't decide if I'd met my new best friend or someone I will spend the next several months studiously avoiding by allowing the dinosaur ferns out front to finally obscure the front door.

I'm charmed by her friendliness and her weirdness (she kept referring with nostalgia to her "old neighborhood," which it turns out is a few blocks north of here, about five minutes away), but a little worried that the (miniscule) backyard is about to be invaded by 8,000 carefree artist types plunking away on guitars to all hours, amid the fuschia underpants swinging drowsily from the clothes line.

And then, what's so terrible about that? I'm always bemoaning the lack of community in our short row of apartments, and a super friendly neighbor who loves our cats and vintage furniture and fabrics and, okay, adds a little quirk to our backyard sounds fun. I think I've become so used to people being inaccessible--maybe to being a little bit that way myself--that someone so un-anxiously outgoing is a bit of a shock.

It's almost like Pippi Longstocking went to Sarah Lawrence, mated with Phoebe from Friends, and then the issue of that union moved in next door.

Readers, I sense a story.