And rhubarb, too

Piled high next to the asparagus -- never to be mistaken for celery -- is the tart, perky treat known as rhubarb. It likes heat -- boiled down with sugar it's a nearly instant marmalade. Jamie Oliver has a tantalizing recipe for "hot and sour rhubarb and crispy pork with noodles." It can be spritzed up into any number of beverages and cocktails. And, of course, there's rhubarb crumble, crisp, and fool.

But there's only one dish made with this long stout spear that fills me with childhood memories. My father's all-time favorite pie -- strawberry rhubarb. I can still taste that first forkful he held out to me. Such a shock -- my astonished taste buds jumped at the rhubarb's tartness tempered by the bright sweetness of my beloved strawberries. And the color -- ohhh, that "pink", the unequivocal delight of a five year old girl. Imagine, a foodstuff made of pinkness -- wrapped in pastry crust and served with whipped cream. I don't know whose smile was wider, his or mine.

-- Mixing the tart with the sweet -- it was a lesson in happiness, a lesson, from my father, for life.

-- A bite of pie. Love comes in small packages.

Asparagus

It's here.

"Samascott's got asparagus!" It was the cry heard round the Columbia Greenmarket. The announcement came by way of the kind folk at Stannard Farm. Theirs wasn't in yet (another week or two) but they took joyful pride and excitement in the fact that the East Coast's food harbinger of Spring was finally in residence. As I approached the Orchard's tent, a large table, laden with the tall and lanky bundles nearly made me cry out with delight. So much -- such abundance -- of green, rich forest green deepening to purple.

Visions of asparagus dishes dance in my head -- steamed and slathered with butter and salt; boiled and cooled with vinaigrette; folded into an omelette with creme fraiche; served with poached egg and parmesan curls; or fresh scallops; risotto...

Apples...Say "hello" to the ramps

I'm a little behind... the first bunch of ramps actually appeared in the market about 2 weeks ago. So eager was I to taste Spring, I chomped into one, raw and unwashed. How to explain the flavor of earth and garlic and green!

Lunch that day was a slice of bread with Pennsylvania cheddar and a sprinkling of ramp, diced from stem to leaf tip. The first crunchy green I've had on a sandwich since last Fall. Yes, we've really been sticking with eating seasonally -- lettuce disappeared from our sandwiches when lettuce disappeared from the garden (sometime toward the end of 2009.)

And now, it's officially Spring, 2010. Let the crunching begin.

Still Eating Apples

The daffodils have arrived in small pots at the Greenmarket, cheery little markers of Spring. They sit in front of the wooden crates still filled with the seemingly endless supply of coldstorage apples we've been eating all winter. So many apple pies, apple muffins, baked apples, applesauce. So much tart/sweet crunching, with Pennsylvania cheddar or Berkshire Blue. So many savory apple slices, sauteed in butter and salt and ladled over chops.

I have to admit, that, along with my favorite pair of jeans, last Autumn's taste sensation is wearing a little thin.

In a moment of weakness earlier this week, with the sun bearing down like a counterfeit July, I was tempted, sorely tempted at the outdoor bins of Garden of Eden. I reached for ... asparagus, a small grouping wrapped in rubber bands. Seconds later, I noticed the wrinkles, the dry looking tips, the off-color green. These asparagus were weary travelers, far from their California home; depleted, stressed out, jet-lagged. I'm going to wait for the first local crop at the farmers market; no doubt, it will be a surprise and a delight. Until then, just a few more apples.

Yogurt for breakfast

Arrived too late to last Sunday's Greenmarket. Alas, no more milk at Ruby's Milk Thistle farm stand. All sold out. But turning disappointment into opportunity, she proffered a large milk bottle filled, uncharacteristically, with yogurt. "Try it", she suggested while pouring a thick creamy swig into a little paper tasting cup. I tried it.

This was no ordinary yogurt. This was Switzerland in a bottle. The delicately tart confection was the perfect semi-liquid consistency I've come to prefer over the gelatinous corporate guk that comes in nonrecyclable plastic pots in the grocery store. Not a yogurt "drink", yet she poured it easily from the bottle. And the taste, so clean and surprisingly sweet -- not a candy kind of sugariness, but something else, more discreet, like the flavor equivalent of a pink carnation.

This morning, a little glassful with a small squeeze of Stannard Farm's pure honey and I was transported to our friend Jane's kitchen in Flims, a small Alpine village. A kitchen where a Spring day greets you with the scent of cow meadows and geraniums mingled with tea and freshbaked bread. The kitchen where I learned firsthand how to marry the practice of thrift and simplicity to a spirit of generosity and deliciousness. Thank you, Jane. And pass the muesli.

Breakfast

Hudson Valley eggs, cheese, mushrooms, and butter. 'nuf said.

Snow Falls On Apples

Here's to the intrepid New York City Greenmarket Farmers! Neither snow, nor rain...

Winter Warmup

Homemade soup. Fragrant. Liquid gold. Even better than hot chocolate!

Inventory Soup

Noticing the contents of my refrigerator looking a little unruly, I decide that today's a good day for a cleanup, and that includes digging to the bottom of the produce drawer. I always enjoy recovering the neglected and forgotten vegetables. Quite often, given a little cleanup, like removing wet outer leaves from leeks, these homely bits can become marvelous nuggets of flavor. I know of no better way to tackle this small housekeeping chore than to make soup. I call it "moving the inventory."

Given that there is a small, 3 1/2 lb bird in the fridge, today's soup will be chicken with vegetables. Since there's a NYC blizzard raging outside the window, I'm taking an all-afternoon, slow-cooked rich chicken broth approach; no boiling allowed, just a long, fragrant, barely visible simmer.

Carrots, celery, onion, a garlic clove, of course, all coarsely chopped. Additionally, the aforementioned leek, a parsnip denuded, and a remnant of fennel, tidied up. Such a lovely pile -- I like to let it build on my cutting board before adding the entire mound to the pot of melting olive oil mixed with butter. Add (don't be shocked) a spoonful of turbinado sugar, sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and freshly grated nutmeg. After a few minutes of heat and stirring, just as the vegetables are melting and before even a bit of browning has occurred, I open up a small well inside the vegetables and plop in the chicken, top side down, for a bit of gentle browning directly against the pot bottom. Turn it right side up just as the skin takes on a golden hue.

At this point, into the pot I empty the remains of the Brita water pitcher (which needs cleaning); the final contents, about a cup, of last night's Riesling; the rest of the Kitchen Basics beef stock, a little more than a cup, in the container on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator; and enough fresh cold tap water to just barely cover the chicken and vegetables. Following the advice of Sara Jenkins and Mindy Fox ("Olives and Oranges"), I bring the whole pot to a bare simmer, add a little more water and reduce the heat enough to keep the whole at a very slight simmer. I toss in a gigantic bay leaf and a sprig of thyme, give a stir, and go out with Ben to walk the dog in our Winter Wonderland.

The lusciousness hits us as soon as we walk in the door. The whole apartment has turned into a fragrant den of savory aromatics. The pot's contents have turned a golden, saffrony yellow. Another two hours, total cooking 4 hours, and my little nuggets have turned to liquid gold. All that's needed now is some extra salt to taste. I throw in some dried fennel seeds as well. The poached chicken is so meltingly soft that I serve it, as is, for dinner, smothered in the vegetables and with a bit of broth to moisten the whole dish. Sublime. And there's a lot more room in the refrigerator.

Bean There, Done That

These are my lovely beans. A small jar with the cooked beans covered in their cooking liquid. The larger jar shows them cooked, but without the liquid. Hope they don't dry out. I'm keeping them in the refrigerator and will use them within a few days.

Bean Quest, Part 2

Friday morning. The day of reckoning. I awoke determined and vaguely confident. Overnight, the beans, though still hard, had become tender and a little puffier. They glistened. And the soaking water had turned a beautiful winey pink. I decided to leave them in the soaking water for cooking. At the last second, I had a change of heart, threw out the liquid and started with fresh, covering them with 2 inches of cold tap water. At this point, I also threw in a dried bay leaf and a sprig of thyme. Covered loosely, brought it to the boil, let it roll for 2 minutes, then turned it down to simmer, a gentle bubble. Set my timer for 30 minutes (I knew from my research that these black beans would take at least an hour.)

My first inspection revealed brownish beans, still too hard to eat, but even more tender. The skin came right off to reveal a pure white specimen that resembeld a small, raw peanut. 30 minutes later, though still not finished, I had what was certain to become a potful of plump beauties. For another half-hour or so I hung around the pot like a nervous stage mother, lifting, looking, poking and prodding my little darlings, worrying that the point of perfection would elude me -- if I took them out too soon, they'd be al dente (not a good thing for beans); too late and they'd be a gluey mush.

Total cooking time took roughly 1 hour and 45 minutes. I poured the hot beans into a colander over my white enamel bowl to preserve the lovely, non-gelatinous cooking liquid. While cooling, I gazed and inspected. A gentle bite revealed a creamy texture and tenderness. And for the first time ever, I tasted the pure nutty beaniness of a freshly cooked, locally grown, dried black bean.

Wow. Whew. I did it!

Bean Quest, Part 1

Yesterday, I took the opportunity to finally face a culinary challenge that I've been avoiding for ... well, I won't say exactly how long, just, let's just say that, until yesterday I'd NEVER ACTUALLY COOKED DRIED BEANS FROM SCRATCH. Okay. There's my little confession.

Oh, I cooked WITH beans. Frozen and canned. Added them to various dishes; soups and salads. But it always felt like some basic cooking ritual was eluding me. After all, beans are a protein staple in so many cultures all around our world. And ridding my cupboard of canned foods is another step towards personal and global health. It turns out that not only is the product inside highly processed but the lining of the can itself contains BPA, the hazardous chemical found in plastic water and baby bottles.

Thursday at the Columbia Market, Margaret, our regional greenmarket coordinator, was handing out little samples of an amazing concoction -- black bean soup, made by Dan, at the Cayuga Pure Organics farm stand a few feet away. I'd been assiduously avoiding this stand for months. But the prospect of learning more about this magic potion lured me over. I've always thought of dried beans in the category of pebbles, or stones. But these were jewels. Shiny and multi-colored. They immediately cast their spell. After some discussion with the proprietor, I settled on a small bag of black beans and headed for home, visions of bubbling soup pots in my head.

That night, my confidence teetering on the edge, I scoured seven different manuals and the internet, comparing various bean-cooking techniques to find the perfect one. There is, among the experts, some disagreement. For instance: to pre-soak or not to pre-soak; if pre-soaking, to rinse or not to rinse; to cover with one, two, or four inches of water before cooking; to add flavorings at the beginning of the process or wait until they're done; to check for tenderness every 15 minutes or just leave 'em alone.

The one absolute rule everybody seems to agree upon: DON'T ADD SALT UNTIL THEY'RE FINISHED COOKING. It toughens the beans.

I decided to pre-soak. Overnight. (But not more than 12 hours, as warned.) Following instructions, I rinsed and drained the beans, checking for debris (none). Poured them into my big soup pot. Covered with an inch of water. Put the lid on. And went to bed.

My Winter Vacation

Yes, we just returned from a "real" vacation -- fleeing the NYC January tundra, we spent five nights on the Caribbean. Sun, sand, and surf; the luxury of opening a door to the outside and feeling enveloped by warmth. 84 happy degrees Farenheit. Sky and sea; a miracle of turquoise.

I was grateful to be visiting a place on our earth where the intensity of the sun and enormity of the ocean and seemingly infinite blue sky coexisted in harmonious balance. But, even in our tropical idyll, my mind wandered to the "what if" scenario. We were in the same general region as Haiti, and on an island that was itself devastated by Hurricane Ivan not many years ago; powerful reminders of the undeniable vulnerability of what seems like endless paradise.

I wondered about local agriculture. Tap water, mango, homemade conch fritters, red snapper and coconut milk straight from a freshly fallen coconut (procured by Lisa and Ryan, our new beach buddies) were our locally gleaned edibles. Everything else, it seemed, was boated or flown in from Florida (or further). Hmmm. I indulged in pineapple slices and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Mmmm.

And, in between naps and walks on the beach, like everyone else at the hotel, I read. Books. (FYI: a number of Kindles were spotted both ocean and poolside.) And one book, in particular, garnered my attention -- "The End of Nature" by Bill McKibben. An unsettling essay on the consequences of global warming he wrote originally in 1989. An odd choice perhaps for vacation reading but amazingly appropriate to my current state of mind. A lucid reminder that in this place of seemingly infinite beauty, I'm not just a tourist, but also a caretaker.

Shopping and Cooking, The Sequel

This is the lovely supper of fresh caught tilefish, roasted vegetables and sauteed mushrooms with leeks that kitchen alchemy produced about an hour later (see previous post).

Shopping and Cooking

This is a sample of last Sunday's purchases from the Greenmarket at 114th and Broadway.

Duck for Dinner

A rare evening at home alone was my opportunity to finally indulge in a new discovery. I've been secreting a small piece of duck confit, raised, prepared and packaged by Hudson Valley Duck Farm and sold at Columbia Greenmarket. Their instructions; 10 minutes at 500 degrees Fahrenheit. That's it? Can't be.

I tried it. Meltingly good. Crispy skin. Mmmm. With a spoonful of my homemade cranberry sauce, made from fresh Cape Cod berries I bought during the holidays in Massachusetts and have been storing in the freezer. This is the ultimate hot, single-serving fast food.

What a warm taste of the past on a cold February night in New York City.

Our Earth Affirmative

It's already January 18, Martin Luther King's birthday, and I've been away from the blog for a month now, focused on family and home and holidays. 2010 has already reminded us of the political and economic challenges we're confronting. The To Do list remains more or less the same: health care, climate change, education, terrorism, intolerance. Witnessing, from afar, the tragedy in Haiti puts a perspective on things and reminds me of the power of nature and the sanctity of life on earth. Our earth.

I'm repledging myself to the simple habit of referring to "our" world. Replacing the definite article "the" with the possessive "our". In practice, it is a small, spoken reminder of sharing, responsibility, ownership, collaboration. Since the original pact on November 6, 2009, I know that Martin Hope, Martin Frick, Benjamin Barber and I have been mindful in conversation as well as public speeches; it is always now, "our" world, "our" earth. And I'm gratified that so many friends and readers of this blog have told me that they are doing the same.