egg salad

It's breakfast.  It's lunch.  It's an anytime plate of eggy goodness -- decked out here with yellow blossoms from my greenmarket's wintered over broccoli rabe that's surprisingly sweet, not bitter.  The yellow on yellow is a substitute for actual sun in this dreary Spring.  And the shock of flowers on my mid-May sandwich is a reminder that gardens full of myriad summer blossoms are germinating, at this very moment, at this aching stage of just-spring. 

Breakfast at LaGuardia Airport

I'm sorry. This isn't food. Isn't eggs and bread and cheese. Never mind taste -- rubber, plastic, and salt encased in hardened petroleum ( nonrecyclable PS #6).

Excuse my creeping tone of sarcasm -- I'm an American, after all. I've had my share of fast food. But I'm taken aback by this precooked offering that has "literally" been thrown together in a commercial microwave.

My airport is the entry and exit point of access to loved ones and destinations, opportunities and cultures, discoveries and environments that our agrarian ancestors could only dream about as they gathered eggs, kneaded dough, and tended the cheese -- all with sky and clouds perpetually above their heads. And I'm grateful for that access and innovation.

But my airport is also an epicenter of petroleum culture, petroleum use, petroleum products, petroleum advertising, petroleum furniture ... petroleum breakfasts. And I envision those eggs and bread and cheese of long ago.

My ancestors dreamed of flight -- of soaring through cloud and sky. My dream, at the point of departure, is real food on a plate.

from Squash Blossom to the Sublime

Arriving late to Farm Girl Farm for our Tuesday pickup yielded us unanticipated treasure. Vivian had separated the blossoms from the fresh zucchini, laid them on the table, and invited me to help myself to some of the delicate beauties, just beginning to wilt in the early evening heat. These exquisite jewels of summer are rare and not to be passed if offered. I cradled the gems on top of the mesclun and arugula and drove home in the dusky light.

I'd never actually tried making stuffed squash blossoms, though I'd twice tasted them and remembered the first bite of sweet creamy lushness that broke through the lightly crispy exterior. The color of summer, these tender flowers gleamed on my kitchen counter. The gentlest of baths removed the tiny specks of dirt. While drying, I mixed together a few tablespoons of our local Monterey goat cheese; some small pieces of fresh mozzarella; a twist of black pepper; and finely cut up chives from the garden. In the skillet heating, two tablespoons of olive oil and two of clarified butter (to prevent burning.) For the coating, a plate of flour and a flat bowl of whisked milk and egg. Carefully stuff about a teaspoon of the cheesy paste into each blossom. Pan ready, gently coat with flour, dip in egg mixture, lay in the pan. Turn gently when lightly brown to crisp up all sides. With continuing gentleness, remove and drain and cool for a minute. . .

or maybe two -- until you can't wait another second. . . We ate them standing by the stove, with our fingers, and a cool glass of Riesling. Sublime.

Today an Apron

Today is sunlight in my kitchen. Banana bread cooling on the counter. And a hot kettle.

Today is the first day back (after a long hiatus) -- not to cooking, and certainly not to eating -- but to writing. The photo and this little text is, for me, a way of capturing the essence of the act of baking. In the same way that the finished loaf captures the fragrance, flavor, and texture of its ingredients -- bananas, eggs, flour, soda, sugar, vanilla, walnuts. It is a humble and edible artifact, yet so much more than a sum of its parts. Nutritious inspiration, it is a fresh-baked tribute to life, and good health, and friendship, and love.

And to picking up where I left off.

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.