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.