Homemade Buckwheat Mischiglio (Pasta) with Pickled Radishes

August in Japan is the kind of hot that makes you convinced that your bones have liquefied. I should qualify that statement. The two Augusts, ten years apart, that I was in Japan, the heat was miserable. Somehow the heat struck me by surprise, both times. Sure, I had a childhood of visits to the miserably, mind-boiling heat of India to prepare myself. Sure, the fact that I was dumb enough to get stuck in the heat twice gives you the sense that I deserve it.

But, I blame Japanese design. This is a culture, highly attuned to, actually reverential towards, nature with kami kindly abounding in this rock and that old tree. But, if you spent your time, as I often do, looking at prints of ladies at moon-viewing parties and the like, you will know that not one of those gals looked as if they were sweating enough to fill an inland sea.

Each time, as I planned my trip to Japan, I packed my suitcases with whatever struck me as design forward. Long black pants, perfect. Collared shirts, okay. Cotton cardigan, yes sir. I would like to think my brain was being even more design forward than my rational self. After all, each time, first in my semester there, and then for a visit, soon after my arrival, I found myself scouring the racks for seasonal cloths.



So, the first time I was in Kyoto, garbed newly purchased baby doll dress (accept that image for what it is), leaning against the white wall in some temple, my mother’s steps on preventing heat stroke started to cycle in my head. First, don’t go out between noon and three, I could hear her say. Alright, so it was half past twelve. Next. There was something about find shade quickly. I have always thought the Japanese prize nature on human’s terms rather than Mother nature’s. This is the land of square watermelons. The temple I was standing in had woefully few artfully manicured trees giving off enticing, though cruel, puddles of shade over a white sandy expanse. Alight, so find shade quickly was a surprising difficult proposition, considering I was standing in a garden.

What other advice had my mother planted into my inner brain. Hydrate appropriately—not too quickly and with light food. As a completely non-Japanese speaker, I found the byzantine arrangement of streets exciting. I came to accept that I would never find the same place twice. When I found a café, I didn’t really care what was on the menu. I took a seat near the back of the restaurant. In my crumpled cotton dress and oxblood Doc Martens, I must have been a sight to the housewives with their pressed jackets and silk scarves. I took the omnipresent book from my pink purse, and began to settle in.

The waitress was a kindly woman who assumed, rightly so, that reading the menu would be too advanced for me. With tasteful nods and gestures, she said that this restaurant really only served a few items, and the most popular was cold buckwheat noodles. Ice cold noodles, with their sooty grey look, didn’t strike me as particularly appetizing on its face, but then I began to look at the treatment of the dish. The noodles were arranged just so on a slatted lacquer tray that was festooned with gold leaves in silhouette. A small dipping bowl was set to the side. This was clearly a fashion forward way to stave off heat stroke.

When the dish came, I was on a roll with my summer reading. I let the noodles sit a moment. It’s not as if they could get colder. I pulled the tray closer to me without thinking. I held the chopsticks mindlessly; and grabbed a few noodles without much care or thought. I stabbed the noodles into the dipping sauce and raised the lot into my mouth, still focused on the action of my book. As the salty, earthy, cool, smooth, fullness of the bite began to register in my mind, I set my book on the table. I don’t remember which book I was reading, but I remember that first taste of buckwheat noodle.



I have played around with making buckwheat noodles. I have long ago accepted that the artisanal buckwheat noodles from that fine little shop are not within my reach. Instead of the futile effort of recreating remembered perfection, I have danced around buckwheat noodles. I made some flat ones a couple years ago, to use as a sort of salad wrapping.

In the heat and emotional exhaustion that has been August for us. Seeking foods that cool, in all senses of the word, we made buckwheat pasta tossed with vegetables and quick pickled radishes. While that first bite our buckwheat was different in context and content from that moment in Kyoto, the joyful earthiness was there.



Recipe:
Buckwheat Mischiglio
According to the Encyclopedia of Pasta is an antique pasta from the Basilicata region that was often served with a light sauce. Traditionally it is made with wheat, barley flour, chickpea flour, fava bean flour.

Cover 2 sliced radishes with vinegar. Add one pinch sugar, 2 tsps kosher salt, and 1 tsp mustard seeds (dry roasted)

Combine:
scant 1/3 cup chickpea flour
scant 1/3 cup fava flour

Dry fry in a skillet.

Sift together:
1/2 cup Bob’s Red Mill gluten free flour mix
scant 1/3 cup chickpea flour
scant 1/3 cup fava flour
1/3 cup buckwheat flour

Make into a mound of the flour, create a small well, add:
1 T olive oil
Water by the tablespoonfuls

Mix into a dough. Knead vigorously. This dough is seriously stiff. Let the dough rest for 1 hour.

Pinch off nickel sized balls (the book said chestnuts, but I can’t say I can estimate a chestnut). Place the ball on a floured surface. Push down with two fingers, and then drag your fingers across the surface. You get a flat canoe-like pasta.



Boil the pasta.

Dress with pickled radishes, soy sauce, pickling juice, olive oil, steamed summer squash, and sautéed radish greens.

I am sending this over to Presto Pasta Nights started by Ruth of 4 Every Kitchen and hosted by Amy of Very Culinary.

I am also sending this one on to Two for Tuesdays from Girlichef and Real Food Wednesdays from Kelly the Kitchen Kop.

Red Currant Mini-Cheesecakes

Children come when they wish beginning a lifelong schooling of a parent in the truth that after procreating your life is not your own. Our little Tigerlily came on the 31st of July--happy, healthy and surprisingly big (considering).

The nausea of pregnancy is gone, let the gluttony begin. And, it started with some mini-cheesecakes from the freezer




Recipe:
Red Currant Mini-Cheesecakes
This is the Abbey's Infamous Cheesecake recipe and I don't repost published recipes on the blog. I did signifantly decrease the proportions to bake a much smaller amount and make then in lined mini-cupcake tins. They baked in a convection oven for 15 minutes

crust:
2/3 cups rusk, pulverized
1/3 stick butter, melted
2 T olive oil
2/3 tbsp. brown sugar
1 tsp. vanilla extract

cheesecake:
1 sticks of cream cheese, 8 oz each (total of 24 oz) room temperature
1/3 cup sugar & 2 T sugar
1 large egg
1/3 cup heavy cream
1 t lemon juice
1 t vanilla extract
Splash of anise flavoring or anise liqueur
1/3 cup red currants (dropped into the cupcake tins)

Pickled Baby Carrots

Waiting….

Waiting….

You might not realize this but I am a wisp of a person. I hit 5 foot 3 only on days humid enough to give my hair extra lift. I am the sort of gal who can shop in Gap Kids. But husband on the other hand is a bit shy of 6 feet and has the build of someone who played football in high school. (He didn’t—he was an art nerd.)

With each pregnancy, I take on the appearance of a young sapling taken over by an enormous gall. People see me walking around and wonder how I can keep all that baby up. Luckily, pregnancy turns me into a weeble-wobble—I can’t fall down.

With my last pregnancy there was the fear that my body wouldn’t make it 40 weeks as an incubator. Everyone said, oh you will go early; you will never make it your due date; you are having THAT baby early. With Belle, I was a couple weeks early. Not scary early, just early enough to rescue me from the terrible nausea and illness that typifies pregnancy for me.



But as one of those wonderful aphorisms goes, “Every pregnancy is different.” While people are still amazed by my girth—many woman at work have kindly told me that you are HUGE!, this baby shows no sign of budging. I am now just a few days before my due date and after ages of Braxton hicks, I am still just waiting. After weeks of being careful to conserve calories to help the baby, I am imagining taking long walks, eating spicy food and doing jumping jacks to help get things going. But frankly, I am still too nauseous to walk or to do any of those things.

There is another old wives tale about nesting—as soon as you start nesting and are in the middle of things getting settled you go into labor. You basically run to the hospital with the house half cleaned, the mop still in the water bucket.

While I am not one to mop the floors ever (my husband is much neater than I), I thought pickling might be a sort of nesting thing. I don’t mean to say I went through the whole 9 yards and pickled 17 gallons of anything, but I did make a small batch of pickled carrots. Putting things by seems like an age-old form of nesting.



We have plenty of baby carrots from Snake Hill Farm and some homegrown spicy peppers. I wasn’t organized enough to write down the recipe—but basically equal parts water and vinegar, salt, sugar, cumin seeds, homegrown dill weed, and mustard seeds.

This is my entry to One Local Summer for this week and for Grow Your Own hosted by Amy of Playing and started by Andrea of Andrea's Recipes.

It didn’t seem to help budge the baby at all—so I spent the rest of the day standing up cooking. Maybe a fridge full of cheesecake bites will start labor… well, if she doesn’t come I will post those next.

Veggie Stuffed Shells

It turns out to be true—we do turn into our mothers.

Or maybe just me.

In the last two weeks I have gained just enough energy to start getting everything ready for baby two. The house has vacillated between organized and disarray. Our assessment of our readiness ebbs and flows accordingly. Luckily, we have plenty of help. We have a handy-man helping with things like putting up curtain rods, removing any poisons from the garage, etc.

The other day, I asked him to come by in two weeks to disassemble Belle’s crib. This piece of furniture is something that I never cared for as a child. I learned the skill of breaking out early and never looked back. Belle on the other hand, who was able to break into child gates before turning one, has never made any overture to leave the confines of her wooden sleeping quarters. Instead, she has made her crib her sanctuary, taking blankets, animals, books in with her at every nap and every bedtime.

Last night, J—was putting Belle down to sleep. I could hear them trekking up the stairs singing the classic medley of abcd-itsybitsyspider-hushlittlebaby. (Or is that choral pastiche only classic at my house?) I could hear them discuss how many books would be read at bedtime. I could hear the laughter. Then there was a moment of silence. I wouldn’t have noticed it except that it was followed by “Mommy.” First from J—and then from Belle. I couldn’t place their tone. It wasn’t quite happy. It wasn’t angry. But there was definitely an underlying sense of urgency.
I waddled upstairs as fast as I could, both hands clasped under my sizeable, 9 months pregnant girth. When I got upstairs, J—was standing silhouetted in the door looking at me— face paled. I walked into the room. The space where the beloved crib once stood was now a square of dust bunnies punctuated by a couple long forgotten chew toys.

Belle asked, “Where is my bed?” It might have been obvious to J—what had happened but for a two-year old the question was full of earnestness.



And at that moment, the shock—I am blaming the shock—turned me into my mother. When I was Belle’s age and my mother had a hard time weaning from my bottle, she told me a bird came in and flew away with the whole cabinet of glass bottles. And, that is what I told me daughter. The bird came in and borrowed her crib. It sounded stupid coming out of my mouth. It sounds stupid as I type it now.

Luckily we had set up the toddler bed. So we got it all ready with Belle’s menagerie. Then we read every book on her shelf. We tucked her in. And, closed the door.

The rattle and pleading coming from the other side of the door were disquieting to say the least. J—just stood and watched the door for a while. Still stunned from the emptiness of the room and the fact that I was turning into my mother, I went downstairs and drowned my sorrows in some carb-based leftovers.

We had some delicious shells in the fridge stuffed with Ohio ricotta, fresh Ohio mozzarella, Swiss chard from our garden, local peas that I had frozen, local mushrooms and sweet onions from the Farmer’s market, and shredded carrots from our garden. Top with a cream sauce or with tomato sauce (as we did.)

When my mother heard of the whole story, she was fairly unfazed. She reminded me that I didn’t join the bird hunting society of America or have a deep-seated desire baby bottles. I guess turning into your mother isn’t the worst thing in life.


Recipe
Veggie Stuffed Shells

For ½ a box of medium shells, use the following filling:

Sautee:
½ sweet onion
1 small head of chard
1 cup grated carrot
1 cup sliced mushrooms

When cool add sautéed veggies to:
1 cup ricotta
½ cup grated parmesan
½ cup fresh mozzarella pearls (quartered)
½ cup frozen peas

Stuff into shells and place in butter lined baking pan. Top with tomato sauce or cream sauce and more parmesan.

Bake at 375 for about 20 minutes until cheese looks bubbly.

This recipe is my entry for One Local Summer for this week. This week the parmesan and pasta continue not to be local—but as the chard and carrots are from the porch, I feel it was an okay trade-off. And, finally our CSA has given us a share, so this week we should have too much zucchini localness to speak off.

This is also my entry for Presto Pasta Nights started by Ruth of Once Upon A Feast and hosted by Pam of Sidewalk Shoes.

Vegan Salad Nicoise

I work in a land where splitting hairs is darn near a job title. In academia, people make their living with sometimes vary narrow expertise. Dissertations hinge on factors as small as that guy believed such and such war was a total failure and I believe it is sort of a failure. In saying this, I am not above it. There are plenty of meetings where I am right there in the verbal melee of splitting hairs. Don’t get me started on the history of cotton…

Food culture has its own level of splitting hairs. Anyone ever said I would only ever eat ____. Most of us have something that is seriously anathema (conventional strawberries, jackfruit only if I am in Asia). One of the really fancy splitting hairs contingent are the cultural purists—those who maintain that certain traditional recipes are only right if they follow ancient prescribed formulas. And here I am torn. Professionally I am totally pro-splitting hairs. And personally, I am con-following food rules. Heck, I eat mango with feta and make ramp kimchi.

Last night we had a vegan salad that is clearly a close friend of salade nicoise. Perhaps her hippie cousin? We dressed the whole thing with olive oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, mustard and chopped 'fines herbes' ( parsley, chives, chervil, thyme and tarragon); which is all very kosher in the land of Nice. We avoided lettuce as many a purist suggests (demands?). But, we also avoided anything from the sea and eggs for that matter. For protein sources we went with broiled tofu and tomato braised chickpeas. And, it was delicious.



Recipe
Vegan Salad Nicoise
First, marinate firm tofu sliced in ½ inch thick pieces:
2 T pomegranate molasses
1t agave nectar
A splash braggs liquid aminos
Olive oil
Chopped chervil
Chopped thyme
Chopped tarragon
¼ cup water
2 T red wine vinegar
2 cloves garlic minced

Then, boil small red potatoes, steam asparagus and green beans. When still warm, dress each with olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, pepper, mustard, minced garlic, and chopped 'fines herbes' ( parsley, chives, chervil, thyme and tarragon). Chill each separately.

When the veggies are chilling, broil the tofu under a high broiler for 12 minutes basting periodically.

At the same time, simmer chickpeas with red onions, 2 T tomato paste, thyme and cayenne.

Quarter some cherry tomatoes. (I didn’t dress them but just because.) Rinse some radishes.

Scour your fridge for some olives. We only had kalamata.

Arrange and then eat.

This was also my One Local Summer dish for the week.  Sadly our CSA has had some major problems with their crop but we are still shopping at the local farmers market for our food.  The tofu is from Cleveland Tofu Company, the veggies and the garlic in the dressing were bought at North Union market at Chagrin Falls with the exclusion of the tomatoes, olives and the chickpeas.  My favorite of the veggies were the radishes from Salash Farm.  (This farm has the best spinach too which we bought and used for pizza a few weeks ago.)  The herbs for the salad were from our yard.  The dinner was paired with bread from On The Rise.  

Raspberry Clafoutis

Prior to having children, morning was about sleeping, stretching, reflecting. There were quiet mornings of sipping spiced tea and reading the newspaper.

Belle’s idea of morning is action and reaction. By 10:00, we have read many books, eaten breakfast, walked the dog, run to the market, done laundry, taken a shower, cleaned our room… Most mornings we have accomplished what needs to be done.

This morning the rain soothed the whole family into sleeping longer and sounder. Instead of roaring out of our beds and into our chores, we milled in bed. We spoke quietly and giggled. Rather than running out to a quick breakfast dive, we sat around the table and made breakfast.



Yesterday was one of those chore-filled days; we made it to the market early enough to get raspberries. My husband suggested with raspberry sauce. Pancakes are not my favorite. To me, they are messy and labor-intensive at a time when my synapses are at their slowest.

So, this morning it was raspberry clafoutis with Ohio maple syrup for breakfast following the perfectly scaled recipe at Eric Ripert. In keeping with our relaxing morning, the labor of making clafoutis is thankfully incommensurate with delicious decadence of the results.

It is also our entry for One Local Summer with farmer’s market raspberries (didn't get the farm's name because Belle was trying to steal the strawberries from the table), Snowville Creamery half and half, Snake Hill Farm maple syrup, and Maple Valley Sugarbush eggs.

Chive Blossom Dahi Bhel Puri

I remember standing in the darkened room of a natural history museum gazing at a sliver of a man encased in plexiglass exposed longitudinally from head to toe. I was about six. There in front of me the way that the blood flows through our body was so obvious; the veins were a red-toned web connecting every element of the organism. There were other pieces-parts in the human body display at that museum. The puzzle of organs that fill our abdomens was shown in a transverse cross-section. These displays made the essential inner workings of man transparent.

In the last couple weeks, interchanges with some of my friends reminded me of these anatomy studies. A long lost friend called me to follow up with work. We spoke for a couple minutes about ourselves, carried on our business and parted ways. Belle was running around and chatting with me, so it was easy to mention that I had a 2 year old, but I didn’t fill her in with anything else that had occurred in the last 6 years. What would I say? I am married; I got another masters; I am happy; I still love food; I picked up new hobbies; I got a job; I got a promotion… Our short friendship was finite, in this case, a grad school snap shot of who I was. She had but a transverse shot of me. And, why change that? There is nothing wrong with those sorts of friendships. They are so in the moment and so low on baggage and context.

The week prior when one of my longtime friends came to town, I asked her over for tea. I have known her for 85% of my life. The longitudinal study that is lifelong friendship is all context. The tea was filled with an ease of rapport, fast memories about who we had been, and enjoyable conversation.

Unlike the easily traceable circulatory system, the path of friendship is impossible to diagram or to show in a museum display. What makes friendship last? What makes it strong?


And onto the food…

When she came over for tea, I made one of my favorite snacks, Bhel Puri. The chive blossoms and cilantro came from our garden.

Chive blossoms are an annual bounty in our garden. When you are ready to eat, just give the plant a nice haircut. I don’t think they keep well, so I just leave them in the yard until I need them. To wash them, I spritz them with water and then pat them very gently with a paper towel. They fall apart; accept it. In this case, instead chopping them, I just pulled them apart for use because I wanted them to not only flavor but liven up the Bhel.

Cilantro can go to flower as well, and actually bolts quickly. So, keep the cilantro in check by pinching back. (Though if it goes to flower, then hold off for the seeds and use those in your cooking.)

This post is also my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging run by Haalo of Cook (Almost) Anything at Least Once hosted by Astrid from Paulchen's Foodblog .



Recipe
Chive Blossom Dahi Bhel Puri
In a cast iron skillet, brown:
½ cup cooked chickpeas
2 T red chile

When the chickpeas are cool, add them to:
½ cup boiled potatoes, diced
¼ cup red onion, diced
¼ cup garlic scapes, sliced
¼ cup sliced almonds
½ tsp turmeric
½ tsp cumin (or a bit more)
½ tsp chile powder
½ tsp amchur
2 cup puffed rice
1 cup sev
½ cup chopped chive blossoms

Top with yoghurt, tamarind chutney and cilantro/mint chutney

Vinegary Potato Salad

Big Belle’s Potato Salad, sort of

My daughter was named after a woman I never met—my husband’s beloved grandmother. I would have loved to have known her. From pictures, I know that she had high-cheekbones, thick hair and bright eyes. I hear she never said anything that she didn’t mean. No unwarranted compliments from this woman. But, she was also a warm woman, a wonderful cook, and a caring grandmother. She made what I would call All-American food: corn bread, pies, fried chicken. Her bread is something that I almost feel that I have tasted thanks to my husband’s vivid descriptions.

Recently, I asked my husband if there are any of his mothers recipes that he would want to keep. My mother-in-law would be the first to say that she is not a whiz in the kitchen. It’s the kind of thing that might skip a generation. If your mother is an amazing cook, sometimes the shoes are a little too big to fill. One of Belle’s recipes that my mother-in-law did make was her potato salad. It was a recipe crafted in a time before cholesterol, before carbs and before weight watchers. Hearing the recipe, I always picture my husband as a little boy watching his grandmother mix a big bowl of the creamy, vinegary concoction in a large yellow bowl.

When the recipe was told over the phone, there were phrases like bacon grease, egg-y mayonnaise and sweet gherkin pickle juice mentioned. I am all for going all out once in a while. But, since I will be abstaining from the salad due to a recent and serious aversion to vinegar, I think my husband decided not to go whole hog. Instead he went with a vinegary, bacony salad that looked lovely. But, if you think that means he was totally healthy, don’t be fooled. He did use some bacon grease.

Recipe:
Big Belle’s Vinegary Potato Salad

Combine in a bowl:
6 medium red potatoes, boiled and cut into large squares, still slightly warm
¼ medium red onion, sliced into rings
½ cup sliced radishes
2 TB grapeseed veganaise (sorry vegans)
2 T olive oil
Salt
Pepper
4 strips bacon crumbled
1 handful green olives with pimentos
2-3 handfuls of dill, chopped
2 T bacon grease (optional)
¼ cup rice wine vinegar
1 T Dijon mustard
This is also my entry for the blog event--Picnic Online game

I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing...
A-Apple Pie with Dutch Crumb Topping
B-Buttermilk Spice Cake
C-Chocolate Cherry Pie
D-Dilly Potato Salad
E-Election Day Cake
F-Fruit Cocktail Meringue Pie
G-Gluten Free Upside Down Cake
H-Hangar Steak
I-Ice Cream in a Bag
J-Jell-O a la Haute
K-Kue Pukis
L-Lotek Salad
M-Margarita
N-Nectarines Grilled & Glazed (image soon)
O-Still shopping...
P-Potato Balls (Cynthia can't "play" but she's here in soul:)
Q-Quesadilla (Elise is "swamped" right now. She sends picnic greetings)
R-Redneck Gazpacho (coming soon)
S-Shook-Bag Chicken (coming soon)
T-Tzimmes
U-Ultimate Cheater Pulled Pork
V-Vinegared Potato Salad
W-Warm Sweet Potato Biscuits
X-XXX Pizza

Red Veined Dandelion Salad with Roasted Chicken, Dried Cherries and Almonds

My parents always wonder why I would be interested in recreating any of the foodways of their native India. They left India for work and found a life filled with convenience stores, cable and clean streets. Some things were so ingrained they didn’t even think to relinquish them. I couldn’t pass the foyer with shoes. Forgot something in the kitchen having laced yourself into your tennis? One step onto linoleum and I would hear, “no shoes in the house” from the furthest reaches of the second floor. Now I find myself reminding Belle that she is half Indian and we do not wear shoes in the house.

But, in their assimilation, they made certain concessions even if only unconsciously. Indian food always remained our mainstay, but certain special vegetables that were expensive or time-consuming to prepare just disappeared from their lives. Now, I scour the internet for recipes and ingredients for items that they just let go of.

My father in law was born to Italian immigrants. Born in the mountains of Abruzzo in place where stone farming was the only career option, J—‘s grandmother came to find that Ohio might have been the land of milk and honey. Like so many Italian immigrants, Nonna began to include more meat in her diet. But, other cultural mainstays were hard to give up. She would send my father in law out to the park to pick dandelion greens; as expected this was a chore that he didn’t enjoy. The greens were just fine, but the experience made him different that his American friends.



So the other day, when we bought red veined dandelion greens from the market and called to see how they were prepared in his childhood, he was truly surprised. It might have been the fact that we purchased dandelion greens or that we even thought to eat them. After all, they ate them not because they were chic, but because they were cheap.

From our weeds, we made a large dinner salad with them using ripped Ohio roasted chicken, dried Ohio cherries, olive oil, balsamic, local spring onions. (We did include California almonds.) This is our entry for One Local Summer for this week. Tomorrow at the Farmers Market, I will actually write down the farmers names and locations when we go to the market (if Belle allows me) so I can give mileages for food at the upcoming week.

This is also my entry for BSI: Greens this week hosted by the Girlichef.

Orange and Corn Salsa

Do animals have the terrible twos?

Belle loves birds. Duck was one of her first words. For her first Christmas, we bought her an Audubon bird guide and she was excited. So, this spring, she enjoyed seeing the baby ducklings at the park. In my delicate condition, I felt a strange empathy and connection to the ducky mom. I might have been projecting, but I swear I could see the ambivalence in her eyes. But a few months ago, she was a one-woman show and now all of sudden she had an army following her.

Sure those little duckies were cute, but that adorableness comes at a price. Each little one had its own mind. Two or three babies were the easy going sort; they were amiably picking at the water plants. And, in every family, there are one or two who don’t follow the rules. One was tipping back and forth in a way that would worry me; though of course the ducklings were born to swim. And, another little one kept trying to swim away.

Of the scene, the duck mom vacillated between giving her young some knowing looks and munching away on lunch. I couldn't help but wonder if some of those little duckies were more ornery than others. Dogs have distinct personalities. Why not birds? I wondered if she was tired at quacking at the ones who strayed. Then again, the consequences of disobedience for a baby duck are life-threatening.




At our house, the consequences of disobedience are so much smaller. If she doesn't listen to me, there is but the chance of a spoiled brat. For fear that I would only encourage pickiness, I have tried to turn a blind eye to her caprices. Until she turned 2, she was not picky at all.

Then, she learned the power of no. Oh, I never really knew how much I would hear that word. Now, even when we make food she likes, it is a 50/50 proposition that she will consume anything.

We try to make a mix of new foods and givens. Grilled cheese is one such given; we did quesadillas. Oddly enough, beans are a perenial favorite; we made black beans. And, then as she is half-Asian, rice is a staple; we did tomato rice. For the grownups, we made a quick orange, charred corn, red onion, lime juice, cilantro salsa/ salad. Of course, we offered this salsa to Belle, but she is really not a fan of oranges.

So other than the salsa, it should have been a home-run dinner, but the little missy didn't touch it. I don't know about birds, but humans sure experience the terrible twos.

Radish greens, Lupini Beans, and Potatoes with Lemon

The warmth and floral beauty of spring have done a great deal to lift my spirits. After many months of being able to eat very little, hospitals and IVs, my body is definitely shell-shocked. Recent bloods tested showed that I am very anemic. As my husband says I am apparently even an overachiever when it comes to blood tests. For iron, the range is 20-120; I scored a 4. Iron supplements are so hard on my stomach they mean I can’t really eat anything, so we are going with the food is medicine route.

Recently, I have been thinking about how hard pregnancy can be on the man. Now, don’t worry, I know full well how hard it is on the woman. I am living it. But, for the woman, there is support for her problems. Almost 8 months in, it is fairly obviously that I am with child. But, for the man, there is no sign to the world. My husband also has the constant doctors’ appointments, taking me to the blood tests, cooking while I am on bed rest. And, I wonder how many people think to ask him how he is doing with all this.

Since November, he has been doing all the cleaning and cooking and most of the caregiving. Belle is now a little over 2 years old, very verbal and very active. To all of this, he has decided increasing my iron intake through food seems like a nice hobby. And, so for by first dish back to Feeding Maybelle: Radish greens, Lupini Beans, and Potatoes with Lemon. Vegetable sources of iron can be hard for the body to metabolize so they should be paired with citrus. In addition, refrain from caffeine or calcium for a couple hours so as to insure proper absorption.
Anyway, I am trying to ease back into blogging because I miss the food, the fun, and of course, everyone.

Recipe:
Radish greens, Lupini Beans, and Potatoes with Lemon

Sautee:
1 diced potato in olive oil
Salt to taste

Add:
Cleaned radish greens

Add:
Splash of vegetable stock
1 tsp lemon zest
½ tsp red pepper

Add:
1 handful cooked lupini beans

Finish with kosher salt and a squeeze of ½ lemon

Pomegranate Chicken Tagine

I am feeling fairly uninspired blog-wise. True, I have not been completely consumed with cooking and eating as I had been during the height of the produce season, but it is not as if I have fasted.

Instead, I am feeling uncertain about the future of the blog. Doesn’t that sound a little like a verbal rain cloud? I don’t mean there is a threatened foreclosure. You see, I started this as a way to write everyday; not that everyday’s writing was good this year… But, now I wonder if this blog is about writing. I know that many bloggers are part of a niche, but I don’t know if I have one or am in one. But, of course, we all seem to fall in with a crowd eventually. While I am not part of a tight-network, I do have my regular readers (thanks, Mom).

So here is my question: Like the writing? Wish there was less? Wish there was more? Shut up and give me the recipes? Notice the poll to the right and fill in accordingly

And, on to the business at hand. There is a POM of the curvy bottled juice notoriety contest for the Foodie Blogroll and like everyone, $5000 would be nice. This recipe is super easy and a crowd pleaser.

Recipe:
Pomegranate Chicken Tagine
Marinate 1 Chicken breast with the following dry rub
1 T cumin
2 t cinnamon
1 T turmeric
1 t chili pepper

In a tagine or heavy bottomed pot, brown the chicken

Add 3 small onions that have been sliced

Once onions have browned, add:
1 cup POM pomegranate juice (product placement wink here)
1 acorn squash, diced
2 carrots, diced very large

Simmer until chicken is tender

Top with pomegranate seeds

Serve with Yellow Raisin, Pomegranate Seed, Almond Couscous

Eating Art: tea noodle handroll

Four more Eating Art recipes to go—think of it this way, I could have posted one recipe per week and it would take ¼ of the year to get through it…

Years and years ago, I was in Nara in one of the hottest Augusts on record. We wandered through the Daibutsuden, danced with the deer and then sought refuge in a lovely little restaurant that I would never be able to find again. My co-diner was not a great lover of Japanese food and basically only ate noodles during our trip. And, this little restaurant was known for its cha soba--cold tea noodles. The restaurant was filled with well dressed Japanese ladies and us dusty travellers. I ordered the cha soba and meditated on their fine, even texture. If I hadn't been so exausted, I might have been able to slurp more appropriately.

Tea house culture is something one sees commonly in Edo period (1615-1868) prints when the Shogun made the regional lords live in Tokyo, so that they were more occupied with lovely ladies and Kabuki than a coup d'etat. The Ukiyo-e or pictures of the floating world that emerged from the period show the sorts of affairs of Tokyo with tea scenes. In these scenes, women pour steeped tea and play the stinged samimasen. Cha Soba is often made with matcha, which is known for its use in the tea ceremony, drunk after being whipped. However, as I wanted my noodles to be inspired by art, I made mine with sencha (though in Japan, sometimes sencha can be used.)



I adore cha soba and somehow believed that I might be able to create soba noodles. Over the weeks that were preparing for the meal, these noodles became my white whale. I read various recipes about the proportion of buckwheat to water, about whether you can add egg (we didn’t), etc. Frankly, the dough was so much “add wheat, add a sprinkle of sencha” that I have no recipe. But, I will be trying them again.

However, I am posting them, because they ended up being a surprise hit of the dinner. (Almost as surprising as the Acorn Squash Kimchi.) The plan was to have the guests make their own rolls, so each guest received nori, a flat noodle served ice cold, shredded daikon also ice cold, shredded carrot, vinegar, and wasabi.

The noodles were not Tokyo perfect by any stretch of the imagination, however, they did have that tea sense. I was gratified that the guests liked it, even if it didn’t work out as perfect as I hoped.

We served them on pieces of balsa (we composted them after dinner) to evoke the traditional basket of cha soba.

Eating Art: Roasted and Dried Beet Salad

Beets are one of those foods, like coconut and radishes, that have the power to divide people into neat camps of the will eat and won’t. For the beet, its richness of color and flavor are both its best and worst characteristics depending on which side of the line you fall. I, of course, adore beets. I had a childhood filled with beets as my mother found them easy to prepare and love. Beets on salad, beet salad, beet curry… Luckily, I didn’t know better to refuse.

This salad was a breeze; I used it for my Eating Art dinner. I took fresh beets, sliced them thin, and dried them low and slow in an oven. For the rest, I roasted them and dressed them in a sweet dressing.

Recipe
Roasted and Dried Beet Salad
Slice very thinly and dry:
1 large yellow beet
1 small red beet

Roast at 400 then peel:
3 large beets
6 small beets

When beets are still warm, dress with:
3 T blood orange marmalade (warmed in a microwave)
1 pinch cinnamon
1 T red wine vinegar
3 T grapeseed oil
When serving, top with dried beets and mint.

Lemongrass Potato Salad

The Bento Box Chronicles continue. . .

I have been packing four bentos this week. Two for those looking to loose weight(my mother and husband); 1 for those looking to maintain/gain weight (me); and 1 for a toddler (Belle). But, basically, I want everyone to eat healthy varied diets--and I don't want to make four separate meals. So, I am trying to modify calories my portioning and add ons.

One of the hardest things for me is to create healthful meals that don't skim on mouthfeel. My mother has eaten terrible food for so long and I don't want her to break and buy her old creamy or crunchy favorites. So, as a treat on Friday, I made potato salad.

My husband and I used to adore the Korean potato salad we got at a neighborhood joint. When it went out of business, we started making our own version topped with vinegary cucumbers and onions. But, I have thing about cucumbers--I hate cucumbers that have been sliced and then left in the refrigerator overnight even in vinegar. So that potato salad recipe doesn't work as a bento box option for me.

For an update, the Bento potato salad was rich in lemongrass as I hoped the herbal citric punch would be exhilerating during the work day. With winter coming on, I have been turning to spicier, richer foods, and I have begun using more lemongrass.

As one might expect, the internet has lots to tell me about lemongrass. It is a perenial plant in warmer climates, native to South Asia, and the edible portion is the fleshy stem. When you purchase lemon grass, look for firm stalks. When you bring them home, cut off the top leaves and reserve for stock making. Then smash the stem like you might smash garlic. At this point, I put this into a food processor. I then put the lemongrass confetti, as it were, and froze it en masse for future use.

So back to the potato salad, it was delicious. Much better than my vegan hot dog fish that swam upon them. (Photo tutorial for that coming next week.) This potato salad is also my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, started by Kalyn's Kitchen and hosted this week by Amy and Jonny of We Are Never Full.

Recipe
Lemongrass Potato Salad
Combine and mash 4 medium blue potatoes, 1 small red potato, and 1 not very sweet, sweet potato (I get these small ones from Asian grocery stores that are perfect. If you can't get this, just put in one more white potato)

Add 2 T grapeseed vegannaise, 1 T spicy mustard, splash of rice wine vinegar, splash olive oil, 2 T lemongrass, 1 t ground coriander, salt and white pepper.

In a separate bowl, dress 1 small grated carrot, 1 radish finely diced, and 1 small chopped shallot with lime juice and salt.

Combine the diced vegetables with the potatoes and then add 1 handful of fresh cilantro leaves.

Eating Art: White Bean Gazpacho ( Ajo Blanco ) with Flagolet Salad

Have you forgotten about 24, 24, 24? I almost have. In the haze of work, I neglected my duty to start posting the recipes from the meal. But, raised right, as I was (thanks Mom), I would feel guilty if I didn't post the recipes.

So, onto course three...White Bean Gazpacho with Flagolet Salad

This dish started with an eternal battle in my kitchen. My husband reveres the rustic; I the refined and beautiful. So for me, Giovanna Garzoni's Broad Beans were pure perfection. The composition, the liveliness; I had always personified those beans. But this 24, 24, 24 thing was a 50/50 affair in terms of planning. So, my husband honed in on the Caracci, one of the first depictions of a poor person dining.

So, what to do? Work together.


We found the most lovely shell peas. The color of the husks (shell?) was claret perfection. I purchased them in part just to break in, to see their secrets. And, then, inside, there were a rugged string of peas.

The night before the dinner, we boiled the peas, tossed them with apple cider vinegar, olive oil, scallions, red shallots, pinch of brown sugar, red pepper, salt and black pepper. We did a pretty job portioning here. We planned for basically 1 T of peas per guest.


But wait the title was Flagolet? What happened? The farmer at the market didn't have the field help to pick the flagolet and even though I had a order in for that date, it just couldn't be satisfied. Such is life.

Then for the gazpacho. I had read the cool simplicity of Ajo Blanco at one of my favorite blogs, Wild Yeast. I basically followed her recipe, but used Korean garlic rather than store bought. And, then for good measure I add two cloves of German garlic. Finally, I tossed in 1/2 cup cooked cannellini beans. This gazpacho was garlicky--like vampire frightening garlicilicious. And, I think the Korean garlic gave it some herbal overtones. Everyone was dying for my secret ingredient--I know it was that garlic.

This was heaven--and the left over gazpacho is great on cooked pasta with some parsley and feta.

Art Objects: Giovanna Garzoni, A Dish of Broad Beans, 1600 & Annibale Carracci, The Beaneater, Oil on canvas, Galleria Colonna, Rome

Pairing: Huber Hugo Gruner Veltliner

Other Related Posts:
Eating Art: A Meal Inspired by Masterworks of Art
Fig Samosas with Carrot Raita
Acorn Squash Kimchi