The Yellow House

Onwards, upwards, & moules marinières

Sarah — Fri, 18 May 2012 01:32:31 +0000

“Oh, this is worse than I thought,” Allen says. “You’re lucky. See these bare wires? A giant fireball could have come barreling out at you! If that had happened, it would have singed off all your hair. Or blinded you.” I examine the little greasy metal box Allen is showing me. The wires do look a bit dubious. “I’m going to have to come back tomorrow.” I’m glad Allen is here. He’s the oven repair man, and it’s his second time at the house. He and I are becoming close. He wants to go fishing down at the creek, he says, and he’s going to teach Ben how to hunt deer. “And make sure NOBODY turns on that oven.” Somehow, the fact that we narrowly escaped a lit-gas fireball incident is unsurprising to me. It might even be an apt metaphor for the past few weeks, a whirlwind of growings-up and new beginnings and startings-over. My little sister, so much more than a sister and best friend, graduated college, leaving me bursting with pride and also feeling a bit wrecked. A friend got her dream job and is off to Texas, far away. All of nature, cultivated and uncultivated, seems to be echoing the forward motion, transitioning into a new stage. The trees shook off pretty blossoms and replaced them with lush green. Peas are ready to set fruit. The ducklings are growing up far too fast—I swear, they shoot up at least an inch a day—, seedlings have no need of being sheltered inside anymore, and oh, our favorite tiny hen (or what we thought was a hen) crowed the other day. For me, a consummate worrier, there is no small amount of stress that accompanies these sorts of things, happy as they may be, and I am left smiling but a bit exhausted and hollow. Adding to the one-two emotional punch of joy and stress is all the cooking and food that accompanies these events; celebratory and beautiful but often very rich and less-than-simple to accomplish—-the red velvet cake Louise requested for her grad party; the types of food I feel obliged to cook for my 81-year-old grandfather who stayed with us during the days bookending her commencement, godblesshim, who is known to say things like, “I’m an American boy; I eat hog and taters!”; the leftovers from our housewarming, which included a gift of caviar pie (seriously) from our wonderful friends in West Virginia. An absurd avalanche of goodies. (All accomplished without that oven, I might add, which conveniently gave out minutes before said housewarming gathering began—allowing all our guests an evening conveniently free of fireballs but also of any substantive food.)Adding to the graduations and celebrations is our friend Ashley, fresh out of law school in DC and studying to take the bar in her home state of California. She called at the tail-end of this string of joyous madness to ask if she could come visit us before she left, and the answer was of course, but it was the day after several evenings of not getting home until 10 PM, I hadn’t been grocery shopping in two weeks, the house was in shambles, and oh, I was meeting up with this amazing woman that same afternoon and was more than a teensy bit intimidated because, you know, she just won a James Beard Award (I will leave it to Elissa to decide whether or not I actually kept my cool). I wanted to make something special for our budding lady-lawyer’s last memories on the East Coast, but goodness, I lacked the steam.““Why don’t we make those mussels?” Ben asked on the phone. And I breathed a sigh of relief, because what he meant by ‘those mussels’ are the classic, impressive-but-really-simple moules marinières, and they would be perfect. Ashley and I arrived from DC at the house at 7:15, I chopped an onion while she had a beer and visited the ducks (oh, I didn’t mention they still live in the bathtub?). Ben had a loaf of bread rising and while it baked, he called us out to look at the pea blossoms (“I think they’re underappreciated,” he said) and clipped lettuce for salad. A little butter. Generous splash of wine. Mussels. And then dinner. We sat down in the fading light on the porch, sopped the bowls clean, licked fingers, laughed a lot, and drank the rest of the wine. Things will keep moving, rush-rushing forward, beyond my silly, control-seeking grasp. But if this—I looked around the table—if this can stay constant, I can live with that.

Moules marinières

Adapted from Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking; put into more frequent rotation recently because of Amelia’s post

You will need

Directions

Then, add the mussels to the boiling mixture and put on the lid of the pan. Continue to boil over high heat. At intervals, using your thumbs to hold down the lid of the sauté pan, shake the pan up and down, back and forth to distribute the wine mixture among the mussels.

After about five minutes of cooking over high heat, the mussels should be steamed wide open. Remove from heat and allow the liquid to settle out any grit. Spoon the mussels into in low bowls, with a bit of the wine broth ladled into each bowl. Make sure to serve with crust bread to soak up all the good stuff.

Serves 2-3.

To be of use

Sarah — Fri, 11 May 2012 02:11:48 +0000

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

—Marge Piercy, from Circles on the Water (Knopf)
I was going through photos and realized how many I have of people using their hands. It reminded me of this poem. This weekend, let’s plant. Make something from scratch. Move something forward. Get muddy. Find joy in process; in the means to the end, where the real resides.

Beer blini

Sarah — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 01:56:16 +0000

I’ve been on a memoir kick. My extended commute gives me ample time to read, and without realizing it, books by extraordinary women have floated to the top of the pile. First, it was Madeleine L’Engle’s A Circle of Quiet (any other Wrinkle in Time fans out there?); then, Tina Fey’s Bossypants (I cannot get over how fiercely funny and smart this book was); and most recently, Julia Child’s My Life in France.I don’t know about you, but when I picture Julia Child, I picture either the dual tomes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, or a tall-but-hunched-over, older lady on PBS. I’ve always understood that she’s legendary, and even perhaps understood why, but never did I imagine I’d be so captivated by a recounting of her life. You know the word “delightful”? That word I never use, because it sounds vaguely Pollyanna-ish, and a bit like you should clap your hands together and beam when you say it? I used it, while reading this book. It did not feel ironic or disingenuous. “I’m reading Julia Child’s My Life in France,” I might say to you, and you might politely respond, “Any good?” “It’s a delight,” I would say seriously.
I enjoyed the book for the whip-smart joie de vivre that shone through in every page, for the fact that it came from an age when Julia could talk about the vendors at her open-air market without once mentioning the word “locavore”, for the politics and history woven throughout. It’s been one particular anecdote, though, that has stuck with me.
During her time in Paris, Julia makes lunch for a friend…and it turns out horribly. But, “I made sure not to apologize,” she writes.

This was a rule of mine. I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostess starts into self-deprecations….it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Such admissions only draw attention to one’s shortcomings (or perceived shortcomings)…Maybe the cat has fallen into the stew, or the lettuce has frozen, or the cake has collapsed—eh bien, tant pis!

That got me. Probably one of my worst traits—in the kitchen and out—is that I am overly-apologetic. Not that it’s not heartfelt! I truly am sorry when that bread I baked was a little bit gummy, when those veggies I roasted got a little dried out and frizzled, I’msosorry. These things are often relatively out of my control, and apologies are completely unnecessary, and, more importantly than your gummy bread, I am so happy that you’re here for dinner. I never get around to that second part, though, and the I’msorry’s slip out all over the place until I’m sure they sound meaningless and uselessly self-deprecating. Yet still they come.

So, I am resolved: I will be unapologetic. Not brashly so. Just a bit more self-assured, a bit more confident that the act of feeding or loving or making is enough. Because that’s enough, it is!, and we all know it, but sometimes you need Julia Child to remind you of these things. We’re having a housewarming party soon and I can already feel the I’msorrys coming on. We won’t have enough chairs, I’msorry, it will be humid probably, I’msosorry, and really, you don’t have to eat the food if you don’t like it. I might be tempted to cater to the common denominator, throwing together good but kinda boring appetizers that will generate little opportunity for criticism.I will fight this. We will eat blini—with beer in the batter!—and when people say that they look like little pancakes, I’ll laugh and say, “Yeah, they do!” They’re good, really good, with nutty, malty notes begging to be offset with a smear of tangy crème fraîche and maybe some just-out-of-the-ground asparagus. Maybe you won’t like them, Party Guest. That’s okay. I’ll look you in the eye, smile, and point you toward the cheese platter.

Beer blini with spring toppings

Adapted liberally from the buckwheat blini recipe in The Martha Stewart Cookbook
I made these twice, trying to get the recipe right. The first time, I topped with a smashed broad bean spread with a little olive oil, tahini, and salt, which was good (that’s what you see in the grainy film photos). The second time, with some asparagus from Ben’s boss’s farm, was more than good. Try it: crème fraîche, blanched asparagus, dill—so good. But really, these are a blank canvas for your spring produce. They’d go wonderfully with the classic radishes and butter on top. They’re also a great vehicle for leftovers and sauces.

You will need

For the toppings (suggested):
Crème fraîche or sour cream
Softened butter
Various spring veggies, blanched and chopped: asparagus, radishes, etc.
Dill
Chives
Broad beans, mashed with a bit of olive oil or tahini and salt

Directions

Combine the yeast and warm water in a medium mixing bowl and set aside in a warm place for about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, combine whole wheat flour, eggs, oil, salt, and beer. It will be very foamy and lumpy at first, but stir with a whisk or fork until smooth and the bubbles have settled down.

Now, add the all-purpose flour to the yeast and water mixture. Stir well. Then, add the whole wheat flour/beer mixture to the yeasted white flour mixture. Mix very well, scraping lumps off the bottom. Drape the bowl with a towel and set in a warm place for an hour.

After an hour, the mixture should have risen a bit visibly and be frothy.

Heat a griddle or cast iron skillet over medium heat, swiping oil or butter over the surface. Scoop heaping tablespoonfuls of the batter onto the hot griddle. Flip the blini with a spatula when the edges look a bit dry and the surface has fluffed up significantly (similar to pancakes). Cook the other side until deep golden brown.

Blini should be served warm, so keep all of them piled together on a heated plate or in an oven on low until you’ve cooked them all.

Don’t worry about assembling the blini yourself—rather, set up a “blini bar” with all the various toppings in bowls. Bring out the hot blini and allow people to make what they want. Don’t apologize.

Feeling full + a warm lentil salad with red wine

Sarah — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 23:53:52 +0000

This week, thoughts banged against the walls of my head. Certain moments hit me in the gut. I wanted to tell you about a dream I had: I stood in the kitchen with my mom, frying up strips of bacon in a cracked ceramic dish. They crinkled into little abalone, seashell-like cracklings. We ate them, our fingers greasy. They were salty and good. I woke up crying and craving bacon. My baby chickens (BABY. CHICKENS. !!!!!) arrived. I have spent every spare second with them, sitting with my tea, watching them cheeeerrp-cheep curiously over their world. Flats of favas and kale and peas are in the ground, the first occupants of this year’s garden. The forsythia has faded, but I discovered three clumps of peonies (a favorite) at the house, tight buds closed—for now.The car started shaking, rattling my teeth, and I had to take it to the shop. Girlfriends let me sleep over a few nights and drove me to the bus in the mornings. We smuggled booze into a late-night, 3-dollar movie. I felt lucky. I bought gifts for three different weddings in the next few months. I felt older.Ben is coming home. I’ve wanted to tell you how it feels to go grocery shopping knowing that there will soon be two of us in this big old house after a winter of one, how I bought cereal even though I never eat it, and how it felt like a happy secret to stow it away in the pantry. I wanted to write about how I smiled scrubbing the refrigerator and cleaning the drain yesterday, not realizing it until my cheeks hurt when I finished the chore. I itched to record these to-the-brimmings. For three nights I sat down to write, but came up with nothing more than a bullet-point journal entry. It didn’t bother me, though, the way I sometimes feel when words won’t come. I put down the pen or closed the laptop. I threw open the windows. I ate lentils, three nights in a row, once with a poached egg, once on toast, and once with greens. I sat on the porch, watching the night come. I felt full.

Warm lentil salad with red wine

I wrote this recipe to go with a local winery’s release of its light-bodied, pretty, fruity syrah. So, if you can, find a lighter red wine—not too much body, not too much oak, dry, but with lots of cherry-berry on the nose.

You will need

Directions

In a large, heavy-bottomed skillet, heat the oil. Add the onion and cook, over medium heat, for several minutes, until the onion is softened and translucent. Add the garlic and sprig of thyme and stir, cooking for 1-2 minutes. Add the lentils and stir to incorporate with the onions. Pour in the red wine and cook until absorbed, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and remove the sprig of thyme. Stir in yogurt or creme fraiche. Taste for salt and season if necessary.

Transfer the lentils to a platter or to plates and toss with the greens. Grind black pepper over the top, and sprinkle liberally with chopped parsley if desired. Serve warm.

Garlicky pea shoots

Sarah — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 15:23:36 +0000

A few of you asked me about the little green seedlings growing, packed together, in a photo a few posts ago—they’re pea shoots. I’ve been growing them on my windowsill through the later part of this winter. I thought I’d share the process with you a bit. They are silly-easy to grow, whether you’re a city slicker or country kid, and quite pretty. It’s satisfying to have some sweet, tender greens right at your kitchen window to clip and toss into a salad or sandwich for some texture.
The basics: Get some peas (there are certain varieties sold specifically for sprouting, but any variety sold for growing will do, really. I use an organic, dwarf grey sugar pea, which is known to be a nice salad green). Put them in some sort of container: a wide-mouth jar or glass bowl. Add water and let them soak for a few minutes. Then, rubberband some cheesecloth over the opening of the jar and drain out the water (it doesn’t need to be completely dry inside; a little damp is good). Set the jar on your windowsill. Do this every day for a few days—add water, drain through the cheesecloth, and allow to sit on the windowsill. After several days, the peas should start to sprout. Once they begin sprouting, all you need to do is spread them in a layer on a few inches of soil and keep them moist—they’ll do the rest. Normally you wouldn’t want seedlings to be so close together, but since you’ll be eating the seedlings, it’s okay. You can clip the peas when they’re more like sprouts, or wait longer (which I prefer) until they’re 4 or 5 inches tall, leafy and tendril-y. Sometimes they will continue to grow after you clip them, and you can get one or two rounds of shoots out of the original peas.
My favorite way to enjoy them lately is quickly sautéed in a very hot skillet of garlicky oil, slightly seared, just barely wilting. After that, possibilities abound: on a piece of toast (with or without a smear of ricotta), stirred into warm lentils, or just on the side to add variety to a plate. It wasn’t until I tossed a tangle of them into the last seconds of cooking scrambled eggs, though, that things got spectacular.The violets are completely optional, but we have a million dotting the backyard right now, and I can’t resist snipping them to finish off most dishes—too pretty.

Garlicky pea shoots

You will need

Directions

To add into scrambled eggs, remove the pea shoots from the skillet and set aside in a bowl. In the same skillet, make scrambled eggs your favorite way (I’m a low-and-slow kind of girl). Just before the eggs are cooked as much as you’d like them to be, stir in the pea shoots. Serve with crusty toast.

I always reserve a few uncooked pea shoots to toss on at the end.