The In Between: Kale with Chard, and Day of the Dead

Our last CSA pickup for the season was last Friday, and so this week was the first in many months that I had to plan a menu that didn't involve kale, chard, or tomatoes.  I don't tend to can or freeze our share, so there was something wistful about eating the last local-farm-sourced meal of the season, as much as it's freeing to have the entire supermarket open to me again.  Watching the fields turn brown and white is like watching a loved one die, and yet, after eating so much green for so many months, I start to crave things that are brown and white, the root vegetables of winter.

I've always loved this time of year, though, this in-between when it feels like the door to another world is open, when death and life collide.  We more or less suck at dealing with death in this country, in my experience; death is something we don't like to talk about, something we distance from our own lives, something to be feared.  These silences make grieving more difficult, not to mention significantly limiting our experience of being human.  Other cultures cope with death and dying much more effectively by making it part of life, particularly during this season of the year: the Celtic holiday of Samhain both celebrates the end of the harvest season and welcomes the souls of the dead, who were beckoned to attend feasts where a place was set at the table for them. The three-day long celebration of El Día de los Muertos, likewise, sets aside a specific day at the end of the traditional harvest period to remember lost friends and loved ones.  The only thing we have that comes even close to honoring this liminality is Halloween, and we're too busy gorging ourselves on candy to really appreciate it.

My daughter asked me what I was going to be for Halloween this year, and--not wanting to do one of the usual ghost/zombie/vampire affairs--after giving it a lot of thought (not to mention spending a lot of time admiring the creative costume ideas at Take Back Halloween), I decided that if I needed to dress up, I would be Frida Kahlo, the feminist Mexican artist famous for her self-portraits.

Kahlo lived on the boundaries.  A victim of childhood polio that left her with legs two different lengths, and a bus accident during her teenage years that resulted in life long pain, multiple operations on an injured pelvis, and multiple miscarriages, she also pushed the limits of traditional gender norms, smoking, drinking, and having bisexual extramarital affairs. After several years living in what she referred to as "Gringoland" with her husband Diego Rivera, with whom her relationship was complicated at best, she painted a self-portrait in which she stands between Mexico and the United States, herself a physical boundary (or bridge) between indigenous culture and technology, natural resources and industrialization.

While I don't identify with Kahlo as I did once long ago with Jane Eyre, I appreciate her embrace of the space between, her strength and resilience, her joie d'vivre, even given her difficult life.  A few days before her death, she wrote in her diary: "I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return — Frida".   Kahlo accept and embraced her fragility, and still did her best to live a life and produce art that suggested her power and serenity as a woman in the world, living courageously into a future that is unknown. And perhaps, at this time of year, that's the most we can hope for.

Do you celebrate a holiday that remembers lost loved ones?  What's your experience of this particular kind of in-between-ness?

Spiced Squash and Chard with Walnuts
This was I did with the last of our CSA produce of the year.  Not quite salad, 

not quite side dish, not quite root vegetable or leafy green, it lives somewhere in the in-between, too.

1 medium acorn squash
1 bunch of swiss chard, ribs removed and chopped, leaves chopped separately
2 T. olive oil
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper
2 t. cardamom
3/4 c. chopped toasted walnuts

2 T. orange juice (preferably fresh squeezed)
3 T. local honey
2 T. apple cider vinegar
1/4 c. oil grapeseed oil
1/2 t. apple pie spice
1/8 t. ginger
1/4 t. salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees

Slice, peel, and cube the acorn squash. Toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and cardamom. Roast in a single layer for 30-35 minutes, flipping once half-way through.

While your squash is roasting, shake together the orange juice, vinegar, oil, apple pie spice, ginger, honey, and salt in a jar.

When the squash is done, move to a skillet  over medium heat and add the the chard, continuing to stir until wilted. Chop and toast the walnuts; you can toss them into the same roasting pan you've just emptied, and put them back in the oven for just a few minutes (check every two minutes or so to make sure they're not burning).

Add your walnuts after 3-4 minutes.

Toss the warm chardwith 1/4 c. of the vinaigrette. Enjoy immediately or at room temperature.

(Skeletons) in my Closet, and Roasted Kale, Sweet Potato, and Toasted Farro Salad with Maple Dressing

When I started my first full-time job fifteen years ago, I wore a tailored pantsuit to work every day.  I was the youngest in my department, young in my field nationally, and after a very brief time away, I'd returned to the university where I'd been an undergraduate; I knew I was going to fight an uphill battle to be taken seriously, and clothing was part of my arsenal.  Though no one else in my office really wore suits at the time, doing so made me feel a little more grown up, and helped me--or so I thought--to convince other people that I wasn't a student any more, despite the fact that I probably still looked like one; in hindsight, I suspect I was trying to convince myself, too.  I was frugal, choosing conservative colors and styles, investing in a few high-quality pieces from respectable brands, rather than picking up a new wardrobe every season.  Black, brown: I was the university administrator equivalent of the corporate executive.  (And don't think that the fact that these were pantsuits is lost on me; I'm sure there are issues of gender and body image to unpack here, which I will leave for another day.)  I remember once gaping at a friend's walk-in closet overflowing with multicolored fabric and leather, like a visitor from a third world country who had just stumbled into Whole Foods. 

The same went for footwear.  I owned three, maybe four pairs of shoes: sandals, sneakers, heels from Payless, and a pair of mid-calf black boots--different ones as the previous year's specimens wore thin--that I referred to fondly as my "ass-kicking boots."  I never wore the heels, because the boots, like my suits, made me feel powerful.  They offered up a solid thunk, thunk, thunk as I strode across campus, pounded out determination and purpose.  I was a woman not to be crossed.  (Never mind that I wore said black boots with suits that demanded brown.  That was irrelevant.)

Under the boots, though, were the socks.  My true colors.  Wacky, bright, daring, colorful, and unmatched to everything else I was wearing.  They were the "if only you knew" part of my wardrobe, the secret that turned the corners of my mouth upwards in the more boring meetings.  The warm and interesting and creative part of me that made me a good fit for my work in the first place.

Sometime in the late spring, before I was hired at my new job, thinking that my professional future wasn't looking terribly promising, I purged my closet.  Some of the suits--the ones that no longer fit quite right, or that hadn't been worn in a while, or that went out of style years ago, even with my generous "style" window--went out with many of the books from my graduate school years, finding new homes in other people's closets or in the windows of local consignment stores.  Mostly, I kept the socks.

When I got a job in July, I took a deep breath and bought two new conservative suits, and few other things at an upscale local consignment store under the approving eye of a good friend, and figured I was done.

Except then I noticed that people weren't all wearing suits to work every day.  And that I wanted more variation in my wardrobe than the cloak of my former ambitions allowed.  Suddenly, what was in my closet was no longer enough.  Moreover, it was fall, and I realized that summer clothes really weren't appropriate for colder weather.  I didn't want to spend a small fortune dry cleaning my wardrobe every week.  And my old suits--the ones I hadn't purged--really were pretty old.

I bought a deep purple long sleeved dress with a daring v neck.  Some uber-comfortable flowy black Wearever machine-washable pants from J.Jill.  An olive-colored soft tee, which I haven't been brave enough to de-tag yet, feeling like it was a little too much.  A scarf, which I taught myself how to tie in a few different ways.  And today, knee-high brown boots--the first ones I've ever owned.  My side of the (non-walk-in) closet is back to full--even if it does have two season's worth in one place--with less consistency than ever among the styles and fabrics on the hangers.  Unlike in those early years of my professional life, someone looking at it wouldn't be able to identify my personal style at all.  Though it's not clear that in those years, the style was mine to begin with.

Still, I find myself--a little guiltily--browsing in the consignment store, trolling for a new skirt or two.  An interesting jacket.  It's like playing with costumes to find a skin I'm comfortable in.  And what I'm comfortable in isn't the same every day.  There's a little of everything, sort of like there was in the salad I made this weekend: warm and cool, "crunchy" and tailored, sweet and tart, fruity and nutty.  It's a different kind of powerful entirely than in those first days of my first job.

How does your wardrobe express you?  Your ambitions or your contentment with where you are?  Do you feel like you have a style?

Roasted Kale Sweet Potato Salad with Toasted Farro and Maple Dressing
I came up with this lightly dressed salad by playing with a few different recipes after the final installment of CSA kale and sweet potatoes this week, looking for something different to do with color and texture.  It tasted like fall.

2-3 medium sweet potatoes, cubed
2 teaspoons grape seed oil
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
salt to taste (and pepper if you like)
1 large head kale, center ribs removed, chopped
1-2 apples, peeled and cubed (you can roast these for a bit too if you like; I prefer them cold and crunchy, to contrast with the kale and potato)
1 c. cooked farro
pumpkin seeds, toasted

Garlic Maple Dressing
3 T. apple cider raw vinegar
1 1/2 T. maple syrup
2 T. olive oil
1 t. Dijon mustard
1 cloves garlic, minced


Toast the pumpkin seeds until golden (I use a toaster, but you could also do this in the oven or in a hot pan).

Preheat oven to 400F and set aside a baking sheet.  Spray lightly with cooking spray.


Add sweet potato, oil, cinnamon, salt on baking sheet and toss with your hands until everything is well-coated.

Roast for 30-35 minutes (stirring and rotating halfway through) or until the sweet potatoes begin to caramelize (this is important to deepen the flavor of the salad, so be patient).  When the sweet potatoes are about 5 minutes away from completion, remove from the oven, place the chopped kale on top. Return to the oven.

Meanwhile, combine vinegar, maple syrup, garlic, and mustard in a small bowl. Pour in the olive oil, whisking as you go, and set aside.

In a skillet, heat 2 t. vegetable oil. Add the farro in an even layer and cook over high heat, stirring once, until toasted, about 5 minutes.  

When kale and potatoes are done, transfer to a bowl; add apples, farro, and toasted squash seeds, and dress lightly. Serve warm.

Life Hacks, and Quinoa Avocado Salad

"Do you know what my best secret power is?" my father-in-law asked me, relaxing into the pillows on our couch.  He had driven five hours from New Hampshire the night before to help me corral and chauffeur children to school and day care while S. was away on business and I attended some evening programs for work.  I had been giving him directions for the evening, finding menus and money for pizza, discussing diaper changes, and reviewing the arrival of my son's bus.

"No," I said. "What's your best secret power?"

"That I know it just doesn't matter."  He gave me a satisfied smile.  "Whatever happens, I can handle it.  And in the end, it comes out fine."

I nodded, and grinned sideways at my son, who was still tying his first sneaker, three minutes after he'd started the process.  I was trying to get out the door at get to work, and it was taking all of my willpower not to grab the shoelaces away and tie them myself.  "Grandpa goes with the flow."

My father-in-law is not a Buddhist, but if I were going to conjure a contemporary Buddhist, he fits the bill.  He thinks nothing of picking up and driving to Florida on a whim to go kayaking.  He makes scores of plans, because even he recognizes that you can't do very much in life with no purpose at all, but then changes them when it becomes obvious that they won't work, for whatever reason.  He is completely unattached to the consequences of his actions, though he has, without a doubt, excellent intentions.

This is precisely where Buddhism stymies me.  The non-attachment to consequences.  Because if you're trying to do something positive, aren't you going to be a little frustrated when things don't work out?  How are you supposed to aim for good, but then simply decide that it doesn't matter?  That you've set things in motion, and that they will run their course?  It would be like a doctor prescribing medicine to a patient, and then feeling content when the patient doesn't get well.  If my father-in-law's secret power is that he can find it in himself not to care, my greatest limitation is that I care entirely too much.

It doesn't help that my secret power is organizing things to run like the Deutsche Bahn of old, before it started to lose its reputation for perfection and punctuality.

Then again, I guess sometimes you just have to approach life like a salad.  You start out with a bunch of high-quality ingredients, and you throw them together, with some sense that you're going to end up with something edible, even if it wasn't entirely what you intended in the first place.  Even I know that you can't save every patient.  Or win every tournament.  And if we couldn't accept that, at some level, we would suffer from perpetual paralysis.  Like yoga, it takes practice.  And my father-in-law has been practicing for a long time.

What's your secret power?

Avocado and Quinoa Salad

12 oz. red quinoa, cooked and chilled
12 oz. leftover cooked corn
1 c. finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 c. green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
1 c. tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice
2 avocados, peeled, pitted, diced
1/4 c. lime juice
2 T. olive oil
1 T. champagne vinegar
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper

In a large bowl, mix together cooked quinoa, corn, cilantro, green onions, and tomatoes. Gently fold in avocados.

Whisk together lime juice, olive oil, and vinegar, and mix until well-combined. Add dressing to the salad, and mix gently.  

Season with salt and pepper; serve.

1 box (7 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Red Quinoa (Grocery Dept), cooked per pkg directions, chilled 20 min
1 pkg (12 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Just Picked and Quickly Frozen Super-Sweet Corn, thawed
1 cup  finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup  green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
2  plum tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice (about 1 cup)
2  avocados, peeled, pitted, cubed small
1/2 cup  Food You Feel Good About Lemon Vinaigrette (Produce Dept)
1/2 tsp  salt
1/2 tsp  pepper - See more at: http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10052&partNumber=RECIPE_14888#sthash.DmOTLKQ6.dpuf

1 box (7 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Red Quinoa (Grocery Dept), cooked per pkg directions, chilled 20 min
1 pkg (12 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Just Picked and Quickly Frozen Super-Sweet Corn, thawed
1 cup  finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup  green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
2  plum tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice (about 1 cup)
2  avocados, peeled, pitted, cubed small
1/2 cup  Food You Feel Good About Lemon Vinaigrette (Produce Dept)
1/2 tsp  salt
1/2 tsp  pepper - See more at: http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10052&partNumber=RECIPE_14888#sthash.DmOTLKQ6.dpuf

1 box (7 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Red Quinoa (Grocery Dept), cooked per pkg directions, chilled 20 min
1 pkg (12 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Just Picked and Quickly Frozen Super-Sweet Corn, thawed
1 cup  finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup  green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
2  plum tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice (about 1 cup)
2  avocados, peeled, pitted, cubed small
1/2 cup  Food You Feel Good About Lemon Vinaigrette (Produce Dept)
1/2 tsp  salt
1/2 tsp  pepper - See more at: http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10052&partNumber=RECIPE_14888#sthash.DmOTLKQ6.dpuf

The Quantification of the Self, and Eggplant Curry

I was given a FitBit, courtesy of Best Buy, for running the BlogHer 5K this year.  Lest you call me a hypocrite, let me be clear: I would have run the 5K even without the promise of swag. I was going to get out for some exercise that morning anyway, and put my re-sprained ankle to its first test.  But the FitBit did make getting out of bed at 5:30 a little easier.  And I've been wearing it ever since.  Somewhere, the leadership team of FitBit (which, by the way, has only one woman on it) is rubbing their hands together, cackling, "EXcellent."

True confessions: this isn't the first time I've owned one.  My first FitBit is probably buried somewhere in the Technology Drawer (which is a fancy name for the tangled mess of thumb drives, chargers, and connective wires necessary for all of our electronic devices -- the futuristic version of my mother's Junk Drawer).  My husband and I each had one, gifts from his company, which we wore religiously; he and I competed to climb the most stairs, to walk the most steps, and to grow the tallest flower on the tiny FitBit screen.  Come to think of it, I don't think he was competing with me.  But at the time, that was irrelevant.

One day, I guess I forgot to put it back on.  Or maybe I got frustrated and fired it.  So did my husband.  And you know how it goes.  Miss a day, miss two days, and your FitBit dies a quiet death in the Technology Drawer.

This time, I'm the only one with the device, and I thought perhaps it wouldn't hold such power over me.  But I check it, tap it, intentionally take the stairs even when I'm wearing less sensible shoes, partly because I know it's counting.  And I know that I am not alone in this behavior.

We quantify ourselves in countless ways.  If you don't have a FitBit, you have an iPhone app that tracks exercise and nutrition.  Or you look at your blog stats.  Or your grades in school.  Or the number of Twitter followers you have.  Or the number of Facebook friends you've accumulated.  Or shares of your social media posts.  If you're feeling lazy, you let Klout do it for you, and though you complain about how irrelevant Klout is, you check it anyway when it sends you email about your declining score.  There is, I discovered, even a Quantified Self movement and global conference: people out there dedicated to the cause of defining ourselves by the numbers (the Measured Me site is a notable example, in which the subject is quantifying even his happiness).  Assessment is the watchword of educational institutions.  We are all counting, and accounted for, especially in a competitive environment.

I was a qualitative researcher in grad school.  I did my time in quantitative fields: an English major, I still managed to get through Calc II and Linear Algebra; I aced programming and discrete structures; I passed my quantitative methods courses with flying colors.  But I always felt like there was more to the issues than numbers, and I was relieved to discover that I could still write a respectable (in fact, award-winning!) dissertation without statistics.

It's like achieving balance in the kitchen.  Baking is a quantitative pursuit.  You can fool around with amounts of fat and flour and sugar and leavening agent, but if you fool around too much, you will guarantee yourself some flat, or mushy, or otherwise undesirable cupcakes.  So, provided you like cupcakes, quantitative work in the kitchen is important.  But if you eat only cupcakes, you're going to get sick.  Cooking things like curry or soup or stir fry, on the other hand, is qualitative.  You add some of this, and some of that, and sub in something else that you prefer, you taste it off, and voila! you have dinner.  Which is, in the end, probably better for you than cupcakes.  Unless you're Julia Child, and you're making a roux or a souffle, in which case, you're counting, but you might as well add more butter and call it a day.

The bottom line is: we need both qualitative and quantitative measures of the self.  While some measurement is important, we are not merely the sum of numbers on a FitBit, or our social media reach, or grades, or the salary we make.  It's easy to forget that, given the emphasis we place on quantifying success (see Arianna Huffington's conference on the Third Metric).  But every once in a while, it might do us good to fire the FitBit.  Even if it means that occasionally, we end up taking the elevator.

Do you quantify yourself?  What are your reactions to the Quantified Self movement?

Eggplant Curry
Play around with this.  The second time I made it, I tossed in two handfuls of green beans instead of one of the peppers.  Add a few more tomatoes.  Vary the salt.  Whatever you do, enjoy it.

3 Japanese eggplants cut into rounds or 1 medium eggplant, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
1 large onion, diced
4-5 medium Roma tomatoes, diced
2 T. coconut oil
1 t. cumin seeds
2 T, ginger, grated
1/8 t. turmeric powder
3/4 t. garam masala
salt to taste
1 c. coconut milk

Heat oil in a heavy stock pot. Add cumin seeds; when the seeds begin to crackle, add onion and saute until it is transparent.  Add ginger, turmeric powder and garam masala and stir for a few seconds.

Add tomatoes and stir and allow to cook until soft and mushy.

Add peppers, eggplant, and salt to taste and mix well.  Cover and allow the bell pepper and eggplant to cook on medium low heat, checking regularly to stir, making sure that there is enough liquid in the bottom of the pan, and adding a splash of water if it's too dry.

When the vegetables are soft, add coconut milk, a little at a time, and stir gently over low heat (do not boil).

Serve with rice. Or whatever strikes your fancy.

Supposed Tos, and Roasted Potatoes and Green Beans

I don't generally sign up for inspirational email.  In fact, I don't generally opt in to anything that will come regularly to my inbox which doesn't have direct relevance for me professionally.  But a while ago, a friend introduced me to TUT's Note from the Universe.  They were different enough, quirky enough that my interest was piqued.  And I subscribed.  Now, I'm often surprised at how apropos the messages are.  This was my message the other day:

No more "supposed tos," OK, Justine?

You're not supposed to work harder, look better, sleep less, sell more, run faster, talk slower, be happier, stay longer, leave earlier, cook, clean, negotiate, settle, start, stop, move, try, win, shake, rattle or roll.

Other people made all that up.

    The Universe 

How many times do I make this my mantra?  I should blog more.  I should be happier.  I should be posting beautiful new photographs of food every day.  But how realistic is that, given that I now commute for almost two hours, that I do laundry every night, that I sometimes bring work home, that I'm trying to comment often on friends' blogs, that I have two children that need my attention?

It's not.

I'm not another blogger.  I'm not another working parent.  I'm not another runner or yogini.  And right now I'm not capable of coming up with new photogenic recipes.  Publishing fabulously deep blog posts every day, or even several times a week.  Leaving earlier.

Other people made that all up.

So what am I doing listening to other people?  To popular media, to Sheryl Sandberg, to other bloggers, to the more critical voices from my past?  Who don't have any basis for their claims on my behavior, my appearance, my anything?

I ran into someone we know from town today at the car show, and she was talking about her artwork winning an award at an art show.  Immediately, I caught myself.  Well, she's an artist.  She actually works at her craft.  You don't work at yours.  So how do you ever expect to win an award or get published?

Those voices get internalized pretty deeply, so that at some level, we forget that they are other people's voices, and start to think that they're our own.  Maybe, eventually, they become our own.

Realism.  This is my life the way it is right now.  All I can do is trust that I'm doing things the best way I can do them ... which is the way I've done them--at least in my own opinion--my whole life.  And remind myself when I can that there's nothing else I'm supposed to be doing, and nohow else I'm supposed to be.  Except who, and what, and where I am.

Do you have "supposed tos"?  Where did they come from?  How do you tune them out?

Roasted Potatoes and Green Beans
This is what I did with the beans and potatoes from last weeks' CSA share.  It wasn't fancy, but it was dinner.  And if you put enough garlic and salt on pretty much anything, you'll be OK.

1.5 lb. baby potatoes
1 T. olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
2 cloves garlic, minced (optional)
1 quart green beans, trimmed and halved

Preheat the oven to 450F.  Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil and place it in the oven to preheat.

Toss potatoes with 1 T. olive oil, then season with salt and pepper; transfer potatoes to preheated baking sheet and roast for 15 minutes.

Toss the green beans with garlic, season with more salt and pepper. Add to the baking sheet with the potatoes.

Roast for 10 more minutes.

NaBloPoMo: Salad Days, and Warm Roasted Squash Salad with Farro and Chick Peas

"Salad days" is an idiomatic expression, referring to a youthful time, accompanied by the inexperience, enthusiasm, idealism, innocence, or indiscretion that one associates with a young person. More modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of their abilities—not necessarily in that person's youth. (Wikipedia)

If I were my daughter, I'd be breaking into a tuneless rendition of the Dora the Explorer celebration song right about now: "We did it, we did it, we did it! Yay!  Lo hicimos!  We did it!  ... We posted to our blog, every day, we did it, we did it, we did it, hooray!"

And even though my husband and I mock Dora, she's got a point: the completion of this adventure is worth celebrating.  I won't pretend it was easy.  And I don't think that I could say I proved to myself, as I did last time I did NaBloPoMo last July (completely cheating, by the way, since I was on vacation for the beginning of that month and sick for another few days in the middle), that writing "naturally" begets writing.  It was a hard month to write, for many reasons, and there were days I didn't think I would come up with anything at all.

I *am* glad I persevered, though, because I feel (silly as this sounds) like I've "earned back" the right to attend BlogHer at the end of July.  Which, by the way, I'm looking forward to every bit as much as I'm looking forward to vacation with the family this week ... and possibly even more.  Though I don't plan to stop blogging any time soon, I'm not sure how much I will get to write once my new job starts, and this was a fitting way to end my time at home.

So here's a celebratory salad for you, perfect for holiday potluck parties.  Thanks for coming back here day after day and commenting, helping me make my "salad days" a reality.  See you on the flip side.

Warm Roasted Squash Salad with Farro and Chick Peas
If Heidi had thought this up, she would have made it first.  Only she didn't.  Here's to someone whom I consider one of my major inspirations in the kitchen.

3 zucchini or summer squash, washed, trimmed, cut into 1/2" cubes
1/2 large (preferably red) onion, chopped into 1/2" pieces
2 T. olive or coconut oil
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 c. farro, rinsed
1 1/2 c. water
1 14 oz can chick peas, rinsed/drained
2 T. mint/basil, finely minced
1/4 c. pepitas, toasted
feta or goat cheese to taste (optional)

Preheat oven to 450°. Place zucchini, squash, onion and garlic in a large bowl, drizzle with oil and stir until all the veggies are coated. Sprinkle on salt and pepper and stir.

Spread veggies in a single layer on a large rimmed baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes or until just browned, stirring about half way through.  Set aside to cool.

Bring farro and water to a boil in a medium pot.  (You may salt the water if you like.)  Cook 20 minutes or until most of the water is absorbed and the farro is soft and chewy.  Set aside.

Re-warm zucchini, farro, and chick peas if necessary.  In a large bowl, toss farro, zucchini, chick peas and pepitas with mint/basil.  Sprinkle with feta/goat cheese.  Salt and pepper to taste.

NaBloPoMo: Breaking With Tradition, and Lentil Soup with Browned Butter

There were a lot of rules about food in my family as I was growing up.  The post about breakfast got me thinking.  Not only did we have rules about what would be for breakfast each day of the week (which I guess was intended to simplify things, but really, wouldn't cereal and fruit have been simpler?), but we had rules about what was for dinner on Sunday (a roast something or other), what time we would eat (dinner at 6 on the dot every night, and at 1:30 on Sundays), and what dinner would include (always at least four separate things on a plate: bread, and a carbohydrate, and one buttered vegetable, and meat).  During Lent, we ate fish on Fridays.

I look at the way my family eats now, and I wonder when I decided to break so completely with tradition.  We do tend to eat at the same time every night, for the sake of convenience.  Nothing different about Sundays, though.  I usually feed my kids some form of carbohydrate with the evening meal, but there isn't necessarily one for me or for my husband, though I will occasionally find him with a bowl of cereal in hand later in the evening if I haven't made one.  There is often no meat in sight.  There are often multiple vegetables involved, especially during CSA season.  There is often one bowl per person (forget the plate), with everything mixed together in a soup or salad or stir-fry, aka the "one pot wonder."

I usually spend Wednesday and Thursday nights--not the entire night, but a good chunk of time--planning for next weeks' meals, so I can shop on Friday for the week.  Our CSA pickup is also on Friday, so I can start cooking on the weekend.  I had to laugh at myself, looking at my initial list of possibilities this week, taking a guess at what our share might include, and imagining what my old-world European father would have thought, once he'd gotten past how careless my handwriting has gotten over the past year.  Just count the number of times the words "chard" and "kale" appear.  (I also had to laugh at myself: I tease my mother for making lists of clothing to take on a trip, but my sketch of the week's menu is far worse than hers ever was.)

I guess, in my house, there are lots of food rules, too.  Just different ones than the ones I grew up with.

The lentil soup I made just recently would never have appeared on our family table in my youth. At least, not without a lot of bread and a plate with three separate courses alongside it.



Do you have food rules, spoken or unspoken?  Do you meal-plan for the week or are you more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants cook?

Coconut Lentil Soup
This is, of course, Heidi's recipe. I omitted the red pepper, added a shallot, increased the liquid (mine was just too thick).
 
2 T. extra-virgin coconut oil

1 medium yellow onion, chopped
1 shallot, finely chopped

3 cloves garlic, chopped


6 cups vegetable broth
1 1/2 c. green lentils, picked over and rinsed
3 T. unsalted butter

1 T. Indian curry powder

2/3 c. coconut milk

salt

fresh chives, snipped

Melt the coconut oil in a large soup pot over medium-low heat.  Raise heat to medium, add onion and garlic and saute until just translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the broth and lentils and simmer, covered, about 40 minutes, or until lentils are tender (Heidi recommends you start checking them earlier, at around 20 minutes).

While the soup is cooking,  melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Stirring constantly, let it brown (you'll know you have it right when the foam goes away and you start to see small brown solid bits).  Stir in the spices and saute for another 30 seconds.  Remove from heat.

When the lentils are tender, remove the soup from the heat and stir in the coconut milk and salt.  Puree to your preferred consistence, and stir in half of the spiced butter.

Serve drizzled with the additional spiced butter and snipped chives.

Hanuman, Anandam, Memory, and Chickpea Ratatouille

Each month, my yoga teacher focuses on a different asana to deepen our practice, and this month's theme was hanumanasana.  Hanuman, according to Hindu scripture, was the deity who reunited the lovers Sita and Rama, symbolizing the role of public servant, and seeker of truth.  We're also thinking about the second of the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, and last night, my teacher was talking about the things that keep us from anandam, from bliss: the things that keep us from uniting with the truth.

One of these things, according to Patanjali, is reproducing memory, living as if what was true then is also true now.  Or distorting memory in ways that link it with other thought patterns.

I guess that's one reason that yoga has been recommended as a treatment for PTSD: to help us get closer to the truth of now, rather than inhabiting a past that our minds can embellish.  If we are focused on our breathing, on the position of our bodies in space, it's a lot harder to rehash the things that caused us pain; we are too busy with the process of reunification of self.

Mel posted the other day about refusing to get on an emotional roller coaster, and I could have sworn she was talking to me.  I've recently gotten back on a roller coaster that I thought I'd never get back on again.  It's a ride that takes me right back to where I was two years ago, with twists and turns and plummets into the depths that make me -- even now -- dizzy and sick: I have a strong visceral reaction to living in this space of memory.  I did it because I thought it would bring me closer to the truth.  I did it because I want, desperately, to do the right thing.  But sometimes it's hard to know what the right thing to do really is.

There have been a few times over the past few days when I look down at my daughter and realize that she is becoming this little person; I find myself wondering where this small, articulate little one came from.  I've been with her from the beginning, of course, but I will admit to being a very distracted parent over the past two years.  People have asked "are you enjoying your time at home?"  And I would have to answer, "well, sort of, but it's hard to focus on enjoying your time at home when you think you're supposed to be somewhere else."  It's hard to focus on being at home when you never know if and when you'll get a job, and you live in constant limbo.  (Sort of like being pregnant after infertility and loss.  Yes, you are happy to be pregnant, but you also know that at any moment you may lose everything, so you try hard not to attach at all.)  It's hard to focus on being at home when you feel like you're treading water.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you are depressed.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you feel like you are going to leap out of your skin at any moment, because this is not your life.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you are still stuck in the memory of what happened to you when this all started.

And now, I feel sad that I've squandered the time I had, the gift I had.  Not on purpose, but because I couldn't be present for it.  Still on the roller coaster, I try to drag myself back to the now, and notice the amazing little one before me.  Because she is what's real.

Om anandam, sachit anandam.  Welcome bliss.  Be present now.  And be gentle when the memories come.

Chickpea Ratatouille
This Mark Bittman dish from the April 2013 issue of Vegetarian Times is the sort of thing you can prepare and then step away from, so that you can spend more time being where you are, rather than where you think you're supposed to be.  This is not my mother's ratatouille.

1 lb. small eggplant, cut into large chunks
28-oz. can whole tomatoes, drained and chopped
3/4 lb. zucchini, cut into large chunks
1 medium yellow onion, sliced (1½ cups)
2 red or yellow bell peppers, cored, seeded, and sliced
5 cloves garlic, peeled and halved
1 t. salt
¼ cup olive oil
2 15 oz. cans chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1/4 c. chopped fresh parsley


Preheat oven to 425°F. Combine eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, onion, bell peppers, garlic, salt and oil in large  roasting pan.

Roast 30 to 40 minutes, or until vegetables are lightly browned and tender, and some water has released from  tomatoes to create a sauce, stirring occasionally.

Stir in chickpeas, and roast 5 to 10 minutes more, or until chickpeas are heated through. Stir in parsley, and season with salt and pepper, if desired. Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature.

My Grandmother, Choosing Family, and Yellow Split Pea Lentil Soup

My grandma left the world this past week.  She had moved into advanced stages of dementia, and suffered from COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) and congestive heart failure, so in many ways her passing was a blessing; I know that she is now finally at peace.  I hadn't seen her for a while; she moved to Maine when I was still in middle school, and she had been deteriorating for some time, so my aunt had been busy trying to take care of her, and, I suspect, not really wanting people to see her as the person she'd become.  Which means that my memory of her is not clouded by memories of her illness ... good for me, I guess, not-so-good for my aunt.

Grandma was not my "real" grandma, in the sense that she wasn't blood-related.  She was my aunt's mother, someone who joined our family by marriage.  When my alcoholic uncle (my mother's brother) and my aunt divorced, my family, sadly, mostly abandoned my uncle, and kept my aunt and my cousin, and got Grandma, too.  She was the only grandmother I ever knew; both of my parents' parents died long before I was born.  And she played the role well: there were always banana breads and coconut breads and muffins and chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, and pots of "gravy" (she was Italian) bubbling away on the stove, and presents that spoiled me.  She sent me scores of cookbooks, and was always offering, on the sly, to let me come stay with her.  I am sure that it was her intent to "fatten me up," not that I needed fattening in my formative years.  I very clearly remember my first New Year's Eve apart from my parents, when I stayed at Grandma's house and she let me watch the ball drop.  We had split pea soup for dinner, and mini hot dogs at midnight, with a tiny glass sip-full of champagne.  I thought I would die of happiness, living it up like a real "grown up," my folding TV tray perched next to hers as we sat together on the couch watching Dick Clark.

In many respects, you don't get to choose your family.  You're stuck with the people who raise you, at least for the early years.  But for me, my grandma was the first example of someone we chose to make part of our family.  My first daytime babysitter was another person we "adopted," for lack of a better term: Aunt Kitty, as we called her, was not just someone who watched me when my parents were at work, but someone who was there at my high school graduation, marveling at the young woman I'd become.

Over the years, I've done my share of this "annexing."  My best friend's parents in high school, who smothered me in hugs.  My high school English teachers, who fed me large shopping bags full of mystery novels, and who hosted me for weekends of quiet reading, good food, and cat-petting during difficult adolescent years.  My college boyfriend's parents, who often welcomed me to their Shabbat table, who fed me chicken soup when I was sick and challah when I wasn't, even if they probably did feel a little sorry that I wasn't Jewish.  My friend in California, who became a big sister, looking out for me when I wasn't looking out very well for myself.

I was talking with a friend from church recently about the giving and receiving sermon from the other day, about why we build our community and try to make sure that everyone is taken care of, and it's precisely for this reason: that most families come imperfect, incomplete, some assembly required.  Which is not to say that everyone needs the heteronormative family with four grandparents and 1.5 siblings and a dog, but that relationships are complicated, and that I feel grateful for the people who have become my chosen family over the years, who help me define what family really means.

My grandmother never would have imagined split pea soup like this.  But I know that she is with me now in the kitchen, nodding approvingly at my efforts to keep the oven hot and the pots bubbling on a regular basis.

How do you define your family?  Who have you chosen to add to your family over the years?

Yellow Split Pea Lentil Soup
adapted from 101 Cookbooks
I added a little more water and vegetables than Heidi did to this soup, and less raisins, because I don't like my soup quite as sweet.  I also tossed all of the scallions in during the cooking stage, instead of saving some for the end as she does, partly by mistake, but I liked the result.  And I added a bit of garam masala for a deeper of flavor.

1 c. yellow split peas
1 c. red lentils
8 c. water
2 carrots, cut into 1/2-inch dice
2 T. fresh peeled and minced ginger, divided
2 T. curry powder
2 T. coconut oil
8 scallions thinly sliced
1/4 c. golden raisins
1/3 c. tomato paste
1/2 t. garam masala
1 14-ounce can coconut milk
2 t. salt
one small handful cilantro, chopped

Rinse the split peas and lentils very well and place them in 3+ quart soup pot.  Cover the beans with water, bring to a boil, and reduce to a simmer.  Add the carrot and 1 1/2 t. of the ginger. Cover and simmer for about 35 minutes, or until the split peas are soft but not mushy.  You should test them every few minutes towards the end of cooking time to make sure you don't get split pea soup the way my grandma used to make it (which was great for people with no teeth).

In the meantime, in a small skillet over low heat, toast the curry powder, stirring constantly until fragrant. This should only take about a minute or two; if it starts smoking you're gone too far! Set aside.

Melt the coconut oil in a saute pan over medium heat, add the green onions, the remaining ginger, and raisins. Saute for two minutes stirring constantly, then add the tomato paste and garam masala and saute for another minute or two more.

Add the toasted curry powder to the tomato paste mixture, mix well, and then add this to the simmering soup along with the coconut milk and salt. Simmer, uncovered, for 20 minutes or so.

You can add rice or farro if you'd like a heartier soup; I preferred mine as is, sprinkled with lots of cilantro.

On My Own Terms: Yellow Split Pea Pesto

I've posted multiple times before about my beef with my family's holiday dinners.  In a word, I hate them.  Too many unnecessary appetizers.  Too much starch.  Too much animal protein.  Too many desserts.  Too much food in general.  And definitely too much indigestion-promoting conversation and family conflict.

I have hosted said holiday dinners for the past few years, mostly for kid-related reasons: easier to put babies and toddlers down for a nap in their own rooms; easier to let little people roam here than letting them loose in my mother's extremely non-child-proofed house; easier not to truck a carload of diapers, food, toys and other child accoutrements for a mere two hour visit when we could have two adults drive here instead.  But hosting holiday dinners also means that I do so on everyone else's terms. No one, for example, wants quinoa-stuffed acorn squash for Thanksgiving.  And while it's true that I could simply make people bring the foods they want to eat, I also feel strangely violated by those foods invading my table.  I neither want to have my mashed potatoes, nor eat them.  (Cake is another story.  But that's for another day.)  On a deeper level, I suspect that my discomfort is also about the politics that people bring to my house, and the words they bring that are not always kind, and the way that being with them makes me feel about myself.  It's like my own terms don't matter.

What's particularly odd about this is that I've done lots of big, scary things in my life on my terms.  I left my first graduate school program.  I left my position at my last job.  What was the difference, I wondered, as I agonized over another year's menu.  Was it because I felt like these things involved other people, and that the other people's desires superseded my own?  Was I really doing anyone any favors by doing something I didn't want to be doing, and then being grumpy about it?

I decided to try a small experiment.  Easter dinner is pretty low-stakes, after all.  No one really expects potatoes, for example.  So I didn't make any starch.  While ham is the Easter protein staple in my family, I refused to glaze it or do anything to it besides heat it. I made a simple steamed asparagus, and drizzled it with fig-infused balsalmic vinegar.  I put my husband in charge of making bread for people who needed to eat it.  I bought a single wedge of cheese to serve to people who absolutely could not survive without eating something in the half hour we had to be together before the meal.  And I made a split pea salad side dish adapted from my food guru Heidi Swanson, which served as the vegetarian entree ... for me.

It made a remarkable difference.

My husband tells me that I often act as if there is one way to do things in the world, and that's my way.  Which is completely true ... sometimes.  Even if it's a small thing, sometimes the small things matter.  Is that selfish?

When is doing things on our own terms selfish, and when does it count as self-preservation?

Are there small--or even big--things that you need to do on your own terms?  Do they involve other people, or just you?


Yellow Split Pea Salad with Pepitas and Pesto
adapted from 101 cookbooks
Have I mentioned how much I love Heidi Swanson?  I've been cooking my way through Super Natural Every Day and have not disappointed yet.  This salad was my"vegetarian option," and even the meat-lovers enjoyed it.  I made a few adjustments which I've reflected below: arugula instead of mixed lettuces (which was a nice spicy complement), more of the greens, less oil, less cheese, more lemon, more salt.  Vegan option below.

1 1/2 c. yellow split peas, rinsed and picked over
5 c. water
1 cup pepitas
1 cup cilantro leaves and stems, well washed and lightly packed
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese (you can also use some large flake nutritional yeast and a bit more pepitas)
3 medium cloves garlic, peeled
2 T. lemon juice
1/2 t. salt
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 c. baby arugula

Toast the pepitas in a toaster oven or a regular oven at 350 (or even a dry skillet) for about 3-4 minutes, or until you hear the pepitas start to pop.  Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

Bring water to boil in  large saucepan.  Add the peas and cook until tender, about 25 minutes.  Rinse, drain, and set aside.  (Heidi says you can also use canned white beans, but I appreciated the slight crunch of the peas.)

Blend 1/3 cup of the toasted pepitas, cilantro, Parmesan, garlic, lemon juice, until the mixture has reached a smooth, paste-like consistency.  You can add a bit of the olive oil to make this happen if the mixture appears to be too stubbornly chunky.  Continue to blend the mixture as you add the olive oil

Toss everything but the agurula together in a large bowl until it is thoroughly mixed. Taste and season here with additional salt and pepper if necessary.  Add the arugula and gently toss again.

Re-boiled.

If you're a parent, you've heard the admonition that you're going to find yourself saying the same things to your children that your parents said to you.  It's hard not to.  After all, we are good students, and those lessons happen at an impressionable age.  And we see ourselves in our children, too, don't we?  Sometimes the resemblance is obvious, and sometimes less so; sometimes it's physical, and sometimes something much deeper than facial features.  Sometimes it's flattering, and there is great joy in those moments.  Sometimes, it's anything but.

Especially when we see the parts of ourselves that we struggle with (or against) emerge in our children.


My son is sort of a perfectionist.  He's been that way as long as I can remember, lining up his vehicles in lines that had to go just so, having a complete meltdown when he doesn't do something exactly right the first time.  His teacher, in a recent conference, said that she noticed this quick frustration (to the point of tears) and it worried her, to see it in a child so young.  We do the best we can to prevent this from becoming a life-long obstacle.  Being encouraging.  Telling him that practice is important.  Assuring him that the mistakes are part of the learning process, and that everyone learns at a difference pace.  

But of course, this is my nature, too.  Having things just so.  Doing everything exactly right.  Never disappointing anyone.  Making everyone happy.  Or if I'm pissing people off, doing so with full knowledge and confidence that it's my intention to do so.  And as much as I try to be reassuring, I confess that sometimes I also respond to the things that make me frustrated by expecting him to be perfect.  Why didn't you get those math problems right? You know the answers.  Why can't you bathe yourself faster?  You're a big boy, you don't need me to supervise you every minute.  And so on.  Just, of course, like my father.

I also see him react out of anger, snapping with a quick temper, rage flaring up and going off like fireworks.  Which is also the way I've reacted to bottled-up anger over the years.  Quiet, quiet, quiet, and then BANG.

It's a scary negotiation, those moments.  Because I step back and see myself with a lens that makes me uncomfortable.

The difference, though, is that I see it, and talk about it, and let him know that I'm not happy with the way I sometimes deal with anger, or disappointment, or frustration.  And we try to talk about how both of us can problem-solve better.  

A few years ago, Brene Brown wrote, in her series about imperfect parenting, about the fact that parenting is a journey that we have to walk with our kids, while also continuing to figure ourselves out.  And in some ways, having kids forces us to figure ourselves out, even if we thought we'd figured out everything already before we started family-building.  (Good for you, by the way, if you have managed to do this.)  We may want to forget about our own flaws, or our own self-work, but we can't focus on our kids without looking a little more deeply at ourselves, too.

The other thing to remember about parenting is that as much as our children do resemble us, they are also, thankfully, their own people, subject to a different set of environmental conditions, and a different co-parent (or even in single-parent homes, different adult role models).  I know that there's hope for my son, because as much as he's a perfectionist, he's also, as my husband might be, perfectly happy with hastily written homework, or half-eaten sandwiches and crumbs on the counter, or pajamas on the floor.  And he's just as apt to walk away from a situation, or let his rage go, as he is to allow it to fester and scream.  Which are good reminders for me, too.

It's sort of like ribollita.  You start with bean soup.  And you cook it forever. And it's really good bean soup.  But then, you stop cooking it, and you throw in some bread, and you cook it all over again, and now it's heartier, and stronger, and more flavorful.  That goes for them, and for us.

I ate a soup like this in a small cafe in Kingston with a friend, at the end of a long weekend training program.  It wasn't quite ribollita, even though it was listed as such on the sandwich board (perfectionist that I am, I wasn't going to point out that they'd left out the beans and the bread).  But it was the sort of thing that had been cooked forever, which is sometimes exactly the kind of soup you want.

What traits did your parents have that you see in yourself?  If you have children, which of your traits, if any, do you see in them?  How has the "reboiling" changed you?

(not exactly) Ribollita

1 T. olive oil
4 stalks of celery, diced  
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 yellow onion, diced
4 sprigs rosemary (2 T. dried)
3 sprigs fresh thyme (2 t. dried)
1 c. white wine
4 yukon gold potatoes, 1/2" cubes
15 oz. can fire roasted tomatoes
15 oz. white beans (optional) 
5 c. vegetable stock 
1 c. water 

1 bunch of kale, stems removed, leaves chopped  

Heat oil in a large stock pot over medium heat.  Add garlic, onions and celery and saute until just fragrant and beginning to become translucent.  Add rosemary and thyme, and stir until fragrant, a minute or two.  Pour in white wine, and reduce heat to medium-low; cook until the vegetables are tender.

Add potatoes and season with fresh ground pepper and sea salt.  Stir to coat.  Add tomatoes, beans (optional), vegetable broth and water and simmer on medium-low heat for 2 1/2 hours (or however long you can stand it), stirring occasionally and adding extra seasoning or water if necessary.

Remove the sprigs of herbs if they haven't disintegrated by now.  Add kale and cook until just tender and wilted, about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Enjoy with a crusty white bread and the rest of your bottle of wine.

Self-Centered or Self-Care: Lentil, Mushroom and Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be self-centered.  It's kind of a sticky wicket, isn't it?  You're supposed to take care of yourself, and be good to yourself, but if you do too much of that, people start to look down their noses at you.  And how do you decide what you're doing for yourself, and what you're doing for someone else, even if it fulfills you?

For example.

I know someone who dedicated 40 years of her life to teaching in public school and raising her children.  She paid her dues.  And now she does the things that she wants to do: going to the YMCA, meeting friends for lunch, watching TV, helping out with a project at church.  When you talk with her, she talks mostly about these things.  Is that self-centered?  Or well-deserved self-care?

And there are times I think that maybe *I'm* self-centered.  I'm at home with N., but most days I go to the Y in the morning after the morning routine and playtime, and N. plays in Child Watch for an hour while I go sweat.  We come home, I feed N. lunch, and she takes an hour long nap, during which I get to shower.  In the afternoon, we do something ... sometimes a walk, or an errand, or on rainy days, we draw and do puzzles.  Then there's picking I. up from the bus, and managing homework time trying to keep her entertained, and dinner.  At night, I am out at a meeting sometimes three nights a week.  Board of Education, the Board of the Friends of the Library, a meeting for church.  Sometimes I go to yoga.  Less often I go out to a discussion group.  I feel guilty about going to yoga or to other events, because I feel like I am already so self-centered.

Not making my own salary has a lot to do with this worry, I know.  I buy some expensive tea, or a book, and I feel like I have taken without giving back.  Like I've tipped the balance of the Universe in favor of MEMEME.
  
I made this recipe even though my family isn't vegan, even though my husband really likes meat, even though I knew my kids probably wouldn't like it (and that N. probably wouldn't eat it at all).  Is THAT self-centered?  (I also made another version of it, which I will post later this week, which my son DID eat ... for breakfast.  Maybe it's a matter of simply winning people over to doing what I want them to do in order to get around the problem of being self-centered?)

Lentil, Mushroom, and Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie
Adapted from the kitchn

5 medium sweet potatoes
1 c. green lentils, washed and picked over
3/4 c. uncooked steel cut oats
1 bay leaf
1 t. salt
1 T. olive oil
1/2 lb. white mushrooms, quartered
1/2 lb. white mushrooms, diced
1 onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
1 garlic clove, minced
3/4 c. low-sodium vegetable broth
1/4 c. red wine
1 T. tomato paste
1 T. soy sauce
2 t. smoked paprika

Preheat the oven to 400°F.  Wash sweet potatoes well and prick them a few times with a fork to prevent explosions.  Bake the potatoes for about an hour, or until they just about collapse when you try to pick them up with your potholder.  Set aside.

Place lentils, oats, bay leaf, salt and 5 cups of water in a medium saucepan, and bring to a boil.  Lower heat and simmer uncovered, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking, for 15-20 minutes or until lentils are just done, and no longer crunchy. Remove bay leaf and drain the mixture, trying not to eat too much of it before you add the other ingredients.

Add the olive oil to a large saucepan and heat over medium-high heat.  Saute the quartered mushrooms with a pinch of salt until tender and just beginning to brown, about 3-5 minutes, stirring frequently.  Add the remaining vegetables and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until they are softened.  Reduce the heat to medium-low nad add the lentil mixture and additional seasonings.  Simmer for 5 minutes, adjusting seasonings to your taste if necessary. Remove from heat.

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Peel the potatoes (this should be very easy; just grab one end of the skin and the rest should fall out) and mash into a medium bowl.  Season with salt and pepper.  

Pour the the lentil mixture into a 9x9-inch pan and cover with the mashed sweet potatoes. Bake for 30 minutes, or until the lentil mixture is bubbly at the edges.  Cool 5 minutes and serve.

On the Hand-written Letter, and Roasted Cauliflower and Sweet Potato Soup

My husband bought a Kindle not long ago.  He loves it, and reads most of his books that way now.  I, on the other hand, use it only when necessary and expedient.

I'm a book person.  You know -- the kind of person who flips slowly through the paper, drinking in the heady smell of the freshly turned page.  I love the feel and the weight of a book: I appreciate a smooth matte jacket, and I appreciate knowing both how far I've come and how far I have to go, just by eyeballing the location of my bookmark.  But honestly, much as I work diligently not to contribute to massive deforestation, I'm probably just a paper person in general.  At meetings for local civic groups, I find myself printing out e-packets just so I can write in the margins and spread them out all over the table.  The leaves take up space and overlap and rustle in a satisfying way that electronic media simply can't.  I love the three dimensionality of it, the completeness of the sensory experience.  And there's less and less of that in my life these days.

In addition to keeping a paper journal, I also used to write letters.  They were long, lovely, thoughtful affairs, written with the epistolary novel in mind, I think; I even had--and still have--a fountain pen and a wax seal to complete the romantic authenticity.  I had several friends with whom I corresponded in this way, and I've saved many of their letters from those years, imagining some day a relative would find them and be able to mine my past from the perspective of another person.  (I don't know why, but I felt more comfortable about this possibility than I feel about having my email read somewhere in the future.  Why is that, I wonder?)

The other day, after I'd responded to a of hers comment on my blog post, a friend of mine promised a letter.  She is an excellent letter writer (an excellent writer in general, but it is its own genre), and every once in a while, when she feels frustrated by the internet, or when it seems like it's simply not enough, she writes to me.  I usually write back, and sometimes there are three or four letters before we lapse back into electronic communication.

It's been a while since we'd done this, and I when I got her letter, I went to respond, only to discover that I no longer had a single sheet of stationery in my house.  It was depressing.  Good letters are more than words; they are works of art, unique because of the paper you've chosen to write them on, the vulnerability of the author's handwriting.  They're an important genre, a little window onto the soul that I'm not sure is the same in a published blog post.

I carefully tore a few pages out of one of my journals, and while my vegetables roasted for soup, penned a response, which may even have smelled just a little bit like garam masala and cauliflower and sweet potato.  And I determined to go stationery shopping in the not-too-distant future.  Because some art forms are too important to lose.

Did you ever write letters, and do you still do so?  If you received letters, have you saved them over the years?  How would you feel about having your email read some day, and archived in the same way that some writers preserved their letters?  Do you feel like reading someone's handwritten correspondence is the same as reading their email correspondence?

Roasted Sweet Potato and Cauliflower Soup
adapted from Isn't That Sew

3 large sweet potatoes, 1" cubes
1 head cauliflower, cut into small florets
4 large carrots, cut into 1" rounds
2 T. olive oil
2 t. garam masala
1 medium onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil
4 cups vegetable stock
5 cups water
pepitas

Preheat the oven to 400.  Toss sweet potatoes, cauliflower and carrots in a large bowl with garam masala and olive oil.  Place on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil or parchment.

Roast vegetables for 30 minutes or until just beginning to brown checking every ten minutes or so to stir, loosening the vegetables from the bottom of the sheet and avoid burning.  Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.

In a large stock pot, saute onions and olive oil until just translucent, about 3-5 minutes.  Add garlic and saute one minute.  Add broth, water, and roatsed vegetables, and simmer for 15 minutes, or until the vegetables are very tender.  Using an immersion blender, blend the remaining ingredients until smooth.  (Add more water at this point if you like your soup less thick.)

Serve topped with toasted pepitas, or if you prefer, a swirl of heavy cream.

More Greens, Served Cold: Envy, Energy, and Arugula and Pear Salad with Maple Dressing

So I've been thinking some more about--and working on quieting--the green-eyed monster since my post the other day about experiencing envy at the Y.

One of my instructors tore her meniscus recently.  It's clearly a very painful injury, and there's nothing you can to do fix it except rest it; you can't cast it, or medicate it.  In some cases it can require surgery, but from what I've read, that's a less desirable solution.  For a person whose entire livelihood depends on being able to teach fitness classes, and that career depends on being fit in the first place, a torn meniscus is really, really bad news.  Healing takes time.

Our instructor has continued to come and teach classes, demonstrating the exercises when she can, sometimes on one leg, pushing herself and us as hard as she can, stepping back when she has to, and often--I can tell by her contorted facial expressions--working through the pain.

(This in itself has given me pause.  When we injure ourselves, do we push through the pain?  Or do we stop and rest?  What does taking care of ourselves mean to us?  Is it different psychologically than physically?  I know that I've run or exercised despite injuries more times than I can count, altering my gait, gritting my teeth and telling myself that if I just work through it, I'll be fine.  Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not.  Is this a cultural thing?  I have worried for my instructor, but on the other hand, everyone else in the class seems to accept her presence, despite her injury, as a matter of course.)

The class I go to on Tuesdays is Tabata, which is essentially a high-intensity interval training class, with new exercises every week, which each person does as hard and as fast as she can, until we feel that our hearts will just about burst through our chests, and we suck in our air in great gasping gulps.  The great thing about Tabata is that it's an intense workout that is completely scalable to your ability and fitness level, and that you are called to do your personal best in a fitness class where no one passes judgement on what that personal best might be.  Though the Y is really supposed to be about community anyway, in some ways, Tabata unintentionally promotes mudita -- that empathetic joy I was talking about -- even more so in group fitness.  And just being together in that class encourages everyone to challenge themselves as they need to be challenged: so we are quite literally part of the larger energy that makes the work possible.

About halfway through Tuesday's class, my instructor, who had been nursing her knee for half an hour, finally sat on the floor, bent over her leg in obvious agony.  It was the worst it has been so far since her injury.  I watched her, and I wanted desperately for her to stop moving, to ice her knee, to sit there and call 9-1-1.  But she got up and finished the class on one leg, cheering us on.  She must have hated us then, in some way, being able to move and run and jump, but instead, she hollered and urged us to go faster-higher-harder, taking out her camera to film us, capturing the class energy in her pocket for posterity.

I thought about how incredibly generous that was ...what a gift it was to be there for us when she could not do the same for herself.  (I also wondered if it might be slightly insane, given that just being there and trying to teach might have jeopardized her healing process.)

Have you ever cheered someone on when you've wanted what they had, even though you couldn't attain it yourself?  Are you the kind of person who pushes on, despite an injury or illness?  What are the limits you draw on working through the pain?

Arugula and Pear Salad with Maple Dressing
adapted from Cooking Close to Home: A Year of Seasonal Recipes
When I make an arugula and pear salad, I tend to throw in the same things all the time: goat cheese and cranberries.  This isn't incredibly original, either, but I enjoyed the more earthy sweetness of the maple syrup paired with the pecans and pairs.  The original suggests adding shaved cheddar, but I'm trying to eat more vegan, so I opted not to include it.  You should feel free to add it back in if you like.

Dressing
1/2 t. garlic, minced
2 T. olive oil
2 T. balsalmic vinegar
1 T. maple syrup

Salad
4 c. arugula, stems removed
1 pear, sliced 1/4" thick
4 thin slices red onion
1/4 c. pecan halves

Toast the pecan halves on a baking sheet or rimmed piece of foil in a toaster oven for a few minutes, or until fragrant. Set aside.

Blend the dressing ingredients together using an immersion blender (great for emulsifying) or whisk.  Set aside.

Place all of the salad items in a large bowl, add the dressing, and toss to coat.  Or have your two year old divide the ingredients between the serving dishes and see what happens, then pour dressing over each plate.