Adventures at ShopRite, Mattering, and Vegetarian Pot Pie

I'm a Friday night grocery shopper.  After the dinner has been eaten, the dishes are washed, the kids are clean and in bed, I head out into the darkness to scavenge what's left at the store.  I like Friday nights for two reasons: first, I buy supplies to cook during the weekend so we have leftovers to eat during the week, and second, it's really a much saner time to shop than, say, Saturday morning.  And because it's a little less crowded, I tend to see--and occasionally even talk with--the same staff each week, who are stocking shelves and bins with bananas and onions and juice.

Except that last week, it was the day before a snowstorm.  I'd prepared myself for a crowd, but never had I seen anything like this.  You'd think we were preparing for the nuclear holocaust, the way the lines to check out snaked through the aisles, to the back of the store.  Over the PA system, Sue, one of the managers, periodically apologized for the wait, and reassured people that all cashiers were working, and that they'd try to get us all out as soon as possible.

Knowing that it was fruitless to speed my way to the checkout, I loitered a little longer than usual, talking with Steve in produce about his solution to prevent squirrels from eating bird food (Tabasco sauce.  "Do you know how much the good stuff costs?" he demanded, indignant), making small talk with people in the deli section who were needlessly criticizing the speed of the guys behind the counter, and looked over my list, adding a few things I'd forgotten.

One of the things on my list was sidra, Spanish hard cider that my father used to get for Christmas from a bodega in Union City, along with assorted bricks of turrón.  I'd found it in ShopRite for two years running, much to my surprise, since New Jersey grocery stores don't sell liquor.  This year, it was nowhere to be found in the imported foods section, or at least, not that I could tell, among the cans of Goya beans and Maria cookies and guava paste.  I wrinkled my nose and pursed my lips.  Maybe someone had gotten wise to the alcohol content?

A bit farther down the aisle, someone was unloading a cart with new things from the back.  I figured I'd take a chance and ask, feeling a little badly, given that they were clearly swamped.

"Say it for me again?" he asked, kindly, when I told him what I was looking for.  I repeated the word, and explained: "It's basically like sparkling cider.  My father used to get it every year around this time; it's ... " (I feel somehow silly saying this) "... it's part of my heritage."

"Let me find out," he said.  "You go on and shop; I'll find you."

You'll find me? I thought, dubious.  It was bedlam; I decided I'd never see him again. 

A few minutes later, he did actually find me, shaking his head as he made his way around the other shopping carts.  "I don't think we have what you're looking for," he said.  "Did you check the ciders?"

"Yes," I assured him.  "But this is ... well ... ever so slightly alcoholic."

"Huh," he sniffed.  "And you got it here?"  I nodded.  "Someone wasn't doing their job."

"You're probably right," I agreed.  "Hey, thanks for looking."

I finished my shopping, and headed to the checkout, where the lines were now only halfway to the back of the store.

I didn't think much more about it, until I went back to the store this week, enjoying the relative quiet, reclaiming my shopping night.  He appeared out of nowhere, and it took me a minute to place him.  He, however, knew exactly who I was.

"Did you ever find your cider?" he asked.

I was flabbergasted.  "No, I didn't," I confessed.

He nodded.  "I found out that ours is imported from Spain.  Not exactly the same, but for a buck ninety-nine, worth a try, maybe?"

I laughed.  "Yes, worth a try.  Hey ..."  I faltered.  "Thanks for remembering."

"No problem," he said, grinning.  "Happy Holidays."

"You too," I said, putting the bottle in my cart, waving as I scooted away.

There was so much to unpack in that conversation.  The astonishment I felt at being remembered, especially from a busy night when the store was full of faces and requests.  The kindness of a stranger going out of his way to learn something about a small thing that was important to me, and seeking me out to tell me later.

I was talking with an old friend this weekend, who commented that coming from the place she went to college, mediocrity was considered akin to failure.  If you weren't winning Nobel Prizes, or writing the next Great American Novel, or curing cancer, or steering a Fortune 500 company, your life might as well be over; anything less than exceptional was unacceptable.  She's since come to realize otherwise, and said that she wished she figured it out much earlier, so she could have saved herself from a complete breakdown.

I used to think that way about success, too, at least, as it applied to me, even though I didn't go to school at one of those fancy brand-name places.  And yet, when it comes down to it, our lives are made up of many more ShopRite moments than they are the moments that find us creating the kinds of earthquakes that measure 8.5 on the Richter scale.  The same goes for blogging.  Sure, we get a post that goes viral.  Maybe we get hundreds of comments (not that this has ever happened to me).  But this is how I want to be remembered: not necessarily having published books that hundreds or even thousands of people read, or even building a program that has a legacy for my institution or my field, but mattering to individual human beings, one at a time, like one does in ShopRite.

How do you make people, even the ones you've never met, feel like they matter?

Vegetarian Pot Pie
adapted from Vegetarian Times
This could be a good alternative main dish for the vegetarians at your holiday table.  It's not terribly fancy, but it's hearty, and savory, and just the right kind of warm.  It would pair very well with Spanish sidra.

4 c. vegetable broth
4 c. water
1 small butternut squash, peeled, chopped 
1 lb thin-skinned potatoes, unpeeled, cut into 1-inch chunks
1 large bunch spinach, well washed and coarsely chopped, or 3/4 c. frozen spinach
1 t. salt
1 1/2 c. frozen corn
1 1/2 c. cooked chickpeas
1/4 c. olive oil
1 onion, quartered and thinly sliced
1/3 c. flour
1/2 t. dried rubbed sage
1/2 t. dried thyme
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 c. milk
1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed

Bring the broth, water, squash, potatoes, and salt to a boil in a large pot. Cover, reduce the heat to medium and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the spinach and corn. Cook for three minutes more. Drain the vegetables, reserving the broth. Stir in the chickpeas.

Heat oil in the same pot over medium-high heat. Add the onions and saute for about 7 minutes, or until beginning to brown. Add the flour, herbs, and garlic, and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute. Slowly pour 4 cups of the reserved broth into the pot. Cook until the roux thickens, 5-7 minutes, stirring constantly. Stir in the milk. Return the vegetables to the pot and mix; season to taste with salt and black pepper. Allow to cool slightly.

Preheat oven to 375.  Pour the filling into a 9x13-inch baking pan.  Gently roll out the puff pastry to the size of the baking dish and place over the filling, pressing around the edges to seal. Score four diagonal lines into the puff pastry, and bake for 45-60 minutes, or until the top of the crust is golden brown. Allow to cool for 10 minutes before serving.

Why Are We Studying Zombies? and Brains ... er ... Cauliflower Soup

The other day, during a meeting in which we reviewed the course offerings for the spring term (yes, really, all of them), it became obvious that the university was offering no fewer than three courses on zombies this semester, along with two one witches/mystics.  I never really got caught up in zombie-mania (that whole not-having-a-TV thing means that I never got addicted to The Walking Dead), but I have to admit, the fact that a student could practically minor in zombies at my place of employment shifted my perspective a little bit.

What is it about zombies, anyway?

I asked an old friend this question over tea the other morning; she works at a university press and was, herself, just about to go write copy for a book on this very same topic.  Her theory, which she'd borrowed from a co-worker, was that zombie-mania comes in waves, altering with vampires: that when the economy is tanking, we find fascination in vampires (a metaphor for our own guilty consumption), and when things are looking up, we like zombies: exuberantly consuming everything. Someone actually tracked this, and while the correlation is imperfect, it's not implausible.  But it doesn't get us anywhere.

There's another theory: that zombies allow us to express our fear of ourselves.  Of the unknown, the unpredictable in human nature.  The erratic infection that reanimates some humans, the frightening evil that lies embedded within us.  The thing that makes us heartless, soul-less, and nearly impossible to kill.  Because of all of the scary things in the world, zombies are just like us.  They are us.  And they're out to get us, too. 

I sort of prefer the second theory, probably because I'm a humanist and not an economist.  I'm interested in (among many other things, of course) the things within us that destroy us.  What makes people evil?  What makes us self-sabotage, and be willing to eat others alive?  What makes us lose our souls?  How do people prepare for the zombie apocalypse, and what does this mean about our own defenses against the dark arts?  This is, to me, the more interesting question for the college classroom.  It makes minoring in zombies seem like a worthy pursuit.

I'm not sure we'll ever get a satisfactory answer to that question; that's not what the humanities are about.  Studying patterns of zombie behavior isn't likely to protect us against them any better (though the writers of copious zombie survival guides would argue differently, I'm sure; they would encourage me, barn-owner that I am, to get the app.).  Then again, maybe it's like going to therapy: if you figure out the patterns of behavior, and can recognize them early enough, maybe there are some souls--even your own--that you can save?

Are you a zombie-lover?  What do you think about the fascination with zombies?  Are you prepared for the zombie apocalypse, just in case?

Cauliflower Soup
The cauliflower just looks like brains, right?  Once you blend it up, only your inner zombie has to know.

1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
8 leeks, trimmed and finely chopped, white part only
2 onions, finely chopped
1 cauliflower head, finely chopped
2 small potatoes, peeled and diced
4 bay leaves
4 c. chicken broth
2 2/3 c. milk
salt and pepper to taste

Melt the butter and oil in a large stock pot or dutch oven over medium heat.  Add the leeks and onions, and saute until just beginning to caramelize.  Add cauliflower, potato, bay leaves, and broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and cook, covered, until the cauliflower breaks apart easily with a fork, about 15 minutes. Discard the bay leaves.

Add the milk, salt, and pepper, and puree until smooth, either in a blender or with an immersion blender.

Top with shredded cheese, toasted almonds, creme fraiche, or snipped chives.

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

On (Not) Reading Carefully, and Cauliflower Soup

Long ago, I learned to tune out the talk about the demise of the humanities.  As a former English major, I couldn't help but feel like that rhetoric was a personal attack on the thing I loved best.  And while I could take the jokes from Prairie Home Companion, it was too hard to watch departments close because someone deemed them irrelevant.

And that was pretty much how it went, until the other day, when I found myself reading Jjiraffe's post about internet hoaxes, which also cited Mel's post over at BlogHer about the behavior of readers in the face of suspicious information, or moving on after a hoax has gone viral.  Both posts pose important questions about our responsibilities as writers, and even about our responsibility to behave well as readers in an online community.  But they got me thinking about what happens even before then, how we learn to read, and about the act of reading itself, about what we expect from the printed word now, whether on paper or on the screen.

Though I had a solid high school education, it wasn't until I got to college that I was systematically asked to be skeptical about information.  As far as I knew, even in high school, history was still history: sure, there were some people who were left out, but that didn't make the details any less true.  In college, though, I started to appreciate, more deeply, exactly what it meant to read critically.  I remember feeling a little overwhelmed by the responsibility.

Now, well-indoctrinated in the process of peer review, I'm a more expert judge of information quality.  While I google as well as the next person, and I don't always use google Scholar, I tend to have excellent querying techniques that get me reliable results.  I know how to quickly identify the relevant information, and separate the wheat from the chaff.

I remember the first time I had to tell a student that not everything he found on the internet was true.  He blinked, eyes wide, deer in the headlights, in disbelief.  Really?  He had to sift through this information?  And go on ... gut feeling?

Not really, I assured him then; there are standards.  But in the blogging world, the standards are pretty unstandard.

And blogs are just about ground zero for the humanities now.  Because the humanities are the study of our humanity in the making, aren't they?  How we decide to tell the stories of ourselves, our communities, our histories?  How do we process and document the human experience?  If you think about sheer numbers, it seems to me that there are more people creating these kinds of texts about lived human experience--publicly, at any rate--now than at any moment in history.

Which is exactly why we need the humanities in the first place.

The humanities teach us to read.  They teach us to read first in the literal way: the words on the page become stories, and the stories become books, and the books become chapter books, and then they become academic treatises.  But they also teach us to read other people.  To ask questions about narrators, and writing intention.  To put ourselves in the shoes of other characters, and also to put ourselves in the shoes of authors and figure out what that means.  To know that memoir and history are lenses through which we come up with our truths.  To play with the tools of language, and recognize someone else at play.  To be analytical and critical, but also to develop deep empathy and understanding.

Yes, it's reprehensible that people--bloggers--prey upon less careful readers.  Yes, it's terrible that people are exploited so that someone else can make a quick buck, or a quick reputation (which, these days, might as well be a buck anyway).  Yes, we ought to know when to click away.  But in order to make that click, we--ALL of us--engineers, historians, doctors, teachers, lawyers, economists, parents, consumers--need to know how to be careful readers.  Of everything, and everyone.  Because you can't do much science--or anything else, for that matter--if you can't really read.  And if that's not worth my education tax dollars, I don't know what is.

Cauliflower Soup
Adapted slightly from Super Natural Every Day
Even cookbooks need reading.  Like anything else, the thoughtful, critical reading of a recipe, and its re-interpretation in your own kitchen, makes it partly yours, too.  Thanks, Heidi, for an eminently readable text.

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
1/2 t. salt
1 large potato, peeled and diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 1/2 cups vegetable broth
14 ounces cauliflower, cut into small florets
1/4 c. white cheddar cheese, preferably sharp, grated
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1/4 c. almonds, chopped and toasted

Heat the oil in a large soup pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the onion and salt. Saute until the onions soften and are starting to turn translucent, about 4 minutes.

Stir in the potato, cover, and cook for about another 4 minutes, or until potato begins to soften. Stir in the garlic, and after about 30 seconds or when it becomes fragrant, add in the broth. Bring to a boil, while allowing the potatoes to become tender, a few more minutes.

Once they are tender, add the cauliflower and continue to simmer, covered, for an additional 4 or 5 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender. Remove the pot from heat and puree the soup. If you have one of those fancy immersion blenders, this would be the time to use it. Return the soup to the saucepan and stir in about half the cheese, and the two teaspoons mustard. Add more broth if you want to thin the soup at all. Serve, sprinkling each bowl with a handful of toasted almonds.

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.

Thoughts On Free Stuff (and Potato Cakes)

On the way home last night, I found myself listening to an NPR story about foraging.  I'm no stranger to the concept; I know that NPR has done reporting on it before, and I've read about it in magazines and online.  Last year, our town had a "free market" that offered goods and services, gratis, and included a small food table with delicacies made from foraged ingredients.

Foraging is sort of a contested practice.  Foragers argue that they don't eat anything that anyone else would want.  They find edible weeds in the grass, they pluck mushrooms, they pick fruit that goes unpicked by fruit tree owners who have no time to care for trees, they make pesto from stinging nettles, and they even (sometimes, though I find this utterly repulsive) eat squirrels.  The people who are trying to end the foraging movement say that foragers are vandals, thieves, and worse.

Talking with some experts, the NPR correspondent discussed the ways in which foragers in parks have actually become caretakers of their environment, and how foraging seems to make people more appreciative of what we often pass by without a second glance.  The story suggested that there might even be ways for foragers to work in the service of parks, educating people about the natural world.

I haven't ever gone hunting for my supper, and I'm unlikely to do so any time soon, much as I prefer to make my food from scratch rather than purchase it in packages or from take-out.  But the story about foraging resonated with me today because of a discussion I've been having with some other bloggers about the things that are free.

This past weekend, I attended BlogHer.  While there have been lots of great follow-up posts about networking and conference learning, there has also been a lot of controversy this year about the parties that happen on the periphery of the event, a phenomenon that's referred to as "outboarding."  Several conference attendees got their conference passes revoked for hosting these parties.

I attended one of these parties this year.   I confess, I was curious; I remembered watching people walk out of the hotel with bags full of swag--the likes of which I hadn't seen at the Expo, where my biggest score was a water bottle--and felt a little left out, like people had gone to a birthday party where everyone got presents, and not invited me.  Some of these bloggers were obviously going to these parties to connect with brands in a meaningful way as an extension of their conference experience, but many of them, it seemed, were going to collect free stuff. I remember feeling astonished that people could go to BlogHer and never see the inside of a single conference breakout session.  It smacked of middle school, and I hated middle school.  Still, when I was offered a ticket by a generous blogging friend who wasn't going to be able to get to Chicago, I jumped at the chance to hang with the "cool kids."

Except I also felt a little awkward about it from the beginning.  Now I  was one of the people who was the "insider," the one who had access to the cool free stuff that other people would covet.  I knew one person who was going to go to the party, and many other people who weren't.  I was participating in the anti-BlogHer, the exclusive un-conference.  And--in case you couldn't tell from the lack of advertisements here--I don't care much about brands.  It so happens that the party I attended didn't conflict directly with any of the official conference sessions, but that made it even more awkward, in some ways.  When I ran into people who asked me if I had plans for that night, I said, vaguely, "oh, I'm going to a thing."

A thing?

Most people I'd seen online flaunted their invitations, dropping party names like celebrities.  Why wasn't I doing that, too?

And I began to think more about what "free" really meant in that context.  I wasn't going to the party for the swag, but I was going to do something that didn't jive exactly with my values, the ones that Jory and Elisa and Lisa hold dear, too: the values of inclusivity.  Why couldn't those vendors and brands be part of the Expo?  Was the price of attendance compromising my values a little?

What do we give up in order to attend these parties?  Are we just lured by the swag?  Or do we really want to have conversations with these people?  During her keynote, Ree Drummond talked a little bit about her decisions to choose her affiliations carefully, and to maintain the integrity of her brand.  Do we give up our integrity when we promise (implicitly, even) to go proselytize on behalf of these companies in return for the stuff?  Which then, of course, isn't free at all?

I subscribe to our local Freecycle listserv, where I often post things, probably more often, even, than I pick them up.  The great thing about Freecycle is that stuff really is free.  No strings attached.  In fact, that's part of the TOS that you agree to when you become a member.  No reselling, no picking and choosing.  You offer something, and someone picks it up.  You give things away because you don't need them, and you pick them up because you do.  It's like foraging, in a way, except more community-sanctioned and organized.  And that's the way free stuff should work.  No strings attached, no guilt, no hard sell.

I don't actually want to villify the outboarders.  I'm glad that I went this year, to see what that scene was like.  I think that it's great for bloggers to connect with brands if that's their thing.  (It's not mine.)  But I don't like the feeling of exclusivity (my experience has always been that sometimes the people I don't already know turn out to be the best resources and advocates for my brand, or program, or whatever), and I don't like the feeling I get from these parties that bloggers can be so easily bought, by toys and food and alcohol.  Our opinions mean a lot, and we should be choosy about whom we represent, and how.  We are a powerful group of women who should support each other instead of excluding each other, and we should not be for sale.

I hope that there is a way to resolve some of these issues for next year, to integrate the brands that want representation, and give them equal access to everyone, and everyone equal access to them.  They might be surprised to find some diamonds in the rough--or maybe just some plain old diamonds.  As for me, I likely won't be at BlogHer, because I'll likely be at the professional association conference for my new job, where, I will add, there are no parties, and no swag.  I'll miss the networking, and the sessions that rejuvinate me as a writer.  If you go, I hope you'll do so with your eyes wide open, have an hors d'oeuvre, and think of me.

Potato Cakes
Here's a recipe that you can make from foraged ingredients, either from your cupboards, or ... somewhere else entirely.  They can be made small, as hors d'oeuvres or larger for dinner.  Why, you ask, would she take a perfectly good potato, mash it, and fry it?  Well, I counter, why would you take a perfectly good potato, boil it, chill it, and smother it in mayonnaise?

3/4 lb. Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled, cut into 1" cubes
1 egg
2 T. scallions, minced
1/2 lb. ham, torn (or roasted corn or anything else you like)
salt and pepper
oil to coat the pan
2 T. flour or cornmeal

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil.  Add potatoes, boil until soft, about 10 minutes.  Drain.

Mash potatoes well, and let cool just a bit.  Add eggs and mash some more.  Add scallions and mash some more.  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Roll the potato mixture into golf ball sized cakes, and flatten a bit.

When you are ready to cook, heat oil in a pan on medium heat.  Place the flour or cornmeal in a shallow bowl and roll the ham cakes in it so that they are lightly dusted.

Fry the potato cakes for about 3 or four minutes on each side, until just golden.

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: Relating, and Kale Salad with Avocado Dressing

Imagine that your parents and sister (and her family which include your two nephews) live within 4 miles of you and that you have, virtually, no relationship with them.

This was the excerpt, posted in Mels' Weekly Roundup, that led me to Is This What It Is (Or is it)? post on Estrangement.  Because it didn't take much for me to imagine what she might be describing.

I wouldn't say that I am estranged from my family.  We get together for major holidays and birthdays with my mother and brother, but our gathering seems more driven by Hallmark and expectations and duty than by genuine affection. I understand what she writes about your family never getting to know you, about never feeling unconditionally supported for how you thought or felt or what you wanted to do, about family suggesting that "you are too difficult, demanding, elitist, ungrateful, selfish" to want a relationship.  I understand the guilt and self-loathing, chastizing myself for being a horrible daughter for not feeling the sentiments in the Hallmark cards I read as I would search for one that would let me send good wishes without telling lies.

The other day I posted about roots and rootlessness, about my lack of knowledge about my blood grandparents.  What I didn't mention was that my father had eight other brothers and sisters, my mother two.  And that I don't really know any of them, either.

The thing is, relationships take work, and the relationships into which you are born (or where you find yourself as an adoptee) are no exception.  Being a parent doesn't give you easy automatic emotional connection to your child.  As I'm sure you all know, just because you've lived in the same house with someone doesn't mean that you understand them, or they you.  For my father, this work of relationship-building would have been complicated by the fact that his surviving family was spread over three continents, in an age before the internet connected us all instantaneously, not to mention that he left home at an early age to go to a Jesuit boarding school in France.  (We knew my two aunts in Spain, and my uncles in Guatemala and Puerto Rico, but none of them terribly well.)  For my mother, the work of relationship-building was complicated by the alcoholism of one of her brothers, and by the decision of her other brother to move, first an hour away, then to Texas.  In both cases, they chose to allow the complicatedness of relationship-building to prevent them from reaching out, and so we grew up without an extended family.

I find myself annoyed by people who take the "convenience" approach to relationship-building.  I had a former colleague who was like an aunt to my children.  After I left my job, though I reached out to her a few times, I only heard from her once.  I was astonished.  Wasn't I worth more to her?  But I should have known better.

Sometimes I think that maybe I'm like this, too.  That I find the work of relating too difficult.  On the other hand, I was the only one who kept in touch with my alcoholic uncle as he deteriorated.  I've followed friends across the country.  I can be counted on to follow up, to seek you out, to be there, as long as the relationship is not toxic to me or to my children.  My mother, on the other hand, has never once flown to Texas to see her brother.

How do you find yourself working at relationship-building, even in your own family?

***

I learned last summer that avocadoes make a pretty fabulous dressing.  I learned this spring the kale and farro go surprisingly well together.  I learned just recently that you can make salad out of all sorts of things thrown together, and the secrets include good olive oil, a variety of textures and shapes (crunchy, chewy, flat, round, leafy, nutty), and ingenuity.  But even salad still requires a little bit of effort.  And it's totally worth it in the end.

Kale Salad with Avocado Dressing
Inspired by Heidi Swanson's Kale Market Salad


1/3 c. scallions, chopped
1/4 t. fine grain sea salt, plus more to taste
2 T. fresh lemon juice
1/3 c. extra virgin olive oil
2 T. ripe avocado
1 1/4 t. honey, or to taste
fresh pepper to taste
1 bunch kale, destemmed, torn into pieces
1 1/3 c. cooked farro
4-5 carrots, very thinly sliced
1 avocado, cut into small cubes
1/2 c. almond slices, toasted

Using a hand blender or food processor, puree the first seven ingredients (through pepper) together until smooth. Taste, and adjust with more salt, or honey, or lemon juice.

In a large bowl, combine the kale with about half of the dressing and se your hands to massage the dressing and kale together until the kale appears almost slightly wilted, as if it has been blanched.  Add the farro, carrots, more dressing, and more salt, and toss again.  Add the avocados and almonds and toss gently before serving.

NaBloPoMo: Trees, Roots, and Lentil Shepherd's Pie

My potato plant had flowered; the small potato growing on the bottom had become a real, live, larger potato.  I may have given a little whoop of joy, or done a little dance in my kitchen in its honor.  Of course, I still hadn't planted it.  So in a day or two, the flower wilted, the stalks yellowed, and it was looking much more sorry again than robust.  From the time it realized it could become a real potato plant, it has wanted to be outside, in the rain and the wind and the sun, being pollinated.  And though I care for it as best I can, I can't hope to replicate natural conditions when I'm keeping the plant suspended by four toothpicks over a glass of water by my kitchen window.

In the early 1990s, Biosphere 2 conducted its first closed mission.  Among the things they observed during that mission was that though trees in a closed system grew rapidly, they suffered from etiolation (a condition characterized by long, weak stems) and weakness caused by lack of "stress wood."  Like the stalks of my potato plant, they would grow taller and taller until finally, they'd just topple over.  It turns out that trees actually do grow stronger in response to wind, and when there is no wind--which there wasn't, during the closed system mission, just circulating air--they become long and spindly, with less well-developed root systems.

Today's NaBloPoMo prompt invites us to respond to Dolly Parton's comment: "Storms make trees take deeper roots."  If I'm going by the results of the Biosphere 2 experiment, and the mini-experiment in my kitchen, it's a no-brainer.  Yes, trees need storms.  It sounds to be a lot like the old adage "that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger." But it's also complicated, isn't it?  Because "that which doesn't kill us" is a powerful qualifier.

All storms are not created equal.  I've seen first hand the destruction of a hurricane.  Sometimes the wind can be too strong, even for the oldest and most well-developed of trees.  Sometimes the rain turns solid ground to mud, or washes them away in a flash flood.  We lost many pines this year, which have--I learned--more shallow root systems, but we also lost some older hardier-looking trees that had deeper roots than I would have expected.

It's a lot like what Bjork and Bjork refer to as "desirable difficulty" in the psychology of learning: we learn best when we are challenged, but we have to be able to map the new information on to things we already know.  Interleaving also helps us to learn better in the long-term, but too much randomness makes it impossible to make connections.  Small storms benefit us most.  Taking "baby steps" towards strength makes us strongest in the end.

It's common practice to stake young trees--not all young trees, because each species is a bit different in its needs, but many kinds of young trees--at the beginning.  Sort of like people.  We don't start out subjecting young saplings to the greatest winds; nor do we subject novices to the most relentless criticism without constructive guidance.  Children who have to deal with crisis or tragedy at a very young age are most resilient when they have good support systems in place, when they are "staked" externally.  Adults aren't much different.

What I've learned over the past few years supports these observations.  When life takes a turn for the worse, we don't automatically grow deeper roots.  We need systems to withstand the wind.  We need to be able to shelter ourselves when a storm is too strong.    And we need nourishment to grow again when the storm has passed.

Lentil Shepherd's Pie
Our CSA gave us some spring carrots, and the onions are not far behind.  Though it's not technically "root vegetable" season, it's a good idea to start thinking about how I'm going to use those potatoes, so that they don't become the subject of another unnecessarily cruel experiment.

1 pound Yukon Gold or white potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tablespoon butter
3/4 teaspoon salt, divided
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper, divided
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 large onion, finely diced
1/2 cup finely diced carrot
1 tablespoon water
3/4 cup frozen corn kernels, thawed
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme or 1/2 teaspoon dried
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 14-ounce can vegetable broth
1 1/2 cups cooked or canned (rinsed) lentils (see Tip)



Place potatoes in a large saucepan and cover with 2 inches of water. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium, partially cover and cook until tender, 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and return the potatoes to the pot. Add buttermilk, butter and 1/4 teaspoon each salt and pepper. Mash with a potato masher until mostly smooth.

While the potatoes are cooking, position rack in upper third of oven; preheat broiler. Coat four 10- to 12-ounce broiler-safe ramekins (or an 8-inch-square broiler-safe baking dish) with cooking spray. Place ramekins on a broiler-safe baking sheet.

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion, carrot and water. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, 3 to 5 minutes. Stir in corn, thyme and the remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper; cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 minutes. Sprinkle with flour and stir to coat. Stir in broth. Bring to a simmer; cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Stir in lentils and cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes.

Divide the hot lentil mixture among the prepared ramekins (or spread in the baking dish). Top with the mashed potatoes. Broil, rotating halfway through, until the potato is lightly browned in spots, 6 to 10 minutes

NaBloPoMo: Roots, Wings, and Chocolate Beet Cake

One of the first things a child learns in a Montessori classroom is how to use a work mat.  While selecting and unrolling a piece of carpet or fabric might seem like a trivial activity, the act of unrolling a work mat underscores one of the most important aspects of Montessori philosophy: responsibility for one's own work, and independence in its pursuit; or, more precisely, "freedom within limits."

Montessori children are taught to take their defined workspace very seriously.  The first time a teacher demonstrates this act for students, she will take the mat carefully from a bin, set it carefully on the floor or on the table.  The students who are tempted to shake the mat out in midair will be gently encouraged to follow her direction, and unroll it completely on the flat surface they have selected.  They are taught that when a mat is on the floor, they walk around it, heel-toe-heel-toe, being mindful that they don't step on it.  And when a child is done with her work, she re-rolls the mat, putting it away just as carefully as she removed it.  The Montessori work mat is a symbol of both responsibility and independence; its use, a ritual of reverence for both.

Today's NaBloPoMo writing prompt, which reminded us that "[t]he original quote about giving children roots and wings referred to the 'roots of responsibility and the wings of independence,' " was particularly apt for me, because today was my daughter's first day at the Toddler House in her Montessori school, and my first day, sort of, back to work.  I only went for a few hours, and she only went for an hour, but I found myself thinking a lot about those roots and wings, about what I've tried to give her over the past two years, and about how hard it is to watch her take this next step towards independence in the world.

As she grows older, she will ask the questions that begin with the work mat.  The questions that begin with this moment, and with every moment when she steps a little farther away.  Where do we fit into the world?   What work will we choose?  How can we try to ensure that we do good where we can, and that we not step on others' work-in-progress?

Going back to work, for me, is partially about remembering and testing the limits of my own roots and wings, too.  To whom am I responsible?  What are my contributions to the world, besides the ones I make through my children?  How do I define myself as me, in addition to the way I define myself in the context of my family?

This give-and-take, this push-and-pull, is probably the hardest thing about being a parent, and the hardest thing about being ourselves.

Which is why, at the end of the day, flying in the face of other things they will teach my daughter at her Montessori school, there will be chocolate cake on our table.

Chocolate Beet Cake
adapted from Nigella Lawson's recipe and The White Ramekins
Beets are some of the best kinds of roots there are.  Especially when paired with cocoa powder.

1 1/2 c. plain flour
2 T. baking powder
2/3 c. cocoa powder
1 c. superfine sugar
3 eggs
1/2 lb. beets
7/8 c. light olive oil or coconut oil

Preheat the oven 425F. Wash the beets, wrap them individually in aluminium foil, and place them in oven for about 45 minutes.  Let beets cool to room temperature.  When they are cool to the touch, you should be able to simply rub the skins off, and puree them in a food processor/liquidizer/blender.  Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 375F.  Spray an 8" springform pan with cooking spray.  Line the bottom with a circle of parchment cut to fit inside the pan, spray the parchment, and dust the entire inside of the pan with a very thin coating of cocoa powder.

Sift the flour, baking powder, superfine sugar and cocoa powder together in a medium bowl and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, oil and beet puree.  Fold the flour mixture into the wet mixture. Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.

Let the cake cool completely on a wire rack.

NaBloPoMo: Fathers, and Chard with Turnips

I always hated Hallmark Father's Day cards.  My dad didn't fish (not with me, anyway, except if you count that one time we went out on a half day boat trip from the Jersey Short when I was four, and my parents both spent the entire time in the bathroom ... my father for seasickness, and my mother because she was seasick and pregnant).  He did wear a tie, but never as an executive; he wore a tie to school when he wore a suit, or on Sundays, to church.  He didn't like sports.  He loved his grill, but it was a Japanese kamado grill built into a cement table that he'd laid himself ... not exactly the all-American image of the dad with his hot dogs and Coleman.  He did muck around with home improvement, but not in the way that the cards pictured it, either.  No, I remember thinking that my father didn't fit any of those cards, didn't look like the images on any of those cards (as a dark-skinned Spaniard, he was often mistaken for people who lived much closer to the Equator), and most importantly, didn't fit the sentiment of those cards.  Father's Day didn't fit us, at least, not the way everyone seemed to want us to celebrate it.

And now, it doesn't really fit my husband, either.  He does fish, but he only wears a tie in extreme circumstances (important meeting at work).  He doesn't follow sports.  He mucks around with home improvement and with our grill, but not in the way that those things are pictured.

What I noticed today on Facebook was the variety of ways people were describing fathers.  And the wide variety of ways people were choosing to celebrate their fathers, their children, their grandfathers.  Not everyone went to a restaurant, or felt pressured to buy flowers.  A lot of people were doing things with their dads, spending time with them in a way that was active, hands-on.  And though I never resolved my own complicated relationship with my dad, I was glad to see so many people openly ditching the Hallmark depiction of the holiday.

Why, I wonder, are we so bound by the conventions of Mother's Day, then?

Turnips and Chard
This is a CSA meal that even my father would have eaten; the secret, of course, is the handful of ham thrown in.   Inspired by Cooking in Sens.

6 hakurei turnips, cut into cubes
1 1/2 tbsp olive oil
1 cup cooked ham, coarsely chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 cups chard leaves, chopped
2 bay leaves
2 tbsp white wine vinegar
Salt and pepper

Brown the turnip cubes in the olive oil.  Add the ham and garlic, then cook until the garlic is aromatic.  Add the chard, bay leaves, vinegar, salt and pepper, then cover and steam for 4-5 minutes.