Cooking by Candlelight

Hello dear friends!

Good Graces, Jack Hazard and I are going offline for the week in celebration of something very dear to my heart, Power Down Week.

The issue of excessive human consumption is a real problem, and one that isn't considered nearly enough.  We live in an era where we expect everything to be fast, convenient and catered to our every whim.  We want what we want, when we want it and only rarely do we stop to think about the logistics of our desires.  It is unfair as citizens of a global community to consistently deny the natural world its natural rhythms.  We are not the conquerors of this beautiful world we so briefly inhabit; we are mere visitors. Our time here on earth is fleeting and our impact ought to reflect that impermanence. Energy is a luxury, not a necessity.  To appreciate it properly, Jack Hazard and I are going to do our best to live without it.

For one week, we're taking whatever steps we can to reduce our energy consumption. If it's hot, we'll find a breeze; it it's cold, we'll find a sweater. If it's dark, we'll find a candle, and if we're bored, shame on us! The natural world is bursting with possibility, it's up to us to find it.

I challenge you to think about your own habits.  Are there things that you can do to lessen the impact you're leaving on the world around you? I encourage each and every one of you to consider your consumption. In what ways can you renounce the grip convenience has on your life?  Go for a walk.  Talk to your neighbors. (They're probably just as sordid and gripping as whatever you were going to watch on television anyway!) Skip that trip to Target.  Do you really need more things?  Give something away.  Fix something that's broken.  Learn a new skill.  Plant something. Nurture someone. Enjoy each other.  Build a community. These are the real things that matter.

Barbara Kingsolver said it best, "The honorable choice I see is to power-down; stop taking airplane jaunts, repair old things, get out the clothespins, grow food, walk. And face the truth, that I am party to something so enormously destructive I can hardly know its edges. The conquering of any addiction begins with these words: I am the guilty party."

I am the guilty party.  This week, I am doing my part to try to change that.

Now my light is fading as this beautiful day shifts into night. I can hear the gentle rhythm of my sleeping boychild, children are laughing somewhere not so far away and the cool and perfect night positively hums with vitality. Who needs a radio with a symphony such as this? I'm ready to power-down this laptop and fire up my imagination.  I hope you consider joining me on this adventure.

For a complete list of planned events and workshops, click through to Transition Milwaukee.

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

If you haven't already, now is a perfect time to discover the excellent blog, A Year of Inconvenience.  Pam Mehnert, general manager of Outpost Natural Foods, vowed to live a year without relying on the easy convenience (and obscene sodium content) of packaged and prepared foods.  She succeeded, and her success is well documented in photos and recipes.  If you're at all interested in this topic, check out her site. It's a wonderful resource.  I am constantly inspired by anyone living their values, Pam absolutely does.

Miso: A Memory

  I distinctly remember the first time I tasted miso soup.  I was about nine, and had ordered it in a restaurant, being an adventurous child and wanting very much to impress my sharp and brilliant parents with my own discerning and cultured palate.  (Aren't nine year olds darling?) When it came to the table, fragrant and steaming, I paused for a moment to consider the tendrils of ethereal sea vegetable, the solid squares of tofu, the scallions bobbing lazily about the surface, and the gentle earthy pungence of fermentation. It was 1992 in Milwaukee, and while my parents were indeed adventurous home cooks, this was a new experience for me. Tentatively, bravely, I took a sip and was overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of flavor.  It was slightly sweet, a little salty, rich and deeply satisfying.  The seaweed was silky with a briny bite and the mild and substantial tofu was a perfect counterpoint.  Above all else, it was the miso I loved, and have come to crave as an adult.

     I realized something recently, a sad little truth about my own diet. (Admittedly, an exceptionally balanced, broad and nutritious diet and thus, not to be chastised too severely.)  I had made a pot of miso soup for myself and Jack Hazard, and as I watched him taste the broth, his eyes went wide with amazement.  He blew energetically on each spoonful, and risked burning his tongue in order to taste it again. And again.  I took a sip myself and was surprisingly let down. While the soup was delicious and satisfying, I can still vividly recall nine year old Mary Kate's first impressions of miso soup. She loved it in all its sharp complexity.  It was a flavor that took a moment to savor, to understand. It was something completely new and unexpected.  And now I could plainly see in my own child's face the excitement I recalled from my own first miso memory.  While the years and the staggering prevalence of sodium in our American diet have unquestionably dulled the senses and robbed me of that singular experience, I still return again and again to miso to soothe a bad day and feed a most hungry soul.

     Milwaukee has been drowning in rain, fog and cool damp air for what feels like weeks now. (It's almost July, for heaven's sake!)  Rather than complain about the weather, (outside of the safety of parentheses) I find myself cooking to complement it.

     This is a soup to win a child's heart. (Or an adult's.) It won't ever win a fancy food award, but it just might help you meet that deadline, finish that article, or fold that mountain of laundry. It's simple, bracing and comforting.

While this is just barely a recipe, I humbly offer my own simple version of:

miso soup 

1/4 c dried wakame (a dried seaweed) 

6 cups dashi* (or water)

1-2 carrots, sliced 

several stalks of kale, chopped

1/2 pound tofu, cubed

1-2 scallions, chopped fine

1/4 c miso paste (there are a number of varieties, I tend to prefer barley or white miso)

Heat the dashi (or water) and add carrots.  Simmer gently until almost tender.  Add the kale and simmer for five minutes. Stir in the wakame, and cubed tofu.  After a minute, remove from the heat.  In a small bowl, whisk 1/2 cup of the hot broth into the miso paste.  Return the dissolved miso to the pan.  Stir. Sprinkle with scallions and serve.  

Serves a hungry trio, or a quintet of birdlike eaters. 

(I really like the structural contrast of dense carrot, pillowy tofu, billowy wakame and hearty kale floating in the rich broth.  You can omit any or all of those, and substitute as you like.  Miso is a most forgiving medium, and one that complements a number of different flavors and textures.  If you ever have fresh enoki mushrooms on hand, by all means, try those.  They're incredible.) 

   *Dashi is a particular stock that traditional miso is made with.  Because I am above all things a perfectionist, I like to make the effort to experience traditional food as close to its origins as possible.  For me, this means having a pot of dashi prepared with which to make my miso soup.   

This is how simple it is:  

1/2 cup bonito flakes (a fermented dried fish)

1 strip kombu (a dried kelp)

6 cups water

Soak the kombu in the water for 30 minutes.  Bring to a boil.  Stir in the bonito flakes, and simmer gently for ten minutes.  Remove from heat and let stand ten minutes.  Strain through a fine mesh colander or cheesecloth, pressing the solids gently.  You can either use immediately, or refrigerate up to a week.

For all my darling vegetarians, you can absolutely prepare dashi without the bonito; the kombu alone produces a bright and briny broth reminiscent of the ocean.  

I dearly hope miso can be as much of a revelation for some of you (and yours) as it has been for me (and mine).  

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

A Writer in the Kitchen

Hello dears!

    Today I want to talk to you about something dearer to my heart than most anything, maybe even food.  And that's reading. About food. As long as I can remember, I've been crazy for the kind of writers who have a knack for telling you what they ate in a way that also quietly, casually tells you so much more.

(MFK Fisher is really unparalleled in this. If you haven't read her (and I sadly suspect most of the population hasn't) you should pick her up.  Befriend her. She won't ever let you down.)

    My love affair with books about food began with two books by Laurie Colwin: Home Cooking and More Home Cooking.  Colwin was primarily a novelist, and one my own brilliant mother admired quite a lot. Her books were always laying around while I was growing up; (Frankly, I'm surprised my parents never lost myself or my brothers in the deluge of books that was our home.) and it was only a matter of time before I took an interest. I was eleven or twelve and constantly experimenting in my mother's warm and cozy kitchen. (Wherein experimenting means melting utensils foolishly, shattering mercury thermometers, burning pans of fudge, and clumsily--desperately--trying to crack egg after egg with one hand.  My dear old ma might well be the patron saint of patience. And now I can separate an egg with my eyes closed.) 

    Colwin described herself as "a writer in the kitchen" which is (more or less) what twelve year old Mary Catherine (Mary Kate, thank you) fancied herself as well.  The essays that make up these two books are warm and accessible, full of funny bits and great advice.  You find yourself immediately charmed by her life, her quirks, her family and her stories.  I read about lime pickle YEARS before I would ever actually taste it, but I just knew I'd love it.  That's the thing about a kindred spirit in the kitchen, you can trust them.  And I've always trusted her.  (Laurie was right. Lime pickle? It is divine.)  

One of my favorite chapters (from More Home Cooking) was called "Desserts That Quiver," which is odd as I've always LOATHED gelatin desserts and thought them far beneath my exquisite taste.  (I was a weird kid. With a great vocabulary.)  In this chapter, we meet a dessert called "Honeycomb Mould."  If I hadn't already been sold on the strangely vague title and the english spelling, the description of this strange pudding that SEPARATES on its own into three layers would've won my heart.   Oh, but let's back up a moment.  The other thing about Colwin that kills me?  She's just like me.  Only her Laurie Colwin is Jane Grigson! (Who in her own right, has become my Jane Grigson as well.) Darlings. Anyway, Honeycomb Mould is a dessert dear old Jane wrote up in the delightfully british Good Things. (Don't worry, I'll attach a bibliography.) It's described as such:  "It will have a cap of clear lemon jelly, then a thin band of opaque cream jelly shading off into a honeycombed spongy base that makes a slight crinkling noise as its eaten." That passage has always fascinated me.  Does it really crinkle ?  WHY?  

Well, I've read about it for years. From two different, and equally revered sources.  It seemed so strange and interesting, a triple layer dessert, that separates perfectly on its own? With only a handful of ingredients?  And lemon?  Perfect. Life keeps handing me those!

Jane Grigson's Honeycomb Mould

3 large eggs
2 lemons, zested and juiced
1/2 oz gelatin
1/2 cup sugar
6 T heavy cream
2 cups whole milk 

Separate your yolks and whites.  (I'll graciously look away if you have to use two hands.) Set the whites aside.  In the top of a double boiler, (or a large heatproof bowl) add the yolks,  gelatin, zest, sugar and cream.  Stir well to combine and set aside.  In a separate saucepan, gently heat the milk to just under boiling.  Remove from the heat, and slowly/carefully whisk into the yolk mixture.  You don't want to add it all at once, and risk a bowlful of scrambled eggs! Set the bowl or double boiler (fancy you!) over an inch or two of simmering water and stir until the custard begins to thicken.  Because I like math and my health, I chose to use a thermometer and cook it until it reached 175 degrees.  Safety! Dear old Jane would probably laugh at me, and give a lecture on the benefits of farm fresh eggs and the paranoia of the modern age.  (I give the same lecture. Often.)  Either way, once it coats the back of a spoon, you're ready.  Remove from the heat, and stir in the lemon juice.  At this point, Jane strains her custard removing the zest.  Laurie doesn't.  I did, but in the future I probably wouldn't. I imagine the zest adds a lovely texture to the creamy coolness of the pudding.  You should tell me what you end up doing!

Now.  Beat those egg whites. Rather than pay a therapist, I like to use a whisk.  Maybe you're filthy rich with a bankrolled analyst.  (Lucky you.) Break out your mixer.

  

Either way, stiff peaks. 

Fold the hot custard into the beaten egg whites carefully.  Jane swears you need to use a metal spoon. Laurie used a rubber spatula.  (I deferred to Jane with metal.)  Let the mixture stand for five minutes.  

Now. You can either make individual puddings or a 1 qt. mold.  Lots of people collect those beautiful old pudding molds, (I don't) and this would be a perfect dessert to showcase a real beauty.  I used a smallish copper mold of exceptional loveliness, and a trio of delicate tea cups with pretty saucers.  What can I say, I like pretty things.  You can use just about anything you like, a simple bowl would work just as well as an extravagantly designed mold. 

Spoon the mixture (it will be like a heavy meringue) into your desired molds and cover.  I used parchment and twine.  Refrigerate for a minimum of five hours or overnight. 

 To un-mold, run a sharp knife around the perimeter of the pudding and dip the mold into warm water for ten seconds.  Place your serving plate over the mold, cross your fingers and flip.  Give it a good tap, until you hear it slide out with a plop.  The anxiety of the flip is half the fun.

(Please, use good sense as this dessert does contain raw egg white.  I know my farmer's name and the day he collected those three pretty brown eggs, so I have no reservations bringing this to my table.)

If you're at all intrigued by this post, or the promise of writing about food, check out the following books.  I recommend them all glowingly and widely,  and welcome any suggestions you might have to add to my list.  If there's one thing I love in this world, it's a good book about good food.

Required reading for "A writer in the kitchen"

How to Cook a Wolf; Consider the Oyster, Gastronomical Me- MFK Fisher

Home Cooking; More Home Cooking-Laurie Colwin

English Food; Good Things-Jane Grigson

The Kitchen Diaries-Nigel Slater

Blood, Bones and Butter-Gabrielle Hamilton

French Provincial Cooking-Elizabeth David

Comfort Me With Apples; Tender at the Bone-Ruth Reichl

Between Meals-A.J. Liebling

Nobody Knows the Truffles I've Seen-George Lang

My Life in France-Julia Child

Stealing Buddha's Dinner- Bich Minh Nguyen

and for the kiddos:

Fanny at Chez Panisse-Alice Waters

xoxo,

Mary Catherine