First things first: thank you so, so much for all of your amazing solo-eating suggestions, and cooking-for-one book suggestions! I’m overwhelmed by your comments and emails…and dinner ideas. Where to begin? Grilled cheese, pasta with bacon, scrambled eggs for dinner…Yes, please. The majority of the advice I’ve gotten from family, friends, and you all here is that time continues on whether you like it or not. It just does. And through that, things get easier. I’m trusting you on this one.
I just finished re-reading The Hours a few nights ago. Have you read it? I think Michael Cunningham captures the intricacies of character, relationships and moments really beautifully. Towards the end of the novel, I found myself rereading this passage over and over:
“We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep–it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease, or if we’re fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.”
To me, this paragraph–in so few words–speaks to the human condition more than anything I’ve ever read. It’s hard. We lose friends and relationships and have difficulty finding our calling or our life’s passion. But then there are evenings when you look around the table at friends you haven’t seen for ten years and smile, or you bite into the perfectly crisp apple–or those mornings when a hot shower feels like a gift from the Gods. Those are the simple, ordinary moments that give us a gleam that hope is justified. So along with all of your fabulous meal suggestions, I’m going to seek out these moments like nothing else right now–the hours that give a glint (or a full on beam) of hope and light. And spring, sunshine in San Francisco, and asparagus in the markets helps, too. So onward, shall we?
It was a rather indulgent Easter week, so at the market yesterday I made a point to stock up on lots of kale, spinach, an unusually expensive artichoke (what the heck, Whole Foods?!) and some beautiful asparagus. At home, I consulted a new cookbook sent to me by the good folks at Southern Living for something interesting to do with the asparagus. The book is called Farmer’s Market Cookbook: a Fresh Look at Local Flavor, and it details seasonal, ingredient, market-driven recipes. I turned to the spring chapter and was struck by the simplicity of this soup: asparagus, broth, onion, lemon, thyme, milk, a little butter and sour cream. Spring in a bowl. I think you’ll like it.
Only make this soup when you can find really fresh, tender asparagus–nothing good about stringy asparagus soup. I adapted this recipe to make it lighter and wholly vegetarian, and added a bit more flavor with garlic, more lemon, and a dash of black pepper.
Adapted from: Southern Living Farmer’s Market Cookbook
Snap off and discard tough ends of asparagus. Cut asparagus into 2-inch pieces. Combine asparagus with broth, onion, garlic, and 1/2 tsp. thyme in a large saucepan over medium-high heat; bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low; cover and simmer 10 minutes. Process asparagus mixture in batches using an immersion blender or food processor until smooth. Return to pan.
Whisk flour and milk together in a small bowl until smooth. Add slowly to asparagus mixture, whisking until blended. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Reduce heat and simmer, continuing to stir for another five minutes. Remove from heat; stir in butter, salt, 1/4 tsp. lemon zest, and remaining 1/4 tsp. thyme.
Combine sour cream, lemon juice, and remaining 1/4 tsp. lemon zest. Top each serving with about 2 tsp. of sour cream mixture. Garnish with thyme sprig.
On Monday our little family of three is headed to the airport at 6 am to board our first with-baby cross-country trip. We'll be visiting Sam's family in New Jersey for a few days, then renting a car and driving over to meet up with my family at my mom's lake house in the Adirondacks. Sam's younger sister and her kids have yet to meet Oliver; my grandpa has yet to meet him, and Oliver has yet to take a dunk in a lake, see a firefly, or spend quality time with energetic dogs -- of which there will be three. A lot of firsts. This week my family has been madly texting, volunteering to make certain meals or sweets on assigned days while we're at the cabin and it got me thinking about really simple, effortless summer desserts -- in particular, ones that you can make while staying in a house with an unfamiliar kitchen and unfamiliar equipment and still do a pretty bang-up job. I think fruit crisp is just that thing.
Somehow, in what seems to have been a blink of an eye, we have a six month old baby. In some ways I can't remember a time we didn't have an Oliver, and in other ways it's all a blur broken up by a few holidays (a Thanksgiving thanks to grocery store takeout, and our very first Christmas in Seattle), a few family visits, a one-day road trip to Portland, a birthday dinner out, a birthday cake, weekend drives to nowhere in particular, swimming at the pool with Oliver, weekly get-togethers with our parent's group, doctor's visits, hundreds of walks around the neighborhood, hundreds of cups of coffee, dozens (or more?) of scoops of ice cream. Most of the worrying about keeping a baby alive has made way for other concerns, and Oliver's need for constant stimulation or soothing walks and car rides has been traded for stretches of time playing with a new toy or checking out his surroundings. In truth, it's thanks to that tiny bit of baby independence that this humble, summery cake came to be in the first place. So we've all got an Oliver to thank for that. Or, really, we have a Yossi Arefi to thank, as it's from her beautiful new cookbook that I've bookmarked heavily and am eager to continue exploring.
We walked to the library last week and I had a strange realization standing in line watching Sam check out his usual massive stack of books: Will I ever have the time to read stacks of books again? I used to be much more of a reader than I am today -- a fact I'm not at all proud of. But when evening rolls around and the more formal workday ends, I find emails and other odds and ends creep in. Walking home from the library, I began obsessing over free time for reading, asking Sam if we'd ever be those two old people who study bird manuals and can recognize birds on walks. I want to have the time to read bird manuals someday. For now though, we're young and we're working a lot. We did sneak away on that one-night camping trip I told you about, and cooked some interesting, haphazard meals which I hope to share with you soon. For now though, for summer: a strawberry dessert recipe.
Much like friends, types of Sunday mornings, or books -- there are many different kinds of desserts. Sometimes you may be in the mood for a light French cake piled high with summer fruit. Other days, a thick slice of fragrant pound cake will do. And then there are those days when you crave a rich chocolate mousse that you share after a night of good conversation and a little too much wine. But let's be honest. When it comes right down to it, the most basic and unassuming dessert of all is sometimes the only one that will do. A good and simple affair. Vanilla ice cream. So I want to talk about that today--about a dessert that withstands the test of time, that will always be there for you. A dessert that is far from trendy, that doesn't play favorites or trick you into thinking it's something that it's not. It's a good foundation. A solid beginning.
[ Pie. if you've been around here much in the last few months, you know that I make pie. A lot of pie. And I'm particularly excited to share this pie with you today because it helped me break out of a rut. A pie rut. A baking rut. A Marge inspiration rut.