I’ve spent three weeks baking in my commercial kitchen for Marge. I’m still running around doing what feels like hundreds of errands each week, but things are starting to become a bit more streamlined. I’ve done two farmer’s markets and a few great local events. I’m meeting lots of new folks who live nearby, making friends with other vendors, and oftentimes selling out before the market even ends. For me Saturday mornings are like a big ol’ bake sale and I couldn’t imagine anything else I’d rather be doing. Friday nights, however, are a much different story.
The night before the farmer’s market always brings about many hours of baking, packaging, usually burning myself once or twice, occasionally getting aluminum foil caught in the convection oven (lesson learned: no aluminum foil in the convection oven!), witnessing occasional drug deals out back, listening to old classic rock on the radio, talking to myself, pacing. And more pacing. For the past few weeks, there’s been very little sleep, lots of anxiety, and questioning if this is really how I want to spend every Friday night into eternity.
When you come to an event or a farmer’s market booth, it all looks so lovely. I have a sweet blue tablecloth, antique fixtures, lots of pies all wrapped in baker’s twine ready to take home. I have postcards and samples and genuinely want to talk to you about vintage recipes. But the behind the scenes is a little more gritty — there’s strewn flour everywhere, ovens that don’t always work, a broken freezer, another freezer that’s filled with pot (I’ve somehow ended up in the kitchen with all the pot bakers), ingredient emergencies (out of cinnamon at midnight? How can that be?!). It’s humbling. It’s challenging. It’s completely unglamorous. And it’s where I find myself.
And so it makes sense that, coupled with all the baking I’ve been doing in the kitchen, the last thing I want to do is spend time on elaborate (or, really, any) meals. So this week, I’ve fallen for lentil soup. And fittingly, too, seeing that it may be one of the more humble, basic, and unglamorous meals you will come across. Throw some onions and carrots together along with lentils, water, and your choice of spices and an hour or so later you’ve got lunch. Or dinner. Or a snack at 2:00 a.m. It doesn’t make any bold or flashy statements. It doesn’t promise greatness or wealth or prosperity. It just gets the job done in a simple and satisfying way. Kind of like my Friday nights as of late.
I hope your week is going well. Sit back and take a moment for yourself. Make some soup. Do something humbling and slightly unglamorous. It builds character, no?
And a moment of minor self promotion: if you haven’t seen the Marge website yet, it’s finished! And it might be one of my favorite websites ever. Go take a peek. Sign up for our newsletter under the “Contact” page and follow us on twitter and facebook if you’re not already.
French green lentils are really your best bet for this soup. They’re smaller and darker than your standard run-or-the mill lentil and they hold their shape really nicely so you don’t end up with a mushy pot of what was once lentils.
Slightly Adapted from: Bon Appetit via Molly Wizenburg
Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add onion and carrot and season with salt and pepper. Stir occasionally and cook about five minutes until onion is translucent. Add half of the chopped garlic; stir until vegetables are soft but not brown, about 4 minutes longer.
It turns out that returning from a sunny honeymoon to a rather rainy, dark stretch of Seattle fall hasn't been the easiest transition. Sam and I have been struggling a little to find our groove with work projects and even simple routines like cooking meals for one another and getting out of the easy daily ruts that can happen to us all. When we were traveling, we made some new vows to each other -- ways we can keep the fall and winter from feeling a bit gloomy, as tends to happen at a certain point living in the Pacific Northwest (for me, at least): from weekly wine tastings at our neighborhood wine shop to going on more lake walks. And I suppose that's one of the most energizing and invigorating parts about travel, isn't it? The opposite of the daily rut: the constant newness and discovery around every corner. One of my favorite small moments in Italy took place at a cafe in Naples when I accidentally ordered the wrong pastry and, instead, was brought this funny looking cousin of a croissant. We had a wonderfully sunny little table with strong cappuccino, and, disappointed by my lack of ordering prowess, I tried the ugly pastry only to discover my new favorite treat of all time (and the only one I can't pronounce): the sfogliatelle. I couldn't stop talking about this pastry, its thick flaky layers wrapped around a light, citrus-flecked sweet ricotta filling. It was like nothing I'd ever tried -- the perfect marriage of interesting textures and flavors. I became a woman obsessed. I began to see them displayed on every street corner; I researched their origin back at the hotel room, and started to look up recipes for how to recreate them at home. And the reason for the fascination was obviously that they were delicious. But even more: I'm so immersed in the food writing world that I rarely get a chance to discover a dish or a restaurant on my own without hearing tell of it first. And while a long way away from that Italian cafe, I had a similar feeling this week as I scanned the pages of Alice Medrich's new book, Flavor Flours, and baked up a loaf of her beautiful fall pumpkin loaf: Discovery, newness, delight!
I always force myself to wait until after Halloween to start thinking much about holiday pies or, really, future holidays in general. But this year I cheated a bit, tempted heavily by the lure of a warmly-spiced sweet potato pie that I used to make back when I baked pies for a living in the Bay Area (way back when). We seem to always have sweet potatoes around as they're one of Oliver's favorite foods, and when I roast them for his lunch I've been wishing I could turn them into a silky pie instead. So the other day I reserved part of the sweet potatoes for me. For a pie that I've made hundreds of times in the past, this time reimagined with fragrant brown butter, sweetened solely with maple syrup, and baked into a flaky kamut crust. We haven't started talking about the Thanksgiving menu yet this year, but I know one thing for sure: this sweet potato pie will make an appearance.
This time last week I was up in the Skagit River Valley sitting in the early fall sun eating wood-fired bagels and chatting with farmers, millers and bakers at the Kneading Conference West. I made homemade soba noodles, learned the ins and outs of sourdough starters, and sat in on a session where we tasted crackers baked with single varietal wheats. It was like wine tasting, but with wheat and the whole time I kept pinching myself, thinking: THESE ARE MY PEOPLE! I don't get the opportunity to be a student much these days -- usually on the other side of things teaching cooking classes or educating people at the farmers markets about whole grains and natural sugars. So to just sit and listen with a fresh (red!) notebook and a new pen was surprisingly refreshing. I miss it already. Thankfully, this cookie recipe has come back as a memorable souvenir, and one that is sure to be in high rotation in our house in the coming months.
Strolling New York City streets during the height of fall when all the leaves are changing and golden light glints off the brownstone windows. This is what I envisioned when I bought tickets to attend my cousin's September wedding earlier this month: Sam and I would extend the trip for a good day or two so we could experience a little bit of fall in the city. We'd finally eat at Prune and have scones and coffee at Buvette, as we always do. Sam wanted to take me to Russ and Daughters, and we'd try to sneak in a new bakery or ice cream shop for good measure. Well, as some of you likely know, my thinking on the weather was premature. New York City fall had yet to descend and, instead, we ambled around the city in a mix of humidity and rain. When we returned home I found myself excited about the crisp evening air, and the fact that the tree across the street had turned a rusty shade of amber. It was time to do a little baking.
I am writing this on Saturday afternoon on a day when we had big plans to conquer pre-baby chore lists, but Sam's not feeling great and my energy's a little low so it hasn't been quite what we'd envisioned. My goals for the morning were to repot a house plant and make some soup and I've done neither. I will say that the sweet potato and fennel are still sitting on the counter eagerly awaiting their Big Moment -- it just hasn't come about quite yet. Sam and I were both going to attempt to install the carseat, but it started to look really daunting so we abandoned ship; it's now sitting proudly in the basement, also eagerly awaiting its Big Moment. So it's been one of those weekends -- the kind you look back on and wonder what it is you actually accomplished. At the very least, I get the chance to tell you about this hearty cranberry cornbread. I know maybe it feels premature in the season for cranberry recipes, but hang with me here: slathered with a little soft butter and runny honey, there's nothing I'd rather eat right now on the cool, crisp Seattle mornings we've been having lately.