I’m writing this on a train around 6 p.m. about an hour North of New York City. To my right is the Hudson River and to my left, one Sam catching up on a few emails. The sun is making its way down ever so slowly and my black ballet flats are more than ready to trade in carpeted train hallways for city streets and firm ground. This is our fourth day on the train. We left Seattle clutching a week’s worth of clothes, enough work to keep us busy on the train, a few novels, a bottle of wine, a cocktail in a flask (thank you, Brandon), rye in another flask (thank you, Sam), a few cameras, and these crackers. Final destination: Bruce Springsteen in New Jersey. With a quick stop-over to visit my sister Zoe and her boyfriend Stefan in the West Village, eat meatballs, and check out a few bookstores.
I’ve been wanting to tell you about these crackers for a long time. But first: cross-country train trips. While I very much miss showers, the trip has gone by pretty quickly. The first two nights we had a sleeping car so we spread out (a little) and had a comfy chair, couch of our own, and large window. When we boarded, the nice gentleman who took care of our particular hall brought us little bottles of champagne and we proceeded through Washington and Idaho, ambling down to the dining car after a few hours for a dinner of roast chicken and crab cakes (with real silverware and linens!). We woke up in Montana just as the sun was rising. There were golden hayfields and long expanses of sky. Sam took a lot of photos, we kicked off our shoes, and watched the seemingly never-ending fields for what felt like hours.
Then there was North Dakota. I’m dedicating this next paragraph to my mother who claims I have an uncanny ability to make everything sound so rosy on the blog, failing to mention little hiccoughs or missteps along the way. Hiccough ahead! You know those bickers that couples have that begin over not much of anything and escalate so you feel like you’re in a bad movie and you’re not sure what you’re even arguing about anymore? Then usually someone storms off, you have some time apart, and come back together to say how silly it all was? Well when you’re on a train, there’s nowhere to storm off to. You’ve got four feet of space to work with. So maybe you decide to escape into the tiny bathroom. With a pillow, as though you may stay for a few hours because it’s the only other room to go to. Maybe you refuse to eat breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Perhaps you even pace the hallways, thinking your neighbors will invite you in for tea. They do not.
In the train you’re stuck staring at one another, so arguments have a fine, fine way of just going. And going. Through North Dakota, Minnesota and perhaps Wisconsin, too. Sam would like me to add there was a chunk of Illinois in there as well. Right as we got off in Chicago we decided the trip was too important and we’d already wasted too much of it to bicker any further. We’re both stubborn people, we admitted. It was time for a fresh start. We had a lay-over before catching our next train in the early evening, so we walked right over the river in Chicago, shared sandwiches and a beer at The Berghoff and proclaimed that the next train would be different. And so it has been.
We didn’t have a sleeping car for the Chicago to New York leg. Sam usually travels coach, but had decided to upgrade us for the first leg so that I’d have the best cross-country experience for my first time on the train. So onto New York we slept in the train chairs and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. You wake up with the sun just like you do when you’re camping and head into the dining car for breakfast. You sit down with strangers, feel a little like you’re at summer camp, and discover that train oatmeal is surprisingly great. If you make friends with the dining attendant, he may offer to bring you extra fruit and treat you with his wide, toothy grin. You may meet a lovely woman named Lisa in the viewing car outside of Montana who tells you in the first thirty seconds of conversation that she’s leaving her husband, she’s had it, and he can have all the money from their two homes. You’re not quite used to this many conversations with strangers, but you tell yourself to get over it. You see photos of her grandkids and start to tell her stories, too.
The night before we’d left Seattle, we’d both been in charge of packing a few separate things: I took care of snacks and water, Sam took care of booze and books. We both had a pretty distinct vision of how we’d break these things out and enjoy them whizzing our way across the country. I figured we’d have crackers and peanuts one afternoon a few days into the trip, and be so thrilled to have a little something homemade at that point. Sam figured he’d read to me at night and we’d sip from whiskey he brought from our bar at home. Neither of those things had yet to happen. But there was still time. We were slowly coming back around to that picture we’d both had in our heads. So while we were a good day off, we pulled out the crackers and the flask as the train jetted along the Hudson River, making fun of ourselves, marveling at the perfect saltiness of the crackers and sharing ideas for what we’d do in the city that night. And that’s where I write to you now, in a quiet moment before we leave the train and hop on the subway to find my sister’s apartment.
If you’ve never made your own crackers, this is a really great recipe to begin with. Two kinds of flour, millet and a smattering of seeds bake up with olive oil and a little water into crumbly, slightly soft crackers. If you’re new to millet, it’s actually quite wonderful and you can find it in the bulk bins at any well-stocked grocery store. It cooks up quickly (as a porridge or a pilaf-type side dish), but here you’re just adding the millet in raw for extra crunch. Lately, I’ve been tossing it into muesli and granola or toasting it in a dry skillet and sprinkling it on top of yogurt. It’s pretty great.
This recipe is from Alana Chernila’s delight of a book, The Homemade Pantry. I wrote a bit more about it on Bay Area Bites right when it came out, and had a chance to chat with Alana then. She’s wonderful and humble and has developed some very fine crackers (among dozens upon dozens of other recipes) that I’ve been making often since cracking open the book the first time. I’ve made a few tweaks to the recipe here, adding a little more salt, tossing in sesame seeds and poppy seeds and a touch of parmesan. Out come very worthy train snacks, indeed. Celebratory ones, in fact. Crackers to acknowledge you’re strong enough to get right back on track if you should momentarily derail. As we all do at times.
Alana mentions that you can use up to 5 cloves of garlic here and add chopped rosemary if you’d like. Thyme could be nice, too. And next time around, I might add a smidge of lemon zest and red pepper flakes.
From: The Homemade Pantry
Preheat the oven to 350 F. In a medium bowl, combine the two flours, baking powder, millet, flax seeds, sesame and poppy seeds, salt, garlic, and parmesan cheese. Add the olive oil and combine with a fork. Slowly add 1/2 cup water, mixing with your hands as you go. Continue to add more water (up to 1/4 cup if necessary) to the dough until it holds together. Knead the dough with your hands in the bowl for a good 2 minutes, or until smooth and very workable.
Turn out the dough onto a floured surface, press into a flat disc, and roll with a rolling pin until the dough is 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick. For square crackers, use a pizza wheel or sharp knife and cut the dough into 2-inch squares. For round, use a 2-3 inch biscuit cutter. Any leftover dough can be re-rolled to make additional crackers.
With a spatula, transfer the cut crackers to parchment-lined baking sheets and sprinkle each cracker with a little salt and ground pepper. Bake for 20-22 minutes, switching the position of the sheets midway through, until the crackers are hard to the touch. Transfer to a wire rack to cool. Cover at room temperature for up to 7 days or freeze in a freezer-safe bag for up to 3 months.
Winter Soups and Stews
If your house is anything like ours, last week wasn't our most inspired in terms of cooking. We're all suffering from the post-election blues -- the sole upside being Oliver's decision to sleep-in until 7 am for the first time in many, many months; I think he's trying to tell us that pulling the covers over our heads and hibernating for awhile is ok. It's half-convincing. For much of the week, instead of cooking, there'd been takeout pizza and canned soup before, at week's end, I decided it was time to pour a glass of wine and get back into the kitchen. I was craving something hearty and comforting that we could eat for a few days. Something that wouldn't remind me too much of Thanksgiving because, frankly, I can't quite gather the steam to start planning for that yet. It was time for a big bowl of chili.
Last weekend it was so windy – apocalyptically stormy, you could say – that our tent at the farmers market was uprooted by gusts of wind that were not messing around. I wasn't there, but apparently despite being heavily weighted down and with four customers holding onto each corner, it quite literally blew down the block. Sam, from across town, was reporting trees falling on every block and traffic lights out across the city. The next morning on a walk with Oliver around Green Lake, we were met with that same biting wind and ended up retreating for a hot chocolate instead. 'Tis the season in Seattle: we all get a little giddy and ahead of ourselves when we spot the cherry blossoms and daffodils, and I always trick myself into thinking that with the start of daylight savings time, summer must be right around the corner. In truth, before we had Oliver, we'd often travel somewhere sunny for a little mood boost around this time of year. When I moved from California, many friends – other (empathetic) 'expats' now living in the Pacific Northwest – recommended this: if you know what's good for you, they'd all say, go find the sun in February or March, and we would follow that advice faaaaaithfully. But with a baby, this just isn't where our priorities are this year, and I've found myself relying on other antics like buying out of season strawberries, drinking white wine with dinner, buying a new pair of sandals that likely will not see the light of day for the next two months, and making big, colorful pots of feel good, springy soup. Let's not kid ourselves: Cherry blossoms or not, Seattle's no Palm Springs when it gets down to bathing in the sunlight. But if you step outside onto your little porch, smell the honeysuckle blooming, take notice of the longer, lighter days and think about how you simply can't wait to see your baby crawling around on the sand when it's warm enough to stroll down to the beach, it starts looking better in its own light.
We returned home from San Francisco on New Years Eve just in time for dinner, and craving greens -- or anything other than baked goods and pizza (ohhhh San Francisco, how I love your bakeries. And citrus. And winter sunshine). Instead of driving straight home, we stopped at our co-op where I ran in for some arugula, an avocado, a bottle of Prosecco, and for the checkout guys to not-so-subtly mock the outlook of our New Years Eve: rousing party, eh? They looked to be in their mid-twenties and I figured I probably looked ancient to them, sad even. But really, there wasn't much sad (or rousing, to be fair) about our evening: putting Oliver to bed, opening up holiday cards and hanging them in the kitchen, and toasting the New Year with arugula, half a quesadilla and sparkling wine. It wasn't lavish. But it's what we both needed. (Or at least what we had to work with.) Since then, I've been more inspired to cook lots of "real" food versus all of the treats and appetizers and snacks the holidays always bring on. I made Julia Turshen's curried red lentils for the millionth time, a wintry whole grain salad with tuna and fennel, roasted potatoes, and this simple green minestrone that I've taken for lunch this week. Determined to fit as many seasonal vegetables into a bowl as humanly possible, I spooned a colorful pesto on top, as much for the reminder of warmer days to come as for the accent in the soup (and for the enjoyment later of slathering the leftover pesto on crusty bread).
One of the things I wanted to accomplish before really returning to work in earnest was to print some of our honeymoon photos and get them into an album. This project has taken far longer than expected as I find myself daydreaming about the craggy streets of Naples and meeting up with our friends Mataio and Jessica for a late night slice of pizza which we ate sitting on the sidewalk before embarking on an aimless but wonderful stroll of the city. There are photos of our balcony by the sea, most with tanned limbs, sandy sandals and a Campari and soda gracing the periphery of the frame. There was the little grocery store up the hill from our apartment on the Amalfi Coast that had the sweetest, tiniest strawberries and the best yogurt in little glass jars. Tomatoes drying in the sun, Aperol spritzes and salty peanuts before dinner at the bar across from the church square where all the neighborhood kids played kickball. As I sit here typing this now, photos remain scattered on my desk and it's likely they may not make it into the proper slots in the album anytime soon. Of course, they have me dreaming of sunshine and long days with little agenda, but they also have me thinking about the simplicity of our meals in Italy and how truly easy it was to eat well. Coincidentally, a few days ago Rachel Roddy's lusty new cookbook (can we call it lusty?!), My Kitchen in Rome, arrived at our doorstep. Clearly it was time to set the photos aside and get into the kitchen.
And suddenly, it's fall. I find that realization always comes not so much with the dates on the calendar as it does the leaves on the ground, the first crank of the heat in the morning, the dusky light on the way home from an evening run. Because we were gone on the train for nearly a week, I feel like fall happened here in Seattle during that very time. I left town eating tomatoes and corn and returned to find squashes and pumpkins in the market. It was that quick. And so, it only seemed fitting that I make this soup, one that has graced the fall table of each and every apartment (and now house) I've ever lived. In fact, I'm surprised that I hadn't yet made it for you here, and delighted to share it with you today.