"Healthy Thanksgiving Challenge" Roundup on What Would Cathy Eat

Cathy Elton has posted the finalists for her "Heart Healthy Thanksgiving Challenge". 25 bloggers sent amazing recipes, new twists on old holiday classics, and my own cranberry sauce recipe is among them. (Double-click the large photos on the page to access any of the recipes.)

I confess that seeing my photo and a link back to my blog on another food blog I enjoy and respect greatly is a bit of a thrill, whether it sends anyone my way or not. Being the running in for a contest to receive a free vegetarian cookbook is the proverbial icing on the gluten-free cake. I'm not a vegetarian or vegan, but am stumbling my way into that direction, largely because my sweetie is on a meat-free, dairy-free gluten-free diet for health reasons. So a guidebook along the way would be much appreciated. Actually, Paul Pitchford's Healing With Whole Foods is an excellent resource that I am just beginning to appreciate - after letting it sit neglected on our bookshelf for years.

Particularly intriguing among the recipes in the challenge is the apple-yam soup, the sweet potato casserole gratin-style, the quinoa stuffing, the wild rice pilaf...in fact, every single recipe there is a "must try this!" for me. I can't wait to get started.

Shoreline Scoop

Many thanks to the folks at the Shoreline Scoop - A Guide to Family-Friendly Living on the Shoreline for linking to my brussels sprouts post on their Facebook page. In all honesty I'd never heard of the group before nor seen their FB page; I assume they are linked to the Fiddleheads Co-op FB page because the "share" showed up there.

It's a bit of an ego boost to see my article noticed and linked to by a group I don't know: "Someone might read this! People who aren't already my friends!"

It's also a bit of a kick-in-the-pants motivator to post more often: "Someone might read this. People who don't know me and will excuse my irregular habits because 'that's just Janice'."

In any case, I offer a heaping (virtual) helping of those brussels sprouts to the folks at Shoreline Scoop in thanks. And maybe someday (who knows?) a real helping of them as well. Anything's possible.

Maple-Mustard Glazed Roasted Brussel Sprouts

(This post is another response to Cathy Elton's Healthy Thanksgiving Challenge at her blog What Would Cathy Eat? )

I grew up hating brussels sprouts...no, that isn't quite right. I grew up loathing brussels sprouts. They were nasty little mushy baby cabbages that were foisted upon me and my siblings as small children. "They're good for you," my mother insisted, with all the love and good intentions in the world. (Bless her.)

And it was not the usual, or stereotypical, case of "the kid hates veggies!" because at the same time I loved broccoli and corn and spinach. Yes, that nasty lump of stuff that came frozen in a block in the 1970's - remember? That pile of nasty, mushy stuff I loved. Go figure. (Disliked asparagus, though. Still do.) Most likely it had to do with the bitterness of the sprouts, whereas spinach was sweeter by comparison.

The strange thing was, one day they suddenly disappeared from the table. I never could quite figure that one out: they were "good for me" when I was 7, but all of the sudden not so much when I was 8? Not that I ever asked the question aloud; heaven forbid I should jinx myself or my mother had simply forgotten them. Whatever the reason, I was grateful, and I managed to successfully avoid them lo these many years.

Last year they made a comeback (of sorts) in my life: as a member of the volunteer produce team at Fiddleheads Co-op in New London, I found myself staring down shipments of organic specimens just about this time of the year. "I hate brussels sprouts" I declared with the definitive arrogance of the closed-minded. "Try them roasted" other members of the co-op insisted, "you'll fall in love with them. Perhaps with a balsamic vinegar glaze, or...."

As yummy as it sounded, I resisted - until my sweetie forced the issue and brought some home at the co-op. Oh, dear. She steamed the first batch. I generously suggested she eat all of them up, sacrificing spouse that I am. *ahem* Then less generously I reminded her that "I don't eat that stuff."

She brought home a second batch. Bless her. Time to try roasting them.

At this point I had already roasted (and grilled) kale chips and all manner of green things, so when I looked up some recipes online, I found the technique was quite similar: rub with olive oil, salt and pepper, baked in oven, sit back and enjoy the compliments. Cathy Elton has a recipe with a fabulous-sounding maple-mustard glaze, but she roasts them whole and so the cooking time was too long, 40-50 minutes. I need mine done in under 25 for dinner. So I checked out a website Cathy has linked to, Leafy Greens and Me, and found a maple-glazed variation in which the sprouts are cut in halves or quarters to speed the cooking time to about 15 minutes. Perfect...except that the glaze consisted entirely of maple syrup, after having roasted the veggies with a bit of olive oil and salt and pepper.

So I smashed the two recipes together, added a twist of my own - cayenne pepper - and gave it a go. At dinner that night my sweetie paused just long enough from gobbling them up to tell me how good they were, whilst I was busy on the other side of the table...scarfing down my portion. My self-sacrificing nature disappeared in the irresistable onslaught of deliciousness, and there were no leftovers to be had.

Consider me a convert.

MAPLE-MUSTARD GLAZED ROASTED BRUSSELS SPROUT

(The glaze recipe below made enough for two different batches.)

1/2 lb (approx.) fresh organic brussels sprouts, stem ends pared and halved or quartered

(smallest ones left whole)

4 T olive oil

sea salt and black pepper (pref. freshly cracked) to taste

1/4 tea or generous dash of cayenne pepper, or to taste (optional)

1/4 Grade B maple syrup

stoneground mustard (coarsely-ground) to taste (about 1 T)

1 T olive oil

juice of 1/4 freshly squeezed lemon

1/4 medium-sized onion, chopped

Preheat oven to 425 degrees (F); lightly oil a baking tray. Trim and half or quarter, depending on size, about 1/2 lb organic brussels sprouts (leave smallest ones whole). Toss in a bowl with olive oil to coat, then sprinkle with the salt pepper and cayenne. If any leaves came off the sprouts during the trimming process, add them to the bowl.

Spread sprouts on tray, place on rack in center of over and bake for 10-15 minutes or until fork-tender and slightly crisp on the outer leaves; turn 2-3 times during cooking process to bake evenly. (Any loose leaves tend to cook quickest and become tasty little miniature chips.)

In the meantime combine remaining ingredients for the glaze, emulsify until thoroughly blended and opaque. When sprouts are tender, remove from oven and turn temperature down to 375 degrees. Pour enough glaze over the sprouts to coat thoroughly when tossed on tray (save the remainder for another use). Return to the oven and bake for an additional 5 minutes. Serves two.

Variation: Try freshly-chopped hot pepper in place of the cayenne.

Healthy Thanksgiving Challenge - Cranberry Sauce

I was living in North Carolina many moons ago when a friend invited me to stay at her place for Thanksgiving weekend. It was a welcome invitation; I had already passed more than one Thanksgiving in NC alone (most of my family was, and still is, in Michigan). There was of course the year I went with three other friends to see an Arnold Schwartznegger comedy, which somehow seems a contradiction in terms, and afterwards we went to Krispy Kreme, watched the donuts pass on the long conveyor belt like so many widgets in an auto factory and realized, as much as we liked one another, that we really wanted to be anywhere other than where we were. (This may account for my loathing of Krispy Kreme products, but that's another story.)

My friend, whom I knew from a lesbian group in Greensboro, (and whose name, I am embarrased to admit, has slipped from my memory), lived in a rented a "cabin" in the woods, a genuinely rustic place with an iron stove, a bed loft, and an art deco front door salvaged from a defunct department store. It was cozy, it was intimate; the space was filled with all manner of women, mostly lesbians, most of whom I also knew from the aforementioned group, on Thanksgiving Day eating, laughing and dancing. It's one of my favorite memories of Thanksgiving.

One of the things I that stood out the most for me was the pot of cranberry sauce simmering away on that cast-iron stove, flavored with orange juice and flecked with orange zest. You could make cranberry sauce? I had loved the jellied version out of a can as a kid in the 1970's (and it seems, looking back, that a great deal of our food came out of a can back then); but it had never occured to me for some reason that one could make cranberry sauce. The real relevation came in the flavor and texture: tart and chunky, it danced on the tongue, and it positively ruined me: I never ate cranberry sauce out of a can again.

Ever since then I make it a point to make at least one batch each year, and I always eagerly await cranberry season. Now I'm surprised more people don't do it; cranberry sauce is ridiculously simple to make. I've already made my first batch of the season, and it seems an appropriate entry in Cathy Elton's Healthy Thanksgiving Challenge . The personal challenge I put to myself when making this was: how little sweetener can I put in this and still be palatable?

Not as much as I thought I'd need, as it turns out. When I first started making cranberry sauce I of course used white sugar, then eventually transitioned to maple syrup and/or honey. But I also remember pouring rather liberal amounts of the stuff into the sauce some years, and I wanted to see if I could do more with less. The result won raves from both my sweetie and my landlord, two very particular eaters; I'm not sure if I'm prouder of the sauce, or the photo I took of it afterwards!

1 lb organic cranberries, rinsed, drained and culled

10 T organic maple syrup

1 T honey (optional)

RW Knudson organic cranberry juice (from concentrate)

2 organic valencia or juicing oranges

In a heavy-bottom pot put the cranberries and add enough cranberry juice to almost but not quite cover. Simmer on low, stirring frequently, being careful to avoid scorching; add the sweeteners and the entire pulp and juice of the two oranges. Add zest from the oranges if desired only if they are organic. Adjust sweetener to taste, simmer until mixture reduces to 1/3-1/2 and has the desired texture (I prefer mine a bit chunky); the sauce should have a rich rose-red color. Cool and refrigerate overnight; the flavors improve and mellow.

Cathy Elton's "Healthy Thanksgiving Challenge"

Cathy Elton has posted an intriguing challenge to other food bloggers on What Would Cathy Eat? to make a heart-healthy Thanksgiving dish, post it on our own blogs, and be eligible for a drawing to receive a copy of Myra Kornfield's The Healthy Hedonist Holidays. I don't know a thing about the cookbook, but she had me at the title. (Who says healthy eating can't also be pleasurable and sensual? People who have never attempted it, I'd guess.)

Yes, I'm looking at you, Mr Bourdain.

BBQ-Style Tofu

(Kristina, one of the newest volunteers at Fiddleheads Food Co-op, told me that she missed seeing recipes posted on the co-op's Facebook page. I definitely dropped the ball on that one. So this recipe is dedicated to her.)

Years ago my sweetie introduced me to tofu (and tempeh - but that's another story); and for a few years we were very nearly vegetarian...until the day I decided I had had it with the both of them. To be honest, I can't even recall why it happened.

Fast forward to the present, and both protein sources have taken up a place in my cooking and my refrigerator once again. Once more, I can't even recall why. It just happened.

I think of it as "trying to make friends" with them, and the relationship seems to be growing apace - encouragingly if not always fabulously. I'm sure the difference is in my attitude toward them, and in the fact that I am cooking more creatively. Rather than feeling the need to please my sweetie, I please myself, follow my own curiosity, and am usually gratified that the end result is pleasing to her as well. (I barely managed to photograph the portion above before we gobbled it up.) It helps that I don't try to make them "be meat"; rather, I try to approach tofu and tempeh for what they are, for their own unique qualities. (Full disclosure: We still eat meat. Just less of it; and what we do it is almost always Four Mile River Farm pasture-raised, antibiotic-free, steroid and hormone-free beef and pork. But that's another post.)

FYI, the term "bbq-style" refers to the sauce, a richer version (I hope) of the bottled bbq sauces we used when I was growing up in Michigan; I am not trying to imitate North Carolina bbq (pulled pork) or any other regional specialty. (Pulled tempeh, anyone?)

BBQ-STYLE TOFU (STOVETOP VERSION)

3/4 lb organic tofu (I use Bridge from Middletown, CT)

minced yellow onion (optional)

olive oil or other light vegetable oil for pan

BBQ Sauce (about 1 cup):

1/3 cup organic ketchup (I use Muir Glen)

3-4 tablespoons organic dark or blackstrap molasses

1 large (3 small) garlic cloves, crushed/minced

1-2 tablespoons minced onion

2 tablespoons olive olive

2 teaspoons (or to taste) prepared stone-ground mustard

1 krimson spice or other small fresh hot pepper, about 1", seeded and chopped

(or substitute cayenne or pepper flakes to taste)

1/4-1/2 cup water

Prepare sauce by combining all ingredients, adding water last to bring the total to 1 full cup; emulsify thoroughly after each addition. Adjust seasonings to taste. Sauce should be opaque, and not separating. (I made the sauce while browning the tofu; you can make it beforehand and keep in the fridge, but bring it to room temperature before using, and give it a righteous stir if ingredients have separated.)

Cube tofu, then brown on all sides in cast iron skillet or other heavy pan on medium-high heat. Add the minced onion if desired. Make sure the pan is hot (not smoking) before adding tofu, so skin is "seared"; if too cold, the skin sticks to the surface of the pan.

When tofu is golden brown on all sides (and onion translucent), pour 1/2 cup of the sauce over the tofu. Store remainder in the refrigerator for use another time.* Turn heat down slightly to medium (or just below)**; toss with spatula to coat thoroughly. Turn as necessary. When most of sauce has been absorbed and thickened (tofu may be somewhat blackened at the edges), turn down very low and cover for a few minutes to let tofu continue absorbing flavors, or serve immediately.

Served two very hungry women (with veggies and sides, of course), two servings each.

*I did try the rest of this sauce a few days later in like fashion on a block of tempeh; that idea still needs work. Next time, I'll try baking/broiling the tempeh in the oven instead of pan grilling.

**Please note that I am using an electric range which is certainly older than myself. Unfortunately it's not old enough to be "antique" or charming enough to be "retro".

84 High Street Cafe

The first time Judy and I ever ventured into 84 High Street Cafe in downtown Westerly several years ago, we wanted to have a "celebratory" dinner. What we were celebrating, and who recommended the place, I have quite forgotten (a friend of Judy's, I think?). Every other aspect of that first experience, however, is pinned firmly in place in my memory. We disagreed on what to order, which was not unusual, as we nearly always split an entree when we go out. Judy, being a frugal soul, voted on the rotisserie roasted chicken dinner at $12.99. (Or was it $11.99?)

I scoffed at that and, with a chutzpah that astonishes and amuses me now, announced that I didn't want something I could get at any grocery store. This was meant to be a special occasion and I was therefore ordering the pan-seared filet mignon. At $18.95 it was an astonishing amount for us to spend on a single meal out at the time. (Nowadays it seems to be simply the going rate at even the most lackluster eateries.) But I carefully reasoned that it really wasn't that much more than the chicken dinner and furthermore, I was going to pay for it. An offer even Judy couldn't refuse, and irrefutable reasoning to boot.

The fact that I was willing to spend that amount of money on the meal suggests that what we were out celebrating, in fact, was my having gotten a job.

Thankfully, my willfulness on this occasion was rewarded. Two pan-seared medallions arrived on the plate, in a pool of dark portobello brandy demi-glace, accompanied by mashed potatoes garnished with thin, light and crispy vegetable "fries", and grilled summer squash. The tenderloin was as rare as I had requested it, pink and juicy, of the quality that elicited a many groans of pleasure and still sits happily in my memory as one of the best meals I've ever had.

Admittedly we don't go back to the cafe as often as we should, or would like to, given the quality, but we have never been disappointed on any of our return trips. That time we were in the front restaurant but generally we dine in slightly more casual bar area; I say "slightly" because the elegance of the decor still puts most bars in the area to shame, but the welcome we always receive from staff makes us feel very much at home. There is never the least snootiness about the restaurant or its staff.

Yesterday Judy and I were driving home from a gorgeous and memorable day spent Jamestown, RI. We had packed a picnic lunch: potato salad Judy had made the night before, her best ever; boston lettuce from the co-op and tender chard leaves from our garden; chopped fresh tomato with olive oil, parmesean and fresh basil as a dressing; and Wild Planet sardines in spring water (mild and slightly sweet, similar in flavor to tuna, they were a revelation compared to the oil-packed variety and the first time I've ever enjoyed sardines). After a day of hiking on the island, exploring graffitti-covered Fort Wetherwell (which has become a strange sort of work of art in its own right), discovering live starfish in a crevasse between the rocks and looking out over the intensely blue-green water foaming against the granite cliffs of the island, etc; the last trace of lunch was mysteriously vanished from our bellies. We were ravenously hungry in the way we can only be when we've spent the day in the hot sun and strong salt-laden breezes of the ocean. Which meant that we wanted seafood; good, fresh seafood, thank you very much, and not fried. Yes, I know that a piece of fish can be both "fresh" as in freshly caught, and "fried", but I've never understood the appeal of destroying a perfectly good piece of fish by coating it in batter and dunking it in a vat of hot oil. (On the other hand, I have polished off plates of potatoes and onions given the same treatment. Call me a hypocrite.)

We left the island, not seeing anything that appealed to us, drove to Narragansett and were given directions to a seafood place in town that the locals assured us was a good one; upon arriving we were informed that all the seafood was fried. We were by now hungry enough to rip open a box of oyster crackers simply to have something in our stomachs.

"We could go to Westerly," one of us said to the other.

"We could," the other replied.

Downtown Westerly offers a plethora of dining options; and we probably went to every one of them (excluding those we assumed we could never afford), looked at the menus, hesitated, changed our minds, quibbled with each other and wandered from place to place; none of them were quite hitting the spot, mentally at least. Only those damned oyster crackers kept our blood sugar levels from plummeting to dangerous lows.

"We could go to 84 High Street again," one of us said to the other. "We've never been disappointed with it."

"We could," the other replied. "The portions are always generous."

And there we were, perusing the menu; if either one of us balked this time our only option left would have been the rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. Fortunately our eyes lit upon the "thai shellfish stew: shrimps, scallops, littlenecks and crabmeat in a red thai coconut cream broth with julienned vegetables, tomatoes and roasted red peppers." While we waited on the mail course we slackened our hunger and thirst with rosemary-flecked bread, garden salad (all dressings made in-house; I chose blue cheese), beer (Judy) and root beer (me.) The beer menu offers several craft beers on draft as well as Guiness (my partner eventually went with a black-and-tan); but the root beer deserves special mention. I don't drink alcohol, except the occasional sip from Judy's glass, and finding non-alcoholic options when dining out, aside from water, iced tea, and mass-produced sodas can be a bit of a challenge. 84 High Street offers Saranac root beer, and any establishment that offers non-alcoholic options, besides juice and water, so I'm not left staring at Judy whilst she enjoys her Guiness automatically gets points from me.

**********

As it happens, that rotisserie chicken, which I'm sure is much better than anything I could get at the grocery store, is now $15.99, and the filet mignon medallions are $24.99.

Wild Raspberries

The first raspberries of the summer arrived just this week, a mounded handful from Judy, my sweetheart (significant other? "spousal alternative"?) who gathered them and brought them to me quietly on a late afternoon. I was just waking (just barely) from a nap induced by the day's merciless heat; the surprise treat she delivered snapped me instantly back to life.

Wild raspberries grow profusely on our property, and like any good weed become more numerous every year, becoming a thick green boundary all about us, filling up the edges and corners of the land. Generally I am the "guardian" of the raspberries, watching and waiting each year for the countless living rubies and garnets to ripen, filling up our refrigerator and freezer, serving them fresh at breakfasts, turning them into countless jars of jams and jellies. In the ten years I have lived on this property, I have been, in fact, the only person who notices and gathers the raspberries, as well as the mulberries, the black raspberries (not nearly so numerous), the fox grapes, etc., or at least as far as I can tell. (I'm excluding our friends Jake and Laura, who moved off the property some years ago.) So the fact that Judy spotted them before I did this year was a sweet irony.

There are moments (more and more numerous lately) in which I feel as though I have given up on myself, on life, in many ways; or rather, I have learned to expect less and less. At times it feels as though I have squeezed my life into a box so small I can scarcely breathe. When it comes to the wild raspberries, however, I am unapologetic and uncompromising, fueled by a greed that borders on lust.

I have done things for them I would do for no other thing or person on earth; I have spent hours gathering them, sweating profusely under a long-sleeved jacket in an attempt to protect my arms from stinging nettles; I have ditched the jacket in frustration, forgetting that in a couple of hours I'll be coating my arms in lotion in attempt to soothe my badly-scratched and stinging skin. When it comes to picking raspberries my amnesia regarding this issue is astonishing.

Last year we enjoyed them fresh by the handfuls for breakfast or a snack; threw them into smoothies (lesson learned - the seeds are annoying in a smoothie); froze them in ziplock bags (I still have one left from last year); topped vanilla ice cream with raspberries and a sprinkle of homemade granola. Primarily, though, I made them into jellies and jams; if there is any task more time-consuming, labor-intensive (and sweaty), this just might be it. Jelly especially so, which Judy prefers to jam or preserves; since I haven't a foley food mill (yet), my other option is to put them in a thin white linen or cotton pillowcase, and squeeze every bit of juice out of them. A good bit of it seems to end up soaking the cloth, not to mention staining my hands and every other surface in sight. I told myself last year, "No jelly, people can eat the seeds and like it!" But I ended up making it anyway. This is the year I get myself that food mill.

My pride and joy was the batch "raspberry-ginger-lime" jelly I invented on the spot. I thrilled with the results, but no one else seemed to favor it; they all preferred the peach or grape. That's all right, more for me. (I still have one jar left.) I think it has a wonderfully "bright" flavor that balanced all three elements, and went equally well on a piece of toast as on a rice cracker with a bit of cheese or coconut cream cheese as an appetizer.

"Did you write down the recipe?" A friend asked recently.

My answer to that was predictable. "No. I was just winging it." And I did truly "just wing it". All I could offer is to take whatever your favorite raspberry jelly recipe is (mine came from a combination of the sheet inside the pectin box and the instructions on the Pick Your Own website), and add freshly-squeezed or bottled organic lime juice, and organic fresh gingeroot, grately finely. Leave out the threads or "sinews" of the ginger (or strain out later), and be sure to put in any juice from the grating process. Do not add the ginger in chunks because the flavor will not come through as strongly.

More Summertime Grilling Fun - Basil and Sage Chips

Grilled basil and sage leaves: the taste sensation that's sweeping the nation? Perhaps not - but they've fast become a mealtime treat at my house. Something has to be done with all that basil and sage we planted in the garden this year, after all.*

Basically, it's the same recipe/treatment as for the grilled kale chips in my previous post. Use large leaves, of course; in the case of the basil, these would be the ones that "got away from you" and got a little too big to be tender or flavorful because 1) you can't watch the garden every minute of they day, plus 2) you planted too many plants, and 3) there are only two of you in the house to try to eat all of it. (That's how it works at my house, at any rate.) Don't forget the touch of salt and cayenne in the mix of olive oil/ tomato sauce/dash of wine or cider vingar and what have you.

Marinate at "room temperature" for about 2 hours; less and the leaves, especially the sage, will not have absorbed the marinade adequately. More, and you will find yourself dealing with very limp leaves that need to be manually uncurled and flattened as they are laid on the grill. At that point, even the most devoted slow-food enthusiast will find themselves wishing they had stopped at a burger joint on the way home. (I won't tell if you won't.)

As with the kale, you put these on low (and very low) coals, watch carefully, turn at least once if necessary; the basil leaves especially start to curl at the edges and will take on the color of - well, of dead autumn leaves. Not pretty, but surprisingly tasty and addictive. Stiffness to the touch indicates crispness. I've used both sweet italian and thai basil, because that's what I have in my garden; I haven't tried lemon or red basil varieties, but I can see myself planting those next year just for the sake of putting them on the grill.

I can't call the kale chips "mine" because their are so many recipes out there for them; I will however, stubbornly and proudly call the basil and sage chips "mine", if for no other reason than they were born of a happy accident: I had thrown some of each herb into an olive oil/tomato sauce/etc marinade with portobello mushroom caps, the leaves ended up on the grill with the 'shrooms and were crispy when I removed them. Of course I had to pop them into my mouth - if it's grilled, it has to be ok, yes?

Is this the "wackiest" thing I've ever put on top of a grill (and then into my mouth)? Possibly. Have I hit the wall in terms of what I'm willing to try out on the grill, to "see what happens"? Almost certainly not.

What's the most unusual thing you've ever cooked on the grill (successfully or unsuccessfully)?

*Yes, I have tried air-drying them, as I've done very successfully ever year past; this year, however, the humidity is slowing the drying process to a crawl.

Kale Chips...on the Grill? (A Summertime Twist)

I've had several requests from friends for "my" kale chip recipe, which has become a staple at parties since last fall. Full disclosure - they are not "mine"; I found out about them via What Would Cathy Eat? and adapted Cathy's recipe slightly. I eliminated the black pepper and tabasco; I double the amount of olive oil (about 3-4 tablespoons), then sprinkled with ground sea salt and about 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper, then baked as directed (adjusting my oven to a lower temp and shorter cooking time, as my oven is hotter than Cathy's, apparently.)

I had been wondering for a while, now that grilling season is in full swing (I've brushed off the old Weber and have been loading it's hungry belly with the surplus of hardwood twigs and sticks on our property), if kale chips could be done on a grill as well as in the oven?

Oh yes, ma'am.

Tear off the leaves (discarding the ribs, as per Cathy's recipe) from 1/2 a bunch of lacinato or toscana kale*. Massage it with about 3-4 T olive oil, 2-3 T tomato sauce, 1-2 tea. red wine vinegar, 2 tea. soy sauce, and a dash of cayenne. Toss the leaves until thoroughly coated. Marinate at room temperature for about 1-1/2 hours. Heated up the grill (I only burn hardwoods, no coal or gas, so please adjust for your own grill); when the coals are "medium hot", grey on the outside but burning red inside, put a well-oiled tray for vegetables and small foods atop the grill. Place each leaf atop the tray, watching each one carefully and turning once or twice. Make sure the leaves are flat and not folded or twisted up. A leaf is ready when it's edges begin to curl upward and it is stiff, not limp when you touch it with your tongs; plus it will slide easily across the tray. If it seems stiff at one end but still limp elsewhere, turn or rotate and leave on a few more seconds. When ready, gently drop each one on a plate or in bowl; they will continue to crisp as they cool.

It probably goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that this is not an operation you can walk away from.

Do make sure to set some aside for yourself, because these will disappear FAST, just as their oven-baked siblings do. Hungry friends, family (and significant others) will no doubt take advantage of the fact that your attention is focused on the grill. (There is no such thing as unselfishness when it comes to something this addictive.)

* I haven't tried this yet with the gorgeous toscana kale from Hunts Brook Farm (Quaker Hill, CT) I saw yesterday at New London's Fiddleheads Food Co-op, but I'm sure it would be superb. HBF's kale resembles the lacinato but is lovelier and lusher than the lacinato the co-op has been carrying.

Things I Like: Olive and Oud, or "Rhymes with 'Food' "

My friend Laura Natusch recently rechristened her soap and skin-care products company "Olive and Oud" - and yes, it does rhyme with "food", as she explained to me the other day.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/OliveAndOud?ref=seller_info

The name and packaging have changed, the products are as delightful as ever. I now have her soaps in my shower, two varieties of her lip balm tucked in various purses and dresser drawers (replacing the tube of lipbalm I had bought from Whole Foods, which I tossed into the Honda as the "emergency" lipbalm of last resort.) And I've been using her deodorant for going on two years now (the lavender/tea tree oil one is my favorite).

I'm not a "soap person"; bath products are not my fall-back choice for gift giving, and I've tended to purchase whatever was reasonably cheap but not too drying in the way of a bar for the shower. I've looked at those big blocks of multicolored soaps like psychedelic cheeses at the co-ops and markets ("Cut your own soap!") and resisted their siren call (or scream); I've admired the bars in pale tones and natural scents on the shelves, wrapped in plain brown paper to convey a sense of the "natural", admired the look, whiffed appreciatively, and moved on.

Laura is the first soapmaker who actually stopped me in my tracks. With a bar of soap, of all things. Later on, with the aforementioned deodorant, then the lip balm, and somewhere along the way I actually purchased a facial "serum" in a precious cobalt bottle, made olive oil, rose oil, nut oils, and other botanical extracts I can actually identify. This is not the imitation "natural" product that is beginning to proliferate on store shelves, btw: a slurry of unpronounceable chemical additives and space-age polymers with a few drops of rosemary, aloe, chamomile, etc thrown in for "green chic" and legitimacy.

She started out, as I suppose many do, with premixed scents, but has since developed her own "signatures", constantly experimenting to become a true artist with scents. Experiencing her products is like spending time appreciating fine wines, rare teas, or enjoying a well-cooked meal. Many of her soaps incorporate some of my favorite foods, spices, herbs: coriander, cardamon, grapefruit, vanilla, ginger. She combines the "edibles" with "nonedibles" like jasmine flower, often in surprising and subtle ways. I abhor patchouli, for instance - except when Laura uses it; I'm never aware of it's presence until she informs me of it in the "Orange Patchouli", balanced with real orange juice, black pepper, and sandalwood until it smells nothing "patchouli" that I've ever known. (Thank goodness.) I'm only aware of nearly-indescribable layers of scent; not so much individual elements I can pick out, but total scent environments or "moods": warm and relaxing, or warm and sensual; cool and breezy, or cool and smoky. They bring back memories, real or imagined, of a day at the beach, a walk in the woods, a lazy afternoon's lovemaking.

And yes, this IS soap I am talking about. But it never is just quite soap, and the purpose of the product almost seems beside the point...except it just so happens that these lush, lovely things are also entirely practical. There's a reason I've been buying Laura's deodorant for two years, along with the soaps and everything she makes: because it works. (Ask my significant other.) And it does so without aluminum or chemical additives.

Particular favorite of mine include the "Ginger Orange Vetiver", "Grapefruit Mimosa with Coriander and two Jasmines" (yes, it really is as good as it sounds. Possibly better.) "Scheherazade" with tuberose, ylang ylang, tumeric, blood orange, black pepper, nutmeg...These fragrances would bring me to my knees, but that would be terribly unseemly even in the laid-back atmosphere of Fiddleheads Co-op.

There's also the "Butter Mint with Organic Cocoa Butter" that always makes me terribly hungry; I suppose a hot toddy is the closest equivalent - warm and rich, minty and chocolately (but not "too"), and very creamy all at once. Her scents never operate on just one level, and therein perhaps is the key to my personal devotion. There are soaps that smell like "pine", "rose", "lavender", and so forth, and are lovely things in their own right. But they continue to smell like "pine" and "rose" and "lavender", that thing and nothing else, from the moment you find the bar in the store to long after the last traces have been rinsed away from your skin. For me the magic in Laura's fragrances is not just in the layers, in the blending of disparate essences until they become something else altogether; it's the fact that they evolve, as fine perfumes do, releasing top, middle and base notes over time.

Next Saturday is, I believe, her last week at the Fiddleheads Co-op Saturday Market for a while (13 Broad Street, New London); if you haven't had a chance to catch her yet and take a (deep, luxurious) whiff of her products, please do.

My Sister-in-Law asked for my granola recipe...and all she got was this lousy blogpost

A couple of months ago, my sweetie was boasting to her sister in TN over the phone about my granola, which elicted a request for my recipe. It's a simple enough request that left me completely flummoxed. How did I make granola, exactly? How to describe the experience into something quantifiable? Obviously, this is granola, not atomic fusion.

For years I wondered how people who were able to have recipes in their heads, who could say "Oh, I don't measure, just take a little of this, a little of that, I go by feel..." were able to work in the kitchen with the confidence that their dishes would come out successfully. I don't know why I clung to exact measurements and printed recipes for so long; probably a lack of confidence on my part, coupled with a very long learning curve. Periods of intense interest in the kitchen alternated with periods of equally intense indifference. I now know that being able to put together a recipe intuitively is not a mysterious quality born in the genes (although the interest in cooking, like any other interest or inclination, may well be); it's simply a product of practice, of work and repetition, as is anything else in life that requires mastery.

My first attempts at granola several years ago were guided by two recipes from the 1993 edition of Uprisings: The Whole Grain Bakers' Book, edited by The Co-operative Whole Grain Educational Association. A collaborative effort and a collection of whole-grain recipes from co-operative bakeries across the country, this is one of my most well-worn and well-loved cookbooks. (A former member of the Association, Lee Trampleasure, is keeping the spirit of the original project alive here and here ; there is a newer book with the same title but different authors that I have never read and so can't speak to.) Specifically, I relied on the "Almond Date Granola" and "Raisin Nut Granola" from the Uprisings Bakery Collective in Berkley, mashing the two recipes together. Notes and stains on the pages are evidence of my holding it open with oil and molasses on my hands.

Any granola recipe is essentially a template; you can put just about anything into it, although some ingredients can increase the cost considerably. I couldn't afford dates when I started making granola, so I used raisins instead. It's not really "baking" in the sense of a bread or a cake, but more of a process of drying. It takes a little time and attention but it tastes so much better than anything than I can buy that I literally have not eaten store-bought granola (even from the local organic food co-op) for over a decade. In addition to the obvious qualities - cheap,tasty and fresh - I also wanted granola that was actually healthy, i.e., the real thing, inspired by the WGEA and countless other health food pioneers from the last century; not the over-processed, white-sugar and hydrogenated oil-filled bastardization that "granola" had become in the grocery stores.

I always used raisins because they were cheaper and more readily attainable than other dried fruit at the time; most recipes called for dates but the price was out of sight for me. Lately dried cranberries have gone down in price (or raisins have gone up in price) to make them a still-economical choice. I only use liquid sweeteners because those initial recipes did (and because conventionally processed white or brown sugars were banned from our household.) Originally I mixed honey, maple syrup and molasses together, sometimes adding warm water to thin it out; eventually I found that molasses was too "heavy" a flavor note, and that I preferred a more delicate taste to my granola. I now prefer maple syrup, or maple syrup and honey in combination if I'm short on the one. (Honey tends to burn faster, however, so I have to adjust my oven to a lower temp.) Maple syrup is expensive, however.

About a year ago I experimented with adding 1 part tahini to two or three parts maple syrup before pouring over the dry ingredients. My ulterior motive was to make the syrup go farther, as I was probably nearing the end of the jug that day. The result was better than expected; in addition to economizing on my sweetener I got a stronger binder, more flavor and heartiness, without losing the delicacy in the process. It's probably my one and only true "innovation" to granola, in that I wasn't inspired by a cookbook recipe but simple want and curiosity. (And no doubt dozens if not hundreds of people have come up with the same idea on their own. Allow me to cherish my illusion just a wee bit longer.)

Yesterday I made a new batch, in a bit of a rush before I headed out the door to an appointment. I had sort of planned in advance, which is to say, I wanted to make a batch of granola using dried cranberries instead of my usual raisins, and that was about as far as my planning got. I suspected that the cranberries would make a bright color and flavor contrast to the cardamon. I forgot to add bran, which I usually add along with the oats; and I substituted the delicate coconut chips I buy from the local co-op for thicker, sturdier strips I had dehydrated from fresh coconut meat for the first time just days before (and having no idea if it would crisp properly.)

The result was what you see in the photo above and, if I may be allowed to blow my own trumpet, is probably the best batch of granola I have ever made. Not "Oh, this is tasty" but "Oh! Wow, this is scrumptious!" I left the trays to cool in the kitchen while I ran my errands; when I returned three hours later, the entire apartment still smelled fragrantly of cardamon, like the scent of cardamon cookies baked by a grandmother I never met in reality. Something from a dream or fantasy of an ideal childhood.

But- a problem remained. I still couldn't tell my sweetie's sister the exact recipe, as I only measured three of the ingredients - the oats, and the liquid ingredients (sort of). Otherwise I did what I always do, sprinkling on the spices and tossing in handfuls of the other stuff with what appears to be wild abandon, asking myself along the way, "Does it look like enough nuts? Can I smell the cardamon?" and so on. I shall do my best for her sake, however, to describe what I did.

(Nearly all my ingredients are organic or locally-sourced whenever possible, btw, but this is not a hard and fast rule. Start with what you've got and what you can get.)

Cranberry-Cardamon-Coconut Granola

The Dry Stuff:
- 5 cups rolled (not quick or instant) oats
- Chopped raw unsalted almonds, (pecans or cashews would be fine, too)
- Raw, unsalted hulled sunflower seeds
- Dry, unsweetened coconut chips or flakes (not sweetened or unsweetened "shredded" coconut for making macaroons)
- Cinnamon and Cardamon to taste (About 1-2 tablespoons of the cinnamon and 1-2 teaspoons of the cardamon)
- Finely ground grey (or pink, if you have it) sea salt
- Slightly sweetened dried cranberries, about a handful or more.

The Wet Stuff:
- 1/4 - 1/3 cup tahini (I prefer a Lebanese brand I tracked down at a "middle eastern" food store, over the store-bought brands. Homemade would no doubt be insanely good.)
- 1- 1/14 cup (approx) Grade B or Grade A Dark real maple syrup


Preheat oven to about 345-350 degrees. There really is no exact formula for this one; granola simply needs a medium-low heat. My oven runs hot, so 345 for 25-30 minutes does the trick. Lightly oil two or large, dark baking sheets, at least 11x17" or 12x19", with 3/4" sides (not flat, sideless "cookie trays" sold nowadays. The side are important, you'll need them.)

Pour the oats into a large mixing bowl, followed by about a handful each of the sunflower seeds and the nuts. (I don't think you can overdo either one, can you?) I chop the almonds by hand, lacking a food processor or electric chopper; leave the brown skins on, you won't notice them. Add the coconut chips, however much seems right to you, or about a handful. Mine were freshly dehydrated and a bit thicker than the health food store ones, so I broke them into pieces; thinner strips can be left whole.

Sprinkle with a respectable layer of powdered cinnamon, and about a capful of powdered cardamon. (Cardamon is a spice you do not want to overdo; I guess I put in about 1-2 teaspoons.) Add a sprinkling of finely ground grey or pink sea salt if you have it, and mix well with a wooden spoon. You want to have a mix that seems well-distributed, and all of the ingredients (nuts, seeds, coconut) balanced with the oats as the main player; if you can't see them, add some more. Take a whiff inside the bowl; the spices should be gently fragrant, not overwhelming. If you can't detect them, add more. (Cinnamon is something that I find it hard to overdo, but cardamon is not so forgiving; too much can have add a sharp flavor note.)

Measure in a "wet" cup the tahini; make sure it is thin enough to pour easily and there are no solid lumps. Add enough maple syrup to make 1 full cup, blend together right in the cup; then pour over the dry ingredients evenly. (I find it helpful to brush the inside of the cup with a wee slick of oil first so the syrup slides out more easily.) Stir all ingredients together with the wooden spoon until the wet ingredients are evenly distributed, making sure you scrape the bowl along the bottom occasionally. If the mix seems too dry, (and/or it's too much effort to mix) add a drizzle of additional maple syrup as needed. The entire mixture should be bound together lightly, with a glistening coating of syrup, but not sopping wet; all the liquid ingredients should be thoroughly absorbed with no pools at the bottom of the bowl.

Spread the mixture on your prepared baking pans, distributing evenly between the two trays; the granola will be about the height of the sides of the pan. Allow a little room between the granola and the sides of the tray all around, as the edges burn faster. Pop the trays in the oven on centered racks (I use two racks, one above the other with some space in between. Don't have the two racks right on top of one another as it prevents proper heat circulation.)

Set your timer for 15 minutes to bake; then remove trays and stir slightly to redistribute (that word again) the edge bits to the center, etc. the granola should still be pretty pale at this point, just starting to become golden brown, and still soft. I turned down my oven by ten degrees to 335-340 at this point, then put the trays back in for another 10-12 minutes, or until golden brown and the granola is beginning to harden (crisp) slightly. It will continue to harden as it cools. Remove the trays and right away, while the granola is still warm, toss the cranberries over it, stir the trays to incorporate the fruit. Allow to cool on the trays, several hours or overnight, before storing in airtight glass jars or tins.

Keeps indefinitely, or at least a couple of months - if it isn't consumed way before then. Perfect with milk, soy milk, yogurt or what have you (especially homemade yogurt). Pack in baggies or containers for a snack to-go; sprinkle on fresh fruit, ice cream or pudding; top warm applesauce or poached fruits and berries for a quick "fruit crisp"; spread an even coating over a one-crust fruit pie at the beginning or halfway through the baking process for a glamorous version of "crumb crust".

Regarding baking temperature - I have set my oven to as low as 295 degrees and dried it longer with success, but I'm generally not that patient. (My first year of making granola saw a lot of over-baked, too brown batches.) My oven runs on the hot side so some adjustments will be necessary for yours. I have heard of people using their dehydrators to make granola - and in fact, I used mine to make those incredible coconut chips, but never to make granola.

A note on adding pumpkin seeds in granola - sure, you could, if you wanted to. I tried for years, I swear I did, but pumpkin seeds don't "play nice" with the other ingredients the way sunflower seeds do. Save those for roasting with a bit of salt and cayenne.

"Good Cook" - A Gift from a Friend

One of my favorite kitchen utensils is my "Good Cook" manual can opener. It actually has the words “Good Cook” in a little silver decal up top, like one of those fashionable “positive thinking” mantras, or a command to one’s dog.

As it happens, I have become a “good cook”, lately, if not a great one. I certainly don’t assume the can opener’s optimistic brand name had anything to do with that, nor is it why I like the item. Made of smooth white plastic, it feels balanced and comfortable in my hand, unlike it's predecessor (one of those large, rather squarish manual openers that are functional but rather clumsy. Or perhaps they are simply not designed for lefties like me.) Unlike it's predecessor, or my mom's 1970's countertop electric model, it does not serrate the top of the can, but cuts the can in a very clean line just under the top seal. I have yet to injure myself on the cans once they are opened.

The opener also has a bottle opener, and a place to try and wrench open stubborn olive oil caps, but I always forget about those functions. I don't open cans very often but when I do, I want something that will cut the can without leaving me bleeding on nasty bits of metal. And this item has worked just fine on that count for at least five years.

I also have an odd fondness for thing, if it is possible to be "fond" of a kitchen utensil, because it was a gift from a friend who has sinced passed out of my life. (Although not, thankfully, from her own.) Cooking was not something we shared or discussed all that much, as I did not do as much cooking then as now, nor was it yet a passion for me, or at the very least a hobby. My Sweetie and I shared the task more equally, and yet it was simply a chore that needed to be done.

The passions my friend and I shared at the time were writing, Moulin Rouge (the Baz Luhrmann version), and history, amongst other things. I am sorry, though, that I wasn't more of a cook then, because I'm sure we would have shared that as well. (I know we both loved to eat, loved culinary pleasures, even if our specific tastes diverged.) In fact, she did send me, among other recipes, instructions on roasting a turkey that involved soaking cheesecloth in pomegranate juice, draping the bird in the fabric, and then at some point in the roasting process very carefully peeling the cheesecloth off before finishing the bird. Time-consuming, possibly dangerous, and damnably delicious.

We have not spoken in at least five years, as best as I can recall. Since that time it is cooking, not writing, that has become my primary “passion”; it’s in the kitchen, not at the computer or writing desk, where I am able to focus my mind, to put aside fear, anger, sadness, or simple confusion, where I am best able to “be in the moment”.

I don’t know what caused my friend and I (for I still think of her as that, despite the years and the silence between us) to drift apart, although I have no trouble believing the fault was mine. Was I critical when I ought to have been supportive? Should I have talked and argued less, and listened more? Was I abusive, without meaning to be?Thoughtless? Or simply annoying and tiresome? A bit of all of the above?

Or perhaps there is no “fault”, per se, and it’s just the way life is. I suppose friendships can die, of their own accord, like love affairs, like flowers, like children and other loved ones. I don’t know.

I have lost many friends in my life, foundered more than one potential friendship. Making, and keeping, friendships is not a skill that I have ever mastered, Whereas I am well-practiced at self-isolation; and the proof is in the pudding, or why else would I be sitting here at the keyboard, essentially talking to myself? I cannot, however, blame the computer, blame the seductiveness of the internet, for my unability/unwillingness to connect; it only intensifies traits and habits that manifested themselves in me since I was in kindergarden, at the very least.

I would like the think that I am not, however, a hopeless case. After all, I have learned how to be a good cook, not through any particular practice but from simple repetition, I suppose, and too much time on my hands. In ten years I’ve gone from someone who followed recipes slavishly, to looking around at my kitchen and asking “Would this go with that...and what happens if I put this together and...?” And the result is, more and more often, something very good indeed.

Therefore it seems ironic to me that I am more isolated than I have ever been, now, because it would please me to be able to share what I make in the kitchen with others. There is an egotistical side to that, of course, a need for praise and attention. But I like to think that it is not only about self-centered gratification. (Although I may be fooling myself on that account.) To me, cooking is not only a necessity; it is and can be an art and it is certainly a pleasure, a form of meditation, and a form of love-making. A meal, lovingly prepared, says “be well, be healthy, be welcome” to those who receive it.

If I can learn to cook, then, can I not learn to connect with others? Can I not learn to make friends more easily, to keep them in my life, and increase the fullness and joy in my life thereby? I hope so - although I don’t think I’m quite so optimistic as my can opener. Perhaps I ought to embroider my oven mitts, or my apron, with a postive mantra: “Good Friend”.

Nonetheless, I do think of my lost friend every time I pull out that can opener. I can’t help myself. It’s one of the few tangible, physical traces of our friendship left to me, aside from a few books, and a very soft, beloved, t-shirt from her trip to Rome.

I hope she is well, that she is happy, that she has forgiven me and, if she thinks of me, does so with fondness. And I wish she could taste the "mexican hot cocoa" cookies I baked last week, or the bean and spinach soup simmering on my stove this afternoon. I like to think she would enjoy them.