FOOD ON THE FOOD

An Unfortunate Sweet Tooth

Last week, I made a dentist appointment for myself for today, Halloween.  It’s not as dumb as it sounds.  It means it’s been exactly 365 days since my last candy overdose, while simultaneously being the maximum amount of time one should procrastinate between dental visits.  It’s also exactly T minus 6 hours until my next candy overdose. 

I can hardly wait!

The day after Halloween would be the worst possible time for a dental visit.  The flurry of candy wrappers bursting forth from my purse as I attempted to locate my insurance card would only be the beginning.  The dentist would then have to chisel through the hard candy coating on my face just to get to my mouth.  Although, I’ll admit, it would be fun to see his reaction to the possibility that I might have developed cavities in ALL of my teeth since my last visit. 

“Dear God,” he would gasp at my pearly blacks. 

“Trick,” I’d shout, trying to annunciate around the emergency medical tools in my mouth.  “Just licorice.” 

Then, he’d floss out entire candy bars from between my teeth: Kit Kats, Twixes, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

“Oh, so that’s where you’ve been hiding, you bad boys,” I’d quip.

The dentist, ruing the day he spent top dollar on dental school, would not be laughing.  “Well, at least you managed somehow to remove all evidence of the NECCO Wafers,” he’d finally concede.

“What? No,” I’d reply, deadly serious.  “Those are disgusting.”

Disgusting, I guess, is in the eye of the beholder.

Putting the Zzzzzzz in Lazy

The Preschooler and I have started in with the farm work required for our winter CSA.  Luckily, it rained last Saturday so it was cancelled.  The previous Saturday threatened rain, but then turned freakishly sunny and gorgeous just in the nick of time.  Good thing because I’ve been itching to add some finger blisters to an already impressive collection of bunions.  Thus began the first in a series of death marches into the fields.  (The fresh air.  It burns.)

Since the weather wasn’t quite right for harvesting (still too warm in the root cellar), our task was but to untwine the tomatoes.  That didn’t look too hard.  While I fixated on individual knots and my glorious vision of proper untwining technique, the Preschooler literally ran circles around me, a tail of twine dragging behind him at all times.  By the end, the other four volunteers had untwined Rows 2 through 14 just as the Preschooler was finishing up Row 1.  Meanwhile, I had tangled myself up into a gigantic knot for the last half hour, and had to sack-race my way to the finish line.  The Farmer just rolled his eyes. 

I have a feeling this is going to be a GREAT harvest.

Cookbook Friday: Chocolate Chip Cream Cheese Cookies

Need I say more? 

If there are two things I love, it’s chocolate chip cookies and cheesecake.  My Great Aunt Dava [Barbaresi] Catone, in all her brilliance, decided to combine the two.  What you end up with is something that leaves Husband with only expletives to describe its deliciousness.

The original recipe calls for prepackaged cookie dough, but if you like to make more work for yourself, one recipe of Toll House cookies yields enough dough for both layers.  Simply divide dough in half, roll into two logs, wrap in wax paper, and refrigerate until firm enough to slice.  Alternatively, just slap half of the dough into the pan and spread with a spatula.  For the top layer, spoon teaspoon-sized blobs at regular intervals over the cream cheese filling.  There will be some cheese seepage, but really, isn’t that the best kind?  A dusting of confectioner’s sugar and they’ll be good to go.  And go they will.

Chocolate Chip Cream Cheese Cookies

2 8-oz. packages cream cheese, room temperature
¾ cup sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
2 18-oz. tubes chocolate chip cookie dough
Powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Grease a 9 x 13-inch pan.

Slice cookie dough into ¼-inch thick rounds.  Arrange closely on bottom of pan, pressing to fill in the gaps.  In a large bowl, cream the sugar with the cream cheese until fluffy.  Add eggs and vanilla, and mix well.  Pour cream cheese mixture over cookie dough.  Slice second roll of cookies and place over top of cream cheese.

Bake for 45-50 minutes, until puffed, golden, and center has set.  Cool.  Cut into 1-inch squares and sprinkle with powdered sugar.

Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut – Hamden, Connecticut
1921 - 1998

Next Recipe: Pecan Tassies

     (Previous Recipe: Coconut Meltaways)

Red Sox (Alie)nation

Secretly, I’ve been hoping that the Red Sox would be done by now.  Done, so that some semblance of off-season order can return to our household.  My husband can then stop acting as if yet another planet in our solar system has been swallowed up by the sun every time we lose a game.  After all, the Sox did come in ahead of the Yankees.  Isn’t that enough?

The answer to this question, I’ve been coached, is no.  Even though the 86-year-old curse has been broken, the Red Sox are still required to win every single game for the next 86 years to make up for it.  Or, at least, all the important ones.  No, no, it’s not impossible.  Didn’t you see what happened in Games 4, 5, 6, and 7 in the 2004 ALCS?  And then in Games 5, 6, and 7 just last week?  I’m putting my own damn curse on the Red Sox, and this one better stick.

(I think I just heard my car windows smashing.)

It may sound like sour grapes coming from a jealous wife (why isn’t he paying attention to ME?), but it’s not.  Why do you think I have so much time to blog?  He has baseball stats, I have blog stats.  He has Dice-K, I have diced kale (by the way, don’t dice kale).  He has beer downstairs, I have bourbon upstairs.  It’s a marital arrangement made in heaven, really.  Or, at least, a heaven that works on a draft system.

After the soul-crushing 2003 season, and the euphoric 2004 season, I wonder who is left standing that has the emotional stamina to care? 

My husband, that’s who.  The instant replay in his head cannot be turned off.  He drags every slight around with him like a bedraggled beast of burden.  I ask you, how many times do I have to pick him up out of the hamper and lead him stumbling back to his dreams after he dives across the room to catch a missed fly ball?  And the screaming.  Oh, the screaming. 

Shake it off, man.  Somehow, I don’t think Manny loses any sleep.

I know it’s only another week, goddamnit, but it’s going to be a looooong week.  I’ve been betting against them all this time, but now they have to win otherwise I’m screwed.  For the Red Sox to come this far and then not win the World Series, there will be moping for a month.  At least.  Then, expect a rebound relationship with the Patriots who, let’s face it, have a much easier game with a much bigger ball, so even if they do win, who the hell cares.  The following spring, there will be renewed intensity/desperation with regard to our scruffy baseball team, including promises to watch every single game this time so he won’t let them down again, and dying all of his socks red in a puddle of his own blood.  That’s after therapy. 

No, not again.  Hear this, Rockies, and listen well.  This is NOT the time to not suck.

Bamboozled

No, not Brickman’s, again.  This time, I was my own worst enemy.

Last week, I took my family’s signature pasta (cappellettis), and stuffed it with pumpkin.  I don’t know what could have possessed me?  Oh yeah, that heap of squash in the corner of my kitchen.

 

I roasted and mashed the pumpkin, added sautéed onion, Romano cheese, thyme, and fresh grated nutmeg, and then wrapped it all up into dozens of little pasta packages.  I planned to smother my new-fangled cappellettis in brown butter and sage, and then weep softly as I polished off my own plate as well as those intended for the rest of my family.

One of my pet peeves about ravioli and such is when the delicious filling leaks out into the pasta water as you boil them.  It’s especially irksome when it exposes and/or eliminates the mystery vegetable intended for your children (or yourself, whatever).  So, with this in mind, I dug out (avert your eyes, Nonni) my bamboo steamer and proceeded to lay the little dumplings out in a single layer on each of the two levels. 

In my mind, Terry Gross was probing me with fascinating questions about my brilliance.  Meanwhile, a different little voice in my head was yelling “Alert, alert.”  Another one of my pet peeves is when that little voice interferes with my plans.  I ignored it.  Continue, Terry, I said.  I’m sure you can see where this is going.

The cappellettis were nicely steamed (although the pasta isn’t quite as tender as when it’s boiled) and all beautifully intact.  That is, until I tried to pry them off the racks to which they had become fused.  Okay, so maybe oiling the racks would have been a good idea.  Chalk one up for the little voice.  After a series of ungraceful spatula maneuvers, and several disapproving looks from Terry, I got them all off.  Their structural integrity was woefully compromised, but at least all the holes were on the bottom.  And they were still good.

Take that, Terry Gross.

Cookbook Friday: Coconut Meltaways

So, about these cookie trays that my great-aunt Dava [Barbaresi] Catone made for special occasions, I don’t really have any stories about them.  If there were any shotgun weddings that had Dava cursing and baking all night long, I don’t know about them. 

Many of the cookies she made weren’t Italian, including this one with shredded coconut.  Think Russian tea cake if Russia had a timeshare in the tropics.  Instead of powdered sugar, Dava applied an icing that she tinted mint green and then sprinkled more coconut on top.  You’ll have to use your own good judgment on the icing; mint green might not win you any friends these days.

Anyway, Dava’s original recipe calls for oleo (margarine).  The prevailing wisdom at the time was that margarine was better for you than butter.  The prevailing wisdom today is the opposite.  Welcome to the cycle of life.  They’ll be good either way.

Coconut Meltaways

Husbands and toddlers love these cookies.  Chopped macadamia nuts would also be great in the dough or sprinkled on top.

1 cup oleo (or butter)
5 Tbsp. powdered sugar
2 cups flour, sifted
1 cup shredded coconut
1 tsp. vanilla

Icing
2 Tbsp. oleo (or butter)
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
2 or 3 Tbsp. milk
¼ tsp. vanilla
Green food coloring
Chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, cream oleo and sugar.  Stir in flour, coconut, and vanilla until blended. Chill dough 20 minutes or until firm enough to handle.  With your hands, roll dough into 1-inch balls and place an inch apart on cookie sheets.  Bake about 15 minutes (it took a bit longer in my oven), until dough just begins to crack.  Cool.

For the icing, cream together oleo and sugar in a small bowl.  Add milk and vanilla, and mix well.  Add just enough tint to make a mint green color, and stir until you don’t care that the lumps are still there.  Spoon over cookies and sprinkle with shredded coconut or chopped nuts.

Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut - Hamden, Connecticut
1921 - 1998

Next Recipe: Chocolate Chip Cream Cheese Cookies

     (Previous Recipe: Chocolate Spice Cookies)

Seeing Orange

I’ve never really been one to cook much winter squash.  Maybe a butternut here and there, but otherwise, I see the squash at the store, note their festive appearance, and then keep on walking for no other reason than it just seems like a lot of work.  Carving pumpkins, I know from experience, is a pain in the ass.  There’s a reason why Halloween comes but once a year, and I’m pretty sure it has everything to do with those stupid pumpkins.

But things are getting a whole lot squashier around here.  Why?  Because after falling in love with my summer CSA to much eye-rolling on your part (yes, I did notice), we decided to sign up for Drumlin Farm’s winter farmshare, despite the newer, stricter farm work requirement.  More whining to come.

What in the world, you might ask, is a winter farmshare?  A big bucket of snow?

No, here in Massachusetts, it’s snow and squash.  Lots of squash.  Drumlin has a root cellar to keep their autumn-harvested squash (among other things, I hope) daisy-fresh all winter long.  Root cellars, which are basically caves dug into a hillside where food can be stored at optimum temperature and humidity, are the reason people around here survived the winters in the olden days before Venezuelan mangoes could be injected into your bloodstream at will.  (sweet, sweet mangoes…)

The cave at Drumlin, I imagine, is packed floor to ceiling with nothing but squash.  Squash in many different shapes, sizes, and colors.  So far, in the past two weeks (which is still, technically, the tail end of the summer farmshare), I’ve gotten armloads of delicata squash, buttercup squash, kabocha squash, sunshine squash, and pie pumpkins.  Wow!  I sure hope they taste different.

So, here I am in the midst of a squash-squishing frenzy.  Lasagna.  Soup.  Ravioli.  I’ll be honest, I’m getting a little sick of squash and Old Man Winter has yet to punch me in the face with his icy fists.  So, if you have any favorite squash recipes, do me a favor and e-mail them to your least favorite bloggers (or favorite bloggers, whichever group doesn’t include me) and I’ll send them some squash.  Thanks.

Scoop

I have a sneaking suspicion that a food blog isn’t the appropriate place to air my litter box grievances.  But until my new litter box blog, The Latest Scoop, is up and running, food blog it is.

My god.  The horrors I have seen.

I just left the back door open.  If you waited too long to place your order for a Thanksgiving heirloom turkey, I can cut you a deal on two free-range, grass-finished felines.

Preschooler Prophecies

Last week, the Preschooler sat down to do an art project at the kitchen table while I was making these cookies.  After many minutes of focused concentration, he demanded that I immediately stop and admire his handiwork.  On the paper among stickers and drawings were the words “I LOVE YOU MOMMY” written by his own hand.  I mean, I assume it was his own hand.  There wasn’t anybody else in the room.

I win!  Usually, all the love stuff gets pointed in his daddy’s direction, often in the form of accidental kicks to the crotch.  Still, it’s better than the loveless and non-accidental elbows to the jowls that I usually receive from the kids.  Then, it occurred to me that maybe he actually thought he had written Daddy and I shouldn’t make a big deal about confusing M’s with D’s and A’s with, um, U’s, so I managed to distract myself with the realization that, holy shit, he can write.

Who’s been teaching him this stuff?  Just last week I found out that he can read entire books by himself.  Huh?  Is it too late to get him into kindergarten (also known as Cheaper Than Preschool)?  But, back to how much he loves me.  Right next to the love part, there was a big wet pile of glitter glue sopping through the paper, so I asked him what it was. 

Without hesitation, he responded, “A rainbow mountain of jelly blood.”

Hmm.  My own, perhaps?  I didn’t ask. 

Maybe he really did mean to write Mommy, after all, because this is about as accurate a metaphor for motherhood as any.  There will be blood.  Lots of it.  But, at least in 20 years or so, you will have climbed a mountain of rainbows, and at the top, after enjoying the view for a moment (please tell me there’s a moment to enjoy the view), the blood you’ve let along the way will have congealed into a thick, sweet jelly that you can have on your toast for the long walk back down again. 

I sure hope he’s right.

Cookbook Friday: Chocolate Spice Cookies

It’s been a while since our last Cookbook Friday, so let’s ease into it with a cookie recipe.  In fact, let’s just finish off the year right with nothing but cookie recipes.  My family has a ton of them and the holidays will be upon us in no time flat.

I’m guessing this photo was taken in the 1950s.  Inside the car in the center is my Great-Aunt Dava [Barbaresi] Catone.  To the left is my grandmother, Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe, and to the right is what would appear to be the Wicked Witch of the West, but, in fact, was a close family friend, Emma, with an unfortunate hat.  It’s happened to all of us at one time or another, my pretties.

Dava was a star baker, and she used to make amazing assorted cookie trays for weddings and other special occasions.  These chocolate spice cookies were a favorite: a sort of soft chocolate biscotti.  Scratch that: chocolate-FROSTED chocolate biscotti (biscotti just got doubly better).

Cooking time is important.  Unlike regular biscotti recipes where you bake the dough once as a loaf, and then bake it again once it's sliced, these only bake once as a loaf.  That said, if you get it wrong and underbake them like I did the first time, there’s nothing that says you can’t throw them back in the oven once sliced to firm them up.  It’s certainly better than overbaking them like I did the second time I made them.  They should not be hard and dry like biscotti.  But should they somehow end up that way, I’m sure you have something in the liquor cabinet you could dip them into.  Just tell everyone they’re supposed to be like that.

So, I am providing you with a range of times, a couple of clues, but in the end, you know your oven better than I do and you have to make the call.  I’d take them out sooner rather than later.

Chocolate Spice Cookies

The spices make this a great cookie for the holidays.  Recipe can be doubled.

¼ cup canola oil
1 cup sugar
¾ cup milk (or water)
½ cup cocoa, sifted
1 tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. cinnamon
¾ tsp. cloves
2 – 2½ cups flour

Chocolate Icing
½ cup confectioner’s sugar
¼ cup cocoa
1-2 Tbsp. milk

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Line cookie sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, add oil and sugar and kind of mash it together.  Stir in milk (or water).  Add cocoa, baking powder, cinnamon, and cloves, and mix well.  Stir in 2 cups of the flour.  Add the remaining ½ cup of flour a little at a time until a sticky dough forms.  You may not need it all, but I did.

Divide dough in half and plop them on each side of the cookie sheet.  With your hands, form them into loaves about 3 or 4 inches across and about 10 inches long.  Do not get out a ruler.  This is just a guideline.  They should look loaf-like and be about the same size.  Bake for 25-35 minutes, until the tops crack and a toothpick inserted into the center indicates moisture but not a gloppy mess.  Let cool.  With a serrated knife, cut loaves at an angle into ¾-inch slices.  The cook gets the ends.

Wait until the cookies are ready to frost before making the icing or it will stiffen.  In a small bowl, mix together sugar and cocoa.  Add 1 Tbsp. milk and stir until incorporated.  Add the rest of the milk, as necessary, until icing is the consistency you like.  Frost cookies.

Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut – Hamden, Connecticut
1921 - 1998

Next Recipe: Coconut Meltaways

     (Previous Recipe: Wands)

Did Brickman’s Screw You Over, Too?

Chances are, if you arrived here because of a Google search, it’s because Brickman’s, a retailer of quality hardware and fixtures, ran off with your money.  You may have tried to call them only to find their number disconnected.  You might have checked their Web site to see, oh good, it’s still up.  But, well, now it’s down.  You might even have dropped by their Moody Street, Waltham location only to find their space completely cleared out, with colorful posters announcing the imminent grand opening of an Indian Shopping Mall. 

While this may spell excitement for the Indians, my reaction was slightly less exuberant.  You see, I had ordered one freelance paycheck’s worth of kitchen cabinet knobs and pulls from Brickman’s because my kitchen, where I spend a fair amount of time, has a serious case of the uglies. 

Lovely.  And that’s when they’re clean.  I always say my hideous cabinets are part of my kitchen’s charm, but I am a liar. Husband and I agreed that the most cost-effective thing to do, besides allowing them to remain ugly for another six years, would be to paint the cabinets and just buy new hardware.  Enter Brickman’s, since 1946 (though, apparently, not nearly long enough).

The folks at Brickman’s, after commenting on how I look about 17 years old and aren’t I a little young to care about kitchen remodeling, had told me that it would take a few months for my order to come in.  That seemed reasonable.  But, little did I know that this was also the time frame during which they were planning to jump into their getaway U-Haul truck, buckling under the weight of six tons of mismatched showroom pieces, and speed away at approximately 15 mph.  It’s odd because, in their haste, they remembered to charge my credit card.  The credit card of a child.  They must have made a terrible mistake.

If you’ve found yourself in a similar situation and are trying to contact Brickman’s, let me save you an hour and a half.  The Better Business Bureau’s number (508-652-4800) isn’t working (somebody call the Better Business Bureau!).  The Waltham city clerk (781-314-3120) has nothing on record for Brickman’s (although she’s gotten several calls).  The MA State Citizen’s Info line (800-392-6090) comes up empty, too.  The Bankruptcy Court Clerk (617-565-8950) says they didn’t file for bankruptcy (if they’re not bankrupt, surely they can afford to pay me back, no?).  The Attorney General’s office (617-727-8400) will refer you to the local consumer office (508-651-8812), which will tell you to visit their Web site (http://www.consumermetrowest.org/), where you can download a complaint form.  Which you should do.  The bastards.

I have no illusions about getting my money back.  It’s almost as if they’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.  But, somebody, somewhere, has my cabinet pulls.  And nobody is opening any cabinets until I find out who.  Everyone is a suspect.  Especially you with attractive kitchens.  Anonymous tips are welcome.

Apple Pie for Preschoolers

The Preschooler has developed a fascination with the Swedish Chef.  I don’t know how that could have happened.  From another room, I’ll hear him launch into the song and a second later, something crashes.  Stern words are issued, but deep down, I know it’s all my fault.

In an attempt to channel some of his “enthusiasm,” I asked if he wanted to make some Swedish apple pie.  But no smashing, I reminded him.  The Swedish Chef spends most of his days in time-out. 

My friend, Erin, had forwarded me this recipe that she said the kids could practically make themselves.  So, I tied on his apron, grabbed my coat, and left for an afternoon of unencumbered shopping.  “I want it warm when I get back,” I shouted as the door slammed behind me. 

It really is a cinch, though.  No bottom crust.  No rolling out.  Just dump a bunch of things into a pie plate, and magical deliciousness happens.  Okay, so you might want to help slice the apples.  Maybe handle the butter-melting process.  Escort the pie in and out of the hot box.  But, other than that, just let the kid go.

It was somewhere between the brown sugar and the flour that I heard it: “Mmmm.  It really is sweet-ish,” he said, licking the spoon.

Awww.  And here I was worrying about spreading baseless stereotypes. 

Sweet-ish Apple Pie

This has a cookie dough-ish crust that’s just as tasty as rolled-out pastry, but it’s quicker and even easier than, well…pie.

5-6 medium apples (we used a hodge-podge)
1 Tbsp. brown sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
¾ cup butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
1 egg
¼ cup chopped walnuts
Pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 350°F.  Peel and slice the apples into thin wedges and arrange them in a 10-inch pie plate.  Sprinkle brown sugar and cinnamon evenly on top (no need to mix it up unless it all lands in one big mound, which isn't inconceivable).  In a medium bowl, add melted butter, sugar, flour, egg, nuts, and salt, and mix until combined.  Pour over apples, spreading batter to the edges.  Bake 45-55 minutes, until crust is golden-brown.  Serve with vanilla ice cream.

A Conversation with the Preschooler

Me: Tomorrow’s a holiday.  No work.  No school.

Him: What holiday?

Me: Columbus Day.

Him: Columbus Day?  Hmmm.  Does it have chandeliers?

Poor Christopher Columbus.  After all that treacherous navigation and exploration, he’ll never live down that ONE time he redecorated with an outrageous chandelier.

Cookbook Friday Returns Next Week

I swear.  In the meantime, there will be NO mention of local farms.

Why Won’t She Shut Up…

… about the Eat Local Challenge?  I know you’re all thinking it and, fear not, my dad actually said it to my face, so I’m well aware that my days on this topic are numbered.  Still, I just want to recap some important points worth remembering so that I don’t slip completely back into my old patterns.  Personally, I’d be more comfortable with a 50/50 split.

Here’s what I learned last month:

• Seasonality.  I have a much better sense now of what’s in season when.  True, the challenge officially took place during the harvest month of September, but my foray into eating locally started in June when we joined a farmshare (CSA aka community supported agriculture aka you pay a local farm to give you stuff each week).  We only got what was harvested by this Massachusetts farm during each particular week.  No more.  So, I learned not to expect squash in June, forget about peas in September, but if you’re very lucky, you might get strawberries in June AND September.

• Shopping trips. I spent a lot more time shopping, and we all know how much I LOVE shopping.  A trip to the farmshare for vegetables, plus a trip to the farmer’s market for fruit and cheese, plus a trip to a different farm for meat and eggs, plus a trip to the regular grocery store for trash bags and tampons.  Grump.  Luckily, we got our milk delivered in those old-fashioned glass bottles, but if we ran out (and we often did) I had to make a special trip out to get local milk.  On the upside, farm stands and outdoor markets are pleasant.  And when I leave, my Achilles tendons aren’t severed.

• The kids. Fussy eaters get hungry eventually.  Or just plain tired of fussing.  The Toddler is a much better eater now than he was before.  Repetition really helps.  After he was presented with his 26th apple and 112th raspberry, those seemed to be the magic numbers for complete and utter acceptance.  As for the Preschooler, when he complained (and he really didn’t complain that much, the little trooper), I simply said, “That’s what we have, today.”  Because, you know what, that could legitimately be all that we have.  And it’s really pretty delicious.

• Cooking.  I spent a LOT more time cooking and planning meals.  Duh.  This and the shopping were the biggest challenges for me.

• Cost. I didn’t keep careful notes on this, but my gut instinct is that we ended up spending less money for food overall.  Some things were much more expensive to buy locally and organically, like flour and maple sugar (we ate fewer desserts as a result), but it seemed that by buying directly from the farmer, the fruits and veggies were cheaper.  With the farmshare, for which you pay up front, we ended up spending $30 a week for at least two huge bags of produce.  That’s way more vegetables than I usually buy in a week.  And, in fact, that’s about what we spend to have a couple of pizzas delivered.  Pizzas with no vegetables on them.  The trick with a farmshare is to exercise restraint.  To focus mainly on using what you get and not spend a lot of extra money filling in the perceived blanks. 

• Health:  I expected to lose a few pounds, but not 10.  This was not all in one month, mind you.  That would not be healthy.  I’m counting since the beginning of the summer when the farmshare started.  The sheer amount of vegetables we receive each week is virtually impossible to consume unless it’s at the expense of other things, like salty snacks and my beloved bevy of carbs.  Joining a farm is like hiring your own personal shopper and nutritionist.  They hand you your ingredients for the week and say, “Eat this.”  And then you will.  I did not go hungry (okay, well, I went slightly hungry in June with all of those goddamned salads).  Most of the time, though, I ate good-sized portions.  They were just packed with vegetables.  All that other stuff I wasn’t eating, it turns out, has a lot of calories.

• Canning:  I didn’t do it.  One of the themes of this year’s challenge was to preserve some of our summer harvest for the winter.  But, we didn’t end up having much extra food, except for the tomatoes, which I made into sauce and froze.  We’ll have to save our adventures in botulism for another year.

So, that’s my love letter to the Eat Local Challenge.  Next year, I’m keeping track of money.  Until then, a big, hearty welcome back to nuts, rice, pasta, canned tuna fish, Florida citrus fruits, and an extra-special ass-slap to California and its bounty (so we don’t all die this winter).  We missed you.

Life on the Outside

It’s been a weird few days coming off of the Eat Local Challenge.  Suddenly, the bars are gone and the bewildered prisoner finds herself looking for crimes to commit to get back on the inside.  Meanwhile, our farmshare size, though still respectable, is getting smaller and smaller, and all manner of hard squashes and gourds are showing up and, oh my god, is it winter already?  I was just getting the hang of eating locally, and now stupid Nature has to go and f it all up with her womanly cycles.

I was lost at the grocery store.  I couldn’t decide what to buy.  After wandering around for a little while, I found myself staring at the hot dogs. 

"Can I buy you?"  I asked them.

They didn’t respond.  But then I realized I was being dumb.  Of course, I can buy hot dogs.  I buy them every time I go to the grocery store (minus last month), and so I’m buying them now.  Except then I started wondering where I was going to find local hot dog buns, and then there’s all the condiments and chutneys I’d have to make, not to mention the sauerkraut won’t be ready in time, and what the hell is wrong with me?  It’s over.  Buy the goddamned hot dogs. 

Long story short, I didn’t buy the hot dogs, but it was only because the full-fat version of Hebrew Nationals were out of stock and only the 97% fat-free versions abounded.  What’s the point of those? 

See, I came to my senses eventually.

Back at home, I struggled to come up with something to make for dinner.  I thought once the challenge was over, my past cooking life would seem easy by comparison (I’m a creature of habit, after all).  But, dinner, it seems, still doesn’t cook itself.  How the hell did I cook before the challenge, anyway?  Turns out blogs are good for answering those kinds of questions.

I made a stir-fry.

My Birthday Present to You: Non-Traditional Shepherd's Pie

In Spain, it's customary to give other people presents to celebrate the day of your birth.  At least, I think that’s how it works (I was a little fuzzy on the language).  If not, I may owe some people their stuff back.

Anyway, in keeping with that tradition, here’s the shepherd’s pie recipe that brings me so much happiness.  May it do the same for you.

 

Rustic Shepherd’s Pie

The only problem with this recipe is that it doesn’t make nearly enough.  You could double it, I suppose, but those are some really big, scary numbers.  Six pounds of ribs?  A quart of wine?  An entire tiny (yet very expensive) bottle of maple syrup?  I fear you might ask me to wire you some money for the ingredients and, I’m sorry, but I’m not THAT generous on my birthday.

3 lbs. beef short ribs
3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 onion, peeled and quartered
2 carrots, peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces
2 celery ribs, peeled and cut into 2-inch pieces
1 head of garlic, cut in half across the equator
2 cups red wine
½ cup maple syrup
2 Tbsp. whole black peppercorns
1 sprig fresh rosemary
2 lbs. sweet potatoes
3 Tbsp. butter
2 eggs
1 tsp. grated nutmeg
¼ cup snipped chives
Sea salt and pepper to taste

Heat oven to 325°F.  Season short ribs with salt and pepper.  In a heavy-bottomed Dutch oven over high heat, heat olive oil and brown ribs on all sides.  Remove ribs from the pan and reduce heat to medium.  Add onion, carrots, and celery, and cook until lightly browned and caramelized, about 5-7 minutes.

Return ribs to the pan and add garlic, red wine, maple syrup, peppercorns, and rosemary.  Stir, cover the pan with foil so that it’s flat against the meat and comes all the way up the sides of the pan (you might need two sheets), and cover with lid.  Place in the oven for 3-4 hours, until the meat is falling off the bone.

In the meantime, bake whole sweet potatoes in the oven until soft and easily pierced with a fork (about an hour, maybe longer depending on size).  Let cool.  Remove skins and put potatoes in a mixing bowl.  Add butter, eggs, nutmeg, chives, salt, and pepper.  Mash until smooth.  Set aside.

Remove the ribs to a plate.  Discard bones and shred the meat with a fork, placing it in an 8”x8” baking dish.  Strain and reserve cooking liquid (discarding solids) and pour on top of meat.  Spread sweet potato mash on top of that, and bake 35 minutes, until bubbly.  You can also stick it under the broiler for a few minutes to get some color on the top.  As you can see from the picture, though, I’m often too hungry to bother.

Serves 4.  If you’re lucky.

Source: Adapted from Jason Tostrup at the Inn at Weathersfield in Perkinsville, Vermont and Yankee Magazine.

Conversations with my Husband

About the Eat Local Challenge:

Me: I’m impressed.  I have to admit, I thought you were going to try to convince me to quit after the first week.

Him: Why?

Me: Because it was hard.

Him: For you.  After you went to bed, I just ate whatever the hell I wanted.

(That might explain why only one of us lost weight.)

***

About the Red Sox:

Him: The playoffs start on Wednesday.  Your birthday is cancelled.

Sweet Freedom is Ours

The Eat Local Challenge has reached a glorious close (for me, at least, not for her).  It had its ups (local sausages).  It had its downs (jelly sandwiches).  But, we survived, we learned a ton, and now I’m ready to be showered with prizes.

What, no prizes?

Then, I’m afraid I have no choice but to embark on a six-month-long Eat Foreign Challenge to make up for my perceived losses.  I’m focusing specifically on China.  See you at my funeral.

Boston Eat Local Challenge: Day 30

Breakfast:
Yogurt (Stonyfield Farm, Londonderry, NH)
Sourdough toast with blackberry/blueberry jam (bread from Nashoba Brook Bakery, Concord, MA; jam from Bonnie’s, Cambridge, MA)

Lunch:
Lots of apples (Tougas Family Farm, Northborough, MA)
Popcorn (East Coast Kettle Corn, Milford, MA)
Ice cream (Tougas Family Farm, Northborough, MA)
Adults had tomato, mozzarella, and basil bruschetta (the usual suspects) and apple cider doughnuts (Tougas Family Farm, Northborough, MA)

Dinner:
Leftover shepherd’s pie
Roasted delicata squash with maple syrup (squash from Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA; maple syrup from Shattuck’s Sugar House, Belchertown, MA)
Peaches (Russo’s, Watertown, MA)

Notes:
We went apple-picking today, along with everyone else in the world.  We hit Tougas Farm in Northborough as is the family tradition.  The Toddler had a knock-down, drag-out fight with an apple tree, and judging by the bloody gashes, I think the Toddler lost.  A+ for effort, though.  Next year, that tree’s going down.  We soothed his bruised ego/face with delicious just-popped local kettle corn and vanilla ice cream.  Oh yeah, and apples.  Lots and lots of apples. 

I almost don’t know what we’re going to do with ourselves tomorrow.

Boston Eat Local Challenge: Day 29

Breakfast:
Yogurt (Stonyfield Farm, Londonderry, NH)
Cheerios (exempt) with milk (Crescent Ridge Dairy, Sharon, MA)
Homemade rye toast with honey (Golden Meadow, Holliston, MA)

Lunch:
Leftover potato omelet and collard greens (vegetables from Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA)
Kids had PB sandwiches, raspberries (Bart’s Farm, Leominster, MA), and havarti cheese (Smith’s Farmstead, Winchendon, MA)

Dinner:
Homemade pizza (flour from Wood Prairie Farm, Bridgewater, ME; cheese from Gigi’s Mozzarella House, Everett, MA; tomatoes from Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA; basil from Land’s Sake Farm, Weston, MA)
Salad (Drumlin Farm, Lincoln, MA; red wine vinegar from Chicama Vineyards, Martha’s Vineyard, MA)
Beer (Octoberfest, Wachusett Brewing Company, Westminster, MA)
Ice cream (Lizzy’s, Waltham, MA)

Notes:
Pizza, beer, and ice cream on a Saturday night.  What could be better?

Try subtracting my pizza from the equation, for starters.  Yeah, it was pretty disappointing.  The crust was too bready, among other things.  Must be the decade or so that has elapsed since the last time I made one.  Did you know that you can pay people to make you a pizza and then bring it to your house?  I’m serious.  I hear it could catch on.

We left the ice cream-making to the professionals, though.  In this case, Lizzy’s in Waltham.  It was dark chocolate ice cream with hunks of English Toffee, but I just bought it for the name: Charles River Crunch.  As anyone who has ever gotten a mouthful of Charles River water knows, there’s bound to be something dark and crunchy in there.  Glad the river is finally getting the recognition it deserves.  (BTW, it was yummy!)