sprinklefingers

It’s Sunday. 
I’m stealing a few moments before the house wakes up - sitting on the deck with

NEVERMIND.

I started this post yesterday. As soon as I even mentioned that I was taking a moment to sit down, the kid woke up and was calling my name. Fitting that it was Mother’s Day, I guess.

I had a lovely day that involved a bit of cooking, a glorious picnic and about 10 minutes of doing nothing. That 10 minutes is more than I normally get in an entire week (unless you count driving to work as an act of relaxation,) so it felt really quite lovely.

On top of all that, I received this week a delivery of ice cream from (in my opinion) the best ice cream shoppe on the planet (shout-out to my homeland of OHIO!), Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams. After a dinner of kale pesto, shitake mushroom and aged provolone pizza I had a scoop of White House Cherry. It’s a white chocolate, cherry and pistachio ice cream that punched me in the gut with it’s deliciousness. And it also made me miss my dad.

He was an extremely particular guy. He also had a short temper. In addition to this, he was almost never not working. But, of course, these are not the things I hold dear when I think of him. Instead, I hold on to the tastes and flavors he adored. The music that drove him. The rituals that sustained him. And the strength he gave me. 

Cherries, pistachios and white chocolate were some of his favorite flavors. The guy was seriously nuts for cherries. There is no question where I get my tendencies to over-do it when I’ve honed in on a taste I love (someday, if you’re lucky  unlucky, I’ll tell you about a trip to Pike Place Market and the three pounds of Rainier cherries I purchased and subsequently ate on the drive home. Not pretty.)

This ice cream from Jeni’s reached out and grabbed me because it tasted so good, yes. But more than that, it brought my dad front and center - it nearly smacked me in the face with memories of him. And not just any memories, but the ones that are the happiest.

All that from a little scoop of ice cream.

Magic. 

My (hilarious, loving, amazing, quirky, faux French-speaking) kid will be entering kindergarten in the fall. In a stroke of luck (or an act of God, depending upon your point of view,) he lotteried in to a brand new (!) French immersion public charter school here in Portland. 

I told you about it before - and also mentioned that I’d be helping to formulate the school food program. And now, a few weeks later, I’m heading up the entire school food committee. Whoa.

I don’t usually enter in to anything half-assed, and this school food thing is no exception. So I’ve turned to my library of books concerning feeding children and I’m feeling quite inspired. 

The most recent book I’ve read on the subject is French Kids Eat Everything by Karen Le Billion. While it doesn’t exactly apply to formulating a school food program for an American school, it did make a few points that have really stuck with me. The first? French kids don’t eat between meals. Think of the mountains of junk food this eliminates: “granola” bars filled with tablespoons of sugar, goldfish crackers, yogurt in a tube, processed cheese in a plastic tray.

The second point: at French schools the children are only offered water to drink. In fact, vending machines are completely, flat-out banned at all French schools. 

The third point (and this has become a mantra for me): Le Billion suggests saying the following phrase to your kids, you don’t have to like it, but you do have to taste it. This has worked wonders for me. With this simple (and somewhat magical) phrase, I’ve got my kid eating bowls of broccoli and piles of lettuce. He tries a bite knowing it’s just a taste - then he realizes he likes it. It literally works like a charm. 

French Kids Eat Everything basically explains that the idea that you have to feed kids kid food is completely false. Agreed.

And now I’m reading Lunch Wars - a not-so-light hearted look at school food. After reading the first chapter which covered GMO’s and food additives I thought I might cry my eyes out. I avoid any processed food containing ingredients I don’t recognize as real food, so I’ve never really looked at lists of ingredient names and exactly what they are doing to our kids. Reading up on it really opened my eyes and the information gained scares the you-know-what out of me. 

The best piece of information I’ve gained so far - especially where my own food shopping is involved - is how to read PLU labels on produce. I had NO IDEA that you can tell if something has been genetically modified by it’s PLU number. Take a look:

• Organic produce has a 5 digit PLU number that begins with the number 9.
• Conventional produce has a 4 digit PLU number that begins with the number 4.
• Genetically modified (GMO) produce has a 5 digit PLU number that begins with the number 8.

I find this information so useful that I took a snapshot of it on my cell phone and saved it to my home screen. Now while shopping, if I need a refresher, I can pull up the information in an instant.

I know I’ve only scratched the surface of school food - but I’m happy to have you readers along for the journey. And if anyone out there has something they’d like to add to the conversation, I’d be happy to hear it! Got something to say about school food?

My (extremely trusty) psychologist always tells me that the longest a mixed group of people can last when, say, vacationing in the same house, is 72 hours. Right at the 72 hour mark someone is sure to break. He prescribes long, solitary walks to keep this dreaded 72 hour curse at bay. Or, in my case, an hour-long run followed by 40 minutes of paddleboarding. 

I’ve been doing a lot of running this week, and I hate running. 

Just a day or so ago I posted about cooking for family while on vacation, and I’m still hoping my in laws never figure out how to find my blog. (If you know them, please don’t explain it. Thank you.) And the following story is too good to keep in, so here’s hoping they continue to think that computers and the internet are just a passing fad.

When we arrived in Hawaii I made a menu and a plan for a week of eating. I cruised the beach towns (in a sweet rented minivan, mind you) looking for produce. I pinned said menu to the fridge so that everyone could see what would be for dinner each night of our stay. And aside from the (literally) 45 comments concerning how much food we had in the fridge and the (again, literally) 56 comments about the drudgery of cooking, the public menu thing worked out well.

Until last night.

The menu very clearly stated:
Grilled tofu
Whole wheat noodles with peanut sauce
Ronnie’s orange broccoli
Oahu oranges & melon
Local milk chocolate squares

It was early afternoon when my father in law grabbed the keys to the minivan and announced he had to go in to town for something. As he drove away it dawned on me how many times I saw him standing in front of the fridge that morning staring at the menu.

He returned not too long after with a steak and a bag of frozen french fries. 

Now, I’d be lying if I said that this didn’t bother me. It bothered me a whole hell of a lot for about 11 minutes. But then I let it go. While I’d eat grilled tofu and broccoli any day of the week in any amount you’d feed it to me, I know some people don’t feel the same. Especially if you are in your mid-sixties, enjoy Larry McMurtry novels, and were raised by a family of elk hunters in Bend, Oregon. 

So, I continued with my plan to grill tofu and enjoy it happily with a heap of broccoli.

I prepared the broccoli using a stir fry recipe from my friend Ronnie Fein. (She posted it on her blog this week.) Only, being in a vacation house we don’t really have a frying pan large enough for a big batch of stir fry, so I ended up roasting the broccoli until tender and then tossing it with Ronnie’s orange/garlic/ginger sauce. But more on that later…

When dinner time rolled around and we were all seated at the table on the lanai - the smell of grilled steak in the air - everyone but my father in law had piles of tofu, peanutty noodles and broccoli on their plates - including his 5 year old grandson. He looked at his pile of frozen fries and said, “I can’t believe I have these on my plate. Would you mind passing the noodles? And I guess I’d better try that broccoli.” 

He took one bite of the broccoli and explained that he had never had it prepared any other way but boiled and that this version of broccoli was a revelation. And then he asked for seconds.

A small victory, but a victory for sure.

—-

Ronnie’s Beach House Broccoli

Follow Ronnie’s recipe only make the following adjustments:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Prepare the broccoli and toss it in a bit of canola oil and salt on a sheet tray. Roast for just a few minutes until bright green and crunchy. Transfer to a mixing bowl.

Heat a bit of canola oil in a small frying pan and add the green onion, garlic, ginger, chili pepper and orange peel. Sweat until tender then add the orange juice and let reduce. Once the sauce has reduced, remove it from the heat and let it cool slightly then toss with the broccoli. Finish with the sesame oil.

I served the broccoli cold because we’re in a warm climate, but it would be equally as delicious served hot.

—-

In case you’re curious, we have a Mexican feast on the menu for tonight. Mushroom tacos. Fingers crossed everyone will eat them!

Happy Saturday!
In a rare turn of events it’s supposed to be sunny here in good ol’ PDX today. I for one will believe it when I see it because my ‘hood is currently shrouded in thick fog. Hey, Portland! It’s spring! Let the sun shine already!

Here’s a reading list for you. I loved every word… 

Hilarious yet filling account of artisanal foods coming out of Brooklyn (or is that Long Island City?) 

An inspiring account of the #3 chef in the (whole wide) world. Yes, El Bulli is involved.

My mothering instincts hate this (flu season is NOT over!), my (original) Willy Wonka obsessed self L O V E S this: lickable wallpaper!

And, finally, a piece highlighting Joan (the amazing) of Joan’s on 3rd in LA.  My favorite quote: She can tell by looking who among the staff has arranged the cupcakes, cookies, muffins and scones that sit on tiered cake stands in the bakery case. A lady truly after my own heart.

Oh my lord, I am obsessed with Laurie Colwin. While she’s no longer with us - and died way too soon - when I read her work I sometimes close my eyes and wish with all my might that I could have known her. Of course, I close my eyes and wish with all my might about a lot of things and none of them have come true - but this wish is one definitely worth trying for.

A Writer In the Kitchen is my favorite work of Colwin’s. I’ve read it three times - and each time I read it I feel a sense of going home. It’s comforting and funny, insightful and warm, personable and loving - all of this adding up to (in my opinion) the perfect book. 

If you haven’t had the pleasure of reading Colwin, I insist you go get something by her. Now. Or later today. Or maybe this weekend. If you can’t figure out where to start, I suggest A Writer in the Kitchen. Maybe it will cast a spell on you, too.

Here’s one of my favorite Colwin passages - she’s describing how to make scrambled eggs in a double boiler. I just love her…

You scramble the eggs and add a tablespoon of cream. You then put a lump of butter into the top of a double boiler and when it melts, add the eggs. Stir constantly, remembering to have your blood cholesterol checked at the soonest possible moment. Stir as in boiled custard until you feel either that your arm is going to fall off or that you are going to start to scream uncontrollably. It is wise to have someone you adore talking to in the kitchen while you make these eggs, or to be listening to something very compelling on the radio. If you have truly mastered the art of keeping a telephone under your chin without its falling to the floor, a telephone visit always makes the time go faster.

Go to the library! Go to the bookstore! Get some Colwin!

I’m in the very (very) beginning (early!) stages of writing a cookbook based on my bakery. It’s, of course, a ton of work - but it’s also so much fun. But it’s a lot of work. A lot.

Wait. Did I already say it’s a lot of work?
It is.

Because my mind is mainly on recipes and writing and cookbooks these days, I find this piece about ghostwriting cookbooks from Julia Moskin of the NY Times quite interesting.

Many real-world cooks have wondered at the output of authors like Martha Stewart, Paula Deen and Jamie Oliver, who maintain cookbook production schedules that boggle the mind. Rachael Ray alone has published thousands of recipes in her cookbooks and magazine since 2005. How, you might ask, do they do it?

The answer: they don’t. The days when a celebrated chef might wait until the end of a distinguished career and spend years polishing the prose of the single volume that would represent his life’s work are gone. Recipes are product, and today’s successful cookbook authors are demons at providing it — usually, with the assistance of an army of writer-cooks.

But what’s even more interesting is the backlash Moskin received from the likes of Jamie Oliver, Rachael Ray and Gwyneth Paltrow - basically calling Moskin out for insinuating their use of ghostwriters. Ouch!

Here’s what Paltrow had to say:

I don’t normally address false reporting in the media but this week I would like to clarify something. Last week, The New York Times inferred that I used a ghostwriter on my cookbook, My Father’s Daughter, which to me means someone else wrote the recipes and the text. That is not the case. My Father’s Daughter  was a three year labor of love, a collection of the food I make and serve loved ones, an ode to my dad. I had lots of tremendous assistance with things like note taking, recipe testing, logistical planning, but the recipes and words are all mine and come from my heart.

And then, to further the conversation, here’s what Moskin said in response to those up in arms about her ghostwriting claims:

That last bit apparently was surprising. Twitter and the food blogosphere quickly lighted up, and we heard from a number of people named in the article, including Jamie Oliver, Rachael Ray, Gwyneth Paltrow and Mario Batali. All four have acknowledged, in print, working with collaborators on their books — but all objected to what they saw as the implication that they were not the authors of their own work.

While the article dealt with a wide range of assistance, it became clear that the notion of “ghostwriting” carried a strong stigma in the food world. It suggested that the food itself — the ingredients, the flavors, the techniques — was invented by someone else. This does sometimes happen (call it “ghost-cooking”), and the chefs who engage in it are the objects of a special kind of scorn.

Whatever the truth is, writing a book is a huge undertaking - no one can argue with that. I just don’t see why folks can’t reconcile themselves to the fact that they make their books happen by relying on the help of a team of people. Sure, the phrase ‘ghostwriting’ has some negative connotations in the food world, but writing a book while running a magazine (online or in print,) taping a television show, raising kids and appearing on the red carpet seems kind of impossible to me. There are, after all, only 24 hours in a day. Right? Right.

But Moskin really explains it best:

While the article dealt with a wide range of assistance, it became clear that the notion of “ghostwriting” carried a strong stigma in the food world. It suggested that the food itself — the ingredients, the flavors, the techniques — was invented by someone else. This does sometimes happen (call it “ghost-cooking”), and the chefs who engage in it are the objects of a special kind of scorn.

Ghost-cooking is rarer than the routine work of wrestling hot, messy, complicated recipes onto the page in comprehensible English. That work can include transcribing scribbled notes into logical sentences. Measuring out ingredients and putting them in order. Producing the routine bits of the book like the glossary and the guide to ingredients.

That is cookbook ghostwriting, as I and many others have experienced it. The food itself, and the story that surrounds it, usually comes from the chef in varying stages of page-readiness.

Back in November of ‘09 The New Yorker ran a piece by Adam Gopnik about a/our/his/my love of cookbooks. It’s a fantastic piece of writing and does an excellent job of breaking down the equation of our love of cookbooks divided by the recipes multiplied by our actual ability to cook and then equalling the fact that recipes in books aren’t the food itself. There’s a major gap between the recipe and the end result - and the way Gopnik describes it is certainly worth reading…In fact, I insist you read it!

Here’s the paragraph that really made an impact on me:

Handed-down wisdom and worked-up information remain the double piers of a cook’s life. The recipe book always contains two things: news of how something is made, and assurance that there’s a way to make it, with the implicit belief that if I know how it is done I can show you how to do it. The premise of the recipe book is that these two things are naturally balanced; the secret of the recipe book is that they’re not. The space between learning the facts about how something is done and learning how to do it always turns out to be large, at times immense. What kids make depends on what moms know: skills, implicit knowledge, inherited craft, buried assumptions, finger know-how that no recipe can sum up. The recipe is a blueprint but also a red herring, a way to do something and a false summing up of a living process that can be handed on only by experience, a knack posing as a knowledge. We say “What’s the recipe?” when we mean “How do you do it?” And though we want the answer to be “Like this!” the honest answer is “Be me!” “What’s the recipe?” you ask the weary pro chef, and he gives you a weary-pro-chef look, since the recipe is the totality of the activity, the real work. The recipe is to spend your life cooking.

I really think this is fascinating stuff - especially when he pulls in the added layer of kids - he says, “what kids make depends on what moms know.” It’s true, isn’t it? I can pretend all I want that my own kid is developing his own sense of taste and his own love of creating food - but at the end of the day I know I’m the one making cooking fun for him. I’m the person who is developing his sense of self in the kitchen. And while we look at cookbooks (and sometimes read them as bedtime stories) often, no recipe can do what our time in the kitchen together can. The recipe is to spend your life cooking.

Fascinating indeed.