Count the Black Buttons

Bean Sprout sure lets me know when he's cold.
I would think with all that fluffy fur he'd never get chilly, but yesterday in the garden, he began to shiver. (I was out there weeding, in a pleasantly steamed-up state.)
I brought him indoors and covered him with Cranky's down vest. It made him and his little pal very happy.
Shortly after he stopped shivering, I found his goofy striped sweater in a cold closet, warmed it by sitting on it for a while, and put in on him.
He slept all night in it, too. He thinks the sweater is a hug.

Prime Rib 101

We nailed it.
The problem with trying to master a food that you only cook once a year is that you only cook it once a year.
You forget what worked, what didn't.
In fact, in most, if not all, of our attempts with a standing rib roast, we've never got it so good that we wanted to even take notes.
For several years, there was the problem of the balky antique stove with erratic temperatures.
Then there was the new convection oven, but you had to adjust the temperature off-normal by 25 degrees... and was that up or down?
We finally got a decent meat thermometer, but aimed for too-high an internal temperature on the advice of somebody I will never name. No, never.
Then, this year Saveur's recent issue suggested roasting the meat with the ribs on top instead of on the bottom. And pulling it out of the oven when the thermometer reached 120ºF.
That seemed cold to me, but I made an important discovery. One that you proficient meat roasters probably already know. Bones are hot! You whip that baby onto a cutting board with a tent of foil over, and you have plenty of time to make your Yorkshire pudding. (Which I tried doing exactly as the recipe says this year, and nope, I'm goin' back to my profligate ways.)
I even had time to make some beef gravy, which we'll think of a use for later. Burp.
The roast finished its gentle cooking all by itself. All the way through.
Pink.
Perfect.

Santa Has Left the Building

Merry Solstice!

If I can't shoot a picture of dawn on the shortest day of the year, I...
Well, I did.
The sun wasn't even up yet, but the glow in the sky was fabulous.
Soon, the red clouds faded to white.
Good thing I was up and ready.
Ya think I ought to go to bed early tonight? It'll be dark soon.
Happily, and I repeat this mantra every winter, the days will be getting longer, starting
TOMORROW!

Salty, Wintry, Buttery Stew

This is nothing more than a pot of vegetables cooked with herbs and white marrow beans.
And yes, that is a tomato you see. Jeepers. My tomatoes are still ripening (and I know I promised to yank the plants out on Halloween).
The inspiration for the winter stew came from Deborah Madison, only her version was for a summer stew. But I can still get potatoes and carrots this time of year, and the beans — well, I looked for fresh shelling beans, but my bean guy was taking a break from the farmers market, so I used dried (cooked, of course). Madison's summer stew calls for green beans too, but I had chard, so chard it was. (Additional ingredients: a leek, some mushrooms, a splash of beer for braising. Butter. No salt. Pepper.)
But what I really wanted to talk about is the butter.
Cranky bought a tube of imported English butter, because our English friend can't stop raving about it. Always open to new flavors, we gave it a try.
Salty! Gack.
Cranky said he wanted to scratch his own eyes out. It tasted like licking the inside of the popcorn bag. (I can say these evil things because our friend is on some tropical island right now, with no Internet access.)
However. Wouldn't cooking with the butter be just fine?
Yes, it would. We sauteed miniature potato halves in gobs of the butter until they turned brown and, well, salty-buttery. Then dumped the potatoes and all that salty butter into the pot with the beans and vegetables. Cooked 'em into submission.
And didn't have to add a single sprinkling of "real" salt to the pot.

A Tree? In the House?

Years ago, when Cranky and I were celebrating one of our first Christmases together, we were too poor to buy a tree.
But we bought one anyway, because there is nothing like a nostalgic whiff of fir scent to bring a little cheer to the gloom of deep winter. I mean, it was necessary. It was therapy.
Then, we were too poor to buy lights or ornaments. So we improvised.
We hung a key chain from one branch, I recall, and various other trinkets on the others. Dabs of jewelry, bits of fabric, whatever was around the house. Not very holy, but neither am I.
This year, trees are a lot more expensive. But we still had to have one, so we picked out a dinky specimen, full of vigor, and placed it on top of a box for the height effect.
We have a stash of old ornaments in the garage, and I think I might actually hang one or two baubles here and there.
But for now, the boughs are decorated with shiny, beautiful and meaningful items: kitchen gadgets.
There's a tea infuser ball, and a tea infuser spoon. A wooden lemon reamer. Measuring spoons.
Lots of cookie cutters.
The "star" atop the tree is the wired-on bowl of a silver serving spoon, and it glitters just right.
It's really quite beautiful, just the way it is.

Cold Day, Green Play

It's soup weather, that's for sure.
But Cranky's been clamoring for something green. I think he's going all iron-deficient on me or something.
So we decided to do the next best thing to soup: stewed greens, southern-style, served with their nutritious (and tasty) juices over a bowl of rice.
Greens takes a long time to prepare. There is so much trimming, chopping and washing to do, and crinkly leaves can harbor lots of dirt. Depending on how much foliage you're planning to use — and it doesn't make any sense to use fewer than three bunches — you might be hacking and rinsing for an hour.
Oh, and you have to chop your carrots and turnips and bacon and onion... Lotta prep time.
Then it gets easier (but it doesn't get any shorter). You dump your bounty into a pot with an inch or so of water in the bottom, put the lid on, heat it up and walk away.
Some greens, like collards, take a long time to soften into a silky state. Others, like the chard we used yesterday, are done sooner, but you do not want to yank them off the fire too soon.
A man I used to work with is in a mixed-race marriage. His wife was honored to oblige, he told me, when he asked her if she could cook some greens.
She presented him with an artistic twirl of sparkling, deep emerald-green, al dente leaves on a plate.
That was pretty, but it was wrong.
Greens need to be soupy, and they need to be cooked way past emerald green.
From then on, my friend had his parents over now and then, and they'd cook up vast batches of greens-done-right to store in his freezer.
I wonder why he didn't just learn to make his own. I did.

I Married Erik Estrada

Urp. No, thankgod I didn't.
I just needed a dose of sunshine, so I rummaged around for an old photo of Cranky.
Today in Marin it's been horribly gray all day. It was even foggy this morning, the white, cool mist dropping all the way to the ground.
There was no frost on the grass, though, like there has been the past few days.
And in a week, the days are going to start getting longer again.
You grab seasonal cheer where you can find it.
I guess I'll go light a fire and wrap some gifts. That oughta be nice.
And I am so damn happy I didn't marry Erik Estrada! I'm smiling.

Other People's Flavors

Because we food bloggers are a generous lot, I've been the recipient of many tasty gifts from friends (and, sometimes, near-strangers). All delicious.
There is a tendency among some of us to follow recipes faithfully. Then there is an awakening when you realize you don't have to use a recipe.
And yet, there is a moment when you realize that following a recipe is just right. Essential. But you might not know this on your own, if you hadn't been the lucky giftee of something fabulous.
I could never have improvised Sam's tomato chutney. Oh my, the flavors were so perfectly balanced. Spicy, sweet, naughty.
We took the liberty of dabbling it over roasted cauliflower. OK. Cooking all done. No need to improvise.
Somebody took care of the recipe.
I just got it hot.

Frog Blogging

What is this luscious meat?
All dressed in a tomato-y sauce, served warm from the deli counter.
It so happens there is an anachronistic "gourmet" grocery store in my neighborhood, a place that sprang up to cater to the post-WWII generation who first populated these suburban homes. Several of those original owners are still here; some arrive at the store by taxi, but at least as many of them drive themselves.
There seems to have been a solid Italian-American presence here. The store actually sells cardoons!
I've seen lovely cheeses and sausages there. It's not a place with a strong local-sustainable attitude, though, so we are selective about what we buy. Pasta. Booze. Cheeses and sausages.
Well, the other day, Cranky was cruising the aisles there, and the friendly guy at the deli counter asked him if he wanted to try this meat. For free.
"Come on! I'll give it to ya!"
OK. So Cranky brought it home, warm and aromatic. We had to eat it right away.
Although it was something I'd sworn I would probably never eat.
But I gave it a try.
Agghhh. Tasted like pond algae. We threw it away.
Frog legs.
What were they thinking?

That Little Dope

This is Bean Sprout, inside looking out. I snapped this pic through the glass on the other side. It's as if he didn't even notice me. Haughty little bastard.
But he gets his way.
The night before last, he tried to jump up into a chair and missed. He fell, and moaned a little. He was hurt.
It wasn't a long fall, but he might have landed badly.
I got my scare the next morning when I noticed his tummy was tense and tight. I called my vet, and the excellent assistant told me to check the color of his gums. I thought they looked pale purple rather than hearty pink, which could indicate internal bleeding.
"Go to emergency," she said. "Better be safe than sorry."
Zoom. No shower, no makeup. Off to emergency.
On the way, I thought Bean Sprout's tummy might be relaxing a bit, but every time I poked him, he'd tense up again.
After an examination by no fewer than three delicious female animal experts (I wanna be a vet!), we came to the conclusion that he was probably OK, probably a little tender from the fall, but that we would have to monitor him for 24 hours.
Finally, last night around 10 p.m., he ate his first meal of the day.
And today he pooped.
I think he's gonna be fine.

The Pear Tree in Winter

It's the holiday season, with parties aplenty and shopping to do and hot toddies to sip — busy, busy, busy! — but we are in a relatively relaxed phase of the gardening cycle.
Oh, I know some of you are hauling in the autumn produce and almost ready to start seedlings for spring.
And I do have a few winter crops in the ground. For the moment, they are care-free, thank goodness.
Around here, we are just grateful to be free of the tyranny of pears and tomatoes. They gushed in all summer. If you think zucchini jokes are funny, I'll have to work on some pear jokes.
"Hey. Want a pear? Want a whole bagful? Ha ha!"
No. Not funny. Though it was loads of fun to have a gang over for vittles and tipples, while they stripped the tree in late August. Must plan for that next summer.
The tomatoes I could deal with on my own. Lots of frozen tomato sauce in the freezer.
But the pears daunted me, taunted me.
And then, finally, silence. Calm. Beauty.
Being a first-time pear tree owner, I didn't know it would have deciduous leaves. A week or so ago, the leaves started turning a most amazing, well, peachy color. And then they started to drop off, little by little.
The tree is still mostly foliaged (I made up that word), but all around its trunk there is a gorgeous pile of salmon, tangerine, peach, loquat-colored leaves.
I thought I ought to run out there in the rain today to get a picture of what's still left on the branches, before they all take a nose dive.
Oh.
Then.
I looked closely at the photo, and up in those two twigs at the top... You can see new buds forming.
Already.
Good lord.
Where's that damn partridge?

Olive Me, Why Not Take Olive Me?

You may know I'm crazy about preserved and cured foods. I like the way they taste, their new texture, and the fact that you can keep them for a long time. Which is the point of preserving. Duh.
But last month, while dining at an exciting non-meat restaurant in Napa with one of my favorite bloggers and her mum, I tasted the most extraordinary (fresh) cured (fresh) olives.
They were green and meaty. No, really green, not olive green. They cracked off the pit with a satisfying... well... crack! Audible.
It was obvious these olives had been on somebody's tree recently.
And because it only takes a few days to cure green olives, I was definitely eating (cured) fresh (cured) olives.
Which got me to thinking. If a cured item is at its best right now, shouldn't we be eating it right now?
Oh, sure, leave a few in a jar in the fridge if you think you'll be craving olives next May. But they won't be as good. They get mushy.
Besides, even though curing is technically a preservation technique, in the case of olives it's the only way you're going to be able to eat the little orbs at all.
So I'm thinking about cured olives as a seasonal item now. Cure them so you can eat them, then eat them.
Now.

Happy December

Comfort food: peppers stuffed with two kinds of cheese, sauteed onions, and cooked beans. Put in baking dish with a dribble of water and cover with foil; cook at 350ºF until the pepper softens, then remove foil and return to oven to let the cheese brown a little.
Oh, yes, and Rudy Giuliani is a crook, a buffoon, and a scaredy-cat. I don't want him in the White House. Pass the word.