5 second rule

Lend me your earlobes.

2012-05-15T15:28:26-07:00

Promoting a book is weird. It's a swirling stew, equal parts thrilling, embarrassing, discomfiting, and wonderful. It's prideful and boasty, narcissistic and ego-y. It's one-tracky and tacky. But, listen, it's also important, not only because it represents the culmination of several years of work, but also because without promotion, books languish and die in warehouses and on store shelves.

And, so, Paulette and I have embraced the task before us and are getting out there -- in our hometowns and yours, at venues small, large, and medium-sized, together and apart. And you know what? Talking with people about colorful fruits and vegetables is fun. Super fun. It's even more fun than talking to computer screens, which is so squarely inside my wheelhouse I often get stuck in there and can't find my way out. Book promotion forces me to speak out loud and swallow big gulps of fresh air. It's good.

Above are some scenes from our early spring events and signings.

In the top row, I'm signing books (hello) at the Blossom Hill Certified Farmers' Market, my go-to market here in San Jose. I'm booked at several other local markets this spring and summer, and I couldn't be prouder to sit beside the farmers that grow my family's food. You can see their gorgeous produce in that basket in the upper right.

In the middle row, you'll see the favas I received from Melissa's Produce, a Southern California-based produce distributor that twice provided juicy pixies tangerines for Ripe parties, and shipped me not only those beautiful beans, but also chioggia beets, fresh edamame, kumquats, fennel, and cucumbers for the launch party at my home. I paid them in invisible money, so consider this a DISCLOSURE, FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION. The local produce from my area farmers' markets and the generous donations from the Melissa's crew intermingled on plates and in salad bowls. There was no fussing or fighting. Just fruit, vegetables, accompaniments, and libations all getting along in a riotous mash of color until it disappeared into waiting mouths and bellies.

Also in that row, you'll see the Ripe display at Rizzoli Bookstore in New York City, which hosted a wonderful launch for us in late March. There you will also see Paulette with her daughter Cassidy, a little girl so cute I want to nibble her earlobes every time I see her.

The bottom row of photos showcases squares of blueberry-nutmeg cake I served along with several other dishes from the cookbook -- grilled five-spice pineapple, cucumber-halloumi salad, chocolate-dipped strawberries, tarragon-lime green tea, and radish-olive crostini -- at a party my very dear friends Alison and Julia hosted at Alison's home last weekend. It was such a joy to talk about produce with so many interesting women. To all of you who bought 4, 5, even 6 copies of Ripe at Alison's house, I will nibble your earlobes as soon as I'm done nibbling Cassidy's.

And finally, in the lower right corner, a photo Colin took of me just before my event at Omnivore Books in San Francisco. God, I love that shop. I can't wait to get back there and sink into the walls.

Here's a recap of our press to date.

And here's a list of our upcoming appearances, including events next week in Boston, Maine, Philadelphia, and Idaho.

They're all open to the public.

I invite you and your earlobes to come say hello.

...

One more thing. I read every single comment you left on my Mother's Day post. Every single one. As some of you know, the New York Times even linked to that post. I want to thank you all for sharing your words and thoughts with me. I found myself unable to respond in line, but you moved me deeply, and I am grateful.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

2012-05-03T09:29:04-07:00

Bye, April. Hi, May.

April was a Very Big Month, as capital m months go. I did a lot of reflecting, soul-searching, stressing, and not sleeping. I am an excellent notsleeper, and April was a banner notsleeping month. I also spent a lot of time thinking about my mother, and my children, and how much my mother would have loved my children had she not died on April 10, 2002, six days after my younger son turned one.

I don't want to be morbid, and my-mother-is-dead posts tend to be very heavy and awkward and morose and sad. And that's not why I'm here. So I'll just be blunt and get this part out of the way: there are very few good things about having a dead mother.

However.

Once we lose a parent, we really have no choice but to carry on and try to find blessings in our new reality as motherless children. And without any disrespect toward the memory of my own mom, there are some blessings, at least in my case, that are worth noting.

My mother's diagnosis, long illness, and death probably saved my life. I won't go into the specifics here, but her dark physical reality was a wake-up call to me, and I made major life changes to protect my health and longevity after she died.

My mother worked exceptionally hard at building her career. She was a whip-smart woman who commuted by train each day to and from work, and she came home tired. She was really good at her job. And while she had moments of happiness and great joy throughout her life, I'd be lying if I said happy was the first word I'd use to describe her.

Four months after she died, I enrolled in culinary school. I was 32. I'd been married for 8 years and had two toddlers at home, but her death screamed LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO DO ANYTHING BUT THAT WHICH WILL MAKE YOU VERY HAPPY to me in all caps, bold, underline, italics. I flung my prior career aside, stripped off my academic persona, and donned the garb of the creative. I reinvented myself.

With my husband's permission, encouragement, and full-on support, I grabbed my future by the teeth, pried open its mouth, and stared down its throat. If we're all going to end up dead anyway, I wanted my ride to the bottom to be a happy one. One filled with sweetness, color, creativity, and passion.

I don't think about this stuff often, but now that Ripe is out and I'm being interviewed, people are interested in my career. They want to know when I started cooking, and why I chose this path. How did you become a food writer? they ask. And since Mother's Day is nearing, I figured I'd tell you the truth.

I started on this path the year my mother died. Had she lived, I'm not quite sure I'd be here.

Hug your mother, if she's around. Tell her you love her. Make her a scone. Pick her a flower. Give her a call.

If she's not -- if you, too, are a motherless child, then grab your future by the teeth, pry open its mouth, look down its throat, and let the looming darkness spur you to find meaning, fulfillment, and unbridled joy while you're here.

Don't wait.

...

Recipe for Iced Candied Fennel Cardamom Scones

These scones are a touch sweeter than I'd normally go, but Mother's Day is a sweet holiday. (Stick with 3 tablespoons of granulated sugar if you want to scale back.) Candied fennel is often found in pretty bowls by the hostess stand at Indian restaurants, and the brightly coated seeds make a surprising addition to the batter. You can find them at any Indian market.

This recipe is an adaptation of these iced lemon scones, which themselves are adapted from the Classic Scones in Lora Brody's book Basic Baking.

Makes 11 scones

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
3 to 4 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/3 cups cold heavy cream, plus a bit extra for brushing
1/3 cup candied fennel (see headnote)

1 cup powdered sugar, sifted
1/8 teaspoon ground cardamom
2 to 3 tablespoons milk

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Stack two baking sheets together (this helps keep the bottoms from burning) and line the top sheet with parchment or a silicone mat.

Sift the flour, baking powder, sugar, 1 teaspoon cardamom, and salt into a large bowl. In a measuring cup, stir the vanilla extract into the heavy cream, then dribble this mixture over the dry ingredients. Sprinkle in the candied fennel. Stir with a wooden spoon until you have a shaggy dough. Scrape the bottom to make sure you absorb all the dry bits into the dough mass.

Dump the dough onto a floured board. Knead about 10 times, then pat into a disc about 1" high. Use a floured 2-1/4" round cutter to stamp out circles, and transfer them to the baking sheet. Brush lightly with cream. Bake in the center of the oven for 20 to 22 minutes, turning the sheet halfway through.

Meanwhile, make the glaze. In a large bowl, whisk the sifted powdered sugar with the 1/8 teaspoon cardamom. Whisk in 2 to 3 tablespoons milk until you have a shiny glaze that falls slowly off the whisk and isn't too runny.

When the scones are ready, let them cool for a few minutes. Let the glaze fall off the whisk onto the scones. (Use a small offset spatula to smooth, if desired.)

printable pdf

In praise of the clunky, non-newsy headline.

2012-04-23T13:45:43-07:00

When I eat bananas, I don't think about potassium.

When I eat radishes, I don't think about lycopene.

When I eat green vegetables, I don't think about isothiocyanate.

When I eat oranges, I don't think about cryptoxanthin.

My point is this:

Why do we as a culture try to persuade people to eat better by focusing on one of two extremes? On the one hand, we toss around this crazy scientific terminology that's so inscrutable to the average person that it's basically meaningless. I pulled the lutein, isothiocyanate, and cryptoxanthin examples from a chart that a popular magazine sourced from The American Journal of Clinical Nutrition. The chart is useful enough, I guess, but I don't believe most people make food choices this way.

On the other hand, we insult the intelligence of the American eater with hyperbolic headlines claiming that eating more produce will instantly make us younger, happier, sexier, and skinnier.

Two extremes: one that's overly detailed, another that strains credulity.

I propose a different conversation entirely, one that promotes the same idea (produce is good), but with a more moderate tone and a more meaningful approach.

Produce didn't used to need advertising the way newfangled, packaged foodstuffs did. People just knew intuitively it was good for them. But now, to compete, we push its nutrient composition to the fore, as though this were its primary selling point in our diets, as though these features had magical powers. To me, this direction is actually a step back, as it confuses the straightforward but boring reality that fruits and vegetables are simply good for us. That's the nugget. That's the sound bite.

But it's not newsworthy.

So it doesn't sell.

I wait eagerly for the day when bizarre diet books don't dominate bookstore shelves, when headlines like Fiber Your Way to a Younger You! stop screaming from the newsstands, and when we can once again focus on the pure joys of good food.

When our commercials, our magazines, our celebrities, and our very culture openly acknowledge this:

Some Food is Quite Obviously Good for Us, and Some Food is Quite Obviously Bad for Us But We Choose to Eat It Anyway.

It's a long, clunky, non-newsy headline.

And to me, it's the only one that approaches the truth.

Scenes from an Italian restaurant.

2012-04-12T13:40:04-07:00

Two weeks ago, my extended family gathered at an Italian restaurant in suburban New York to celebrate my dad and stepmom's 27-year marriage. There was a long table, a crisp white tablecloth, a convivial proprietress ("I will bring more eggplant!"), and wine. There were 15 of us, and twice as many platters of food. There was a 6-year-old child, a couple in their 80s, half-siblings, step-cousins, boyfriends, girlfriends, a fiancée. We all took part to toast this couple who fell in love in the 80s, when I was the age my older son is now.

My east coast family. This is what we look like. Halves, steps, old, young, coupled, uncoupled, recoupled, united.

Out here in California, things are different. We don't use tablecloths, for one, and the proprietress, while convivialish, knows she's the only one who generally wants more eggplant. Only four of us fit around the table: one mom, one dad, two pre-teen boys. We eat in t-shirts, jeans, and socks. We serve meals from pots on the stove. We spill milk, we pass bread, we roll eyes, we laugh. Some of us burp, but I'm not naming names. (OK, it's Alex.)

I often think about my kids, and how different their upbringing is from my own. In broad terms, things are similar: two loving parents, one close sibling, a piano in the living room. Games, books, papers, cards, all splayed out in various configurations around the house. Plenty of food, a safe home, a pretty, tree-dappled community.

But in other ways, things are different. When I was young, my grandparents lived within a short drive. We'd see them each month, and on holidays. We'd share soup with them, and bagels, and lox, and pie. We'd celebrate birthdays, eat candy from their jars, muss the fabric on the arms of their recliners.

New York reminded me that I miss having my family nearby. I don't just miss the actual people, though of course that's part of it. I miss the very idea of relatives in close geographic proximity. And not just for me, but for my kids. For every quiet Sunday we spend at home, taking bike rides, hiking hills, reading, running errands, that's a day we're not with their grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunts. And as lovely it is to eat Sunday dinner in our socks, just us, with paper napkins and spilled milk and a single, solitary platter of eggplant, or pasta, or chicken with rice, it might be lovelier still if there were 11 other people around that table beside us.

Are we thought-leaders, or trend-followers?

2012-04-05T07:53:02-07:00

Certain words grate. They're the popcorn kernels that park in your throat mid-film -- the ones just annoying enough to distract you from the screen but not so stuck that they cause you to choke and die.

"Trend" is this word for me. It's a minor but persistent annoyance, and our relationship is strained.

I don't dress artsy. I don't create new paradigms or dye my hair blue or invent things. I don't risk it all. I am a trend follower in many ways -- in how I present myself, how I move in society, how I exist. I'm the person you don't notice in a crowd. I'm camouflage.

But in my head, I strive for more. I want to think outside the box, and push the needle forward. I don't want to mirror what's around me, especially if it's mediocre. I want to create. Produce. Improve.

I want to delight.

Look above. That reflection is flawed. The beauty of what's real, at bottom, is marred when it's mirrored up top. The window is dirty, and you can see the outline of the flower pot and garden outside. The top image is gray, imperfect, overcast.

Last year, I pitched an article to a website about Passover food. Big site, wide national audience. I'd written for them before, had a good relationship with the editor. Her response was appropriate from a business standpoint, but it was that popcorn kernel in my throat all over again.

"As much as I’d love to have more Jewish holiday content on the site, the traffic potential is low and it’s hard to get the powers that be to approve."

You want to know why the traffic potential is low? Because Jewish people don't find articles about Jewish holiday food on your site. Because you're not sticking your neck out. Because you're giving people what they've always had, and not willing to offer something new.

It's a vicious-circle, this publishing world, and that's why we see so much recycled content, celebrity diet bs, sensationalized nothing, and food articles as deep as a puddle. Yes, I'm generalizing, and no, not all media is like this. I am giddy and grateful for those that surprise me. I want to read them, and write for them. I want to link arms with them and chant and bring them flowers.

Am I suggesting food media has to be serious to refresh? Hell, no. We can have fun, be lighthearted, and play. We can tout whimsy.

Look, I'm going to re-commit myself to bucking trends. To moving the needle forward, a bit at a time, until it sits just a groove or two ahead of where it sat before. Until, slowly, we can step away from the mirror, away from that dirty window, and start to see not what's in it, but what sits beyond the pane.

...

I have been overwhelmed by the warm responses -- emails, Facebook posts, tweets -- of so many of you to my IACP win on Monday night. I am still processing how to thank you properly, but in the mean time, please know that you have moved me deeply.

...

Start spreading the news {cue Sinatra}...

2012-03-26T21:52:40-07:00

Dear friends,

I'm popping by to invite those of you in New York City to come help Paulette and me celebrate the launch of our cookbook, Ripe: A Fresh, Colorful Approach to Fruits and Vegetables. You've seen the Ripe cookbook website, watched the video trailer, and perhaps noticed a bit of early press. We feel very blessed by the warm reception the book has already received, even in its pre-publication phase.

Now that the release date is officially here, I will celebrate by pretzeling myself into a coach airline seat and eating snacks for five hours. If you hear someone mumbling incoherently in row 13, please say hi.

You are all invited to swing by Rizzoli Bookstore for the kickoff signing and toast. I would love to meet you, and I know Paulette would, too. Details are in that top photo. Rizzoli Bookstore is located at 31 West 57th Street in midtown.

In addition, we will both be signing our book at the IACP Book & Blog Expo on Sunday, April 1 at 82 Mercer Street from 1:30p-4:30p. (Tickets to the Book & Blog Expo run $10 and can be purchased online). There will be more than 100 cookbook authors signing books that day, so you're sure to get your money's worth.

Finally, I do have plans to be in Maine, Boston, Philly, Portland, Seattle, and at several venues in the SF Bay Area over the next few months. Our Events & Signings page has all the details, and will be updated regularly.

And thank you. Did I say that already? Thank you for your support. It means more than you know. More, even, than lip balm on a long-haul flight, and lip balm means very, very much to me.

With affection and sincere gratitude~
Cheryl

{{Thank you to the Running Press design team for creating such an artful invitation to our Rizzoli kickoff. Thanks, too, to IACP for permission to use the Blog & Book Expo photo.}}

Yes, it counts.

2012-03-21T16:07:32-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend about how I got started as a food writer. I was going through my whole wacky, completely nonlinear career -- the philosophy degree; the years in the Justice Department; my time as a nanny in Paris when I had to watch Beauty and the Beast every single day; my Peace Corps service; grad school; and on and on. None of it made sense, not from any angle. There was no cohesion, no logic, no way to pretend point A influenced point B influenced point C. Frankly, it didn't. My career to that point was a happy mess, a colossal grab bag of experiences whose contents, while colorful and lively, were disconnected from one another in every conceivable way.

And that was all pre-1998. Then came the tenure research, and the babies, and the early years of motherhood during which I struggled to find my place as an at-home mom who yearned to be two places at once -- in a career, and on the floor with my boys. I wanted to be home, but more than that, I wanted to WANT to be home, and that part was the hardest. Because those years were tough. They were tough not in spite of, but precisely because of the relentless activity in that preceding decade. I also felt that, while some women could successfully navigate domesticity as a full-time gig, I, perhaps, might suddenly be out of my league.

I would ask myself, looking at my boys, does this count? Can I actually do this and have it count, not just to them, but to the outside world? Am I fulfilling the role I set out to fulfill, or failing, somehow, to achieve some nebulous goal? I would reflect back on the bosses from my earliest jobs and wonder: would they be disappointed to learn that I'd stepped off the career-track, even though the track I'd been on was shaped like a curly fry?

Let me just say this: I loved those years. I questioned every little possible thing, and I second-guessed often, and deeply, but I loved those years, and I would not for a second grab Father Time's hair and yank him around so I could re-do it. No way. I treasure those years at home with my boys. But they were hard, dude. They were hard.

I spoke with a young woman recently. She's 24, and uncertain about how to fulfill her ambition. She knows she wants to be successful, but her path is shrouded in mystery. Well, yes, of course it is. Hello, young me. There's fog ahead, I hear you, but you just step into it, find your fulcrum, and do your best to wade on through. The fog will lift, eventually, so take your time. The years you spend tiptoeing, then leaping, first left, then right, watching Beauty and the Beast, staying home, changing diapers, feeling scared and unsure and uncertain that what you're doing is the right thing for you, those years count. They count.

The fog will lift.

And you'll have that journey.

And be grateful for it, too.

...

Recipe for Ouzo-Steeped Calimyrna Figs

I recently had a few couples over (my first dinner party since the Stone Age), and I wanted to put out something simple to accompany the baklava I knew a friend was bringing for dessert. I didn't want to compete with her, or to make the meal end on a heavy note. A few hours before the gathering, I filled a few glasses with ouzo and dropped in some Calimyrna figs. I decided it counted, even though it took about 6 seconds to prepare. By the time the meal was finished, the figs were nicely drunk, and plump, and crazy, crazy good.

Dried figs, preferably Calimyrna
Ouzo

Fill a few glasses with ouzo and drop in some dried figs. Let steep for several hours. Serve, passing around skewers or fondue forks so guests can fish out the fruit.

Refrigerate leftovers, covered, in glass jars, topped off with additional ouzo to cover. These will taste terrific for days.

printable pdf

Your call will be answered in approximately 10 minutes.

2012-03-14T09:34:48-07:00

Life is absurd.

Really, truly absurd.

In the past 2 weeks, several people have sought my advice. During the same period, I've reached out to several other people seeking their advice. I get off the phone after dissecting one friend's issues, and 10 minutes later I'm back on the horn yakking about my own tangled knots to someone else. It's a weird, twisted, and utterly inefficient triangle. I'm this advice-pod, with inputs coming in one end and outputs streaming from the other. But the inputs and outputs don't align, so as much as I'd like to, I can't just recuse myself, connect them to each other, and go out for ice cream.

Instead, I'm sticking close to home, advising and being advised, strategizing and shoring up. During this incubation period, after which travel and mayhem take flight, I find some measure of solace at the market and by the stove.

On Sunday, I took my son out for breakfast, and during the hourlong wait for a table we hit the nearby farmers' market. We scooped up spring carrots with twirly strings and frilly tufts, and admired their non-conformity before dropping them in our bag. They're super-sweet, but weird-looking. (Any resemblance to persons real or imaginary is purely coincidental.)

When we got home later, the phone rang.

I touched two carrots together. Jammed them this way and that -- stem to stem, root to root, tuft to tuft, head to toe.

Nothing happened. Not a spark. Inputs/outputs unaligned.

So I took the call. Advised, and sought advice. Spoke up, and stayed quiet. And when it was over, this advice-pod, this info-portal, this giver and receiver, needer and provider, listener and listenee, we all sat down and ate.

...

Recipe for Spring Carrot Sauté with olives, garlic, and millet

The golden hue of this millet caught my eye, and with some advice from Maria Speck's wonderful cookbook Ancient Grains for Modern Meals, I learned how easy it is to cook. (Look for millet in the bulk bins at natural foods stores.) I used it here as a bed for garlicky sauteed carrots. The next day, I splashed broth over the leftovers, simmered it anew, and added a few shrimp for a speedy second meal.

Makes 4 servings

1 cup (dry) millet
3 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
3 cloves garlic, peeled & smashed
1 pound slender spring carrots, scrubbed, halved lengthwise
1/4 cup pitted calamata olives, slivered
1/2 cup (packed) flat-leaf parsley
Salt and pepper, to taste
Optional add-ins/stir-throughs: cooked shrimp, cooked beans or lentils, peas, any leftover vegetables

First, cook the millet. Combine the millet with 1-3/4 cups cold water in a small saucepan, bring to a boil, then reduce heat, cover, and simmer until tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from the heat. Keep covered.

Meanwhile, combine the 3 tablespoons olive oil with the garlic in a large skillet. Set over medium-low heat and allow to warm slowly, becoming fragrant, 5 to 10 minutes. Add the carrots and olives, crank the heat a bit, and saute until the carrots are tender but not mushy, 8 to 10 minutes, tossing frequently. (Cook time will vary based on the carrots' freshness and thickness.)

Scrape the cooked millet into the carrots and give everything a good toss. Sprinkle with the parsley, drizzle generously with additional olive oil, and adjust the seasonings to taste. (Add optional stir-throughs, if desired.)

To re-warm leftovers, moisten first with a bit of vegetable broth, then simmer gently.

printable pdf

Ripe: the video trailer. (Get snacks.)

2012-03-06T13:37:50-08:00

Like what you see? Then help us pass this baby around. If you do, I'll give you a big fat kiss when we meet. Unless you prefer a handshake, a high-five, or a subtle head-nod. I'm not above customizing my affection to suit your needs.

My heartfelt thanks to Paulette for producing this trailer. If I told you the budget she had for this project (zero point zero zero dollars, rounded down), you would cry.

With exactly three weeks until this cookbook hits shelves, we're gearing up and taking names. Thank you, (insert your name here), for your support.

p.s. Those of you who get 5SR via email or RSS may not see the video pop up on your screen unless you click over to the site: http://5secondrule.typepad.com/my_weblog/2012/03/ripe-cookbook-book-video-trailer.html

p.p.s. If vimeo acts funky, you can also watch the trailer on You Tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExeJOzkLRjI

To each her role.

2012-02-29T14:08:03-08:00

Does a beet ever wish it were a pea?

Does it wake up, stuck in the hard ground, and long for the kiss of the midday sun? Does it curse the grapes on the vine, the pumpkins in the patch, the plums on the tree and wonder if it deserves more? Different? Better?

Perhaps. Or perhaps it's just grateful for the dank earth, for the calm, unbroken solitude.

The world outside is cool and gray. Rain has come, finally, to my perch here in San Jose, and I huddle tight inside my sweater. Outside it's quiet. Mostly. Then the wind speaks up. It knocks the rake against the side of the house, jostles the neighbor's wind chime, and emits a plaintive, weary sigh. It's awake, and wants me to know it.

Beyond my door, the lemons bob near the apricot tree. One on the way out, the other on the way in. It's poetic, really, their job-share. I imagine them communing at night, negotiating terms.

~You'll take summers, and I'll take winters. Then we can each have a rest.

~Deal.

Of course, I shouldn't count my chickens. Not yet. The apricot tree, while speckled with blooms, may not bear fruit this year. I wouldn't presume to know. Who could presume to know?

The wind howls.

And suddenly, it's clear. The beet doesn't wish it were a pea at all. It's happy underground. It's safe there, far from the howling wind, from the driving rain, from the endless turbulence of what goes on above.