A Day That is Dessert

we thanked our lucky stars

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Sat, 11 May 2013 17:39:00 +0000

Abbott at about 8 months

At 4:21am, as I was explaining something about my cell phone to a stranger, I reflexively leapt out of bed in terror. As I did, the heartstopping sound of our security system, sure to wake anyone within a mile radius, ceased as suddenly as it had started. I shook Alexi. “Did you hear that?!” He muttered something as he sat up and felt around for his glasses. We stalked down the stairs together to check that the perimeter was secure; a door or window that hadn’t been fully closed was likely the source of the problem. The noise happened again, and we realized it was actually the low battery signal from one of our smoke alarms. The device that was the culprit can only be reached with a ladder. Muffled meows came from the direction of the laundry room, where the cats sleep, as we walked down the three flights of stairs to the garage. We picked up our ladder and carried it back up three flights of stairs, and thanked our lucky stars the boys didn’t wake up before we managed to replace the battery. It was just light enough to see the fog that had begun to roll in as we got back in bed. I fell back to sleep thinking about the dream I’d been having, likely brought on by phone drama earlier in the week. My iphone spent several days drying out on a windowsill after I inadvertently ran it through the washing machine. It had a miraculous recovery.

2004

I am grossly out of practice with fatigue, and that realization always makes me grateful for where we’re at right now. Abbott and I are reading our way through Anne McCaffrey’s books together; he always passes on his good reads to me. We’re addressing fifth grade graduation invitations. I say goodnight, then good morning, to each and every one of Cal’s stuffed animals. They ask me about my day on the way home from school.

2005

We’re inching our way toward summer. We reach the forecasted high temperatures late afternoon, and it cools hours later. Unlike summer heat, which flows from one day to the next even in the night’s chill, this lasts so briefly the house doesn’t have time to overheat, we don’t have time to get languid; we hardly have time to notice. Monday we reached a record temperature for May 6 in Seattle. 87 degrees. I put on my favorite sundress: A-line, knee length, the color of sunshine.

Cal

When I put on that yellow dress I felt the passage of time. I bought it the summer Cal turned two and Abbott turned four. Months earlier, I’d learned the explanation for the two breast cancers I’d had. I have an inherited flaw in a tumor suppressor gene; a BRCA1 mutation. People with these mutations have a high lifetime risk of breast cancer, may get breast cancer at an early age, may develop cancer in both breasts, or may develop other cancers; most significantly, ovarian cancer. At the beginning of that summer, I had surgery to remove the breasts that threatened my life, and a plastic surgeon re-fashioned them with tissue from another part of my body. I wore the dress for the first time to a birthday party weeks later, and it still wasn’t easy getting around. I had plastic tubes – drains – coming out of my hips and tucked into my underwear. I realized when I got home that wearing white underwear and a white bra under a dress with thin fabric had been a mistake. Out of character for me, I didn’t really care that much. It had been good to get out; I was glad to be there. I was not down for the count.

That dress has had a lot of living. It has a thousand memories of picnics and vacations and outings, and there will be many more in the months and years to come. Alexi had his first summer hockey league game last night. We’re already making plans through Labor Day. It’s going to be a good one.

maybe it is enough

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Wed, 01 May 2013 02:31:00 +0000

The summers between my years of college, I worked on a tour boat in Prince William Sound, Alaska. No other place on earth has ever filled me with the same degree of awe. Maybe nostalgia amplifies beauty, just as love does. I worked for a friend’s family’s tour business based out of Valdez. Every spring, around the time of my midterms, I’d start longing for that place and those summers that were about the friendships I had with the people I worked with, some of whom I’d known for many years. That period of my life, the end of my teenage years and transition to early adulthood, was a time of great emotional intensity; my craving for those with whom I had a relationship was at its greatest.

Every morning, we’d motor out of the Valdez boat harbor past the fishing boats and tenders and sailboats, past the Alyeska pipeline terminal, out of the Port of Valdez and into the Sound. On the trip to the Columbia Glacier, we took in a miracle of marine life. On a good day, we crossed paths with whales: sometimes minke, sometimes humpback, sometimes orcas. Dall’s porpoise swam alongside the boat with some regularity. Rafts of playful sea otters were everywhere, more gregarious than any animal I’ve ever seen. Sea lions sunned themselves on buoys, or fought with each other in their jockeying for a position. When we got close to the shoreline, we sometimes spotted mountain goats, seeming so perilously perched I couldn’t look. The thing I remember most clearly is the bracing, clean air once we got to the glacier on those summer days. Seals and their babies populated the icebergs. Once in a while, we’d see an iceberg red from the birthing process. People from all over the world came on our tour: groups who arrived in buses, couples who’d driven the Alaska-Canada highway in an RV to get there, those who flew in and traveled by rental car. Every night I was left with something to think about from a conversation I’d had.

After work most nights, I’d take a walk along a dirt road bordered by mountains over 5000 feet in elevation. Waterfalls, lupine, fireweed, columbine and forget-me-nots flanked the path. It was a holy place.

Sometimes on a day off I’d go out with a friend on his boat and pull shrimp pots. Back at the dock, we’d feed the shrimp heads to a sea otter. We’d boil the shrimp just until they turned bright pink, stand at the kitchen counter to peel and devein them, then dip the succulent meat in a bowl of melted butter before devouring it.

I learned from the people I met who were there vacationing, from those I worked with, and the residents of the town I got to know. I understand better than I would otherwise, from my experiences those summers, that there are many ways to do, and look at, everything. More than once, I thought about what it would be like to make Valdez my home.

Now, I live in a less-northern location at the water’s edge, in a setting that is a pale version of Prince William Sound. The mountains out my windows are more distant, but still magnificent. I watch them change with snow and cloud cover and light. Gulls and eagles and other sea birds are part of my everyday life. Now that spring is here, the low tides are dramatically low, and we take long excursions on the beach that allows further passage. We walk on and around the emptied out shells of cockles, moonsnails, oysters and mussels; recent meals for another creature. The large rocks we encounter are barnacle-encrusted, with purple sea stars clinging to the sides of them. Sea anemones are smooth raised nubbins on the sand, awaiting the return of the tide. Soon, we’ll see the Canadian geese in the water with their goslings. I imagine these images will populate my boys’ memories, and perhaps shape their perceptions of natural beauty.

At home, our yard is at its best in spring. I planted a tiny bleeding heart a few years ago that has since grown into an impressive bush, now in its full glory. It withers in the heat of summer. Two lone irises come up and bloom every spring in a flowerbed otherwise inhabited by hellebore. Our lilac tree is blooming. Next to our perennial supply of rosemary and mint we now have sorrel and chives, and I harvested our first batch of rhubarb over the weekend.

I’m perfectly happy to stay home when the weather starts getting nice. I want to work in the yard, or spend time on the beach, or just relax with my family. I force myself to make plans for at least once during the weekend, assuming my hermit-like tendencies aren’t good for the kids or for me. But maybe I over-think things. Maybe it is enough to love one’s home and one’s family, and roast your rhubarb when you can.

Roasted Rhubarb

I’ve roasted rhubarb with water and lemon zest, and with wine. I recently experimented with freshly squeezed orange juice, and we liked it best of all. The acidity of the orange juice really complements the rhubarb.

2 pounds trimmed rhubarb, cut into 2 inch pieces

½ cup packed brown sugar

½ freshly squeezed orange juice (juice from approximately 1 ½ oranges)

Place a rack in the lower third of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350F.

Mix the rhubarb, brown sugar, and orange juice together in a deep, oven-proof pot. Bake uncovered for about 30 minutes, or until very tender, stirring a couple of times as it cooks.

Serve warm or cold, with greek yogurt or ice cream or all by itself.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

in that spring moment

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 00:32:00 +0000

Tuesday, the boys and I visited the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival with my friend Aran and her son and daughter. It was the morning after the bombing at the Boston marathon. We’d made our plans over the weekend, and as I helped her load things into my car, our murmured conversation indicated that, though we were going forward with our lives, it felt a bit shocking to do so. We didn’t know what else to do. We drove the 60 miles north of the city with the kids chattering in the back seat while we talked about homework and liberation theology and what it was like to experience winter in Alaska. We made sideways references to the bombing, mindful of our young audience. Periodically, I noticed one or the other of them listening to us, and I tried to remember what tragedies I knew as a kid. Tragedy and violence are not always the same thing; the memories that surfaced were mixtures of the two. I recalled the wretched loss of my older, teenaged cousin Janet, killed in a car accident. The stories on the news of Jonestown and the people drinking the Kool-Aid. I thought about the anxiety I felt as Walter Cronkite gave his nightly update on the Iran Hostage Crisis. Still, it seems my kids are growing up in a harder world.

After exiting off I-5 and driving through the town of Mt. Vernon the fields of flowers came into view, and it was like accompanying Dorothy to Oz. The farmland is magnificently dazzling. We parked and walked the fields of tulips. The sun shone while the kids played in the puddles and then argued about who was the muddiest. I wondered if it was obscene to take in so much beauty at such a sad time. We ate the picnic we’d packed: apples, a salad of mache, tuna, rice, avocado and cherry tomatoes, and hazelnut banana bread. And then we drove home, mindful of those suffering such gaping, irreparable loss, sending our love out into the world.

at this point in April

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 05:42:00 +0000

Because there were no hockey practices, and the daylight now lingers long enough to allow it, and the sun shone warmly, we walked the mile and a half to our neighborhood ice cream parlor after dinner twice last week. While we were out, we exchanged greetings with and waved to neighbors we haven’t seen since last fall. Every last flowering tree in the neighborhood was in bloom. Walking under and in the pink, white, and purple veils of blossoms felt like stumbling through an exaggerated dream sequence in a movie. Over the weekend, the boys wanted to make the trek for ice cream, again, despite torrential rain. They’ve fallen right back into our spring and summer routine of after-dinner walks without comment; hockey season is over, and it’s as if it was never a part of our life. So we put on our raincoats, grabbed a ball to toss around, and headed out on the slippery, petal-carpeted sidewalks.

In the mornings, I listen to the world on the other side of our walls slowly come to life. The first lone call is followed, tentatively, by the stutter of several more. Within a matter of minutes, the volume and quantity of sound increases to a symphony that, by breakfast, subsides into the background of my consciousness.

Our two indoor cats have taken to staring hard out the windows at what appears to be nothing while making crazy, guttural sounds. Every spring and fall, when the weather changes, a lizard or two finds its way inside; a small consolation for their lost opportunities outdoors. On occasion, we end up finding a tail, or worse, behind the couch or under the dining room table.

There’s still enough of a chill that I’m subsisting on comfort foods. I think of it as transitional eating. I learned from Melissa Clark that leeks planted in the fall and left in the ground until spring, which is what is for sale in the markets now, taste sweeter than new-crop leeks in summer. I’ve taken to making a regular batch of leek gratin to have alongside roast chicken, and, best of all, as a vegetarian entrée.

Creamy Leek Gratin with Parmesan

slightly adapted from Cook This Now by Melissa Clark

If you don't own this book, I highly recommend getting it. I cook from it a couple of times a week on average. It's organized by month, focusing on seasonal availability.

You can assemble this dish several hours in advance and store it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to bake it.

2 pounds leeks (4 to 5 medium; about 4 pounds untrimmed), white and light green parts only, trimmed of the base, and halved lengthwise

1 cup chicken or vegetable stock

1 cup half and half

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

pinch freshly grated nutmeg

small pinch cayenne

½ pound Gruyere cheese, grated (about 2 cups)

2 ounces Parmesan cheese, grated (about ½ cup)

Preheat the oven to 400F. Lightly grease a 9 x 13 inch baking pan.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Meanwhile, rinse the leeks to remove any dirt between the layers. Simmer the leeks in the boiling water until almost tender, about 5 minutes. Drain well and pat completely dry.

In a small saucepan, warm the stock and half and half or milk.

In a separate saucepan over medium-high heat, melt the butter. Add the flour and cook, stirring, until the roux is pale and frothy, about 1 minute. Slowly whisk in the warm milk and stir until thickened, 2 to 3 minutes. Reduce the heat to a simmer and season with salt, pepper, nutmeg, and cayenne; simmer 1 minute more. Whisk in the Gruyere until melted.

Transfer the leeks, cut side up, to the prepared pan. Spoon the sauce over the leeks. Sprinkle the top with the Parmesan. Bake until the sauce is bubbling and golden, about 40 minutes.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

I haven't been lonely since

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 04:49:00 +0000

(images taken at The Whale Wins)

Once upon a time, I was a nurse. My first job out of college, I worked the night shift, as all, or at least most, new nurses do. I rented a little house in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and adopted a couple of kittens for company. I liked living alone, but I had just been through a breakup, and at times loneliness overwhelmed me. I kept busy. I planted a garden in the back yard. I took rambling walks. I cooked simple, comforting meals for myself every night before work, and the ritual was nourishing. It got me through the long night ahead. I roasted vegetables, and topped them with poached or fried eggs, and herbs from my garden. I made ratatouille out of the vegetables I grew. Sometimes I’d stir a risotto into existence. Then I’d put a napkin in my lap, sit next to the window that overlooked my garden, and read while I ate. I didn't mind eating alone. After I’d finished and cleaned up the kitchen, I went to bed, mostly for the comfort of lying between sheets in the evening. The kittens would curl up together on the pillow next to mine, and we'd rest for an hour or two. When the neighborhood became completely quiet and devoid of light, aside from the street and porch lights, my alarm would go off. I’d brush my teeth, get dressed, fill a thermos with coffee, and drive to work.

I worked on a mother-baby unit, which I loved. If you have to be awake all night, it’s a good way to do it. I’d try to coax newborns to nurse, and help their mothers recover from childbirth. As I interacted with the babies, their inky eyes would stare at me with unblinking intensity. Sometimes I’d play a game with them. I’d stick out my tongue, then do it again, and again, and often, they’d do it back, after a time. I couldn’t imagine how I got lucky enough to be a part of this first conversation of theirs.

I began to regret the solitary existence of the night shift. Other people slept when I was awake; I slept when everyone else was out living their lives. As I tended my garden and simmered pots of soup and cared for the newborns, I dreamed about falling in love and having a family someday. Eventually, I gave up my nights with the babies for a day job on a surgical unit, and my garden in that quiet little neighborhood for an apartment in a bustling part of town where I never felt alone. Before too long, I met Alexi, and I haven't been lonely since.

in motion

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 03:55:00 +0000

Yesterday, I set in motion the shape of a portion of the next decade of our lives. In my morning uniform, ponytail and sweatshirt and sweatpants, I walked around and between middle and high-school-aged boys and girls, surprisingly familiar-looking; similar to Abbott and his peers in size and appearance. When I reached my destination, the high-ceilinged, light-filled school office, I told the receptionist, with a nervous, over-eager, beaming smile, “I have a deposit check for you! And a contract.” The head of the middle school, whose words largely sold me on the school at their open house, was shuffling through a stack of papers at the end of the counter. She looked up, and we exchanged wide smiles as she said, “Yay!” I felt like cheering, too.

I heard recently that something like sixty percent of kids in Seattle attend a private middle school. A lot can be said about that statistic, but there it is. For the past six months, since Abbott’s fifth grade year began, our family has been in middle school application mode: visiting open houses, touring schools, writing application essays, preparing for the ISEE (private middle school entrance exam), interviewing, and then, for the past couple of months, waiting. March 14, schools mailed out letters of acceptance, rejection, and wait listing. We had eleven days to make a choice between the schools where Abbott was offered admission. We re-read the notes we took at the open houses and tours, met with the head of Abbott’s current school to solicit her opinion, and talked with parents at each of the respective schools Abbott was accepted to. We thought about commute issues, considered which school is likely to be the best fit for both of our kids, and which seems strongest academically and in other ways. We re-visited the schools. Ultimately, comfortable with all the choices, we let Abbott decide. He liked them all, but one felt much more comfortable to him, instinctually, and after one final visit last Friday morning, he made up his mind. I felt elated all weekend. The decision was behind us; the contract was signed and ready to be delivered.

As I ate my lunch, I couldn’t shake the dreadful sense of finality that had come over me sometime after dropping off the contract. The lack of mystery in the years stretching out in front of us was unsettling. How did we go from having a ten year old to knowing what his life would look like until he’s a soon-to-be college freshman? The next big choice will be about college.

After school, the boys dyed eggs, and I tried out a recipe I’m considering making for an Easter gathering we’re hosting. A Limoncello Tom Collins recipe. We’re having another family in the neighborhood walk over and join us, after church, and egg hunting in our respective homes, mid-afternoon. After drinking a glass of it, I felt better. I remembered there is so much unknown in what is yet to come. Abbott will hit puberty in a heartbeat; he’ll become a teenager. He’ll have his first girlfriend. Maybe he'll join a band, or decide to become a physicist, or both. He’ll experience disappointment and uncertainty and pride. He'll always remember what it felt like to look out the window while sitting in his geometry class, where he liked to sit in the cafeteria, the jokes his science teacher told.

Limoncello Collins

I can tell this will be my drink this spring, and perhaps on into summer. Sunday, I’ll pretend it’s one of those Easters when it’s 82 degrees outside (I doubt it has ever been 82 on any given Easter in the history of Seattle, but somewhere, it must be), or at least warm enough to eat with the windows open. We’ll look forward to summer, and all that is to come.

From Food & Wine

16 ounces limoncello (lemon-flavored liqueur)

12 ounces gin

8 ounces freshly squeezed lemon juice

24 paper-thin lemon slices

24 ounces chilled club soda

8 mint sprigs

Combine the limoncello, gin and lemon juice in a pitcher, and refrigerate for at least two hours. Press three lemon slices against the outside of 8 collins glasses, then add ice to the glasses. Stir the limoncello mixture and divide among the glasses. Stir 2-3 oz club soda into each drink, to taste. Garnish with a mint sprig.

Yield: 8 servings

with ebullience

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 06:14:00 +0000

The year I turned twenty-four, I had the jarring realization that I was solidly in my mid-twenties. It suddenly seemed like my youth was slipping away, or perhaps already had, and I wasn’t ready. By the time my next birthday rolled around, I was over it. A few years later I had cancer, and a couple of years after that, when I turned thirty, the significance of the birthday was blurred; it was my own personal milestone. I’d lived another two years. I had cancer again at thirty-four. Turning thirty-five and then, a couple of years ago, forty, were similar experiences on my emotional radar. My thoughts and fears about aging, now, tend to be related to the surgeries and medical interventions I’ve had that have prematurely accelerated some aspects of it for me, and not the actual, static, passage of time.

Last week, Alexi and I flew to New York to attend my sister’s surprise 40^th birthday party. We could only stay for the night of the party due to the complexities of our lives, but that was fine with us; it was a bit thrilling crossing the continent for dinner. We arrived at our hotel mid-afternoon, early enough to walk through Central Park for a couple of hours. The day was clear and brisk. We were surprised to discover that the trees in the park were completely bare, devoid of all evidence of impending spring. I intermittently had wild, worried thoughts of running into my sister, and spoiling the surprise party. We watched the sun lower, gilding the branches of the trees and the shore grass of the lake with golden light as we returned to our hotel to dress for the party.

I tried not to eat much all day, knowing we were going to have a nine course dinner at a famous restaurant I’d always hoped to visit someday. After taking a taxi to the entrance of the Time-Warner building, we rode the escalator up four floors, past Whole Foods, Williams-Sonoma, Sephora and all the rest. It could have been Anywhere, USA. Finally, we arrived at a decorative blue door and walked into Per Se restaurant. We were escorted back to a private room. As we waited for my sister we took in Central Park and Columbus Circle through the windows in the mostly faded light, and watched the city’s electric lights colorfully coming to life. Unmistakably New York.

My sister’s husband had given her the impression he had left town on a business trip. Her actual birthday was two days prior to the party, and they had already gone out to dinner to celebrate. Her friend Tanya flew in from Dallas that morning to spend a couple of days with her, and got my sister to the restaurant under the auspices of treating her to a belated birthday dinner. Instead of showing them to a table, the host took them back to where we were all waiting to surprise her. She was speechless. We proceeded into the elegant meal with ebullience. Nine of us sat around a large round table, elegantly bedecked with flowers and candles, for close to five hours. It was a feast to remember for a lifetime. Per Se is a New American and French restaurant owned by chef Thomas Keller; a sister restaurant of the famed French Laundry. Every bit of the evening was an exquisite pleasure. The lawyers – my sisters and most of her friends – intermittently talked lawyer talk, and when they did, Alexi looked fascinated, watching it like you might a tennis match, peppering them with questions. Everything was, of course, delicious beyond imagination, but all the more so for the celebrating and the coming together and the anticipation that went into it all.

It was close to midnight when the candle-lit cake came to the table, and then it was time to say our goodbyes and pull ourselves away. Back at our hotel, we talked and talked until Alexi fell asleep. I laid awake for a long time, despite my exhaustion from travel and the late hour. I was tempted to go out walking. I longed for more time, knowing that in just a few hours we’d talk about the evening as a memory; it would become The Time We Surprised Lindi at Per Se.

We got up hours later and began talking about it all, again, until it was time to get in a taxi. The sun had started to filter down over the tops of buildings, and continued to rise behind us as we drove to the airport in New Jersey. Now, a week later, the menu with the date and the occasion printed at the top is up on my office wall, and I’m intermittently reminded of the sterling white sturgeon caviar, the specifics of that salad I daydream about, the bitter orange and chocolate cake, and that moment in time.

March 11

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 03:42:00 +0000

I’ve been ruggedly tired since we set our clocks ahead yesterday morning. The sky was still blue-black when we left the house for Cal’s hockey game. I did my best to be conversational in the car, despite my overriding wish to close my eyes and rest. When we got to the rink, Alexi went into the locker room with Cal, and Abbott was off with his friends, the other older siblings of Cal’s teammates. While Alexi coached, I sat alone in the bleachers so as to avoid small talk with other parents. The cold permeated even more than usual through my defenseless fatigue. The raucous music that celebrated goals and filled the space between periods jarred me to the same degree I usually find it energizing.

All four of us spent Sunday afternoon at a pasta-making class. After mixing ingredients, kneading them together, and then letting the dough rest, we rolled it through a machine again and again, transforming it into long sheets. We learned to cut and squeeze and crimp the pasta dough into some of our favorite configurations. There is a magic in making something yourself you’ve always taken for granted as already that substance. We made bowtie pasta, pinching it into shape and lifting it to a tray in one quick, fluid motion. Cal and Alexi worked in tandem making tortellini. Cal cut rows of circles in the dough and applied a dab of cheese; Alexi shaped them. Abbott wanted to work alone with his dough and did nothing assembly-line style. He cut, and filled, and shaped his tortellini one-at-a-time, lining them up in straight rows as he completed them. Our teacher cooked it all, and after we cleaned our work space we ate the fruits of our labor for lunch: the bowtie pasta tossed with kale; the tortellini with its warm, fragrant, flavorful lemony ricotta; noodles tossed with the marinara we’d also made.

Back at home, the light remained as we cooked and ate, again, then cleared the table. It wasn't fully gone until the boys’ lights were out.

This morning, after driving the boys to school in the now-dim morning light, I sat in the kitchen and drank an extra cup of coffee, noting that I can still see through bare trees to Mt. Rainier out a side window; soon, only green will be visible that direction. Soon, hockey season will be over, and we’ll sleep through the blue morning light on the weekends. The trees will fill out, and the earth will become lush again; when spring gives way to summer we’ll once again have a richness of time together. Eventually we’ll start to miss the structure of the winter, and I’ll miss my children’s younger selves as they were months ago. And we’ll move through it all again, and set our clocks back to how they were before Sunday.

bake it until its done

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 19:51:00 +0000

“Mom, what is that?” Abbott asked, looking dubiously at the greenish-brownish lumpy gnarled object in our shopping cart. “It’s celeriac,” I said. “Did we intend for it to be in our cart?” he asked, politely, with a tentative expression on his face. He seemed to be hoping I’d say, “My goodness, no! How did that get there?” I replied, “It’s for the lamb stew I’m going to make. You’ve eaten it in things before; things you’ve liked.” He gave me a weak smile. Our cashier changed the subject, asking if we’d done anything fun over the weekend. As I paused to think about it, Abbott grinned and said, “I’ve done some reading!” We continued talking about books as we stepped outside into the March sunshine. I loaded the trunk with the bags containing the celeriac, limes I’d taught him how to choose (“the skins should be thin!”), and an assortment of dairy, produce, grains and protein to keep a family of four going for a few days. I’m glad I’ll be sending Abbott out into his future life knowing a celeriac the next time he stares one in the face.

We’d stopped at the store on the way home from Abbott’s hockey game. I put away the groceries while he hung up his gear on a rack in the garage. Then I began to cook. I started preparations for dinner simmering, and then I put a pan of asparagus in the oven to roast, for lunch. As I chopped basil and capers to toss with the asparagus, through the kitchen windows I took in the sparkle on Elliott Bay and the first sailboat race I've seen since last summer, the boats at times clustered, at times fanned out like a bell curve.

Abbott had already eaten a sandwich, and Cal and Alexi weren’t home from Cal’s hockey game, yet, so I ate lunch alone, with a book, as I usually eat my lunch during the week. I’ve been reading one of my grandmother’s old cookbooks when I eat, the Watkins Cook Book. The dark blue cloth binding is faded, and the pages are the deep yellow of time. Inside the cover is an inscription in my grandmother’s handwriting. “Mama gave me this cookbook about 1936 or 37 – Christmas.” I couldn’t find a copyright date in it, but when I checked online, it appears I have the version that was published in 1938. It’s a very good cookbook; full of hints and tips, with lots of tried and true recipes I’ve eaten countless times throughout my life. My grandmother made little checkmarks by many of the recipes, but no notations. Was she trying to cook her way through the book, keeping track of what she’d made? Were the checked recipes the ones she liked?

In addition to chapters on “Cakes and Frosting,” “Pastries - Pies,” “Cookies,” and “Puddings and Sauces,” there is a chapter entitled “Economy Desserts,” without explanation, with recipes for cobblers, cakes, puddings, and other desserts. The economy of the recipes is unclear to me. A chapter entitled “Food for Invalids” covers things such as Corn Meal Gruel, Albumen Water, and Cocoa Cordial (“Use in case of chill or exhaustion”). A section entitled “The Lunch Box" is an excellent manifesto. “Lunches, whether for school children or grown-ups, should contain substantial food that will be wholesome, nourishing and appetizing. The school lunch should be a real meal with enough variety to form a balanced diet.”

“A lunch should be packed in a well-ventilated, sanitary container to protect the food and keep it compact and odorless on opening. Waxed paper should be used to wrap all food, and covered jelly glasses are excellent to use for baked beans, vegetable salad, applesauce, baked apple or for a pudding. Highly-seasoned and rich foods should not be placed in a lunch box. Plain, wholesome food is essential for health…Fresh fruit in season is appetizing and healthful…Cooked vegetables as a salad add a note of interest to a lunch box. Raw carrot sticks or celery sticks made crisp in cold water, dried and wrapped in waxed paper make a tasty accompaniment to a meat sandwich…”

The recipes in the chapter “To Make Bread” call for specifics such as rounding cups, level cups, heaping teaspoons, and scant teaspoons. Sometimes an oven temperature is indicated; sometimes the directive is to bake in a “hot oven” or a “quick oven.” When I came across a recipe for grape nut bread (with instructions to use “a fairly moderate oven” and “bake it until its done”) I was intrigued. Alexi’s favorite ice cream as a kid was grape nut ice cream, something I’ve never seen and had never heard of until I met him; apparently it’s popular in Nova Scotia. So I figured grape nut bread was worth a try.

The bread came out nutty and dense, with a pleasing earthy flavor. It’s the best tasting quick bread I’ve eaten in recent memory, and is particularly good topped with orange marmalade. The list of ingredients looks rather plain, but I bet you’re going to like it. It tastes virtuous; like falling asleep between clean sheets.

Grape Nut Bread

Adapted from the 1938 Watkins Cook Book

1 cup grape nuts (breakfast cereal)
2 cups buttermilk (I prefer Bulgarian buttermilk)
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 egg, beaten
½ cup packed light brown sugar
2 cups sifted flour
1 cup chopped walnut pieces

Soak the grape nuts in the buttermilk at least 30 minutes and up to several hours. Preheat the oven to 325 F. Grease a loaf pan. In a large mixing bowl, combine the dry ingredients. Add the egg to the buttermilk mixture, and blend well. Add the dry ingredients, a little at a time, to the buttermilk mixture, and mix until just combined. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Bake, rotating the pan halfway through, for about 1 ¼ hours, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Let it cool briefly in the pan, and then turn out onto a wire rack to cool completely.

with the sun to my back

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 19:14:00 +0000

We spent the past week ninety miles from Cuba, the farthest we could go from Seattle in the continental United States. It was our first trip to Miami. We went to vacation with my sister, her husband and daughter; they like to go to Fisher Island. I knew next to nothing about Florida before this trip. For the most part, people from the West Coast don’t travel east in search of the sun. Images from Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Orchid Thief and To Have and To Have Not filled my thoughts and my dreams as we prepared for the trip.

The water was the green of the Caribbean. The rhythm of our days was determined by the heat. The stagnant, sweltering midday temperatures gave rise to the listlessness of summer and confused my sense of seasonality. Humidity permeated everything, making my hair crazily unruly and curling the pages of our books. I took particular pleasure in the sun’s warmth on the soles of my feet when I walked with the sun to my back.

Until Friday, the eve of the weekend, the island was almost completely empty.

A small percentage of people drive cars on the island, but generally, transportation is by foot and by golf cart. Signage in the marina alerts boaters: “Manatee Zone.”

Sandpipers at the water’s edge scurried away at my approach whenever I walked the beaches. What I think were some sort of heron flew overhead at regular intervals, occasionally in formation, never alone. At home, I’ve only ever seen herons solo, except for the time I saw one attempt to steal a fish from another.

We ate our share of plantains, and fish such as grouper, in tacos and with rice and beans. I ate key lime pie at every opportunity, imagining the limes must be locally grown and therefore something not to miss.

One afternoon in the pool, a baseball game took shape with the boys and my niece, my brother-in-law and Alexi, and a man and his two daughters from Connecticut. They used a beach ball that was constantly blown off-course by the wind, but that didn’t seem to diminish anyone’s enjoyment of the game, the negotiations of who would get to pitch next, or the attempts at stealing bases.

One night we arranged for a sitter to stay with the kids, and went in to Miami. We ate at a place called Ola that serves all manner of Latin foods: empanadas filled with lobster and with short ribs, Peruvian style Ceviche, Cuban pork belly. We drank mojitos and caipirinhas. Our server picked up on the fact that my sister and I are sisters. Our husbands talked ceaselessly while we caught up on the past few months of life. We ate and drank and laughed and shared stories until, finally, we ended the night with cappuccinos to give us the energy to take the ferry back to our sleeping children.

Someday I’d like to visit an orange grove. I’d like to see the Everglades and the Florida I’ve read about. For now, I carry with me the memory of the sun on my soles and the languid time with family.

February 13

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 00:16:00 +0000

Last Friday we celebrated the Lunar New Year at school with a dragon parade, as we do every year; as people all over the world do. The kindergartners process with a dragon they’ve built, and the fifth graders make music to accompany them. Incense fills the air as the kids and the dragon move to the music and the chants of “Gung Hay Fat Choy!” The dragon breathes fire, or at least smoke, thanks to strategically placed dry ice in its head. It has never rained the years I’ve attended. We parents pack in tightly together with our cameras, taking pictures and video, murmuring commentary to one another. The students watching think back to the year when they were one of the kindergartners. This year, as a fifth grader, Abbott played the recorder for the parade, and he took it very seriously. He brought his recorder and his music with us to Costa Rica a few weeks ago so he could practice, despite my reassurances that he really, really didn’t need to. One of Cal’s classmates told me he dreams of the day he’ll be a fifth grader and get to make the music.

I spent a large portion of this warmish gray day traveling about the city, tackling a mountain of errands. In my rush to get out the door this morning, I forgot my phone. I was mildly anxious, all day, that I’d miss an urgent call from the school. I imagined scenarios such as one or the other of the boys hospitalized due to a fall from the monkey bars, and finding out about it at the end of the day, when I returned to school to pick them up. Alternatively, I pictured one of the boys suddenly developing the stomach flu, and Alexi getting paged when I was unreacheable. I imagined him having to leave the hospital, just as he was about to perform a biopsy, to pick up the sick boy. Mostly, though, I missed my phone because I saw one thing after another I wanted to photograph, and I didn’t have a camera with me, either. The glass canisters brimming with conversation hearts and gummy lips at the candy shop. The card that read “I love you more than bacon” at the paper store. The umbrellas, standing out like misplaced punctuation marks; bobbing splotches of color amongst the otherwise monotone cityscape. My steaming bowl of tomato cheddar soup that fortified just by looking at it, before the spoon even reached my lips.

Now I’m catching my breath over a cup of Earl Grey. The boys are at the dining room table surrounded by salt water taffy, stickers with hearts, markers, cards, and envelopes, finishing up the Valentines they’ll pass out at school tomorrow. Their cards read, “My favorite thing about you is…” They’re completing the thought with sentiments along the lines of, “You are kind,” “You also like sports,” “You always say good morning to me.”

The Lunar New Year has come and gone, already it’s Ash Wednesday, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and before we know it Easter will be here.

I don’t have a picture of the soup I had for lunch today to fortify you, but this has been my winter’s day lunch all week at home.

A lunch of roasted broccoli and cheese

1 head broccoli, about 1 pound

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 oz aged cheddar cheese

salt and pepper, to taste

Preheat the oven to 400F. Wash and trim the broccoli, and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Toss it with the olive oil. Place the broccoli on a baking sheet and bake for 10 minutes, stirring at the halfway point. Grate the cheddar cheese. After the 10 minutes have passed, sprinkle the cheese onto the broccoli, and cook another 8-10 minutes. Season to taste.

Yield: 1-2 servings

the sound of it

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 05:58:00 +0000

I awoke to the sound of rain. As my consciousness pushed past dreams to surface, I became aware of the rhythms tapped out on the roof and the soft, asynchronous sound of Alexi’s breathing. In the darkness, I began to form thoughts about the morning. “I’ll text Dana and cancel; I’m sure it’s too cold and wet to run,” my sleep-deprived, warmth-coveting brain reassured itself. Before I realized any time at all had passed, the jazz improvisation on the roof was over, and I was alone in bed. Alexi was up and running. Reluctantly, as I dressed, I put on running clothes. There exists a magic window in the mornings here wherein it doesn’t rain, whatever the rest of the day holds. I call it my running window.

After arriving in the dining room and surveying the placemats I’d set with bowls and spoons Abbott asked me, disappointment fighting with his otherwise hopeful expression, “What are we having for breakfast? We aren’t going to have cereal, are we?” I said, “Tomorrow I’ll make something. Today we’re having cereal.” He nodded and accepted his fate, secure in the hope of eggs or pancakes tomorrow. As I packed lunches, I slipped in a slice of coconut pound cake; the last vestiges of something homemade in the house, from the weekend.

Dana and I met at Discovery Park after taking our children to their respective schools. The rain-scented air felt clean in my lungs. For the first time this year I noticed the tiniest of green-gold buds on the otherwise bare branches along the wooded trails as we ran. Our shared stories were absorbed in the broader silence of the forest.

Back at home, I listened to the rain start up again as I ate a slice of the leftover cake, still delicious two days out, for a midmorning snack. My great-aunt Wanda’s recipe. I baked it on Sunday, to give myself something to do while we watched the Super Bowl. I imagined the boys at school, eating this for their dessert, and then I imagined my younger self eating this same cake at Aunt Wanda and Uncle Tootle's farm, and playing with their cats that only occasionally scratched. Whenever I conjure Aunt Wanda’s image in my minds eye, I hear the sound of her laughter.

Wanda’s Coconut Pound Cake

This is a pretty standard pound cake recipe, but with the addition of coconut, which elevates it to something special. You can skip the glaze if you can’t find, or don’t want to wait to order, the coconut flavor/extract, but it really makes the cake. Like most pound cakes, this one bakes at a moderate temperature for close to an hour and a half. The flavor improves after sitting for a day.

For the cake:

2 cups sugar
1 cup unsalted butter
1 tsp. vanilla extract
6 eggs
2 cups flour, sifted
1 tsp. salt
1 small can Angel Flake coconut (3.5 ounces)

Position a rack in the middle of the oven, and preheat the oven to 325 F. Grease with butter and then dust with flour a 10” angel food cake pan.

Using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar together at medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Add the vanilla. Add eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. In a medium bowl, sift the flour and salt together, and then slowly add the flour/salt combination to the butter mixture. Fold in the coconut. Pour the batter into the prepared pan.

Bake the cake for about 1 hour and 20 minutes, rotating halfway through, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Transfer the cake to a wire rack to cool while you make the sauce (below). Run a knife along the edge of the pan to loosen the cake, and then remove from the pan.

Coconut Sauce:

1 cup sugar
1/2 cup water
2 tsp. coconut flavor or extract

Mix all the ingredients together. Bring to a boil, and boil for 1 minute.

Brush the sauce on the cake with a pastry brush while the cake is still warm.

Yield: 10 to 12 servings

Costa Rica

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 06:07:00 +0000

We spent the past week in Costa Rica. For some time now, we’ve wanted the boys to have a chance to hear Spanish spoken outside the classroom. After doing some research we decided Costa Rica would be our best bet, factoring in all the variables at play for us. We spent the week in the Arenal region near La Fortuna, based on Trip Advisor’s recommendation for family travel in Central America (we stayed here).

As we left the airport in San Jose, we passed a block where the street level windows were all protected by bars. Behind one of them a little dog wagged its tail madly. A woman walking down the street stuck her hand through the bars to pet him. As soon as we left the city, roadside stands selling strawberries and fresh cheese cropped up every half mile or so. The road we traveled wound past terraced coffee plantations, fields of sugarcane, pineapple plantations. Vultures alone and in pairs circled over every field.

Tiempo means both weather and time.

The place where we stayed has a cow, chickens, and pigs. Every morning, Abbott helped with the milking while Cal collected the eggs that would later become our breakfast. The restaurant was open to the air on one side, and we watched all manner of birds as we ate our meals. It was paradise. With breakfast, we were served some combination of starfruit, papaya, melon, guava and pineapple, to eat and in juices; the starfruit and papaya were grown on the property. Our morning coffee was Costa Rican. After my first cup I said, ‘Bueno!’ – and our server corrected me, ‘Muy bueno!’

We spent a day with a local farmer and his family, and I saw my first Costa Rican lemons. They reminded me of miniature melons on the outside. They're more globular and more similar to an orange than are American lemons. Together we made chimichurri for lunch, and empanadas filled with guava jelly and caramel for an afternoon snack. Abbott and Cal played with the farmer's daughters, who happened to be their exact ages. They rode ponies and played cards and hide and seek.

Every day we saw sloths.

Birds, staggeringly beautiful, were everywhere. We learned Costa Rica’s national bird is an ordinary robin, chosen because it can be found everywhere throughout the country, and because of its beautiful song.

Our first full day in the region we visited the Arenal Hanging Bridges with a guide. It was an incredible opportunity to observe and learn about the intricate life of a jungle; the symbiotic relationships, the plants’ efforts at maximizing their sunlight via such measures as ‘walking,’ above-ground roots. We swam in hot springs at the end of the day.

There were endless lines of leaf-cutter ants everywhere. I got used to seeing their movement in my peripheral vision; started seeing it with my eyes closed.

We traveled by horseback through the rainforest and past fields of bulls and dairy cows. Our guide, Enrique, pointed out that cattle grazing and deforestation go hand in hand. Enrique had a little dog that ran alongside us; he found an armadillo. Apparently, they can’t see or hear very well, so they’re easy to catch. Enrique picked it up; the poor animal growled and trembled until he let him go. We rode to a waterfall. While we changed into our swimming suits, Enrique cut up a pineapple for us to share, using a giant leaf as his cutting board. We swam, then sat on sun-warmed rocks in the water and took it all in as we ate chicken salad sandwiches. Not another soul was in sight. At the end of the day, we encountered a few Costa Rican children swinging Tarzan-style on vines, and they invited the boys to join in.

We spent a day floating down the Cano Negro, watching Jesus Christ lizards walk on water, spider and howler and white faced capuchin monkeys in the trees, basilisks and turtles on the banks, bats in the trees and, as everywhere else, paradisical birds everywhere.

me and a baby white faced capuchin at the ASIS Wild Animal Rescue Center

In the evenings, we sat in the last of the light as we ate, listening to the bird songs stop and the cicadas start up. We walked back to our cabin in the thick humidity, and read in hammocks on our porch before going inside to bed. We fell asleep listening to the cicadas, and awoke to bird songs.

January 18

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 07:45:00 +0000

Yesterday morning, as I was driving the boys to school, I passed two vehicles whose occupants had stopped to take photos of the dramatic sunrise we were witnessing. Thick, cloud-like fog surrounded the downtown buildings in view. The fog was illuminated pink as the sun rose through and then above it. I watched a woman pull over and get out of her car in a dress and high heels, without a coat, even though it was 30 degrees outside. It moved me to see others pause in the busyness of a morning to appreciate beauty.

Every year, after January 1 comes and goes, I’m ready for spring. Invariably I leave the house without socks on, wearing a light jacket, and am surprised when I get cold. It isn’t that I dislike winter. January mornings are wonderful for their mystery; I’m awake for ages before I can tell if the day is foggy, frosty, or drizzly. This January, the light has been dazzling. But I do miss the flowers. I miss eating raw vegetables, which I don’t tend to do except in summer when the farmer’s markets are brimming, and cooking seems like too much trouble. I’m claustrophobic from the long stretches of time indoors due to the short days and the cold. So I wear color to counterbalance its absence outside; I organize and make my house more spartan to combat my claustrophobia. I take pictures of the light, while it’s present, with abandon.

My friend Shannon once started dating someone who sounded promising around this time of year. I told her, “Oh, winter is the perfect season for starting a relationship! It’s such a romantic time of year. It’s no accident Valentine’s Day is in February!” She laughed and said that I always think the timing is perfect, whatever the season. She ended up marrying someone else, but I still stand by my assessment: winter has its attributes, particularly for couples – consider all that extra time for cozying up indoors together. Early on in our relationship, Alexi and I established a pattern of having dinner at my apartment on Sunday nights. On one such winter’s night, I first made a beef stroganoff. I can’t say it deserves credit for getting us to where we are now, but it didn’t hurt. I found this version in The New Basics, and it’s become a favorite, in regular rotation in winter months around here.

Beef Stroganoff
Adapted from The New Basics by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins

12 ounces beef tenderloin (can substitute skirt steak)

salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

4 tablespoons minced peeled shallots

4 fresh shiitake mushrooms, stems discarded, sliced ¼ inch thick

½ cup beef stock or broth

½ cup crème fraiche

4 teaspoons tomato puree

1 teaspoon Worchestershire sauce

½ pound egg noodles, cooked until just done

Season the meat lightly with salt and pepper. If using tenderloin, slice the whole piece in half horizontally.

Heat a heavy skillet over medium heat. When it gets hot, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in the skillet, add the meat, and sear for about 2 to 3 minutes on each side, depending on thickness, until nicely browned on the outside and pink and juicy on the inside. Transfer the steaks to a plate.

Add the remaining 1 tablespoon butter to the skillet, and sauté the shallots and mushrooms over medium heat until just softened, about 2 minutes.

Stir in the stock or broth, crème fraiche, tomato puree, and Worchestershire sauce. Cook over high heat until slightly thick, 2 to 3 minutes. Add any juices that have accumulated from the steaks.

Slice the steaks, across the grain and at an angle, into thin strips. Pour the sauce over them, and serve on top of buttered noodles.

Yield: 2 servings

January 14

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 20:50:00 +0000

Fifth grade was a year of firsts for me. I had my earliest glimmers of fashion awareness; I begged my mother to buy me a pair of Jordache jeans. I became aware of body odor after my mother told me I needed to wash my coat because it smelled. I started taking an interest in boys, though I vehemently denied it to my friends when they asked. I was still enough of a kid to play in the snow for its own sake, and I’d sometimes enact various romantic scenes, pretending I was Meg from A Wrinkle in Time walking in the woods with Calvin, or Princess Leia, escaping with Han Solo. I had my first boyfriend that year. His name was Sam. He had red hair and a wicked smile; he was the class clown, and he was adorable. I’d liked him for some time, when one day, to my surprise and delight, he slipped me a note: “Will you go with me? Yes or No.” I circled yes, then shyly dropped the note back on his desk, without making eye contact. The next day, however, before we even had a chance to hold hands, he found me on the playground and muttered, hurriedly, “Dump it all in dirt,” to my confusion and sorrow. Whenever I’ve asked Abbott if his classmates are starting to like each other in a romantic sense or become boyfriend and girlfriend, he wrinkles his nose and says, “I don’t think so.”

I spent all day Friday at school. I chaperoned Abbott’s fifth grade class on a field trip to the Museum of Flight. Abbott, at almost 10 ½, is the youngest by far; had he been born a few weeks later he’d be a fourth grader right now. Some of his peers will be turning twelve soon. It was my first opportunity in some time to see them all together. Some of the children are still fairly entrenched in childhood; some, moving on to the self-consciousness of adolescence. The girls all seemed to be wearing a variation of the same outfit. In the restroom, I observed a couple of them planted in front of the mirror, smoothing their hair, scrutinizing their own reflections as they moved this way and that. As we sat eating in the museum’s lunch room, the boys and the girls clustered together, for the most part, though with some intermingling – one of Abbott’s best friends is a girl – and some banter back and forth between groups as they ate their sandwiches and apples and their thermoses of soup.

The whole school has been studying civil rights this month, broadly, and learning about Martin Luther King, Jr.; watching video footage from his speeches and learning about the Children’s March (incredible video). Abbott and his classmates individually made a list of 20 rights they have, then went back through their lists and thought more critically about which were rights, which were privileges. They also made a list of things that could be fixed in the world. They made posters expressing those rights and things to fix – “Soles for all Souls”, “Everyone Needs Medical Care – even people who can’t afford it” – “Everyone Has the Right to Learn.” After we returned from the Museum of Flight, we marched with their signs in a school-organized event. The second graders joined in, wearing T-shirts they’d decorated with salient points from Martin Luther King’s speeches.

I don’t remember having discussions at school about civil rights when I was a kid. I did learn about Rosa Parks, and I knew who Martin Luther King Jr. was, and what he stood for. At home, I listened to my parents tell stories about their childhood in the Jim Crow south. They were in high school when the schools integrated, peacefully, in their town. We lived in my grandparents’ town in Texas for a short time in my early childhood, in the 1970s. There was still a ‘black’ and a ‘white’ church of the denomination my family attended, and my parents chose for us to attend the ‘black’ church.

As we walked I thought about our individual and collective liberties, and our privilege, and the challenges of youth and adolescence. Some held their signs high, with energy and pride; a few showed signs of discomfort or embarrassment; many just seemed happy to have the extra time outside. I’m thankful to the school for giving the kids practice thinking through what they believe, and an exercise in standing up for those beliefs, even if in a small way. I want my boys to live out their lives with humility; with the knowledge that none of us is fully responsible for our fortunes, or our tragedies.

PS – Every year, our school has an Experience Book Project. The Book Project invites families to choose one or more of the following selections to explore together. This year’s theme is “Portraits of Perseverance and Resilience.” Below is a list of the books, and summaries about them, excerpted from the school newsletter.

PRE-K to 2ND GRADE
The Hallelujah Flight (Phil Bildner) During the Great Depression, the ace black pilot James Banning decided to fly from coast to coast to serve as an inspiration to people everywhere. So with a little ingenuity and a whole lot of heart, he fixed up the dilapidated OXX6 Eagle Rock plane with his co-pilot and mechanic, Thomas Allen, earning them the derisive nickname, “The Flying Hobos.” But with the help of friends and family along the way who signed their names on the wings of the plane in exchange for food, fuel and supplies, Banning and Allen made it through treacherous weather and overcame ruthless prejudice to receive a heroes’ welcome upon landing in New York on October 9, 1932. Further reading – Amelia Earhart: More than a Flier (Patricia Lakin)

The Sound of Colors (Jimmy Liao) In this breathtaking, evocative book, a young blind girl travels from one subway station to another while her imagination takes her to impossibly wonderful places. She swims with the dolphins and sunbathes on a whale’s back; flies through the air with the birds and travels to the station at the end of the world. Poetic text is paired with haunting and beautiful watercolor paintings in this incredible book that explores themes of overcoming a disability and the power of the imagination. The Sound of Colors is a magical book that will take readers on a journey unlike anything they've ever experienced before. Further reading – Stephan Hawking: Understanding the Universe (Gail Sakurai), Helen Keller: Her Life in Pictures (George Sullivan)

Crow Boy (Taro Yashima) In a small Japanese village, Chibi, the main character, is an outcast at school because he is different from the other children. Day after day, Chibi is faced with feelings of isolation and rejection. This memorable story presents the reader with a situation that all children experience at some time in their life and illustrates that a child's potential can be fulfilled when we consider all of their interests and needs. Further reading – Thank you, Mr. Falker (Patricia Palacco)

GRADES 3 to 5
Wonder (R.J. Palacio) August Pullman was born with a facial deformity that, up until now, has prevented him from going to a mainstream school. Starting 5th grade at Beecher Prep, he wants nothing more than to be treated as an ordinary kid—but his new classmates can’t get past Auggie’s extraordinary face. Wonder, now a New York Times bestseller and included on the Texas Bluebonnet Award master list, begins from Auggie’s point of view, but soon switches to include his classmates, his sister, her boyfriend, and others. These perspectives converge in a portrait of one community’s struggle with empathy, compassion, and acceptance.

Esperanza Rising (Pam Munoz Ryan) Esperanza thought she'd always live with her family on their ranch in Mexico—she'd always have fancy dresses, a beautiful home, and servants. But a sudden tragedy forces Esperanza and Mama to flee to California during the Great Depression, and to settle in a camp for Mexican farm workers. Esperanza isn't ready for the hard labor, financial struggles, or lack of acceptance she now faces. When their new life is threatened, Esperanza must find a way to rise above her difficult circumstances—Mama's life, and her own, depend on it.

ADULTS
The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration (Isabel Wilkerson)
In this epic, beautifully written masterwork, Pulitzer Prize–winning author Isabel Wilkerson chronicles one of the great untold stories of American history: the decades-long migration of black citizens who fled the South for northern and western cities, in search of a better life. From 1915 to 1970, this exodus of almost six million people changed the face of America. Wilkerson compares this epic migration to the migrations of other peoples in history. She interviewed more than a thousand people, and gained access to new data and official records, to write this definitive and vividly dramatic account of how these American journeys unfolded, altering our cities, our country, and ourselves. Further reading – The Twelve Tribes of Hattie (Ayana Mathis)

Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity (Katherine Boo) Katherine Boo spent three years among the residents of the Annawadi slum, a sprawling, cockeyed settlement of more than 300 tin-roof huts and shacks in the shadow of Mumbai’s International Airport. From within this “sumpy plug of slum” Boo unearths stories both tragic and poignant—about residents’ efforts to raise families, earn a living, or simply survive. These unforgettable characters all nurture far-fetched dreams of a better life.

GUIDING QUESTIONS

Think about the feelings and experiences of the characters. Do any experiences or feelings remind you of a time in your own life?
What are some of the challenges that the character(s) had to overcome?
How did the characters exhibit perseverance and/or resilience? What other virtues did they show?
Can you think of a time when you have persevered or exhibited resilience? Share the story.
What kind of support or understanding were the characters able to find? How was this important in order for them to accomplish the goals or achievements?
What do you think the characters and/or the community gained because of the experience?
If you could be in the story, what new or existing role would you play?

Epiphany

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 04:38:00 +0000

Our Christmas tree sits on the curb, ready for tomorrow’s yard waste truck. Yesterday Alexi and the boys watched USA win the World Junior Hockey Championship while I packed away the last of the holiday decorations. Our snow gear is back on its shelf in the garage. I took a second pass through our pile of holiday cards and letters as I ate lunch today, studying each one with a leisure I didn’t have as they came in. There were lengthy typed letters, some embellished with computer graphics, that included details about family vacations, lost teeth, geography bees and injured dogs. There were photos of the children of our childhood friends; of the boys’ long-ago preschool classmates, some almost unrecognizable to us now, some the same as ever. So many photos and stories of a multitude of lives entwined with ours, near and distant. We’re getting ourselves in order, inside and out, for the resumption of our individual lives tomorrow: school for the boys, work for Alexi, tasks at home for me.

New Years Eve, at the end of an afternoon of packing and organizing and preparing to leave town, as the sun set, Alexi opened a bottle of champagne for us; I opened a bottle of sparkling cider for the boys. The four of us ate dinner in stages, starting with small, clean-tasting Kusshi oysters at the kitchen counter until Alexi’s hand ached from the opening. We moved on to king crab legs at the dining room table, picking the succulent meat out of the shells. I put artichokes on to steam, and it took longer than I remembered it should. We ate them last, sitting on the floor around the coffee table as we watched a movie, pulling off the leaves and dipping them in melted butter before stripping them of their tender meat with our teeth. The ease of the evening combined with the exquisite flavors gave it a celebratory air.

New Year’s morning, not too early, we drove to the mountains. We snacked on clementines; the boys played Minecraft. When we arrived at our hotel, I checked in as Alexi took the boys to play in a patch of snow alongside the parking lot. The three of them were alight with unparalleled joy: pelting snowballs, fleeing; cackling, wrestling, cavorting. They do everything in the snow with an abandon that never ceases to amaze me. I have never lived with abandon.

My senses go on hyperdrive in a new climate. There is always an initial shock to the cold. The snow crunched under our boots. There were icicles on every surface that could form them. The fir trees were encrusted with frost. The initial tedium to the layering and the bundling with every trip in and out quickly transitioned to habit. The day ended with making s'mores - marshmallows take forever to roast when it’s 15 degrees outside - then soaking in a hot tub surrounded by snow. Alexi read from one of the Harry Potter books until the boys fell asleep. Years ago, traveling to and from the same mountains, Alexi read aloud to me from the same book as I drove. It was a surprise and a pleasure to find the snow still there when we woke.

They each want Alexi to read with them at bedtime; compete for him all the time. But in the middle of the night, when they can't find the light switch in the unfamiliar hotel bathroom they come to me. When they're sick and they’re tired it’s me they ask for. The trip was not perfect. Cal woke up with a stomachache, which turned into a full-blown stomach flu. I spent the day in our room with him while Alexi and Abbott skied and skated; he, piteously sick; I, looking out at the ice and snow as I read and offered comfort. The following day, I woke up sick, and the next night, back at home, Abbott and Alexi followed suit. Still, we were all very glad for the time away. The trip has added to our memory bank of family time in the snow. It’s always good getting away, and it’s always good coming home.

Epiphany Sunday is almost over. Our house feels empty where the tree once stood, yet more light gets in. The Seahawks have won. Downton Abbey will premiere in a short while. I’m ready for this year and all it holds.

when it's all said and done

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 09:14:00 +0000

For the first time since we met, fourteen years ago, Alexi had to work Christmas Eve and Christmas, reading Xrays, MRIs, and all manner of radiological studies for those in need of them at the hospital where he works. It didn’t snow. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. I watched the forecast hawkishly for days, fielding repeated questions about the potential for a white Christmas. Aside from these unavoidable circumstances, the past week was everything we could have hoped for.

The official start to our holiday was last Friday, the winter solstice. School was only in session until noon, and then the two week break began. I had ambitions for those last few hours to myself: exercise, vacuuming; trips to the drugstore, pet store, post office. I got about half of it done. A friend of Cal’s came home with us for the afternoon. They played with Legos and waged Nerf gun wars while I made caramel corn to give out to neighbors, and addressed the last of the holiday cards. In the deep blue of nearing darkness, Cal’s friend went home, and the boys and I got on our way to Abbott’s hockey practice. We detoured to do the errands I didn’t get to that morning. We bought a few necessities at the drugstore as well as stamps, avoiding a worse line at the post office. We walked with our cards and the stamps toward the post office, and in the dim light we heard, then saw, a group of geese as they rose to the sky and assumed their formation. We stood watching them until they had flown out of sight. The three of us sat on a bench outside the post office as we prepared the cards for mailing. They seemed to thrill at the task. Could it be I’ve never let them stamp anything?

Christmas Eve, I sat vigil at bedsides, first the younger, then the older, until the breathing had deepened and steadied, and any overheard rustling or activitiy on the part of the parents would be woven into dreams. As we filled stockings and figured out the wording of a note from Santa and the disguising of the handwriting, I fretted about how tired I was likely to be the next day. The kitchen lights of the neighbor across the street were still on as I switched off our bathroom light and padded, barefoot, to bed. It’s the same every year.

Christmas morning, we took turns addressing adult necessities - coffee, pictures and video for posterity - and sitting on the floor, an audience for what was being shared. I wonder how their memories will record our Christmases? My own from childhood are snapshots. The pink satin bow with the fabric rose wrapped around a package of mine one year, re-used on one of my gifts every year thereafter. The holly candy, the peanut patties my mom always made. The handmade dolls and stuffed animals from my grandmother Louise. My Santa mug.

After breakfast - Custard-Filled Corn Bread and bacon and Christmas pears and steamed milk with maple syrup - Alexi packed up for work. On his way out the door the phone rang; he exchanged greetings with my sister, then left. I listened to her describe the snow they received and their Christmas Eve service and the sleeping in they were able to do that morning, and it distracted me, eased me into the reality of his departure.

The boys and I stayed in our pyjamas. As the day wore on, I watched the Christmas procession of neighbors out walking in groups of two and four and five, sometimes with a pet, with their usual bearing of contentment and satiety. I prepared an elaborate meal that I would not have taken the time to make had guests or Alexi been present. The boys came and went like hummingbirds, seeking my company, showing me things, finding food, then disappearing again, just as quickly as they came. One of Abbott’s packages contained an itunes gift certificate; his first. We listened to songs and explored Pandora as I chopped and stirred and sauteed, and he thought about what he might want to buy. The gift card was burning a hole in his pocket. I told him about how I used to listen to Casey Kasem host American Top 40 every Saturday afternoon. Abbott reluctantly opened his gifts throughout the course of the day, stretching them out until the end; he hated to see it come to a close. Cal opened his immediately, relishing it all instantly, fully. When Alexi got home, we sat together and ate, as we had that morning, and were thankful.

I haven’t been in a rush to put away the holiday like I usually am. I’ve paused. Many of the gifts still lay piled under the tree in an orderly fashion, replicating their prior wrapped positions. Treats from our stockings neatly line the kitchen counters. The Christmas linens are still in use. We’ve had a good string of days.

it was enough

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 02:40:00 +0000

(Alexi's childhood home in Nova Scotia)

In the dusky light as I drove the boys to school, I passed a biker with a colorful strand of old fashioned, large-bulbed Christmas lights wrapped around his crossbar. I wondered how he got them to light up without being plugged in – batteries? Mostly, I was glad for the unexpected cheer. On my way home, I noticed a tiny patch of snow on the hood of a passing car; someone else’s remnant of the snow we didn’t get in our neighborhood. For a while, I followed a pickup truck pulling a trailer that carried his and hers jet skis labeled ‘T-bone’ and ‘Misty'. Snow closure signs were propped at the ready at the top, middle and bottom of hills.

Back at home, as I thought about these sightings a memory from my college days surfaced. One ordinary spring evening, like so many others, I was out walking in the West Village of Manhattan, where I lived, with my roommate Lucinda and her boyfriend, Chris. I don’t remember our purpose. The night air was warm and it felt good to be out. We passed a gorgeous restaurant with its windows flung open wide, and there was a perfect little patio adjacent to it, completely full of diners. The tables were lit with tea lights, and the twinkly music was punctuated by the low murmurs of conversation and laughter and the quiet clanking of utensils. The scent of garlic wafted out to us on the sidewalk. Chris remarked about the pleasure that must come with being able to eat at a place like that on a Tuesday night, but it was enough just to pause and take it all in.

Back at home this evening, we're daydreaming about snow, and cooking memories into existence. Brussels sprouts are the perfect thing to eat when you’re hoping for colder weather, or dreaming about upcoming holidays, or anytime they’re available and looking good.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Garlic
From How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman

Good Brussels sprouts should feel firm and have tight, shiny-edged leaves. The flavor is best when they’re around an inch in diameter or smaller. I love this method of preparation; the combination of sautéing and roasting creates a tender interior and a crisp exterior, maximizing the flavor of the vegetable.

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 pound Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved
5 cloves garlic, peeled
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

Heat the oven to 450F. Put the oil in a large ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat. When it shimmers, arrange the sprouts in one layer, cut side down. Toss in the garlic, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Cook, undisturbed, until the sprouts begin to brown, about 3 minutes, then transfer to the oven. Cook, shaking the pan occasionally, until the sprouts are quite brown and tender, about 30 minutes.

Taste and adjust the seasoning as needed. Drizzle with the balsamic vinegar, stir, and serve.

Yield: 4 servings

something like reverence

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 06:44:00 +0000

One evening earlier this week, I parked in a three minute load/unload only zone outside the emergency room of the hospital where Alexi works, waiting for him to emerge. A woman approached the car, waving. Through the raindrop-splattered window and the dim light of the distant streetlight I peered out. I recognized the shadowy face, the silhouette as a friend from my book club whom I hadn’t seen in a while, whose husband is a physician at this hospital also. I waved back, smiled, and rolled down the window. I realized the elegant woman was not who I thought she was, and saw she was tearful, distraught, on the verge of hysterics. She apologized for disturbing me, and asked if I had a US $20 bill I would exchange for a Canadian $20 bill. She told me her dad was in the emergency room, having suffered a heart attack; she needed to take a cab somewhere, but the driver wouldn’t take Canadian money. I swallowed my surprise, glanced at my boys in the back seat, and told her, truthfully, that I had no American money on me to trade her. I tried to brainstorm where she might be able to get help, suggesting she try the hotel next door. She said she'd already tried there. As I started to call Alexi to ask for his input, she abruptly headed back toward the hospital. Before I had time to reflect about what had just happened, and wonder more about what her story was, the kids, from the back seat, gave voice to my surfacing questions.

Yesterday noon, on the way home from an exercise class, I stopped in at a neighborhood grocery store. As I got in line to pay for my cartload of provisions, I became distracted by the sweets and holiday offerings, filling my cart further with ‘stocking stuffers.' When it was finally my turn to check out, I was mortified to realize I’d inadvertently gotten in the “10 items – Give or Take” line with my overflowing basket. My nose started to drip, as it does when I’m embarrassed or worried. I started to move to the back of another line when the cashier stopped me, insisting I stay. He pointed out that the sign says ‘give or take.’ He said they had other people who could help cashier if they got too busy, and gave me a tissue. After he had bagged up what I bought he offered to have someone help me to my car.

This morning, after meeting a friend for coffee and catching up about her Hanukah and her terminally ill mother, my Christmas plans, and various parenting issues, I drove home and heard the horrific news of the children and others shot today in Connecticut. I thought of nothing else the rest of the day. I picked up my boys from school with something like reverence. We stopped for burgers and fries on the way to Abbott’s hockey practice, and I let them watch Elf in the car, as Friday is usually our movie night. They laughed until they cried at the at times spoofy story of redemption.

We do the best we can to navigate the conscious and unconscious happenings that fill our days, and hope for the best. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

for all it is

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 14:55:00 +0000

I’m embracing December for all it is. The busyness, the darkness, the light. I remind myself of the steps of long division to help with homework; I make meatballs and spaghetti for a family with a newborn. I celebrate the advances in civil rights in our state, poetically enacted on the first day of Hanukah.There is an ease to the month this year, a grace, I don’t usually experience. I don’t know how to account for it other than with gratitude.

I've never wanted to be a ballerina; never took a single dance class. I grew up enthralled by Nadia Comăneci and Mary Lou Retton. So gymnastics it was for me, until I discovered volleyball in junior high – far easier for someone of my height. Sunday we went to the Nutcracker. There was clearly a whole cohort of ballerinas in the making in the audience, rapt, wide eyed in tulle and chiffon. The music infiltrated my consciousness like a living being, and I thought about the way the music and the story have traveled through the past hundred years.

Saturday morning, Abbott took a test; the independent middle school equivalent of the SAT. It included an essay question, which was to describe something that surprised you, and to say whether or not you liked being surprised. Abbott wrote about scoring a goal in a hockey game a couple of years ago, under a circumstance and at a time when he didn’t think he could do it. There are plenty of other surprises I might have expected he’d write about – that the albino rats in his science class fed an omnivorous diet grew more rapidly than those fed a vegetarian diet, as measured by tail length and weight. Or maybe about the hummingbird that’s taken to hovering around our dining room window. Or the thrilling ending to Under Wildwood. I aim to follow his lead; I’m looking to surprise myself.

she had a Manhattan

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Thu, 06 Dec 2012 04:56:00 +0000

I haven’t taken many pictures lately - most days one, and only one - and I kind of regret it. The urge comes and goes, I suppose. I’m finishing my fourth year in a row of taking a photo every day, and it feels like a true accomplishment. This time of year, I spend a large portion of my weekday hours driving the kids to and from school, hockey, piano; the light is gone by late afternoon. The days appear monotonous as I contemplate photographing them, when in fact they’re full of energy and stimulation, more subtly and intricately so than their counterpart warmer months.

Tonight, like every Wednesday night, Cal had – are you ready? – hockey practice. (I warned you things sound repetitive around here.) Abbott helped Alexi coach, so Alexi picked them both up from school and they headed to the rink. All afternoon, I worked at my computer from a stool at our snack bar. I tried to keep the cats off my lap so I could concentrate, not wanting to go to our office where I could close the door but where there is only a view of the street. It was a pleasure sitting quietly, alone, watching the light fade. I had the transient thought that, in ten years, when a solitary afternoon like this one becomes more of the norm, it might no longer be so pleasurable. For the first time, I’m starting to think ahead ten years. Is that a sign of aging?

I ate a pre-made, previously frozen meal of Palak Paneer for dinner. In between bites and typing out paragraphs, I exchanged text messages with my sister. Her husband had a late meeting, so she stopped at a restaurant, alone, on her way home from work, as New Yorkers are prone to do. Her meal was a definite step up from mine: a salad of two kinds of lettuce with yams and walnuts, Nantucket bay scallops, and a Maker's Mark Manhattan. She described someone old enough to be our grandfather hitting on her in one message, and in another, said someone else had just sent her a drink, so she was heading home. “Who knew that restaurant was such a frisky place?" I finished my meal up with a couple of sugar cookies.

I baked my first batch of holiday cookies yesterday, and as I did so I promised myself I would keep the baking down to a dull roar. December can start to feel like being on vacation in the sense of out-of-the-ordinary eating and drinking for a month straight. At the end of a vacation I’m always glad to come back to my own kitchen and eating habits; this December I want to 'stay home' in that regard.

With this recipe, you get the great shapes that are the major appeal of sugar cookies, but with a fantastic citrus and spice flavor, and your home becomes permeated with a scent like Christmas.

Orange and Five-Spice Sugar Cookies

adapted from the Seattle Times 2005 Holiday Cookie supplement

Chinese five-spice is a blend of star anise, fennel, clove, coriander, and cinnamon that has a warm, spicy flavor.

I wasn’t able to find orange oil anywhere. I ordered it online here.

8 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

2 cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon Chinese five-spice powder

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 cup granulated sugar

1 egg

2 tablespoons orange juice

Optional: 1 teaspoon orange oil

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

parchment paper

white sparkling decorator sugar

Sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, five-spice and cinnamon.

Cream the butter and sugar together with an electric mixer until fluffy. Add the egg, orange juice, orange oil if using, and vanilla. Beat just until blended. Slowly add the dry ingredients, beating until well blended, scraping down the sides of the bowl occasionally.

Divide the dough in half, wrap, and chill at least 1 hour.

Roll out the dough between sheets of lightly floured plastic wrap to about ¼ inch thickness. Place the rolled dough on a baking sheet and chill 15 minutes in the freezer.

Set racks in the upper and lower thirds of the oven, and preheat to 350°F. Line two large baking sheets with parchment.

To cut shapes from the dough, remove the top sheet of plastic and invert dough-side down on a lightly floured kitchen counter. Remove the second sheet of plastic and cut out shapes as desired. Transfer the cut shapes to the parchment-lined sheet. Sprinkle the tops with decorator sugar. Gather the scraps, and roll and freeze them as described above before cutting again.

Bake in the center of the oven for 10-12 minutes, or until the edges are golden. Let the cookies cool on their baking sheets a few minutes before transferring to racks to finish cooling.

Yield: about 4 dozen cookies

like genies in bottles

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 23:45:00 +0000

I woke up this morning with a boy on either side of me. One had his chilly feet on my bare thighs; he leaned against a Winnie-the-Pooh as big as he is, wedged between himself and Alexi. The wind raged all night, no doubt working itself into dreams, leading the boys to our bed.

The three of them left for hockey practice before it was light. I worked at my computer. Some time later, while refilling my coffee, I saw a rainbow through the kitchen window, to the west.

We have a box of Christmas books we keep in an attic space in our garage, alongside the boxes of other holiday paraphernalia: ornaments, knick knacks, stockings and decorations. Our tangible objects that store experiences like genies in bottles: the nativity set from our trip to Peru; the life-saver Santa with the Styrofoam head made by my second grade self. The boxes labeled ‘Christmas’ are stowed behind our tent, sleeping bags, tarps, ski boots, tackle boxes, and fishing rods, so getting them down is always a production. Earlier this week, I asked Alexi to retrieve the books; heroically, he did. Last night, after reading Christmas in the Barn, a poetic account of the Christmas story, to Cal, I answered a multitude of questions about how a baby could be born outside a hospital; what they used for diapers; why Mary and Joseph were traveling to pay taxes.

This past week, the home of one of my cousins burned to the ground, and they lost everything. Furniture, dishes, computer, clothing, toys, linens, camera, books, photos, toothbrushes, stuffed animals. By some miracle, they weren't home when it happened. I had a grim conversation with my sister about it this morning, and after we hung up I remembered a question Jon Nelson once asked me. Or maybe it was a sermon he preached. In any case, he wondered what I would take with me if I had to flee my home suddenly, and could only bring what I could carry. I still don’t have a good answer.

Our countertops are full of ripening pears and leafy satsumas. Outside, seagulls are air surfing. Inside, it smells like toasted hazelnuts, and the boys are making music together.

Happy December.

Rocket Muffins

slightly adapted from Macrina Bakery & Café Cookbook by Leslie Mackie

I am typically not a muffin person; I usually find them too sugary and bread-y. I’d rather have a scone or a cookie if I want a sweet. These are perfect – incredibly delicious, hearty, and wholesome; barely sweet, except for the jam. You can make them without the jam topping – just serve it on the side.

¾ cup hazelnuts

¾ cup all-purpose unbleached flour

¾ cup whole wheat flour (I use white whole wheat)

2 tablespoons light brown sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

2 ½ teaspoons baking soda

¼ teaspoon salt

1 ½ cups rolled oats

3 medium carrots, grated

1 medium ripe banana, mashed or pureed

2 eggs

½ cup canola oil

½ cup molasses

½ cup buttermilk

½ cup raspberry preserves (or other favorite preserves)

Preheat the oven to 350F. Brush the insides of a 12 capacity muffin tin with canola oil, or lightly coat with cooking spray.

Place the hazelnuts on a rimmed baking sheet and roast for about 15 minutes, until golden brown. Let cool, then remove as much of the loose skins as possible by rubbing the nuts between the palms of your hands. Chop the nuts medium-fine and set them aside. Increase the oven temperature to 375F.

Sift the flours, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl. Add the oats, chopped hazelnuts, and grated carrots. Toss with your hands until the ingredients are combined.

In a separate medium bowl, combine the banana, eggs, canola oil, molasses, and buttermilk. Mix fully with a whisk. Add mixture to the bowl of dry ingredients and stir just until the batter comes together, taking care not to overmix. It will be very thick.

Scoop the batter into the oiled muffin tins, filling them to the top. Bake on the center rack of the oven for about 25 minutes, or until the tops are deep brown. Let cool for 10 minutes, then dent each muffin with a spoon and top with a dollop of raspberry preserves. Slide a fork down the side of each muffin and gently lift it from the pan.

Yield: 12 muffins

out on a limb

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 21:20:00 +0000

For the first time in a week, I’m alone. I’m settling into it like an old sweatshirt. It’s a wonderfully clear, sparkling day; one in a string of several. I can see the majestic outline of Mt. Rainier through the now-bare maple trees from one corner of the house. The rooftops across the street still retain a bit of frost, even as the hour approaches noon. I’m alerted to the presence of an eagle by the familiar high-pitched whistle. He sits on a neighbor’s tree overlooking the water; a favorite perch for this one. After a time he’ll swoop down and away.

We ate hurried bowls of cold cereal before heading out the door this morning. I had to pack applesauce in little plastic containers with foil tops for the fruit in the boys’ lunches, as that was all we had left in the house. I keep it on hand for just these kinds of days.

Alexi’s father is back in Nova Scotia. His mother is spending the day with a classmate from her elementary school days in Woodstock, Vermont; she’s flying home tomorrow. The boys are at school, bellies and hearts full from the past week. Alexi is back at work. We’ve texted each other several times this morning, not yet used to the separation after a week together.

Saturday, after sleeping in, playing Pond Hockey-opoly, eating the last of the leftovers and crossing things off our to-do lists, Alexi and I went out for the evening; his mom put the boys to bed. I liked watching them play games together as much as I enjoyed setting out, alone, with Alexi; the visits are too few and far between. We went to Spinasse, a favorite. Every time we go I think to myself, “This is one of the best meals I’ve ever had.” The food is outstanding without feeling fussy. We shared squash ravioli with sage, tagliatelle with braised pheasant and huckleberry, steak with charred chicory purée. We had gelato and espresso. Afterwards, we went to see Anna Karenina, arriving just as it was starting; the theatre was so full we had to sit in the front row. We haven't been to such a crowded movie in about a decade. It was energizing.

Yesterday, late morning, the five of us went to church, passing mile 26 of the Seattle Marathon on our way. Later, we went downtown and joined the slow-moving wave of holiday revelers visiting the Gingerbread Village and the larger-than-life Christmas tree and the holiday carousel. We ended the day with another movie (Rise of the Guardians), the way we love to conclude Thanksgiving weekend.

Now, I’m re-stocking the house, regrouping, moving forward. I’ve got a pot of beans soaking for making soup. A couple of weeks ago, I bought Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi's beautiful new book, Jerusalem, full of more things I’m eager to make than any other cookbook I own. I made a soup from the book when Alexi’s father was in town; I plan to make it again tomorrow. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it is perhaps the most delicious one-pot meal I’ve ever had.

Cannellini bean & lamb soup
From Jerusalem by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi

1 tbsp sunflower oil
1 small onion (5 oz/150 g), finely chopped
½ small celery root (6 oz/170g in total), peeled and cut into ¼ inch dice
20 large cloves garlic, peeled but whole
1 tsp ground cumin
1 lb/500 g lamb stew meat (can use beef if you prefer), cut into ¾ inch (2 cm) cubes
7 cups (1.75 liters) water
½ cup (100g) dried cannellini or pinto beans, soaked overnight in plenty of cold water, then drained
7 cardamon pods, lightly crushed
½ tsp ground turmeric
2 tbsp tomato paste
1 tsp superfine sugar
9 oz (250 g) Yukon Gold or other yellow-fleshed potato, peeled and cut into ¾ inch (2cm) cubes
salt and freshly ground black pepper
freshly squeezed lemon juice, to serve
chopped cilantro, to serve
bread, to serve

Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the onion and celery root, and cook over medium-high heat for about 5 minutes, until the onion starts to brown. Add the garlic cloves and cumin and cook for 2 more minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside.

Place the meat and water in a large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 10 minutes, skimming the surface frequently until the broth is clear. Add the onion and celery root mixture, the drained beans, cardamon, turmeric, tomato paste, and sugar. Bring to a boil, cover, and simmer gently for 1 hour, or until the meat is tender.

Add the potatoes to the soup, and season with 1teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon black pepper. Bring back to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer, uncovered, for 20 more minutes, or until the potatoes and beans are tender. Your goal is a thick soup. Let it bubble away to reduce the volume of liquid, if need be, or add water if there isn’t enough. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Garnish each bowl with a bit of freshly squeezed lemon juice and chopped cilantro. Serve with bread.

Yield: 4 servings

November 23

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Sat, 24 Nov 2012 01:29:00 +0000

I’ve smelled like butter the past couple of days. I first had the somewhat pleasing realization on Wednesday, as I drove to buy the last of the ingredients for our holiday meal; my hands were on the steering wheel, within proximity of my nose. That night, I noticed the scent on my hands, again, as Alexi and I shared a plate of spicy Doritos. He described the hockey practice he'd coached earlier that evening while I baked; I dramatically reenacted how I'd managed to pack an incredible five pounds of apples into a pie.

Most of the years since Alexi and I have been parents, we've hosted Thanksgiving; various family members have flown out to join us. It seems easier than traveling, or at least it did when the boys were younger. I feel like I've finally gotten it down – what needs to be done in advance, how to ask for help, how to have fun in the midst of so much to do. That said, I’m not opposed to eating tacos in a warm location some future Thanksgiving.

This morning, we had slices of leftover pie for breakfast. We’ll have ice cream cake tonight. We're celebrating Alexi’s birthday, and he loves ice cream cake above all other desserts. As we ate lunch today, his mother, who's in town for the holiday, told us about his birth. Alexi was born on a Monday, and they went home from the hospital two days later, just in time for Thanksgiving. A happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

just like that

noreply@blogger.com (Lecia Phinney) — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 17:50:00 +0000

“The best thing that can happen to you is that your hypothesis is wrong.” Heard at a talk I attended yesterday.

Just like that, November won me over. When I was a kid in North Pole, Alaska I’d see the sun, enormous, looking like the yolk of a fried egg slip above the horizon at some point in my school morning. By the time school was out, it had disappeared. I used to look out the window as I was reading Beowulf or learning about improper fractions, see that sun, and feel quietly glad to be alive in that winter moment. Yesterday the slant at which the sun traversed the sky carried the same still beauty, and I finally felt ready for the rest of this month, this year.

I don’t know yet what I’ll make next week for Thanksgiving. We'll have a few of the usuals: turkey, cranberry chutney and sweet potato biscuits. I’m pretty sure I’ll also make roasted sweet potatoes with fresh figs, and maybe a pecan pie. One thing I do know for certain is that over the weekend, I’ll be making salted brown butter rice crispy treats – a double batch – as it’s our turn to bring a snack for Cal’s hockey team. I want to share the recipe with you, because I think you ought to make them, too.

Early last Sunday morning, when the light still had a blue cast to it, I sat in my car and read a new cookbook as I waited for Abbott’s hockey game to start. The building that houses the rink he played at used to, literally, be a meat locker. It's the coldest building I've ever been inside, so I didn’t go in until I absolutely had to. Many of the recipes I looked through merited a bookmark; in particular, the one for salted brown butter rice crispy treats. What a combination! I made a pan of them earlier this week, and they were gone almost immediately. The toasted butter and the salt change everything; the two, together, elevate rice crispy treats from good to daydream-worthy.

Have fun.

Salted Brown Butter Crispy Treats
Slightly adapted from The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook by Deb Perelman

I substituted puffed brown rice for regular puffed rice, as I always do when I make rice crispy treats. The puffed brown rice adds a nut-like dimension to the flavor.

8 tablespoons (115 grams or 1 stick) unsalted butter, plus more for the pan
heaping ¼ teaspoon flaky sea salt
One 10-ounce (285 gram) bag large or miniature marshmallows
6 cups (170 grams) puffed brown rice cereal – I love Erewhon. Can also use regular rice crispies/puffed rice cereal.

Measure out all your ingredients before you get started, as you'll need to move quickly once you've heated the butter.

Butter (or coat with nonstick spray) an 8-inch square cake pan with 2 inch sides.

In a large pot, melt the butter over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden, and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently. Don’t take your eyes off the pot: the period between when the butter begins to take on color and the point where it burns is often less than a minute.

As soon as the butter takes on a nutty color, turn the heat off, sprinkle the salt over the butter, and then stir in the marshmallows. The heat from the butter should melt them, but if it doesn’t, place the pot over low heat, stirring constantly, until the marshmallows are smooth. Be careful not to cook the marshmallows. You want just enough heat for them to melt.

Remove the pot from the stove and stir in the cereal, folding it gently with the marshmallow mixture until the cereal is evenly coated. Quickly spread the mixture into the prepared pan. Use a piece of waxed or parchment paper sprayed with oil to press it firmly and evenly into the edges and corners of the pan, and smooth the top.

Let cool, then cut into squares.

Yield: sixteen 2-inch squares or thirty-two 1-by-2-inch bars