Eating From the Ground Up

Press

alana — Mon, 02 Jul 2018 15:38:07 +0000

Here are a few links to most recent press about my latest book, as well as a few interviews I’m excited to share:
A Cookbook That’s All About the Veggies, New York Times
Interview with Cathy Erway on Heritage Radio’s Eat Your Words (audio)
And interview with Old Tioga Farm (maybe my favorite interview I’ve done)
Interview with Margaret Roach on Away to Garden (audio)
Interview with Theresa Loe on Living Homegrown (audio)
8 Spring Cookbooks with Recipes You’ll Want to Make Right Now, Cooking Light
The Vegetable Alchemist, Epoch Times

the animals of these past days

alana — Wed, 02 May 2018 01:01:53 +0000

1. Today and yesterday there was a fox, the same one, I think, and also a “he” I think, although I don’t know why. Yesterday we were right on the road and lucky for me I had the dog leashed up because the fox stood there, watching and smiling while Freida pulled on the leash, tried to wrestle out of her harness. He left when he was ready, and she went crazy after his scent. Today he reappeared and we were inside the house, and he pranced down the street like he was off to do an errand, tail like a curved wire bristle brush behind him. Freida barked and barked, but he didn’t even look up. I knew his face from the day before, glowing and red with a black mask.
2. Yesterday, a bird and her eggs. She had built her nest at a ridiculous angle on the elbow of an overhang over my friend’s front door. When I walked into the house, I saw the nest, hoped for the best, thought to myself about how nature makes it work in the craziest ways. But when I left the house a few hours later it was clear that nature was not making it work. The bird was perched on her eggs at that awkward and impossible angle, panting and shaking, one single egg six feet below on the front step, not an egg but just blue shell and bright yolk.
3. And today a turkey, alone. I don’t know when I’ve ever seen a turkey alone but this was it, also slower than your average turkey, crossing the path from one side of forest to the other. I loved his proportions–that tiny head to wide body.
4. Last night a deer, unwell, bulky, its coat spotty and sometimes gone. I sat against the window as it poked at the bulbs in my neighbors front garden, daffodils and tulips and other blooms that have grown in her absence while she lives in her real house in New York.
5. Not long ago a bear, curved and dark and lit from above by the motion detector spotlight of the same neighbor. The neighbor is here maybe a few days a year but her light goes on nearly every night and shines into my window. And when I look out to see what’s spurred the light, it is always there–a bear or a deer or something else–lumbering in front of the garage door or sprinting away startled by the light. The bear was so dark, it looked like a shadow.
6. And this morning, while my mind was on other things, a red cardinal in a sea of pine.

the vegetable book

alana — Mon, 19 Feb 2018 15:17:26 +0000

On my computer, this book lives in a file called “the vegetable book,” but you’ll see it on the shelf as Eating From the Ground Up: Recipes for Simple, Perfect Vegetables. The book comes out on February 27 (!), so I wanted to share a few details about that here.
Between now and then, Rosie and I are heading off on her 13 trip. I feel like I just got back from Sadie’s 13 trip but it was actually almost 2 years ago, and Rosie has chosen a very different kind of trip. We head to Tulum tomorrow, so get ready for palm trees on the instagram. (As if you need more of those, I know! But I promise I’ll make them good.)
The book is of course available for preorder, and YES it helps to preorder, which you can do here or here or here. If you’d like a signed (even personalized!) copy sent off to you, get in touch with my friends at One Mercantile. I’ll sign a book for you and they’ll send it off. Or if you’d like a signed card to stick into a book you’ve purchased elsewhere, just let me know and I’ll pop it in the mail. And speaking of One Mercantile:

If you’re close by, please come! It’s shaping up to be a great party, and I’d love to see you there.

I’m excited to share this book with you, friends. I hope it will be well used in your kitchens. And SO MANY OF YOU helped me with this one, and I hope all you amazing testers know how present you are on the pages.
Off to the beach- see you in a week! I’ll be the one shamelessly self promoting with a sunburn. xo

sweet potato latkes with roasted applesauce

alana — Mon, 18 Dec 2017 00:41:45 +0000

We are now at the moment when all food is holiday food. Even on regular nights when there’s still school and work, it still feels like holiday food because we light the menorah (turning off the Christmas record just long enough to fumble through the prayer), we keep the fir candle burning, we have excess chocolate bars with peppermint themed names all of the sudden, that sort of thing.
I’ve been thinking lately about how the food makes it all feel real, and that somehow it helps me connect one year to the next. Over these years we’ve developed certain foods that are at once specific to us and general enough to make it feel like we’re taking part in a great ritual all around us. There are these sweet rolls (much discussed here over the years), which require advance prep work so that there’s no work at all the day of, there is always bourbon in the coffee that goes along with the sweet rolls. There is Chinese Food on Christmas, ordered out exactly once a year. Once we committed ourselves to making it at home and I regretted it, as the bourbon in the coffee seems to slow me down enough on that day to make me want to stay in one place, which doesn’t happen very often. There are these funny round pancakes that Joey makes with his special maker he bought. Ruggala, with my grandmother at my shoulder. These cookies, too, which like crunchy clouds are the only ones I come back to every single year. Chili for New Year’s Eve, booze throughout at inappropriate times of day (we’re New Englanders after all, and only consume alcohol at appropriate times), nuts with a cracker in the nut bowl, and all these little ways we differentiate the few weeks that span those few weeks in December.
While we’re on the topic, a note on gifting.
I have nothing to sell you right now, but if that’s a disappointment, I’d like to suggest an amazing gift- the promise of my new book, which comes out on February 27. It looks like this.
Pretty, right? If you’d like to give this promise as a gift, you could preorder here, or simply promise it from your local independent, and I will send you or your lucky giftee a card to take the place of the actual book. If you prefer to give one of my other books, I’m happy to write a card too. Just let me know.
There’s a recipe in the new book for sweet potato latkes, and I wanted to make sure that you had that one now, while it was latke time. Of course, you can make them any time of year and they taste just as good. Unfortunately it’s one of the recipes that doesn’t have a photo, so in its place, I offer you a unicorn Christmas cookie. The substitution is little blasphemous, but also a good representation of how things go around here.
Happy December, friends. Hope your holiday is hitting all the right notes, and including all the foods on your list.

Sweet Potato Latkes with Roasted Applesauce

Makes about 20 latkes and 3 cups of applesauce

Roasted Applesauce
4 pounds crisp apples, such as Galas or Pink Ladies, cut into large chunks
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (1 lemon)
3 tablespoons maple syrup
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Latkes
1 cup halved and thinly sliced leeks (from 1 leek, using all the white and the tender part of the green)
2 pounds sweet potatoes (2 to 4), peeled and grated
2 large eggs
1/2 cup matzo meal
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh sage or 1 teaspoon dried
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Neutral oil, such as grapeseed or sunflower
For serving: Sour cream or Greek yogurt

Preheat the oven with a rack in the center to 425°F.
Start the applesauce: Pile the apples into a large baking dish. Drizzle with the lemon juice and maple syrup, and spread the bits of butter over the apples. Roast until the apples are soft, 30 to 40 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven, and reduce the oven temperature to 350°F.
Meanwhile, combine the leeks, sweet potatoes, eggs, matzo meal, sage, salt, and pepper in large bowl. Massage the mixture with your hands to combine thoroughly, breaking up the egg yolks as you do.
Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat, and add enough oil to cover the bottom of the pan. (If you have a second skillet, you can use that as well and have two pans frying at once.) Keep two ungreased baking sheets nearby. Heat the oil until it sizzles when you add a drop of water. Use a 1/4-cup dry measure to scoop a mound of the mixture into the skillet and flatten the mound into a 1/2-inch-thick disk with a fork. Repeat with more sweet potato mixture to create enough latkes to fill the pan without touching. Fry each latke until golden and crispy, 2 to 4 minutes on each side. Transfer the cooked latkes to the baking sheets. Replenish the oil in the pan and repeat with the remaining sweet potato mixture, lining up the latkes on the baking sheets as you go.
Transfer the baking sheet to the oven and bake for 20 minutes. Carefully break into a latke and taste to see if the sweet potato is cooked all the way through. If not, return the latkes to the oven for an additional 5 minutes.
While the latkes bake, finish the applesauce. Pass the roasted apples and any liquid in the pan though a food mill, catching the sauce in a bowl below. Alternatively you can puree the apples in a blender or food processor–just peel and core them before you roast them. Serve latkes hot with applesauce and sour cream.

bringing the mind home

alana — Mon, 30 Oct 2017 14:04:26 +0000

A few bits and bites today, hoping to grasp something of substance if I can.
Most exciting to me, I’ve finally found a new way to share kitchen music. Years ago I used to post weekly mixes, but I was quietly using some possibly not so legal means to do so. In the back of my mind I’ve been thinking about spotify as tool to do this again, so let’s try it, shall we? My first kitchen mix in ages, here. Let me know what you think, and if it works for you.
I’m sitting a lot with the news these days, and trying to translate what I can into raising my small percentage of future womankind over here. I’m torn up, unsurprised, conflicted on the issue of whether change is a possibility. This piece in particular felt like a helpful perspective, and I’d be eager to hear your thoughts.
There are a few new cookbooks I want to put on your radar. Erin McDowell styled my second book, and, spending those days in my kitchen, established herself in my world as the queen of the baked good. You might know her from Food52, where she’s gained a serious following. When I have a baking question, she’s the first person I ask, and now she’s written a book of her own. It’s photographed by Jennifer May (of many many books including my first two), and filled with recipes and tips that bring Erin right into your kitchen, too. Also, there’s a new book by Aimée out, and I hold firm to the fact that we could all benefit more Simple Bites in our lives. This is a great one.
I try not to slip too deeply into the world of what’s been lost, but this put me right there. A good podcast to listen to, always, even if only for the velvet of his voice.
And while we’re on podcasts, give this one a try. Every conversation might not even feel relevant, but trust me, if you’re married, or in partnership or deep relationship with other humans, there will be a few arrows that will go in deep.
Finally, I’ve recently unearthed my copy of this book, which served me so profoundly when I found it in my teens. I’ve taken to just opening it and reading, and recently, this is what it offered:

We are fragmented into so many different aspects. We don’t know who we really are, or what aspects of ourselves we should identify with or believe in. So many contradictory voices, dictates, and feelings fight for control over our inner lives that we find ourselves scattered everywhere, in all directions, leaving nobody at home.
Meditation, then, is bringing the mind home.

Sending love to you as we roll into this blustery, spice-filled month of November (my favorite, always). xo

roasted turnip salad

alana — Wed, 27 Sep 2017 12:15:57 +0000

Fifteen years ago, on the day I found out I was pregnant with Sadie, we went directly from Planned Parenthood to the arcade at the mall in Santa Fe. There was a walk around the block in the middle somewhere, a walk I’ve written about a lot in past years, around the little streets behind the clinic, with Joey and I talking about whether or not this was the moment, the child. We decided it was, and that she was, and we got into my silver Saturn and drove down Cerrillos in with the August heat shimmer all around us. We cashed in all the money we had in our pockets for quarters, and for the next hour we didn’t speak but only shot guns at aliens, and steered race cars into walls, crashing and burning like I tend to do in those games. When we were out of quarters, we left, got back into the Saturn and called our parents to share the news. It August Santa Fe rained then, so hard that the parking lot flooded and we had to press our ears to the phone to read the tones in our parents’ responses.

Over the next days and months we would talk about how we would do this, how we would make a more stable environment than either of us had had, how we would parent, and relate to each other, and all the things we would need to learn. But more than any of those conversations, I remember the strange daze of the arcade, and shooting the gun, and feeling a new deep hollow fear I would later come to know as risk and attachment and the terrifying possibility of loss.
A few weeks ago, we dropped Sadie off at high school. She’s known for years that she wanted to go away to school, and she made it happen just in her way, and she’s not very far away. But we walked away from her, now 3 in the car instead of 4, and Rosie said we should go to a museum nearby, and that’s what we did. We wandered around the museum, half looking at the art, moving quickly, and it felt exactly like that arcade. It was like an airlock before the new life started, entirely different but also so familiar.
This past weekend, I worked my last farmers’ market. It’s been 10 years of markets for me, but my work schedule’s changing and it’s time to change with it. It’s those mornings at the market that started me writing and making recipes in the first place, and most of the recipes I’ve written have come out of conversations there. I’ve found myself quieter and a little less inspired this summer, but just at the end of this last market, a customer shared a recipe with me, and that seemed like a very fitting way to end this big and radish-filled chapter.
Over the last few years I’ve developed an allergy to potatoes. I think it’s mostly the skin, but my reaction is so unpleasant that I pretty much avoid all potatoes at this point. But the thing I miss most is potato salad. Especially right now when the potatoes are new and creamy, I’d be making it all the time. I have a mustardy, vinaigrette-based one in The Homemade Kitchen, and that one is my standard.
Right in those last few minutes before 1:00, a woman came up in line with several bunches of turnips. These aren’t storable big thick turnips, but what we call (among other things) salad turnips, because they’re good raw in a salad. There are two varieties that we sell- scarlet, which is crunchy and hearty with red skin, and Hakurei, which are white and silky and sweet. I’ve often said that’s it the turnip that got me started in food, due to mysterious warm buzz I felt in sharing the news that they could be caramelized in the oven or chopped into soup (you never know how your career will hit you, but I’ve learned to keep my ears perked for that buzz).
I asked this particular customer what her plans were with all those turnips, and she said she used them instead of potatoes in her potato salad. THIS IS A RECIPE FOR ME! I thought, and I pulled a few bunches off the table then and there.
So this is a not-much-of-a-recipe but rather a sharing of what seemed like a revelation to me. I cut the turnips into large bites (no need to peel first), tossed them in salt and olive oil, and roasted them on parchment in the oven at 425°F until they went a bit golden, which took about 25 minutes. I made a vinaigrette in the bottom of a large bowl with some mustard, some pickle brine, and some olive oil. I added the warm turnips (both red and white) to that dressing, along with a whole mess of chopped parsley and dill, 2 chopped hard boiled eggs, some chopped pea shoots, a few chopped up radishes. Salt, pepper, taste, repeat. And then I had potato salad, only it was turnip salad. I think this method would be equally good if you’re a mayo-based potato salad person as well.
We’re in what seems to be the last day of a very strange heat wave around here, and it’s been a stretch of 95 degree days as we come up to October. I’ve never been a fan of inappropriate weather- I like July to be hot and September to require a sweater. Of course inappropriate weather is all the rage these days, and if sweaty is all we get, we’re a lot better off than many. And I can’t always be in charge, and in matters of time, and change, and most things as it turns out, I’m still working on my skills of taking what comes, and possibly with grace, and maybe even I get bonus points for having a few good dishes ready to eat in the fridge. Tonight we’ll swim, and eat cold things, and then maybe October will be more familiar.

if we are to imagine that there could be another way, unstuck

alana — Sat, 26 Aug 2017 18:02:51 +0000

A few weeks ago, it fell to me to help to support a race. The store where I work was sponsoring the race by giving it a home and setting up a tent packed with fruit and water and energy bars, and I, along with 2 others, erected the tent and manned it through a Sunday morning. It was a running race, and only 8 miles, and also to benefit a good organization, so it drew all sorts of ages and abilities. I say only 8 miles because that’s how other people said it, but to me 8 miles seems like an impossible distance to run.
After we’d set up the tent and seen everyone off, I eventually made my way over to the finish line to catch a glimpse of people coming in. The first, as I imagine is usually the case, were people used to winning races, a small wiry younger man in his twenties who seemed to finish barely after some had began, a woman running the whole thing in athletic socks, and they all looked as if they ran as easily as walked–no sweat, no heavy breathing, eyes covered by sunglasses bought especially for running. I snapped a few shots for our store social media, as I’d been charged to be sure I captured something of the race for posterity.
But then, more people appeared around the corner, slowly, one by one. The mom I’d seen hand over her tiny infant to her own mother for safekeeping. The dad, working harder, cheered on by his 4-year old son with a “YEAH DAD! COME ON DAD! YOUR THE BEST! YOU’RE ALMOST DONE!!!” A woman maybe near 70, with astounding focus that blotted out the world around her. And then, after that, two women who, when the announcer asked on the PA who would be the next to finish, they reached out and took one another’s hands to finish together.
I am not an athlete or a sports fan, and I often take the line that it’s silly to push oneself to pain. But I stood there on the corner and cried as I watched the runners came in. I just felt so happy and proud of all these people I didn’t know. I think I could watch people cross their own finish lines forever.

Twenty years ago, when I was in theater school at NYU, I had a big talk with a senior in the program where I was a freshman. This is a story that has come to define me and challenge me in many ways, so please forgive me if I’ve told it before here, or even if the details have changed, which is entirely possible. Sometimes I think it was an agent or a teacher and not a student, but right now it’s her face that’s in my head.
She was someone who would make it, blond, glowing, up for anything. And this is what she told me:
If you want to succeed as an actor, you have to always know that you are the greatest person in the room. Always.
I decided to leave school about a week later, and not to be an actor at all.
But it always puzzles me that I fell into a similar world anyway. That in the end I decided to be a writer, to live by the Amazon reviews and the likes and the sales numbers, and the persistent question of whether I was compelling/beautiful/talented/take your pick–for the Food Network or to be Instagram famous or any other measure of success I might be striving for. That also the decision to buy one of my books would usually be the decision not to buy someone else’s, and that I had to want that in order to further my own success.
Sometimes I think we, as people, tell the same stories over and over, big stories that manifest through varied situations. At least, I do.

Last summer, I decided I needed a change. Not to not be a writer, but to do something else also, and to put my focus on (and please forgive me as I not so skillfully play this metaphor though here) supporting the success of others as they cross the finish line.

And it’s been a year so far. A really good year, too. I work full time in the marketing department at a local independent grocery store here, and after so many years of working alone in the kitchen, I love going to an office and collaborating with people every day. All through this year I’ve been my other self too, going through draft after draft of my 3rd book, out next February. So I’m still that person too.
Being out of the house all day has given me a very different take on cooking, as you might imagine. All these years people have been emailing me, commenting here, or asking at events–I want to cook more! I want to can tomatoes and make my own granola and cheese. But how do you do it? How do you make time? And I always made clear that I do this for a living, that I’m home to watch the bread rise or to check on the yogurt as it cultures. But I would also say, then, that it’s about priorities, that we have more time than we think, and all of those things I’ve said here.
I’m sorry if I’d said those things to you. Because I think the equation isn’t quite as simple as I imagined it to be.

These days, I do not make yogurt, or cheese, or bread. I make smoothies. I feel especially proud of myself when I make a grain salad that can serve as work lunch. I make dinner when I can–fish in a frying pan and kale in the steamer. Or it’s pasta and sauce from a jar and salad. That’s it. Today I’m home for the longest stretch I can remember in ages, and it’s cool and feels almost like fall, and I’m making chili and cornbread and I cannot WAIT.
This is one of my favorite weeks of the year. Part in the ritual of things and part out of it, part summer and part fall. The water’s warm enough to swim in if you can brave the air on the way in. It’s always the time I want to cook again, and I guess here I am, today, right on schedule.
Hope you all are doing well. I’m hoping to be back again, here, more, now that the fall’s coming in. xo

valtellina

alana — Mon, 10 Apr 2017 00:50:48 +0000

I went to Europe for the first time in 1997. I was 18, coming off of a failed attempt at college and several months of double shifts in San Francisco restaurants trying to make enough money for a plane ticket. I carried around with me a haze of too much pot smoking, the weight of too many late-night night ham sandwiches, and a lot of the fear that can come from stepping outside of the plan. I had just change my name from my mother’s last name to my father’s (a family I had no connection with at all), so I had a new passport and license, and (I might have believed) a new identity.

I went to Europe with the intention of moving there. I traveled mostly alone, sometimes with friends, always looking for the place I’d stay. I often slept on trains to avoid lodgings costs and I lived on bread and beer, which were always cheap and good and filling. There were some cities that took me in–an apartment and a job would materialize–but I’d inevitably cave while I was considering the offer. I started to dream of New England, and mostly the feeling that there was a place that had grown me like a tree, a place I had claim to. I’d get on another train and go to another city, and then I’d decide to leave again. And after I wandered long enough that my money was gone and I could only think of New England, I got on a plane and flew home to the Berkshires. I decided I was cut out to be a traveler, but not an expat.

A few months ago in the frozen depths of mid-February, I got an email inviting me to Italy. I’ve had writer friends invited on these elusive press trips to California or Israel or anywhere, but I’ve never been invited and honestly I thought it was a mistake or some sort of spam. I know I’m breaking the code to admit this, but I have to tell you why I spent the next two weeks telling people that I was going to Italy with a “?” at the end of my statement, if only to infer a “I don’t know how, so don’t even ask.” The trip was paid for by the Italian Trade Commission, and I promised only that I would keep my eyes open and learn and try to eat as much as I could. I didn’t know who would go–only that I’d be in Milan and in the mountains north of the city. I can only imagine that I was included based on my overwhelming enthusiasm for this day nearly a year earlier, and, in fact, I’d been recently dreaming of going back to Italy to specifically learn more about food certification in the country, most importantly DOP (or PDO, if you’re looking at a some labels in English), and I guess the universe answered in the form of an email.

I left for Milan almost 20 years to the day from the time I went to Europe in 1997. And somehow again (and maybe every time), I stepped onto the plane as a separate person from who I’d been, maybe faking it a little, doing my best to play the part of the person I imagined should be stepping on the plane.
It turned out we were 8 people in total–some food writers, some magazine people, one newspaper journalist. Our first two days were in Milan, but then we drove into the mountains into a region called the Valtellina Valley, and that’s the part I most want to tell you about.
First, a bit on DOP certification.
Think about the labels you look for on products at the grocery store. We don’t have many that really mean much here, think about the “Certified Organic” label or the non-GMO butterfly, and start there. Those are probably the closest thing we have in the US to the EU’s DOP certification. DOP translates to Protected Designation of Origin, and this means that the product was overseen from its very beginnings all the way through its packaging. You know exactly where it comes from and how it was made, because every step is strictly regimented. And the rules of each product’s DOP certification, as far as I’ve come to understand it, specifically relate to the unique product itself. Instead of starting with a list of standards (like organic certification), the EU starts with the traditional method and region of a product, and protects that process, laying it out into a list of standards so that no one can fake the product and call it by the same name. You might have DOP balsamic vinegar, Parmigiano Regianno, prosciutto, olive oil, or canned tomatoes, but each of these have different standards specific to the product, all crafted around the way the product has been made for centuries.. But what it means across the board is that every moment of the product’s process–whether we’re referring to the milking of the cow or the raising of the pig or or the growing of the tomato or the bottling of the olive oil–happened locally, all according to the incredibly high standards of the certification. It’s a guarantee of quality, safety, and of a product made according to the tradition that created it. We really have no equivalent to the DOP label here in the US.

We went to the Valtellina Valley to learn about a few specific DOP foods–Bitto and Casera cheese, as well as Nino Negri Wines (these are DOCG and DOC- two of the similar certifications specific to Italian wine). I think we were brought to Valtellina with the hopes that we could help bring attention to a region that gets less love than the more touristy parts of the country. Allow me to do my part here, which I think I can do better with images than with words.

I remember past experiences more when I travel, maybe because I’m outside of my life, or maybe because I have the space to do it, but in Valtellina I found myself thinking a lot about that trip I took 20 years ago. I wasn’t looking for a home this time, but there was something in that little region that reminded me of the Berkshires (tiny mountains as they are). There was a way that the region was struggling, trying to hold on to itself and its traditions, that felt familiar to me. I was thinking a lot about the different ways I’ve come to places in my life, and how I try, if I can, not to insert myself in as I tried so hard to then, but to know that I’m on the outside.

We spent a morning at La Fiorida agrotourismo with one of the cheese makers who walked us through the start of the making of Bitto. She did this not in their cheese making facility but in a little hut build for educational purposes, there to demonstrate the way the cheese has been made for centuries. She followed the same basic process I do in my cheese making classes–heat the milk, add rennet, break up the curd–and the fresh curds she scooped out for us were sweet and a little salty. The flavor was different that that of the cheese I make, and I felt lucky to understand the process in a way that helped me to know that the flavor of those curds had very little to do with any cheese making magic she was working. That flavor was all about the cows themselves, and the grass they ate the water they drank and maybe even the air they breathed. It gave me a new perspective on this idea of DPO, that is, Protected Designation of Origin, in that each of these foods- the cheese, the vinegar, the tomatoes–any of them, each fully represent or even embody the actual place that created them. And when a food is so purely from a place and a tradition, it tastes of that place.

There’s something in the DOP conversation that feels like a clue to understanding how we relate to food and quality in the US–I felt that last year when Sadie and I went to Bologna, and I got so much more of that on this trip. I’m hoping to study this more. If you have thoughts, or just stories about Italian food you want to share, yes, yes, yes. Or if you’re looking for a place to go, can I recommend the Valtellina Valley in Lombardy? The mountains are high, the rivers are clear, and the cheese tastes like grass and sun.

the interior revolution, and a recipe for good luck

alana — Sat, 28 Jan 2017 17:22:25 +0000

I’m going to say right off the bat here that I’ve got a recipe for you. It seems I’ve lost some of you here and on social media with all these march photos, and if you’re on the brink of going that way, that’s okay–it’s your choice to make, whatever your reasons. But if a recipe is what you’re here for, I’ve got one. And if the other stuff is what you’re here for I’ve got that too. Pick and choose. All are welcome here, and I hope that comes across through the screen.

So we marched. Like most of you last week, as far as I can tell. I have a lot to say about the weekend, but I’m actually going to go back to something I wrote and never got a chance to finish and publish before we went. Here goes:

So we’re getting ready for the march, heading down to DC tomorrow. We talk about this every day–how do we feel, why are we marching, what will we do, why are we marching.
I try to remember that there are so many people who are celebrating, that there were people feeling panicked and scared when Obama was getting ready for his own inauguration. I try to stand in those shoes and keep perspective.
But this is where I get stuck. It’s not the policies that scare me–I’ve been through administrations I don’t agree with, and I know it’s part of life and democracy. I’m scared of volatility and the legitimization of hatred. I’m scared of a leader who chooses to use his voice to shout at SNL and Meryl Streep and “losers”, taking time away from the essential work of leading this country. I’m afraid of the demonization of the media. I’m afraid of the people who cheer him on, who see the example of such vitriol and decide to emulate it. That’s what scares me.
I’m also scared of my own instincts. I find myself thinking that I’m thankful I can pass. Whatever identities I might actually encompass, I can pass for a middle-class, straight, white woman. I don’t even look Jewish, as I take after my father. I live in a little liberal county in a liberal state. I will be ok, I think. My family will be ok.
I admit this to you, but only because I’m sure that this–the instinct to keep my head down and hope to pass–is the scariest thought of all, and the surest sign that I need to run directly towards the action and stay there. Whether marching is the best way to do that, I don’t know. But’s it’s a way, and that’s enough.
I’ve had a lot of conversations with people about whether or not they should support the march, how they feel about pink hats, whether privilege (white, middle class, straight, fill in the blank) prohibits them from having a right to march. I think that all these conversations are essential, but that in the end it’s also essential to show up and be a body. It’s important not to be distracted by reasons why not. It’s important to run straight towards it.
The girls have been asking me if we’ll be safe down there, and all I can say is I don’t know. I give them the choice- to march or not. But Sadie responded in a way that’s stuck with me. We will talk about this day all my life, and I’ll say I was there. Whatever happens from here, we’ll know we were there.

And we were there, and I’m so grateful. Because most of all it was good to have so many examples of good and kind and peaceful humanity packed into such a tiny space. It fueled me. I’m proud of children for being such kick ass protesters. And now, in addition to all of the actions and the calls and the showing up, I’ve been thinking about an interior revolution.
Obama was an inspiration for me. He inspired me to run for office, to commit fully to my county, and to consider myself a patriot. It was personal. And now, I’m finding our current president is inspiring me in a different way, although it’s just as personal. I’m rebelling against my own internal Trump, every day.
When I feel the urge to be petty, or to cut someone down. I rebel.
When someone doesn’t shower me with love or adoration and I feel reactive and want to throw a tantrum, I rebel.
When I feel scared of things that are other or different than me and feel the urge to push them away, I rebel.
When I feel the urge to speak impulsively on social media, I rebel.
When I start to think of this country as a place filled with hatred and ugliness, I rebel.
That’s where I am with all of this right now.
It’s going to be quite a time ahead, and we’re going to need each other. Even if you don’t agree with me, we might need each other even more, need a place we can find common ground. And today, I want to share a recipe for good luck, because we all need that right now.
Hoppin’ John is traditionally New Year’s food–good and simple rice and beans that bring luck for the year ahead. I’ve been making Hugh Acheson’s recipe for years, shifting and changing it with what I have. Hugh makes it with a ham hock which I never seem to have at the right moment, so this version is vegetarian. I usually double the recipe and eat it all week, here with a fried egg on top, there with some greens or chorizo mixed in. It’s not particularly pretty (especially as I’ve photographed it–cold, on the kitchen table, packing it up on my way to work), but it’s really good. It’s fuel in the best sense, and a great recipe to have in your line-up.

Hoppin’ John
Adapted from A New Turn in the South, Hugh Acheson
Serves 6
1 1/2 cups dried black-eyed peas
2 to 3 inches Parmesan rind
2 bay leaves
1 cup basmati rice
Salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 large onion, minced
1 cup minced celery
1 poblano chile, seeded and minced
1 red bell pepper, seeded and minced
1 pinch red pepper flakes
Apple cider vinegar, to taste
Hot sauce, for serving

Combine the black-eyed peas, Parmesan rind, and bay leaves in a medium pot. Cover with at least 3 inches of water. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat, reduce the heat to medium-low, cover the pot, and cook until the peas are tender, about 25 minutes. Drain the peas and remove the bay leaves and parmesan rind.
Meanwhile, combine the rice with 1 1/2 cups water, 1/4 teaspoon of salt, and 1 tablespoon of the butter in a separate pot. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, cover, and reduce the heat to medium-low. Cook until the rice is tender and all the water is absorbed, 20 minutes. Remove the pot from heat and fluff the rice with a fork.
While the rice and the beans cook, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and celery and cook, stirring often, until soft, 4 to 5 minutes. Add the peppers, red pepper flakes, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 15 minutes. Remove the skillet from heat and fold in the drained peas and rice, along with a few dashes of apple cider vinegar (if the pan isn’t large enough, you can also combine in a large bowl). Taste and add more salt or vinegar if necessary. Serve with hot sauce on the side.

why we give books (and a giveaway)

alana — Fri, 02 Dec 2016 19:31:47 +0000

Every year right around this time, I write about cookbooks again. That post becomes one of so many shouting around the internet about THE BEST BOOKS FOR GIFTING, and yet,
here I am again, thinking about books for gifting.
But today I’m thinking about why we give cookbooks in the first place.
Ten years ago, I owned four cookbooks: The Joy of Cooking, given by my aunt when I was a teenager; Moosewood, of course, from my mother, a falling apart copy of the long ago and far away Common Ground Dessert Cookbook that I swiped from my grandmother’s kitchen after she died, and maybe most importantly, a big shiny copy of Nigel Slater’s Appetite.
Why the most important? Traditionally I’d think of the inherited books as the most essential, the falling apart, written in by relatives books. But Appetite came to me new, wrapped, right around my birthday. It was cold and Decembrish, and we’d spent the day with my friend Meg. Right before we headed home as we said goodbye in the parking lot she put the book in my hands, for your birthday. It was heavy and shiny and British and expensive and although I would have certainly gotten it from the library over and over until the librarians gave me the stink eye when I’d try to order it again, I would have never actually bought it for myself. I had no money or shelf space or time for cookbooks.
But then there was Appetite, stacked on my kitchen counter with the other three cookbooks, and it became the first cookbook I really loved that hadn’t been part of my DNA growing up. I learned how to roast a chicken from that book, and then I taught my mother how to roast a chicken, and then look ten years later I’d write about roast chicken myself in my second book. Whoosh. (That would be the sound of time, doing that thing it does.)
Appetite was exactly what I needed just then, and Meg knew it. And because it was heavy and expensive and extravagant, I couldn’t make it happen myself. In the few years following when I started to inhale cookbooks and write and work through recipes, the collection grew by one at a time, each gifted by a friend with my best interests at heart. There was Jen and The King Arthur Baking Companion, Alice and I Know How to Cook. Then I had a full shelf in the kitchen, all shaping the way I thought about what I did there.
Now the books have taken over, and they cover nearly a full wall. I have to admit that I miss that feeling of specialness, that quality of having so few books that I know my way around every recipe. But those few books are still the most essential.
I’ve had the lucky opportunity to take responsibility for some of the cookbook selection at my new job at Guido’s, and it’s been deeply satisfying to think about so many other people’s books, to talk about them, prop them up to make them look their best. I’ve gotten to choose new books to bring in, and as we get into the holidays I find myself ordering books that are big, heavy, expensive–the books that make the best gifts. I’m liking the trend of leaving the photos off the covers, of letting them stay cloth bound with a design embossed into it. I touch the books probably more than I should, but I can’t help it. And right now as I scramble to finish my own book, it’s a comfort to get to be with all these books in the store.
My favorites on the table right now are, in no particular order:
Fuchsia Dunlop’s Land of Fish and Rice
Julia Turshen’s Small Victories
Diana Henry’s Simple
Naomi Pomeroy’s Taste and Technique
Naomi Duguid’s Persia
and, I think my favorite
Jenny Rosenstrach’s How to Celebrate Everything
I love how Jenny writes and cooks–I always have. (I think you all are probably familiar with her, but in case not, this is the spot to start.) I love how she is realistic enough so I feel included, but kind and creative enough so I feel aspirational. She always seems to be able to satisfy her own tastes and her family’s and how her recipes are quick and give me new ideas about how to really eat on on regular days. But this book is the one I want to put in your hands, to give to you. This is the book I’m imagining you might need right now. It’s heavy and beautiful, but it it also has the content that might shift things if you need a shift. I can’t imagine a better time to think about the power we have to make our own days more meaningful, more full of kindness. And all that, with Shredded Pork Lettuce Wraps with Pomegranates and Apple Cinnamon Fritters as a bonus.
I’ve got a book for you, so let’s get a giveaway going, shall we? Of course I’ll need a story from you, because that’s the fun of it.
Leave a comment here, and tell me about a ritual in your own family. It can be big or small, from now or the past. I’ll choose a winner on Sunday, December 11, because that happens to be the day I turn 38, and I already know I’ll be excited to give this book to you on that day in particular. I can’t wait to read. xo
(There are affiliate links in this one- thanks for supporting the site!)

Thank you so much to all who entered with your beautiful stories, and congrats to Kara Lucca, who won the book!