The Nervous Cook

How to Be an Ally to Someone Recovering from Disordered Eating

2013-04-06T13:31:00.000-04:00

You might not know that you know someone who is in some stage of recovery from an eating disorder or disordered eating, but the statistics imply that you probably do. It's estimated that 24 million Americans suffer from some form of disordered eating or eating disorders, from bulimia to anorexia to binge eating to chronic overeating to the disease I suffered, orthorexia—and then some.

If someone close to you has acknowledged and begun the hard work of repairing their relationship with food, you might be scared, sad, confused, even angry at them—which is totally okay. There are a lot of feelings involved, and can be an awful, complicated situation for everyone: It's hard to know what to do or say without hurting feelings, ruffling feathers, or unintentionally stalling progress for the sufferer.

Drawing from my own experiences (and from the myriad reading I've done on the topic), I thought I might compile some basic, hopefully helpful hints for anyone hoping to show a friend, lover, family member, acquaintance, or coworker that you are trying your best and want to help, not harm.

This is by no means an exhaustive list, and I'm not any kind of trained professional on the topic. What I am, however, is a person who has worked myself through a long period of disordered eating, and I've learned the hard way—not only did I learn about myself, but also about other people's fears, qualms, and missteps in the face of their loved ones' struggles.

I'd love to hear from other folks in recovery what they think allies and advocates can do to be better friends to us, and I'm sure our loved ones will as well. Please to share them in the comments, and feel free to pass this post around if you think it might do even one person some good.

Most of all, remember that no one wants to do the wrong thing, and everyone is trying their best: You can learn to be a better ally often by simply listening.

Tips after the jump.

Yup? Nope.

How to Be an Ally to Someone Recovering from Disordered Eating

Try to remember that your own body issues are not about them…

Your desire to lose or gain five pounds does not universally mean that everyone needs to lose or gain five pounds, and what you might imagine as the "perfect" version of yourself and your lifestyle is not necessarily something with which your recovering friend would agree for himself.

The fact that you are five pounds over your target weight does not give you carte blanche to remind your recovering anorexic friend how lucky he is to be skinny or have such "great willpower," for instance.

You might feel a little jealousy about the weight loss or weight gain that your friend has achieved either through his disordered eating or by way of their recovery, but you are not jealous of your loved one's disordered eating itself. The compulsive eating habits that seem like such fun or so impressive to you from the outside are an absolute hell for the person who is struggling with them, and you do not want to emulate them or act envious of what they are going through.

No, trust me. This shit is the pits. You can lose your five pounds quietly and without adopting self-harming food-control strategies. Do not ask your anorexic friend for weight-loss advice.

…and don't make their body issues about you.

Someone who has disordered eating is probably not in a place where she is able to worry about the five pounds that you want to lose or gain, and she is not using their own body issues as a way of testing, shaming, or reaffirming your own willpower or self-confidence. Disordered eating is a an illness, and, well, a disorder: As such it's pretty selfish and myopic by nature, and has nothing to do with how much you as a nonsufferer happen to succeed or fail in meeting your personal goals.

You do not typically have to feel judged by your recovering friend. Your friend is probably too busy trying to work out of self-hatred and self-judging that she doesn't even notice what size your jeans are or what you're eating for lunch. Let your friend be selfish for a moment, and to be focused on herself: Salvation from this disorder might depend on that freedom to be selfish.

Consider restaurants carefully

Many folks who are working through disordered eating find it difficult and/or profoundly anxiety provoking to navigate restaurant menus, especially in the earlier stages of recovery: Perhaps the food that is available is triggering, or doesn't meet specific nutritional needs the person has. Maybe the person feels on the spot having to order in front of other people, or is embarrassed to have to specify dressing on the side or extra meat or whatever is necessary.

The best things to do when trying to act as an ally in restaurant situations are are to:

(a) Be conscious of your loved one's needs without transferring the responsibility or burden onto them as a way of making things easy on you. Don't force your friend to always choose the restaurant, or remind her that she is the one who needs special attention—and certainly please try not to make the person feel guilty that you had to go to this restaurant because of her needs.

That said, if there is a restaurant that you really want to to go to that you worry might not be a good fit for your recovering friend, speak to him or her privately and gently about it. You still have the right to go to restaurants that you enjoy, but I'll bet that you'd like to make the experience comfortable and fun for everyone: Perhaps suggest that your friend in recovery look at the menu and let you know if there is anything she sees that meets her needs. Offer to call the restaurant and make a special request on her behalf—pretend that it's your own request, rather than your friend's, if you really want to earn bonus points.

At the very least, make it okay for your friend to think of herself: Tell her that you would love for her to join you at the restaurant even without eating or drinking anything there, and that you just want to be able to spend time together having fun.

(b) Try not to make a fuss over what the person does or doesn't order when you're out together. In some cases, a person in recovery might eat before or after meeting friends at a restaurant to avoid the anxiety that the menu might cause—which is another thing you can helpfully suggest if there's a particular restaurant that you want to go to that you know is problematic.

Perhaps the person is afraid of the comments that well-meaning friends might make at a restaurant dinner table, and so is more comfortable eating alone and out of sight. They might even do this to spare your feelings, or to ensure that they can be part of a group without feeling on the spot.

(c) Consider not going to a restaurant at all! Sometimes the best way to eliminate food and body-image pressure is to avoid situations where they might arise or present an issue. Making time to spend with your recovering friend in a food-free space like a local park or an art gallery or a movie can show that you appreciate the concerns and struggles your pal faces, and that you care about making her feel comfortable, safe, and loved.

Make an effort to curb body-judging statements, either about others or about yourself

Actually, this is a pretty great idea for anybody, not just folks who are around recovering loved ones. The less you give in to the insidious messages we're constantly being given about what body perfection and beauty is in this culture, the better we'll all be to accept the way we all look, feel, eat, act, and interact.

If you find yourself worrying out loud—even in a joking way—about eating that cookie because you'll "pay for it later," or if you lament about your too-skinny "chicken legs," you're sending a message about what bodies should look like, and that there is some level of perfection that exists in regards to beauty or appearance standards, and it suggests that falling short of those ideals is more or less inevitable.

Think of it this way: Other people find you attractive, and your constant belittling of yourself serves only to make those people feel silly or ashamed for the way they feel, as though you know something they don't, or as though they are unable to express their own aesthetic preferences and desires. There is all kinds of attractiveness in this world, and you have some of it whether you like it or not. Just try to accept yourself on some level, and keep your friend's struggles in mind as well.

Try focusing on positive self-talk, and pointing out the safer physical aspects of other people's appearance that you do like, such as their funky pants, great haircut, or interesting accessories. (Appreciate the same in yourself; it is way more pleasant to feel excited and proud of a new manicure or a favorite sweater than it is to hate on your body all the time. Trust me.)

Even though I know you're just trying to be nice, please fight the urge to make even positive-seeming comments about the person's body

In fact, don't comment about the person's body at all. Or any person's body, for that matter: Your body is your own problem, responsibility, and concern, and you have no right or reason to judge anyone else's, for better or worse.

Remember that in many cases, other people's judgments—even positive-seeming ones—are what put your loved one into a pattern of disordered eating in the first place. What sounds like a reassurance to you might actually be triggering to the person who is recovering: To someone who has been starving himself because of a fear of gaining weight, being told it looks like he's "put some meat on those bones" might seriously undermine the work he's done to make peace with gaining what might be much-needed weight. That kind of setback can undo all kinds of progress in folks who are struggling to make headway in their treatment.

Losing weight and gaining weight are perfectly personal experiences, and are not up for comment.

(Side note: Also never, ever touch a person who is in recovery from disordered eating without permission. Resist to urge to poke at the places on a person's body where he or she may have lost or gained weight recently. This sounds obvious, but you might be surprised how often it happens.)

As a nonsufferer of disordered eating, your dietary restrictions and choices are valid and interesting and I'm sure very much on your mind as you navigate your way through life, but maybe you can keep them to yourself sometimes?

Let's imagine a scenario: Say you're eating a picnic lunch with a friend of yours whom you know is in recovery from disordered eating. You're chatting, laughing, having a great, relaxed time—until your friend pulls a turkey sandwich from his bag. "You're still eating bread?" you say to your friend. "Don't you know how bad gluten is for you?" Your friend looks at the sandwich, feeling humiliated, nervous, anxious, and sad. He might suddenly feel as though he's failed, or as though he's doing himself harm. He might feel like he's kidding himself about recovery, and that it's impossible to do the right thing, or that he will never get well again.

The moment is gone; the damage is done.

Of course you'd never do this, because you're not, you know, a schmuck. But a lot of people do do this, and they don't even realize it. Part of becoming a better ally is to realize that the things you say have impact, they have meaning, and they can harm as well as they can heal.

If you've decided to go gluten-free for one reason or another, that's seriously great. Good for you! Remember that your dietary decisions are yours and yours alone, and they do not necessarily stand as universal truths. Your friend is trying to overcome a host of food fears and prejudices, and that's enough to swallow (if you'll pardon the choice of words) without having to also navigate and be influenced by other people's fears and prejudices and choices.

Please, please, feel free to personally avoid carbs for the rest of your waking days, and to believe that they are the worst thing that has ever happened to the human race. But also recognize that some people like, consume, and even need carbs, and that carbs aren't poison. Don't assume that your choices are the only right ones.

Similarly, if you aren't a registered dietitian or have been personally and directly asked for your opinion and policing of the recovering person's diet, please don't offer the service

It's really easy to tell other people they're doing it wrong, and we're all guilty of it in a zillion small ways. But these well-meaning tidbits we are forever espousing aren't always received the way we want them to, and can be hurtful, dangerous, demeaning, condescending, and yes, occasionally even wrong. People in recovery are often seeing one or more professionals who are helping to define and identify nutritional guidelines for them, and while pseudo food science is fine in most casual conversations between two friends, when one of those friends is climbing out of disordered behavior, there is no "casual." Everything is crucial, everything is loaded, everything has deep meaning and deeper implications.

One day maybe your advice will be welcome again when you're in the company of your recovering pal. I hope it is. But until that day, take it to the Internet. You can say anything you want about your food beliefs on the Internet. People on the Internet love that shit.

This one is really important, so I'm going to put it in red: Never, ever, ever say, "One bite won't kill you."

Seriously. Please. Don't ever do this. Disordered eating is real, it's dangerous, and it's deadly. If you have not suffered from it, it can be very difficult to understand the kind of fear, shame, and self-hatred that comes along with it in its many forms. In some cases, yes, it is a matter of life or death: We can't always know the depths to which anyone has sunk with relation to food and body-image, and to diminish and belittle that fact is so profoundly hurtful that I find it hard to even write about here.

If you are at a party or around a table where many people are sharing dessert, and your friend who is in recovery is not partaking of the dessert, do not point it out to the group. Do not mention it. Do not bully your friend into taking "just one bite." The person is not waiting for your permission or your peer pressure to suddenly dive into that molten chocolate cake. That kind of pressure is not going to help her overcome her struggles.

Just think of it as there being more dessert for you, and move on.

Above all, please don't give up on the person you love, or be too discouraged to spend time with or send love to them
Recovery is a long, lonely, terrifying, embarrassing, and difficult process, and it is the time when most folks with disordered eating need as much support and encouragement and gentleness as possible. If you find it hard for your own personal reasons to be physically present for someone in recovery, consider writing a note, sending a small gift (a copy of your favorite book is a nice one; I also like sending little unexpected quirky gifts like vintage handkerchiefs or buttons), or simply somehow showing that you have love and respect in your heart for the person as they work so hard to get better.

And, finally: Thank you
Thank you for standing by us, for loving us, for trying to understand even when it's hard or frustrating or disappointing. Thank you for letting us not be perfect all the time, or always make the right decision.

Thank you for seeing the person beyond the food, the personality inside the body. Thank you. You're a g-ddamned hero. I mean that.

What else do you think would be helpful for allies of folks with eating disorders?

Not Just Pretty Girls

2013-03-25T08:00:00.000-04:00

This post is also available in syndication here via the BlogHer.com network. Please feel free to share this note if you think it might help someone else. Rape culture must stop. Period.

There has been much talk about rape, and with good reason: It happens, sadly, with dizzying frequency, in all kinds of circumstances and to all kinds of people. It's difficult to talk about, and it's certainly difficult to live through, but there's more to the conversation of rape than simply the four-letter word itself.

I'm not sure whether I'm one of the lucky ones (i.e. the ones who got away) or one of the unluckiest ones—the ones so burdened by the shame and fear of their experience that they spend years convincing themselves it's no big deal because, "It's not like I was raped or anything." Because I wasn't.

And why didn't I get raped? Is it because I'm not a pretty or feminine or flirtatious girl? No, I'm not one of the ones who are so clearly "asking for it," who are supposedly living dangerously on the edge of that invitation at all times with their long hair and their short skirts. What kind of man would ever rape a woman who looks like me?

So no, I didn't get raped. But I was violated, and the mark it left on me is still raw and honest and worth talking about. I didn't feel that way at the time, but it's time we all start talking about this. It's time I let you know.

That I didn't get raped is a blessing; that what happened to me isn't considered just as much of a violation is a tragedy. That I am made, either by my own feelings or by the raised eyebrows of others, to feel like what happened to me isn't "bad enough" to count as a sexual trauma—now that's just a disgrace.

The incident itself came so sharply out of nowhere that it was like a twist ending to a cheesy, boring play. We had always been friendly, Jose and I, with a "Hey" and a "What's up?" in the foyer or on the sidewalk. I knew his face, and he was something of a quiet constant in my daily life. He was the super in my building, living in a studio apartment on the first floor, and was always close at hand with a fix when you needed him. He had a bag full of wrenches at the ready when the pipes sprung a leak, or extra ceiling tiles when the upstairs neighbors' did; he received packages for me all when I wasn't at home, and had a ring of spare keys when I locked myself out. All of which made him very helpful and convenient to have around—until, very suddenly, he was not.

"I have a package for you," he said one morning, walking by my side along the corridor to the laundry room. "I signed for it. Come back here, I'll give it to you." It was like any morning, and we were just neighbors in a corridor, like we had been a million times before. He was just my super; I was just a tenant in his building. We were friendly, we were familiar, he'd held UPS deliveries for me before—it was no big deal. I started to follow him to his workroom, and before I could squeak out the appreciation that was on the tip of my tongue, he fell back a pace, reached around me from behind, and cupped my left breast in his hand. "One day, mami," he whispered, pulling my head back closer to his mouth. "You and me."

Why this particular morning? Why me? Why why why?

Every moment from then on is shrouded in regret. Everything I did (or didn't do) and said (or didn't say) came out all wrong, and undid me. Instead of turning around and socking him in the jaw, I let a nervous laugh squirt out of my mouth, and I made like it was all a joke despite my roiling stomach and shaking hands. Oh, cut it out, I said through a forced smile. I took the package, I said a polite thank you, and I ran upstairs to cry, locked alone in my apartment. He followed me, knocking on the door. "Mami, mami, come out," he said. He rattled his keys—He has copies of my keys, I thought in horror—and when I didn't come to the door, he slunk away without another word.

I'm not the type of woman whose breasts inspire this kind of uncontrollable urges, typically. As a matter of fact, it had only been about three months since I'd had any breasts to speak of: I had only recently stopped binding them, finally shedding the remnants of a gender-neutral presentation I'd cultivated over the three years I shared in one way or another with Jose.

I'm not a pretty girl: I don't wear makeup, I don't "do my hair," and I typically wear clothes only marginally more revealing than those worn by my Orthodox Jewish then-neighbors in Ditmas Park. Nothing about me is "asking for it," and nothing about me ever as. Men don't hit on me at bars or cat-call me on the street. (I do occasionally get a snarl of "Dyke" as I walk by a group of teenagers, though.) What I am, if not pretty, is an easy target: Polite. Shy. Deferential. And an impossible victim. After all, who would believe any man would be so gripped by insatiable desire to look at me that he would lunge at my body? This body? Yeah, right.

But I was a perfectly possible victim. I felt like a victim, and I went through the victim's paces: Loneliness, fear, self-doubt, self-hatred, isolation, feeling like a huge bulls-eye was painted on me for all the world to see. But I didn't have the strength or the support to face what I thought to be the inevitable disbelief of the police, of my community—even of my friends. I never thought anyone would look at me and think, "Sure, she's a believable assault victim." Since I was a child I was told not to give men the wrong idea, not to entice them in any way, not to make myself vulnerable. I cut my hair short, I walked with a swagger, I hid my breasts—and yet I was still attacked. So what is the wrong idea? Do women need to be dressed in chain mail in order to successfully discourage these attacks? Do women need to be held responsible for what they look like or who they talk to? Do women need to be pretty to be assaulted?

I never reported Jose. I didn't fight. Instead, in short order I packed my things and moved out. I ran away from his rattling keys and the lingering smell of his aftershave in the hallway. I let myself be chased out of my own house, taking on the responsibility to leave the scene of the crime—a place that I loved, a place I had felt safe in until that moment—in addition to the implied responsibility for having caused this mess in the first place, which many women feel.

It was my decision not to press charges, and I deeply, deeply regret it. Reading the stories that have come out in the wake of Steubenville, reading the words of other women who have lived with the fear and anger that comes from being a victim, I regret it even more. All women feel this pain—not just the pretty ones—and all women deserve better.

It is not a woman's responsibility to prevent her own rape or assault.

It is not a woman's responsibility not to look like herself or act like herself, and it is not a woman's responsibility to be pretty or not pretty, and it is no one's business what a woman's appearance does to other people's hearts and brains and loins—whether it invites attention or derision. No woman can be held accountable for her attacker's behavior any more than the attacker can be held accountable for the fact that his victim is pretty or not. It doesn't matter.

It's not just rape, and it's not just pretty girls. What it needs, however, is to stop.

How I Tested My ED Recovery in Six Weeks' Time

2013-02-18T08:00:00.000-05:00

Two years ago, I was sick. I weighed 93 pounds, an I ran 10 or more miles every day on little to no food-fuel. I drank a lot of alcohol and I raided the kitchen at night like a zombie in an egghead convention, but during the day I consumed almost nothing of any real nutritional value.

It was all an accident; I thought I was being healthy. I thought I was in control of myself and my environment, and that working out less or at least less intensely would be a failure; I thought I would be doing irreparable damage if I ate anything fatty, or too protein-rich. I was scared of my body and of food and of people who had a healthier relationship with both, either real or imagined.

I could have died. Six inches closer to the sink that night in Houston when my blood pressure dropped, and I could have collapsed into a nice, long vegetable state. I could have had a heart attack, or a stroke. Shit got real.

Looking back, I'm not as embarrassed about the rude awakening as I used to be. I still have the scar on my lip from that night, and like all my other scars I've come to see it as a badge of honor instead of a mark of shame: I lived through this, I moved on from this. It's just a scar now, a memory. That wound has closed.

Still, like all folks who recover from something emotionally, physically, and mentally addictive (like drugs, alcohol, or wanting obsessively to be "healthy" and/or thin), there's that little skeptical voice inside you that insists you'll never be over it: You'll always be an "X," even if you haven't revisited the problematic behavior or substance since starting your wellness journey. I could always make a mistake, I could always break my own trust and progress, I could always wind up back there on that bathroom floor.

Personally, I've long hoped that I would feel that way: I've wanted "recovery" to be something that I felt wholly and honestly, without fear. I've wanted to come to the understanding and the self-peace to have a positive relationship with my body and the food I put in it, and as of two months ago I felt like I'd achieved something like that. I had stopped stressing over the number on the scale, even if I did check it every morning; I stopped playing manipulative emotional games with myself if I didn't work out one day for some reason. I started eating things I never used to feel comfortable with, like avocados. (WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE, AVOCADOS?!)

And then, the absolute ultimate test: I had surgery, and couldn't work out for six weeks.

The past six weeks have taught me a ton of things about myself, including but certainly not limited to the acceptance that I am on the other side of eating-disorder recovery. I don't fear food any more—any food, ever—and I don't feel even a hint of anger or frustration at the size or shape my body is from this period of inactivity, despite either having gained a few pounds of fat or lost a few pounds of muscle. (At least I think I have, but I can't be sure, because I haven't gotten on a scale since at least a week before I went under the knife—that in itself is an amazing accomplishment.)

I also know that my longing to get back to exercise and running is from the love of movement and sport itself, not from a hatred of my body or a need to punish it. The things I miss about working out are social, spiritual, and emotional: I miss the interactions I have at my gym, the meditative time outside all to myself, the sight of a sunrise in Central Park. I miss feeling accomplished after a run, awake and alive. I miss Pandora and all the terrible 70s soft rock it gives me. I miss wearing better-looking shoes.

Obviously my experience is not everyone's experience, and I certainly don't recommend actually "testing" yourself if you're in recovery, because that is too much like the mentality that encourages the sickness in the first place: Be as kind to yourself as you would to a good friend who is suffering, take your time through whatever recovery process works for you, and remember that we are all different—and all worthy of feeling better, of feeling good. But I hope that I can prove to even one person that it's possible to come out stronger, happier, and safer.

If you're out there and you're struggling, I feel for you. I support you, encourage you, and believe in you. It ain't ever easy, but it's worth it because you're worth it. You are not defined by your conditions, your hang-ups, your addiction, or your disease. Redefine yourself. Ask for help when you need it, and take it when it's given. Be patient. Be honest. I can't wait to see you on the other side.

(Sunflower) Milk and cookies

2013-02-11T08:00:00.000-05:00

This past summer, I had the first really transcendant coffee experience I've had in a long time: I got to enjoy a traditional-style Ethiopian coffee ceremony while sitting on a patio in Brooklyn, eating with my hands and laughing with my husband.

Coffee roasting during the coffee ceremony.

Coffee in Ethiopia is a special, social thing. It brings family and friends together, and the methodology of the traditional preparation celebrates those relationships as well as the relationship that mankind has with earth, and that animals (such as humans are) have with plants (such as coffee is). It's a sign of respect, trust, and camaraderie, and it's unlike any coffee service I've ever enjoyed before.

In Ethiopia, coffee is drunk out of small, delicate little cups and is often heavily sugared; on its own, it is a darkly bitter-sweet brew made from freshly (as in five minutes ago) roasted coffee beans ground by hand and boiled with water in a pot called a jebena. The grounds are brewed three times, each one signifying a different part of the ceremony, and in some regional dialects the last is called bereka, or "to be blessed." Occasionally, sunflower milk is added to the beverage, which gives it a sweet nuttiness.

I felt blessed as I drank my ginger-and-coriander spiced brew that night, watching the sunset over my second-favorite borough. I remembered in that moment the things that drew me to coffee as a profession, and many of the things that draw people together over the drink I've dedicated my life to.

Now, I'm preparing to put myself on the spot by performing a presentation of my own: In a few weeks I'll be giving a 15-minute World Barista Championship–style performance for many of my colleagues and peers, in attempt to show them the value of professional certifications like the ones my employer offers.

Straining the sunflower milk.

In my service and in my coffee, I want to recapture part of that experience. The communal coffee pot, the stories and news shared among loved ones, and that sweet, nutty, spicy fresh brew. I'll be using espresso as the base in my concoction, but the spirit is similar. Here is a coffee. I've made it for you because I care about you, and I want to give you something to warm you, to lift your day. Here is some sunflower milk. I've made it for you because I want your coffee to taste delicious, and I want your day to be sweet even after we part.

Here is some sunflower milk. You can make it yourself. You don't have to use all of it in your coffee, but maybe a little bit, just once, and think of me? I'll be thinking of you.

For the milk
1 cup raw sunflower seeds
water

In a bowl or jar, cover sunflower seeds with water by about an inch and allow to soak for 8 hours at room temperature. Drain and rise seeds and put them in the bowl of a food processor along with fresh water to the 4 cup mark and a dash of salt. Process until mostly smooth.

Using a cheesecloth, fine-mesh sieve, or a colander, strain and separate the "milk" from the meal. Sweeten the liquid with honey, sugar, vanilla extract if you like, but it's also lovely on its own.

Milk, left. Pulp, right.

So, what do you do with all that meal, then? You've already made milk: Why not make some cookies to go with?

These little gems are perfect: Not too sweet, no artificial anything, and they use up exactly the amount of pulp you'll likely have leftover from your sunflower-milk experiment.

It's like they were made for each other. They're certainly made for you.

For the cookies
1 1/4 cup sunflower pulp
3 pitted dried dates, soaked
1/4 cup flour (almond or graham is nice)
pinch of salt
1 tsp vanilla extract
zest of one grapefruit

Preheat an oven to 350°F. Put all ingredients into a food processor and pulse until the mixture becomes sticky and dough-like. Using clean hands, tear off portions of dough and roll into small balls, roughly 1.25" around. Arrange balls on a parchment-lined rimmed cookie sheet and gently press down on them with your fingers or the bottom of a cup until they are slightly flattened. Bake until cooked through and just browned (about 10 minutes). Yields about 20 cookies.

The Nervous Cook says, "Hello," to Hello Fresh

2013-02-04T08:00:00.000-05:00

"Hello there," says I when a box full of food arrives at me office one day last week. "What we got in 'ere then, mate?"

What she was is a trial shipment from a plucky little start-up company called Hello Fresh, which is a mail-order service that delivers all the ingredients and instructions you'll need to cook up nourishing, well-balanced meals at home. If you live anywhere from Maine to Miami and east of Chicago, you can order yourself a special delivery that will if not eliminiate your need to grocery shop, at least it will relieve it a little.

Available in three-meal increments serving 2, 4 or 6 people (and as either a vegetarian or meat-inclusive package), the boxes are shipped on a weekly basis, with everything preportioned and laid out with clear, easy-to-follow instructions—complete with photos for absolute beginners (and nervous cooks).

I'm so deeply in love with anything that inspires people to learn to cook or to learn to love to cook at home (if I can do it, anybody can do it) that I couldn't wait to give this thing a whirl, and to see what all delicious healthiness could come in the mail and help simplify everybody's weeknight-dinner living.

The box I received had three vegetarian recipes and all the trimmings (minus salt, pepper, and olive oil), and set out to make a batch of black bean and corn stew. You know, like you do on a cold winter's evening.

This particular dish happens to be one I've made with my own spin about a zillion times, so it was interesting to try follow someone else's interpretation to the letter. The instructions couldn't have been clearer or more concise, and the whole time I was following them I thought, "Wow, this would be so great for [name of best friend who really wants to learn how to cook for himself but is having trouble finding the time and motivation redacted]."

In fact, I think I just decided what I'm getting him for his birthday in two weeks. GOOD THING HE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. ← Pass-agg

For me, however, as a seasoned home cook, the process and the package was good, but not great. Don't get me wrong: The food itself was fine, and the recipe was fine: Again, I have whipped up more or less this exact thing on my own accord time and time again.

There were a couple things I would have changed or would suggest for future boxes:

Pantry meal. I was slightly disappointed to receive a box and recipe that comprised mostly canned items (corn, beans, tomatoes) and staples (onion, garlic, cumin, rice, bouillon) that I already have on-hand. Again, I'm a really well-stocked and seasoned (see what I did there?) home cook and these are designed for folks who have less inclination or experience in the kitchen, but… I mean… it is called Hello Fresh, not Hello Cans.
So much plastic. The fact that the ingredients are all preportioned is fantastic for newbie cooks, but all the plastic wrap and bags made my little green-conscious heart break. Surely there's a less landfilly way to package these components?
Whoops—I don't eat that. There are a couple of ingredients here that I personally choose not to cook or consume, which again isn't Hello Fresh's fault, because they're not mind readers: Bouillon cubes, white rice, high-sodium canned beans, and basically all non-organic everything always are no-nos on the Nervous table. Hopefully the company will be able to allow folks to make certain notations or substitutions on their accounts to allow for those kinds of restrictions. (Again, I realize I'm not the norm at all. Though of course for totally hippie-dippie conscious-consumer reasons I totally wish I were.)

Anyway, I would classify my Hello Fresh experiment as an overall success with those smallest of caveats: I added shrimp for Mr. Nervous (his bowl is pictured below), ate mine over greens instead of the rice, and we were both happy. Also, I'm not sure who decided this recipe makes two servings, but we definitely ate half of it for dinner happily with a side salad each, and have two full servings leftover, which is actually pretty awesome. HELLO, TACO NIGHT!)

What do you think about the idea of having meal plans, recipes, and ingredients delivered right to your door on the weekly? If you're interested in trying out Hello Fresh, check out the company's website for more information, pricing, and sample recipes.

NB: I was approached by Hello Fresh about featuring their product on my blog, and agreed. They sent me a 3-recipe box (2 servings per) at no cost, in return for my honest opinion. The review is my own and is authentic; I received no further compensation for my time or writing.

The best thing that's happened lately

2013-01-28T08:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, winter citrus: How can I possibly begin to tell you how much you mean to me right now? How could I fully convey my appreciation for the zingy kiss of your bitter-sweetness? The refreshing snap of your bright pink or orange meat? The lovely little pizzaz you add to, oh, you know, everything?

Like a brilliant salad of apples, onion, avocado, ginger—and grapefruit.

Glorious grapefruit. Beautiful grapefruit. And the perfect avocado, just the butteriest thing on earth. With a tiny punch of vinegar, the warmth of the ginger, the bite of the onion, and the sweet crisp apples…

What are you waiting for? You need this. It's a bowl full of winter-blues buster. I promise.

1 med grapefruit, segmented plus juice
1 apple, cored and diced medium
1/2 onion, sliced thin
1 tsp white vinegar
1/4 tsp ground ginger
salt + pepper to taste
1/2 avocado cut into 1/4" cubes

In a medium bowl, toss to combine all ingredients except avocado. Chill for an hour, and add avocado just before serving, stirring gently to mix in among other ingredients.

(To make a full meal of it, you might could toss some cubed firm tofu into the mix, drained but otherwise unadulterated: The cool and mellow tofu would be a lovely foil to the rest of the flavors hanging out here.)

Making coffee on one foot

2013-01-21T08:00:00.000-05:00

I've always been a bit of a menace in the kitchen. I mean, it's sort of written into the mathematical equation of my life:

small space + clumsy girl = (a lot of swearing) x (things breaking)

These days it's even worse, on account of one of my feet is swaddled in a 4lb surgical boot and I'm having to bump around with a cane. Oh, and the fact that apparently at some point while I was being operated on my center of gravity shifted from someplace relatively normal to, oh, I don't know, like my left kneecap. So I keep falling over backwards for no reason at all. That's awesome.

Look out: I'll take you down with me if you stand too close.

That said, I'm moving around better and getting more done than I really expected to. And, thankfully, it doesn't take two feet to brew a pot of coffee.

So that's been happening. A lot. I mean, even a lot for me. A lot more than usual. Just pot after pot after pot. It's almost out of control, now that you mention it. I almost need an intervention. But not yet. Just let me have this for a while.

Is that too much to ask?

When you can't stand long enough to cook

2013-01-16T06:46:00.000-05:00

Hello, friends. It's me, I'm still here: Just standing on one foot like a short flamingo. (It's really hard to make espresso coffees while standing on one foot, for the record.)

By all reports (meaning, by my doctor's reports) the corrective surgery I underwent last Friday was and is a success, but I have to wait fully another week (!!) before I can even take a peek at it. When your doctor's last name is "Rock," though, you at least feel a little confidence in their professional opinion. I mean, really.

In any event, I'm still cooking (and still eating, hooray hooray), but blogging has been back-burnered a bit while I focus on getting everything else around me to settle down for a second. I am hoping to come back to The Nervous Cook in full force in the next few weeks, though: This little space has been a sadly neglected part of my life lately, and if I love it (and I do), I need to start paying it summore attention, naw'mean?

Hope you're all standing strong (and running and jumping and walking faster than 1mph), and I'll be seein' you very soon.

Resolved, not resigned

2013-01-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

I don't really make food resolutions anymore. I mean, what's left to resolve? I don't really eat sugar or fried food or meat—not because I some magazine told me it was a sure-fire way to lose weight, but because I believe in eating clean, mostly plant-based whole foods made and enjoyed at home. I don't drink soda, I don't binge (anymore), and I have even cut way down on salt in the past few years. (I KNOW!)

Carrot-applesauce bread: Vegan, no oil, no sugar, blah blah blah—whatever, it's delicious.

But that doesn't mean I'm resigned, or complacent, or unadventurous. I love trying new things, winging it through adaptations of recipes, attempting new techniques, tasting things I've never considered before.

Homemade apple chips—the greatest thing to happen over here in a long damed time.

I'm not worried about what other people think about the way I eat, and I'm not worried about eating whatever I want. I'm not scared of eating in restaurants anymore, or eating "too much" in front of my colleagues. Even as I currently face the doomsday of foot surgery (this Friday) and know I'll be knocked off my exercise routine for upwards of two months, I feel okay.

I'm resolved to treat myself with respect and love and nutrition all the time, in sickness and in health. And that's how I plan to eat my way through 2013.

Hope yours is as delicious as mine.

Taking stock and making stock

2012-12-31T08:00:00.000-05:00

Another year is drawing to an end, and the promise of a new one lies in tomorrow's sunrise. There's always something awe-some in the cycling through of days, the sun's full rotation around the earth, the coming of another day, etc etc etc. It's a time when we start to look at our lives—where we've been and where we're going—make plans, make amends, and reflect.

For me, this usually means thinking about regrets I've had, and telling myself it's time to take risks, make new habits, try new things.

This weekend I tried a new thing, for instance. Something simple, nourishing, warming, perfect. Something that will quickly become a Thing I Do All the Time™, and a regular part of everyday life.

I made my own vegetable stock.

In preparation for this moment, a week or two ago I started saving all of my vegetable scraps: Onion skins and root ends, the knobby bit of carrot leftover, squash skin peeled off before baking, herb stems, fennel tops. I collected them all in a Tupperware container, labeled "VEG STOCK SCRAPS" and tucked off into a corner of the freezer, just waiting.

Today, the wait was over. Into a stock pot when a bit of chopped onion, some spices I like, and the veg bits I'd collected. Warmed through and brown, I added eight cups of water, bringing the whole mess to a boil and then a nice gentle simmer. An hour later, the liquid had turned lovely onion-skin brown and was reduced by a cup or more. I strained out the veg mass, jarred up the liquid, labeled it with the date, and put some in the freezer. (The rest was used to make quinoa for tonight's dinner.)

A simple thing. A warming thing. A savory smell filling the house, while snow quietly falls outside. An easy way to say goodbye to one year, and hello to the next.

Happy New Year, friends, and here's wishing you a fine use for all your leftover veggie ends, and a healthy start to 2013.

Eggs-ellent

2012-12-17T08:00:00.000-05:00

There's been much call for comfort food around here lately. Sickness, stress, an empty bank account, and anxious dog, and an anxious me have really piled up and knocked the wind out of me. Seems no amount of wrapping paper and Nat King Cole can burn through this hazy funk, no matter how hard I try to get in the holiday spirit.

But you know what does make me feel better, basically every time? A perfect egg.

Seven-minute egg on mashed squash and cranberries.

There's more than one "perfect" egg: There's the hard-boiled with the creamy yolk so perfectly folded between two thick slabs of ciabatta. There's the soft-boiled broken over the sweet-savory flesh of a baked winter squash. There's the fried that tops a sizzling bowl of rice and seasoned vegetables shoveled quickly in chopstick-controlled heaps. The poached, floating gently in a vat of spicy tomato sauce and slopped over day-old bread or garlic-toasted quinoa.

Oh, eggs. Oh thank you.

If you want a recipe, I don't really have one. I don't have it in me. I do, however, have the secrets to making two of the perfect Perfect Eggs™: Hard- and soft-boiled.

Hard-boiled eggs, Alton Brown style

4 eggs
water to cover
ice-water bath

Place eggs in an electric kettle and fill with cold water to cover, 1" above the eggs. Place the lid on the kettle and turn it on. Set a timer for 10 minutes but do not start it immediately. When you hear the kettle click off, start the timer and allow the eggs to sit in the water, undisturbed, until the alarm goes off. After 10 minutes, remove the eggs from the kettle with a slotted spoon and place them in the ice-water bath for 5–7 minutes, or until they are completely cool. Peel and use as you like.

Soft-boiled eggs, my dad's style

4 eggs
water to cover
ice-water bath

Set a timer for 7 minutes but do not start it immediately. Bring a medium pot of salted water to a quick boil on medium-high heat. Once the water starts to boil, gently—gently!—place eggs in the pot using a slotted spoon; immediately cut the heat and put the lid on the pot. Star the 7-minute timer and let the eggs sit undisturbed in the water. Once the alarm goes off, remove the eggs from the pot with a slotted spoon and place them in the ice-water bath for 3–5 minutes. Peel and use as you like.

You're welcome, though I hope you don't need all this as much as I do lately.

What's your favorite Perfect Egg™?

Chocolate-peppermint dipped pretzels

2012-12-03T08:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, hi. No, I haven't forgotten about you: I've just… well, I've been avoiding you a little bit. Not because I don't love you, but perhaps because I love you too much. Too much to subject you to the repeat dinners, salad-bar lunches, and sad body-consciousness that's been going on here lately.

But don't think for a minute that I've forgotten you, or that I'm not still scrolling through the blogosphere looking at beautiful pictures of food I'll never cook. (How does everyone else on earth manage to get such professional-looking photographs? Our house is like a cave!)

And in the meantime, here: I made you a holiday treat that you can re-create and give to all the treat-deserving people in your life. Chocolate-peppermint dipped pretzels. I'll be doling mine out to the dry cleaner, the mail carrier, and our local baristas. (You could eat them all yourself, too. No one's watching.)

2 cups peppermint candy
1 lb semisweet chocolate chips
1 lb small pretzel twists

Crush or chop the peppermint candy into tiny pieces. (If you have a good food processor, that will probably work; I put some in a freezer bag, wrapped it in a kitchen towel, and smashed the living daylights out of it with a hammer. Cathartic!) Lay the pieces on a parchment-lined rimmed cookie sheet in one even layer.

In a double boiler (or some such), melt the chocolate chips, making sure to stir continuously so that they don't burn or clump. Once the chocolate is smooth, dip each pretzel in it to coat on both sides: I recommend dropping the pretzel into the chocolate and flipping and removing it using a fork or chopsticks. Once both sides are coated, hold the pretzel just above the chocolate pot briefly to allow excess to drip off.

While the chocolate is still warm on each pretzel, press one side onto the peppermint candy, and transfer mint-side down to a separate, clean piece of parchment. Freeze or refrigerate for an hour to set, and put in cute little bags to distribute if you like.

Will keep for at least a week in the refrigerator.

Your vegan Thanksgiving skillet-cornbread solution

2012-11-19T08:00:00.000-05:00

"What's with all the vegan food lately?" you might be asking yourself. "I didn't think you were vegan, Nervous Cook."

Well, frankly, I'm not vegan. In fact, I'm pretty crummy with -ans and -isms and -ists. That isn't to say I think there's anything wrong with identifying as an -an or an -ist: It's just that I don't take that hard a line in my life with many things. I'm really impressionable; life presents too many convincing arguments every which way for me to ever feel committed enough to make declarative, definitive statements about what I AM™.

So no, I'm not vegan. I'm more… well, I'm vague-an. I don't eat nearly as many animal-based products as my fellow Americans, but I am an egg-head with a daily Greek yogurt habit. I like a tuna sandwich every once in a while. (Pole caught, no salt added.) And I regularly cook meat for Mr. Nervous, because he likes that sort of thing.

But I love vegan food. I love being able to cook without relying on animals in any way. I love minimizing my carbon footprint, and eating lean and clean and plant-based. I also, however, love things like pie, and sandwiches, and cornbread. So if I happen to find a vegan version of one of these things, I'm, like, basically giddy.

Here, to show thanks for delicious vegan food this holiday season, is a surprisingly kind of awesome and unusual vegan skillet cornbread I miraculously kind of improvised despite literally never having made cornbread before. GO FIGURE, VEGAN GENIUS!

This recipe makes one 5" skillet's worth of cornbread. Can also be doubled for a 10".

6oz plant-based milk
1 tsp apple-cider vinegar or lemon juice
1 cup whatever flour you prefer
1/2 cup cornmeal
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 cup fresh cranberries
2 tsp sweetener you like (I used molasses)
2 tsp to 2 tbs olive oil (see note)
1/2 tsp ground ginger (optional)

Preheat an oven to 375°F; lightly grease a 5" skillet and put it into the oven to warm it.

In a small bowl, combine plant-based milk and acid (juice or vinegar) and set aside, allowing it to curdle slightly. In a large bowl, combine flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt.

In a food processor, blend cranberries, sweetener, ginger (if using) and olive oil until smooth. (Note: using less oil results in a drier bread, while using closer to 1/4 cup will create a moister crumb. I like a dry 'bread, but feel free to experiment.) Once the liquid is well mixed, slowly add it to the flour mixture and stir it until it's just all combined. Pour into the preheated skillet and bake until golden brown (about 20–25 minutes). Serve warm, spread with vegan butter and agave if desired.

Serves 4.

Do you seek out vegan food despite not being vegan? What's your favorite?

The Pumpkin Pie of My (Vegan) Dreams

2012-11-12T08:00:00.000-05:00

Pumpkin pie is the best pie, and I will accept no arguments to the contrary. None. Not one. You're wrong: Apple is not the superior pie. No, not even when there's cheddar in it. Take that pecan thing away from me, too: What the hell is that? You're trying to pass off pecan pie as being better than pumpkin?? I mean, have you ever even had pecan pie? What is that stuff?!

See that missing slice? Yeah, I ate that. Standing up, in the kitchen, hunched over the sink.

Now, don't misunderstand: I love other pies. I love tart-cherry pie, I love a blueberry pie, I even like Boston creme pie pretty well. But there's pie, and then there's THE PIE™. And at Thanksgiving—okay, actually any time between October 1 and January 1—pumpkin pie is THE PIE™. It is the king of the table.

This year, I wanted to try a new pumpkin pie. A new vegan pumpkin pie. Something that would be delicious and gooey and not too heavy. Something that might even be, you know, healthy. At least a little bit.

I stumbled upon the perfect pie. THE PERFECT VEGAN PUMPKIN PIE. And you know what else? You know what's kind of amazing about it? It doesn't have any crust. Because it doesn't need any crust. Because it's just unadulterated pumpkin goodness. It does have tofu in it, but you're just going to have to get past your tofu thing. Because trust me: It's really good. I'm kind of obsessed with it.

Gently adapted from The Happy Herbivore

1 cup soft or silken tofu
2 tbs corn starch
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 tsp salt
1.5 cup non-dairy milk
16oz canned pumpkin (or sweet potato)
1/2 cup flour you prefer (I used matzoh meal)
2 tsp baking powder
sweetener you prefer (I used 1 tsp agave + 1 tsp molasses)
3 combined tsp of spices you like for pie

Preheat oven to 350°F and lightly grease a 9" pie pan.

In a food processor, blend tofu, corn starch, vanilla, salt, and milk until completely smooth. (If the mixture sticks to the sides, scrape it down into the bowl of the processor with a rubber spatula.) Add the remaining ingredients and blend until creamy and fully mixed. (It will look a lot like traditional pumpkin-pie filling.)

Pour filling into the pie dish and bake for 1 hour. Remove from the oven and allow to cool to room temperature (about an hour), then cover with plastic wrap or aluminum foil and chill in the refrigerator for about 4 hours.

Serve as you normally would (may I suggest a scoop of vegan vanilla iced cream?) or eat it right out of your hand while standing up in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, like I do.

You agree with me, right? That pumpkin is the best pie? Of course you do. You're a thinking person, you know what's what. Go Team Pumpkin!

Sandymoralized

2012-11-05T08:00:00.000-05:00

It's probably no great surprise to anybody that my heart isn't really in blogging right now. Or cooking. Or reading. Or talking on the phone. Or doing anything, really.

All that remains after the storm.

We have been stalled (but not stopped!) by Hurricane Sandy; our Chelsea apartment was without power, phone reception, heat, or hot water for four days, and we're still reeling. Exhausted, broke, and feeling helpless as we watch so many of our friends and neighbors suffer and struggle to rebuild.

But New York will rise again, and the Nervous Cook will rise again.

In fact, I somehow mustered the strength yesterday to whip up the season's first batch of pumpkin chili. No recipe, just a lot of pantry staples, some determination, and a deep need to make something nourishing to feed myself and my husband after all this. (I also felt the deep need to facilitate both our self-medicating: A bottle of Maker's Mark for him now that we have a freezer for iced cubes again, and a bottle of nice Nero D'Avola for me, because the weather has suddenly turned muy red-wine friendly.)

May your family be safe, may your larder be full, and may you stay warm and full and optimistic. This, too, shall pass.

2012-10-29T08:00:00.000-04:00

When Mr. Nervous is away, the Nervous Cook will play… with everything he dislikes (but begrudgingly eats when I serve them to him). You know, like beets. And tofu. Which make up about 80% of this dish: The other 20% is onion, garlic, and dill mustard.

But it's 100% delicious.

(For the record, Mr. Nervous does like Brussels sprouts, which are the base of this thing, though he prefers them roasted to shaved.)

No recipe today, just a suggestion: Sliced and boiled beets, onion slices, firm tofu sliced and marinated in a mixture of beet juice / mustard / vinegar. Season with salt / pepper / poppy seeds.

Winging it: Non-recipe for a plum tart

2012-10-15T08:00:00.000-04:00

Melt a tiny bit of butter in the bottom of a cast-iron skillet on medium heat—the tiniest amount of butter you can get away with. Once it's melted and coating the bottom of the pan, put a little molasses (maybe 1 tsp) and a little lemon juice (maybe 1 tbs) in the pan, and let them heat up.

Place some plum slices in there, lining the pan. Use nectarines if you've gottem, or apples, or whatever. Let the fruit cook for, oh, I don't know, 5 minutes? Until the flesh is just a little softened and the gooey stuff is bubbling, I guess.

Remove from the heat, then put your crust on—it can be phyllo dough, puff pastry, store-bought pie crust, homemade pie crust, whatever. Make sure the crust is cut to fit over the fruit, and lay it on top, sort of tucking it down in between the slices. Put the whole thing into a 350°F oven and bake until your crust is just golden brown.

Remove, cool for 10 minutes, flip it onto a plate, and eat it eat it eat it eat it eat it.

You must be yolking

2012-10-08T08:00:00.000-04:00

A bad day. A cast-iron skillet, bought for $12 at a flea market in Maine. The memory of a recent vacation that is already the too-distant past. A fresh egg. A stack of grilled vegetables. A weeknight best put quickly to bed after dinner.

The perfect yolk in an imperfect life: This is worth it.

"Pulled pork" sandwiches… for vegans!

2012-09-24T09:10:00.000-04:00

Yes, I've been hibernating. But with summer's end comes delicious new adventures to try, and a newfound motivation to spend Sunday afternoons over a bubbling pot of one thing or the other. Bonus points if it takes you three separate trips to various Asian grocery stores around town to round up the ingredients for a single meal. Double bonus points if there are enough leftovers to carry you through an entire week.

Triple bonus points if what you've made is vegan and, yes, a little bit weird. You know, like "pulled pork" sandwiches made out of canned jackfruit.

So delicious, so vegan.

I have been pretty much obsessed with the idea of this recipe since I saw it on Pinterest (I know, I know) several weeks ago, but despite being practically surrounded by ethnic markets I had a heckuva time tracking down anything but ripe canned jackfruit in syrup, as opposed to the young green type in brine this dish calls for. (Do not get the two confused for this recipe, unless you want to serve your sandwiches as some kind of disgusting dessert prank.)

Once I tracked the right stuff down, however, I stocked up—and now I'm glad I did, because let me tell you I will be making this all. the. time. And you should, too! Here's how.

1 can young jackfruit in brine, rinsed and drained
hearty rolls, like ciabatta, split and toasted

For the rub
1 tsp chile powder
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp paprika
1/8 tsp cayenne
salt + pepper

For the cookin'
1 small onion, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
4 tbs barbecue sauce (or make your own)
1 tsp red-wine vinegar
1/2 cup water

After rinsing and draining the jackfruit well, slice the center part from each piece, so that all you're left with is the sort of stringy outer rim of the fruit. (If you like, you can mince the pieces you've sliced off and add them back to the mix, so as to not waste; they just won't be as soft as the rest of the fruit.) Coat the pieces with the dry rub and set aside for a few minutes.

In a medium saucepan, cook onion and garlic in a little of your preferred cooking liquid (olive oil or butter; I typically use a splash of water and white vinegar) until soft and translucent. Add the sauce, vinegar and jackfruit to the pan, mixing well to coat. Stir in the water, and bring to a boil. Make sure all the jackfruit is at least mostly covered in the liquid mixture; add more water if necessary. Reduce to a simmer, cover the pot, and cook until soft (about 30 minutes), stirring occasionally. The sauce will thicken, and the jackfruit will absorb most of it.

Once cooked and softened, scoop onto split and toasted buns, and eat with or without more hot sauce. Enjoy the mess!

Yields enough for 4 sandwiches.

Popped quiz

2012-09-10T08:00:00.000-04:00

Some foods get so convenienceized that it's easy to forget they could be made by human beings before the dawn of the microwave. Popcorn is one of those things.

You just get so used to Orville Redenbacher's friendly grin, the enchanting smell of "butter flavored topping," and that familiar beep-beep-beeeeep of an appliance telling you that your movie-night snack is ready that it never even occurs to you that Native Americans have been popping the hell out of corn kernels for ages, before there was a specific button you could push for "Reheat" or "Defrost."

Well guess what, kiddos: Popcorn is a cinch without a microwave. (And way healthier to boot, if you care about that sort of thing.)

This was the perfect watching-college-football-all-afternoon snack. (Boomer!)

A little popping corn (available for cheap just at just about any grocery store, but you can also order the really, really good stuff from Rancho Gordo), a little oil, and a little heat: Presto! You've got fresh-popped deliciousness. Perfect for football games, midnight snacks, and Christmas decorations.

(What, is it too early to start talking about Christmas? How about Halloween, then?)

3tbs popping corn
vegetable or olive oil
salt, pepper
"spices you like"

In a medium saucepan, add just enough vegetable or olive oil to coat lightly coat the bottom, and put over medium heat. Once it has heated a bit, put a kernel or two of popping corn into the pan and cover with a lid; if the kernel pops quickly, you're ready to go—add the rest of the popping corn, hold the lid securely in place on the pan, and move it back and forth over the heat.

Continue to move the pan over the heat until the pops are about 1–2 seconds apart (in the beginning, they will come hot and heavy; they should slow a bit as the majority of the kernels have burst). NB: Don't take the lid off too soon, or you'll have popcorn flying all over the place!

Remove from the heat, and stir in whatever toppings or spices you like: Melted butter is nice, obviously, but I always just like a bit of salt and pepper in my corn. For a sweet treat, try tossing with butter and a cinnamon-sugar mix, and throw in some peanuts for extra crunch and saltiness.

Have you rediscovered how to make any other convenience foods the so-called "old-fashioned way?"

2012-09-03T08:00:00.000-04:00

It seems like every year at just about this time, there's a scene that looks something like this.

Deliciousness courtesy of Bunna Café

A plate of injera heaped with lentils, kale, tomatoes, spice. A glass of beer. A smiling husband across a table. A heavy exhale. A moment of peace. Messy hands, crumpled napkins. An evening full of breeze and laughter. Maybe another beer.

I turned 31 on Friday. I feel like a million bucks. I could eat everything off of injera.

Every year I get excited about my birthday for basically a week before I get self-conscious about getting excited about my birthday. Every year I sort of half want a party and half feel unworthy of a party. Every year I wind up realizing that all I want is a little bit of time some early August to be reminded of how great life is, and how much better it gets every year.

This year? Success. Next year? Even better.

Thanks for sticking with me, and thanks for virtually enjoying Ethiopian food with me every August. You are all great.

World's easiest baba ghanoush

2012-08-20T08:00:00.000-04:00

Love it or hate it, we're knee-deep in eggplant season. My CSA is lousy with the stuff, and they're unloading them two and three at a time at the farmers' market.

Being one of the most divisive fruits around (yes, eggplant is a fruit—in the nightshade family, like tomatoes), it can be hard to find yourself so burdened with these purple beauties when you've got nobody to share 'em with. And while I'm an aubergine convert, Mr. Nervous most decidedly is not. (True, there is always something decidedly, well, eggplanty about them that is hard to cook out. You have to love it, or else you'll want to leave it.)

Luckily, I accidentally stumbled upon something eggplant-based that we can both agree on, provided there's enough garlic in it to kill a small horse: Baba ghanoush.

I don't remember where the idea for this recipe came from, to be honest. Maybe someone mentioned to me that piercing an eggplant and roasting it in foil on the stove is easier than in the oven, or maybe I just wasn't interested in standing next to 450°F for a half hour and opted instead for the less stifling heat from more directly indirect (if that makes sense) contact.

In any event, once I unlocked the key to easily cooking eggplant, and I needed something to do with it, the rest seemed pretty obvious. (And ridiculously easy. Almost embarrassingly easy. Try it; you'll like it.)

1 medium eggplant
2 cloves garlic
1/2 yellow onion
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp dried parsley
1/8 tsp chili pepper flakes
salt and pepper to taste

Wash the eggplant and, with a fork, pierce the skin in several places. Wrap tightly in aluminum foil (double up if you have to), and cook over medium flame directly on the grate of a gas stove, rotating it until it starts to collapse (about 15 minutes total; 5 minutes per side).

Remove from heat and open the foil to allow some steam to escape before carefully slicing the eggplant down the middle with a paring knife, again being mindful of the steam.

Once the eggplant is cool enough to handle, scrape the roasted flesh out with a fork, and add it to the bowl of a food processor with the rest of the ingredients. Puree until smooth.

Serve hot, room temperature, or chilled.

Good thing there's still more where that eggplant came from: I'm eating this stuff like crazy lately.

Are you an eggplant lover? What's your favorite way to eat this late-summer bumper crop?

Not feeling it

2012-08-13T08:00:00.000-04:00

Friends, I'm in a funk. The weather has got me down, my work-life imbalance has got me down, my bank account has got me down. I don't want to cook, but I do want to eat, which is a relatively dangerous combination. So the past week or so has been full of bread, beer, stupid worthless snacks, and a nice heaping helping of feeling-sorry-for-myself.

Today begins a new week, though, and with it a whole new chance to clean up my act and my mood in one fell swoop.

Funk food. Stop eating all the chips!

It's not that I'm going to stop eating bread and beer, but I'm going to try to balance them out with, I don't know, a salad every day? More cooking in and less eating out? And stop stop stop the endless midnight snacking, Meister. Just stop.

And then, when the stubborn ankle sprain I've also been wrestling with (which has chained me to the elliptical machine—and by the way no, I'm not taking it very well) has finally healed and I can run again, I won't feel this sluggish or despondent anymore.

I'll be able to enjoy summer-fresh tomatoes again, and to eat them raw while standing in the middle of the farmers' market, juice running down my arm. I'll be able to laugh and pack a picnic lunch on a weekday and feel like I'm not constantly running from one overly air-conditioned spot to another.

I'll want to cook again; it will come. And in the meantime, it's okay to let yourself feel a little blue every once in a while. Just don't get lost in it, Meister. Get ready to come out on the other delicious side.

Things I Love: Sweet-Potato Butter

2012-08-06T08:00:00.000-04:00

Between all the yogurt-making, the pickling, and the training-for-a-marathon (as well as, you know, the usual working all the time thing, and the hundred irons in the fire I'm always juggling), I haven't had much time to cook anything compelling enough to blog about.

Basically, it's been Sandwichfest 2012 around these parts. And while I know I could scroll through pictures and depictions of a variety of sandwiches every week, I doubt that you, my sophisticated and food-curious readership, feels the same way.

So today, I offer you a simple love note to a product I recently discovered and quickly developed a passionate obsession with: Sweet-potato butter.

It's like pumpkin butter, but better. Because it's sweet potato, because it's perfect with peanut butter and ground ginger on toast, and because it's got just enough natural sweetness to complement the awesome weird root-vegetabley thing sweet potatoes have going on. I noticed it while scrolling through one of my favorite websites to impulse-buy stuff from at 2am on a Sunday night, Nuts.com and just knew it had to be mine.

This stuff + Me = Match made in heaven. On toast. With peanut butter. Did I mention that already? Because seriously.

Have you ever had sweet-potato butter? Do you even like sweet potatoes? They're one of my favorite foods on earth, no lie. I could eat one every single day of my life—and thanks to this stuff, I basically am! (It's a pretty fascinating life I lead.)

Making yogurt like a mother (culture)

2012-07-30T08:00:00.000-04:00

Maybe the last thing I needed to do was bring another living thing into the miniscule Manhattan apartment I already share with a husband (and his belongings) and a dog (and her many chew toys). Not to mention my own vast collection of cookbooks and vintage dresses... Suffice it to say, it’s a little cramped.

At least the new addition doesn’t eat much, doesn’t shed (unlike the dog), and doesn’t always bring home tchotchkes it finds at flea markets (like my husband and I do). Our new little buddy also doesn’t make any noise, and doesn’t take up much room at all—because she lives in the refrigerator.

What, you don’t talk about your Yogurt Mother Culture like she’s a member of your family? Well, maybe if you loved yogurt as much as I do—and if you loved making yogurt as much as I do now—you just might start including your Mother Culture in your holiday newsletters and throwing her birthday parties. I’m just saying: This little lady has changed my life for the better, and I’m thrilled to have her around.

Before I finally ponied up for a yogurt incubator and starter culture, I was living a totally unsustainable life of wanton dairyness. A devotee of thick, Greek-style strained yogurt, I was amassing quite an impressive weekly pile of empty plastic tubs. Not only that, but when I discovered my preferred brand isn’t organic (I won’t name names, but its initials are Fage), I realized I had to put the k’bosh on my wasteful ways. Having recently read Anne Mendelson’s fantastic book Milk, I also knew that it was possible—surely, it must be possible! —to make store-bought quality yogurt at home, and I determined to try.

Not only is it possible, it's easy. Almost impossibly easy! And the yogurt is of at least the same quality (I daresay I actually find it even better, but that might be the "I Made This!" talking.)

Deciding to go with a nonelectric maker was ecologically important to me, as is buying local milk from organic dairies, which I am only too happy to do. Straining through a reusable cheesecloth lets me achieve that incredible, creamy texture I love so much, and I get fully four times as much yogurt for my buck as before while simultaneously eliminating the bulk of that plastic waste.

Get yourself a new little friend, stick her in the fridge, and let her bring a bit more culture to your life. (She might not give great advice or anything, but she is pretty delicious with fresh blueberries.)

One of the great things about making yogurt is that you don't even need a starter culture: You can just use a little bit of the type of yogurt you already prefer. Just be sure to find out what kind of active cultures are in your premade stuff (you'll need to know if they are thermophilic), and you can save a bit from each batch to propagate the next.

For a half gallon of milk, I get about 32oz Greek-style yogurt. You can use the liquid whey that strains off from the yogurt to make ricotta, or as a replacement for water, buttermilk, or milk in most recipes. (I use mine to soak muesli for breakfast.)

Credit to Cultures for Health for the original instructions.

milk
starter culture or premade yogurt

Heat milk in a saucepan to 160–180°F, as read on a candy thermometer. (The milk should bubble gently and a thin layer of foam will form along the top.) Allow the milk to cool to about 112°F, then pour it into your Yogotherm or other insulated container. Mix in the starter (2tsp starter per 8oz milk), cover, and allow to sit for eight to ten hours.

Transfer to the refrigerator and cool completely; strain to desired thickness if so inclined. (I use a doubled-over cheesecloth over a colander, resting in a bowl).

Have you ever made yogurt? Well what are you waiting for??