www.nourishnetwork.com

So what, exactly, is Nourish Network? Nourish Network is a new website and conversational hub that promotes sustainable change through tempting recipes and bite-sized bits of rich content on sound nutrition, “eco-clean” eating and being mindful around meals. A social media element, like Facebook for foodies, encourages members to dig deeper into the conversation and connect with others who share similar views and concerns.

On the surface, Nourish Network empowers people to maintain a healthy body, a comfortable weight and an eco-clean conscience while getting more pleasure from food. On a deeper level, it shows people how to feel fulfilled, content and connected with every meal, every bite.

I’d love to see you there!

[ PS — please update any swirling notions links and bookmarks to Nourish Network (www.nourishnetwork.com), thanks! ]

Speaking of Nourish Network, for those of you who have signed up for a weekly nibble to noodle to tide you over until launch, you may have seen last week’s challenge to slow down. Well that nibble provoked quite a response; it seems many of you were thirsting for those words.

One of those responses came in the form of an entertaining snapshot from a friend and fellow working mother about her experience taking up the gauntlet, and I thought I’d share it with you here. Read, laugh, enjoy. I know I did.

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by Catherine Knepper (for more about Catherine, see below)

I laughed out loud after reading the “Take Your Time” Nibble to Noodle. Spend double the amount of time we normally would eating dinner? Hah! I’m the mother of an almost-three-year-old and a seven-month-old. I don’t know how you feel about eating with toddlers and infants, but for me, it’s a thing to be endured, and for as little time as possible. 

It pains me to admit it, but more often than not, I now dread the dinner hour. Pre-offspring, it was a different story entirely. Poring over recipes, sipping a glass of wine, preparing everything from scratch, and lingering over the meal were among life’s finest pleasures. Dinner was sacred time—a chance to reunite with my husband or friends after the separation of work, a peaceful reward at the end of a hectic day, an opportunity to savor food and drink. I’m fervently in love with my children, but sipping and savoring? Yeah, that went out the window, along with the peas and broccoli my toddler launches from his plate.

Apparently there are children who sit docilely and eat their food with a fork, who use a napkin and who can look upon carrots without bursting into tears. Rumor has it there are also children who do not think rice is best used as a hair accessory, and who want something other than oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Alas, none of them live at our house. 

The baby, of course, is perfectly happy with her simple fare, but my son is a different story. He simply does not enjoy eating. Or more correctly, he does not enjoy the experience of eating. Sure, he likes food itself, the usual suspects anyway—mac ‘n’ cheese, waffles, fruit, ketchup—but what energetic toddler wants to sit at the table while his parents go starry-eyed over fennel and blood orange salad (thanks, Lia) and discuss the merits of morels? I totally get that he’d rather be destroying Lego towers or recounting the latest thing Bob the Builder constructed. But no matter how much we try to include him in conversation and provide healthy foods he’ll actually eat, eight out of every ten meals end up with crying, whining, kvetching, and attempts to escape. 

It’s no wonder we’ve started eating so quickly.     

So I was surprised at how powerfully something within me said yes to Lia’s challenge to slow down and savor, to spend twice as much time on dinner. Having children, of course, hasn’t changed my belief that mealtime is sacred time, that dinner with loved ones is one of life’s greatest joys. But I can’t remember the last time dinner has felt sacred or even pleasant. While my husband and I want to sip and savor, my son wants to eat blue lollipops while standing on his head, and the baby could happily spend all dinner attached to my boob. How was I to create a nourishing experience for body and spirit for four people with very different mealtime agendas? I was at a loss.

I guess I cracked under the pressure. Before reason or good sense could intervene, I heard myself saying, “Let’s go out!” Dining out is something we rarely do, for obvious reasons. (The only thing worse than our usual dinners is doing it all in public.) But my husband must’ve been afflicted with the same temporary lapse in judgment, because he agreed immediately. Our destination was then obvious: a local fresh food market with an attached café. It’s very casual but with fantastic food, it’s big and noisy, which masks all but the worst tantrums, and as we would be there early, it offered the added bonus of happy hour. 

Normally we do not allow toys at the table, but for the benefit of our fellow diners we armed ourselves with pacifiers, sippy cups, chew toys for the baby, and any blue object we could lay hands on, as my son has become passionately involved with the color blue. For good measure I nursed the baby full to bursting. 

And lo, the gods were with us. The café was gloriously empty, a high-decibel piano/singing duo began their first set minutes after we ordered, and the ultimate in kid food—mac ‘n’ cheese with a side of fries—arrived posthaste. The real show-stopper for my son, however, was the juice box, a precious treat his cruel, cruel parents do not offer at home. 

When he promptly drained the entire box and declared himself full, I sensed the beginning of the end. But then the adult food arrived, and by the look on my son’s face I realized I’d stumbled upon an act of genius. I’d ordered sushi rolls. 

My son, who’d never seen sushi of any sort, was blown away by the exotic objects on my plate, along with all their little accoutrements. He sat serenely in my lap as I explained wasabi, pickled ginger, soy sauce, and each ingredient of the rolls. Enrapt, he deigned to touch a bit of avocado and apply his finger to his tongue. “Mmm!” he said with surprise. “Tastes like good!” I let him pour soy sauce and dip the rolls, I let him fix imaginary loose screws with the chopsticks. And in the midst of it all, he ate. In the end he put away half a dozen fries and four forkfuls of mac ‘n’ cheese. Now me, I could eat all of that in one bite, but for him? A miracle! Best of all, throughout everything my husband and I managed to weave in a conversation. Meanwhile the baby, stoned on milk, sat primly in her car seat and grinned gummy grins.

And thus a leisurely evening unfurled. My son didn’t stay in his seat the entire time, but neither did he run screaming through the dining room or overturn any plants. He in fact willingly remained with us most of the time, which for him, is really, really great. 

I don’t think our successful meal was due to the novel environment or the great food or even the relaxed parents, soothed by two-dollar drinks. It was the sushi. Or to use my earlier phrase, the experience of eating sushi. Specifically, the ritual surrounding it. That oatmeal my son could eat all day long? Much of the allure is in preparing to eat it: adding “the little pinch” (cinnamon), sprinkling on “the special in-gwedient” (brown sugar), stirring until the pat of butter disappears as if by magic. Ritual. It’s much of what I’ve missed about our recent dinners. In the dash to get through every meal as expeditiously as possible, I’d concentrated only on the smallest part—getting food into four mouths—and forgotten the parts that require us to slow down and pay attention. In retrospect this enormous missing piece seems like a no-brainer, but what can I say? I’m addled and sleep-deprived. 

Thankfully, a deeper, un-hurried part of me recognized what was missing, and responded immediately to Lia’s wise counsel to slow down. Can we enjoy long, leisurely dinners every evening? Not a chance. But we can invest a little extra time each day to make our very distractible toddler part of the preparations, the eating, even the clean-up. Slowing down even a little on a daily basis teaches him to enjoy the experience of eating.      

None of this, of course, occurred to me while we were still out and I was still on high alert for shenanigans. It was only after the kids were in bed that I had time to reflect. Such is life with children, which I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Back at the café, the baby leaned over and barfed on the floor, my son ran off to inspect the singer’s amp, and we smiled apologetically at the people who frowned at the penumbra of crumbs encircling our table. But then the baby sat up and cooed, my son returned for another fry, and my husband left to order dessert and a second round of drinks. In roughly twice the time we’d normally take for dinner, we ate and drank, and it was good.  

Catherine is a gifted writer, editor and ghostwriter (she edited the current bestseller, The Adversity Paradox: An Unconventional Guide to Achieving Uncommon Business Success). Visit her site at www.catherineknepper.com.

And sign up for your weekly nibble to noodle at Nourish Network!

It was startling, too, to see how much growth has occurred in Noemi since the last time we frolicked outside. Rather than scooping stones (which she still does), she now shoots hoops with her brand new basketball net. Instead of being buckled into a booster seat at the outside table, she just sits on her knees on the big-girl bench. In place of the one-word exclamations of last year (“bird!” “flower!”), we now have full-on conversations (“Mommy, I want to go look at the birds.” “Oooh, look at that arugula.”). Moment by moment and day after day these changes slip by all but unnoticed, but when superimposed on a setting that has been dormant for six months it’s like fast forwarding from a distant reference point. [Below: Noemi with two pairs of sunglasses on her head . . . don’t ask]

And then there was the realization that last spring was taken up, in large part, with mourning the loss of our dog, Talisker, who we had put to sleep a year ago this past Saturday. Ironically, fittingly, we were dog-sitting our “nephew,” Jack, this weekend, and so were surrounded by the familiar sounds and sensations that had become so very unfamiliar to us over this past year. Sure, there were moments when I’d listen to Jack lick his paw and think of Tally doing the same, or reach down to rub his neck and long to feel the sleek softness of Tal there. But mostly it just made me smile. It all made me smile. The sun, the earth, the growing things, the memories, the now, the what’s gone, the what’s still so very here. All of it.

I’m grateful, in essence, for spring.

{  Spring Butterflies with Prosciutto and Fennel  }

3/2 pound dried farfalle pasta 
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 cup fennel bulb, finely diced
1/2 cup onion, finely chopped
1/4 cup leek, finely chopped
Sea salt
Freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup dry white wine
2 tablespoons heavy cream
2 tablespoons chicken stock
1/4 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano
1 tablespoon parsley, minced
2 ounces Proscuitto

1. Heat the butter and olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat and gently sauté fennel, onion, and leek for 10 to 15 minutes, until soft but not brown. Season with salt and pepper. Increase heat to medium-high and add wine, stirring and reducing for two to three minutes. Lower heat to medium-low, stir in cream and chicken stock, and simmer for two to three minutes.

2. in the meantime, bring a large pot of generously salted water to boil and cook the farfalle according to package instructions. Drain pasta in a colander, letting some pasta water remain on the bows. Pour pasta back into the pot and mix in Parmigiano-Reggiano, parsley and proscuitto. Pour sauce over pasta and toss well, being sure to coat each piece of farfalle. Served in warm pasta bowls.

Serves 6 as a first course, 4 as a second

What to drink: This is a natural match for, my spring favorite, PINK! Experiment with different varietals of “rose de . . .” grenache, syrah, pinot noir . . . the list goes on. Some of my favorites are Forth Rose de Pinot Noir, Quivera’s Rose of Grenache and Clos du Bois Rose (made from Syrah and Merlot).

I’ve been having a lot of fun shedding my old skin and donning my new one these past few weeks. I just sent my new cards to the printer on Friday (love them!). And I got a chance to hear myself yesterday become more and more succinct as I talked to people about my passion for nourishing body and soul with every bite. It was amazing to see eyes light up when I talked about it, and to have people seek me out to hear more. I told Christopher when I got home late last night (and he had a candlelit dinner waiting for me, precious man) that I felt like I started the day as the freelance writer I’ve been for twelve years and ended the day as the founder of Nourish Network. Mmm, just typing that makes me smile.

I learned so much yesterday that will eventually percolate into the things I write for Nourish Network and NOURISH. But I also made a tangential discovery that I intend to share next week at the conference; that just as the agricultural and food system is broken here in America, so is the publishing industry as it now stands. That may sound negative and dire, but it’s not intended to. Quite the contrary actually. It’s meant to honestly admit where we are so that together we can deliberately craft what we want the future to look like and then begin forging the path to take us there. 

Just as stakeholders and thought leaders from every sector—agribusiness executives, small farmers, agronomists, nutritionists, soil scientists, you name it—came together yesterday to candidly discuss what’s not working and how we can rebuild, so too can leaders in the food writing and publishing world come together next week for a conversation about how to create a sustainable model that will generate value for everyone involved.

Apropos that the theme of the conference is Pioneering a Sustainable World.

It feels scary; new things always do. Yet it feels right. It feels exhilarating. It feels, well how about that, nourishing.

I’ve got two cool features out this month: one in the March issue of Prevention on whole grains and one in the March issue of Cooking Light on slow cooking. Also pretty neato in Cooking Light is that two of the magazine’s list of “20 Best Recipes of All-Time” are mine (Beef Daube Provencal and Cornflake-Crusted Halibut with Chile-Cilantro Aioli). Yep, that’s fully 10%.

It’s also a busy month for me in terms of speaking. On March 24th, I’ll be moderating a panel on food prices, health and access to food at the inaugural Food Systems and Sustainability Symposium at UC Davis. The symposium’s goal is to bring together leading scholars to engage with the media, politicians, and other leaders and stakeholders in the food and agriculture sectors to build a plan of action moving forward. Needless to say, I’m thrilled to be playing a part in such a momentous event. On April 1, I’ll be speaking in Denver at the International Association of Culinary Professionals’ annual conference as an expert on building your brand.

Thanks for being such a supportive toot-practicing audience, y’all. I think my horn’s getting louder!

{  Cornflake-Crusted Halibut with Chile-Cilantro Aioli  }

Aioli:
2 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro
3 tablespoons low-fat mayonnaise (I actually use a mixture of regular and low-fat)
1 serrano chile, seeded and minced
1 garlic clove, minced

Fish:
1 cup fat-free milk
1 large egg white, lightly beaten
2 cups cornflakes, finely crushed
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 (6-ounce) halibut fillets
Lemon wedges

1. To prepare aioli, combine first 4 ingredients, stirring well.

2. To prepare fish, combine milk and egg white in a shallow dish, stirring well with a whisk. Combine cornflakes, flour, salt, and black pepper in a shallow dish.

3. Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Dip fish in milk mixture; dredge in cornflake mixture. Add fish to pan; cook 4 minutes on each side or until fish flakes easily when tested with a fork. Serve with mayonnaise mixture and lemon wedges.

Serves 4

Which is perfect timing, because I’m stepping into a role that is more “me” than I’ve ever been; it’s all about nourishing body and soul with every bite. Eventually, it will have many forms. But first up is the Nourish Network, which I’ll be launching this spring and would love for you to be a part of.

What is the Nourish Network?

Glad you asked. The Nourish Network will combine rich media content, recipes and an online social hub where people like us can learn–and share thoughts on–how we nourish ourselves, others and the earth we share through the food we eat. In the meantime, you can go to www.nourishnetwork.com and sign up for a weekly “nibble to noodle.”

What is a “nibble to noodle?”

“Nibbles to noodle” are simple tweaks–put into practice by a tasty recipe–you can make each week that collectively add up to sustainable change. So whether you’re looking to eat healthier, with a cleaner conscience, or just enjoy your meals more, these little nibbles will lead you in the right direction until the official launch of the Nourish Network.

I look forward to sharing more with you as the launch approaches and can’t wait to see you on the Nourish Network!

My own shot, from my Blackberry, on my way home from lunch with the Halcyon-Eloquent One. Do you think he conjures them?

The term Halcyon Days comes from the mythical Greek halcyon kingfisher. Legend has it that she would charm the winter seas of the Mediterranean into calm during the 14 days of her nesting season, and the term has come to represent fleeting moments of tranquility, stillness, calm and joy. It may seem an unlikely subject at the moment, but Halcyon Days also speak to the shift—subtle, often inward—from dark to light, since seven of the halcyon’s nesting days fell before the winter solstice and seven in the lengthening days afterwards.

Chris’s beautiful description here of his halcyon moments wanders from Dry Creek Valley to Piedmont to the Ligurian Coast on the very sea the mythic halcyon called home. Enjoy.

It is my habit, each winter here on the southern bench of the Dry Creek Valley of Sonoma County, to be surprised by the simple joy derived from the dawning of a Halcyon Day.

I must admit that this year, Halcyon Days were hard to come by—not meteorologically speaking, mind you! Our January here was one bright day after another, which ironically added to the gloom we felt when we peeked at the newspaper or our 401k. No, those bright days meant drought, and the naked arms of the cleanly pruned vines were lifted up to the heavens, an entreaty for water from the skies that stubbornly refused to change, much like the economy.

I wondered how and when and if a Halcyon Day would happen at all in times like these.

The village of La Morra

But it did happen. There is some poetic justice that, for me, it happened quite literally on the Mediterranean Sea. My wife and friends and I were on a reconnaissance trip to the Piedmont region of Italy where, in the foothills of the majestic Alps, not only notions were swirling, but snow as well. After 5 days of slipping up and down country roads and bundling against bitter cold, we decided to make a dash for the Mediterranean coast, just an hour and a half away.

My wife looking out at the halcyon Mediterranean

We found ourselves in the coastal village of Bordighera, where the skies miraculously cleared during our short stay and the mercury pushed its way above 40 degrees for the first time during our trip. I think the song of a Halcyon bird awoke me that morning; the sea was flat and calm. I was seated on the edge of a continent with another continent hidden over the horizon and as I watched the sun rise, my thoughts turned to home.

I imagined I could see the delicate blooms of the Shooting Star on my walk up Brack Road above Dry Creek Valley, its bright purple meteors competing with the more abundant but cheery white Milkmaids that precede them. And when I arrived back home, I found them there, harbingers of Spring and hope, soaking up the gentle rains that had come with the promise to turn back thoughts of drought and despair.

So here is a toast to each of you, for your Halcyon Day, and to many more to come. cjf

Our original thought was to go for dim sum (thank you to Carolyn for your guidance on that quest). But after thinking it through a bit more thoroughly (hmmm, a constant barrage of “do you want this or this?” on one side by a waiter and the other by our two-year-old daughter . . . maybe in a a couple of years when it’s only one asking the questions) my husband and I settled on a simple, choose-from a menu lunch. Sort of.

A few years back, I had joined Shirley Fong-Torres (yes, Rolling Stone’s Ben Fong-Torres’s sister) on one of her Chinatown tours for an article I was writing for Cooking Light. We’d finished up our morning with lunch at a bright, colorful restaurant that seemed especially cheerful against the rain. I remember Shirley standing next to the waiter, pointing up at banners covered in Chinese characters and saying, “oooh, this one is so good.”

Fast forward to last Sunday, another rainy day in Chinatown. I got on my husband’s iPhone and googled my own article to find the place Shirley had taken my group so many years ago. Yee’s. A cursory glance at the menu (the English one) showed only the usual suspects. So when the waiter came back, I boldly pointed up at the posters I didn’t understand and said, “do you have beef and bitter melon? And that garlickly pea shoot saute?” The man’s eyes lit up and he said back to me, nodding, “you have Chinese lunch, eh?”

Here’s a little taste of Chinatown . . . not quite as authentic as our lunch at Yee’s, but guaranteed to please, nonetheless.

{  Sweet and Sour Shrimp  }

Serve with wok-tossed broccoli and rice.

1 1/2 pounds peeled and deveined large shrimp
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/4 cup fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce
2 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar
1 tablespoon chile paste with garlic (such as sambal oelek)
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 tablespoon minced peeled fresh ginger
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/3 cup chopped green onions

Place shrimp in a medium bowl. Sprinkle with cornstarch. Toss well to coat and set aside.
Combine juice, soy sauce, honey, vinegar, and chile paste, stirring with a whisk. Set aside.

Heat canola oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add minced ginger and garlic to pan and stir-fry for 15 seconds, or until fragrant. Add shrimp mixture and stir-fry for 3 minutes. Add juice mixture and onions and cook 2 minutes, or until sauce thickens and shrimp are done, stirring frequently. Serve immediately.

Serves 4

What to drink: The sweet-hot-sour combo of this shrimp makes it a natural for a Gewurtztraminer or slightly off-dry Riesling.

OK. Grab your glass . . . here we go.

Cabernet Sauvignon
Many consider Cabernet Sauvignon to be the king of wines. It hails from the infamous Bordeaux region of France where it’s an integral component in some of the region’s greatest blends. In America, unlike in France, Cabernet Sauvignon is often bottled alone or with a minimum of other varietals. Cabernet Sauvignon is highly tannic and requires a temperate climate to maintain its elegant structure and a fair amount of time on oak to unify and soften the elements, which brings aromas of cedar and toast when aged. It can run the range from austere and oaky to approachable and bright, and is a grape that readily reflects its terroir.

Here in Sonoma County, Cabernet Sauvignon fruit from Alexander Valley often shows an elegant structure, with primary fruit flavors touched with licorice and cigar box. Dry Creek Valley Cabernet tends to be more rustic and dusty, with bold aromas and rounder, blackberry fruit.

The classic match with Cabernet Sauvignon is a nice, juicy steak. But feel free to branch out and drink a bottle with an herbaceous roast leg of lamb, or even pair a younger, more approachable bottle with pizza or pasta.

To try:

• Clos du Bois Sonoma County Cabernet Sauvignon – A blend from grapes throughout Sonoma County, this bottle likes being open young. Try it paired with pasta or a burger.
• Clos du Bois Reserve Cabernet – The grapes for this Cabernet come from Alexander Valley, and is a classic example of the region’s fruit. Lush and velvety with loads of black cherry and hints of currant, it pairs as well with a flank steak as it does sticky, spicy pork ribs.
• Clos du Bois Briarcrest Cabernet Sauvignon – Just writing about this wine makes my mouth water. The grapes for this beauty come from prime estate vineyards where they’re coddled throughout the season by Keith (trust me, I’ve seen him) and crafted into a gorgeous wine that’s almost like a complex, chocolatey mole in a bottle. Age it for a time, and then enjoy it with your favorite “red meat Friday” steak.

Syrah (Shiraz)
Ah, Syrah. You can probably tell from many of my posts that I have a soft spot for this grape. Maybe it’s because it inspires me; as a grape, Syrah is an adapter. It thrives in the most challenging of conditions and reflects the characteristics of a region well. Its versatility in the vineyard also means a versatile wine. A sip of Syrah from a warmer region can be an explosion of blackberry, plum, black pepper and currant. One from a cooler climate might yield notes of black olives, spice, tobacco and earth. Body- and structure-wise, Syrah brings the best of both worlds. Its tannins are softer than those of Cabernet, making Syrah an exceedingly approachable wine, yet it has enough body to hold its own against bold-flavored foods.

In fact, the spiciness of Syrah lends itself well to a variety of foods spanning a world of ethnicities. It’s equally at home with pulled pork as it is with kung pao chicken or lasagna.

To try:

• Clos du Bois Shiraz – A big, jammy wine reminiscent of the Australian style it’s named for. Every time I open a bottle I suddenly get a craving for lamb burgers.

Merlot
Merlot is another of the blending grapes from Bordeaux, often mixed with Cabernet Sauvignon to soften its edges and fill out the mid-palate. But its approachability also lends to a grape that makes easy-drinking, everyday wines.

Merlot is often described as plummy and jammy, and rightfully so. Yet it’s aromatic and perfumey too, with a medium body and roundness on the palate—like Cabernet Sauvignon in silk pajamas. A decade ago, Merlot was scoffed at as a single varietal wine here in America (think of the licking it got in the movie Sideways). But things have changed. Whether you’re enjoying pizza with an easygoing bottle or duck confit with a knock-your-socks-off WOW one, these days, Merlot can be a great match.

To try:

• Clos du Bois Merlot – Made from fruit from both Alexander and Dry Creek Valleys here in Sonoma County, this is a supple, fruity wine you could sip while munching on olives or quaff while eating sausages. A great everyday red.
• Clos du Bois Alexander Valley Reserve Merlot – This wine is a great example of how finessed Merlot can be these days. In addition to the bolder black plum and cherry fruit are more delicate notes—like violet and cappuccino. I like to pull it out with herb-rubbed pork roasts.