Summer

I know I've told some people, but I don't make New Year's resolutions in January. There's something about the fact that I have two more months of winter to brave through and piles of academic reading to approach that makes my soul hibernate for a bit before coming to any new conclusions.

So I wait until the summer to make a list. I know it's the right time to do so when the sun is shining clearly in my face and I've got a (somewhat) blank slate after Spring semester. I also keep my resolutions modest, so that I don't have to defy my biology or mental capacity to undertake them. Cheating the system? You bet.

So here they are:

1) Read some good books

2) Hike some beautiful hills

3) Make more salads


Salads saved me during finals and the days leading up to my move out of the quaint Berkeley apartment that I called home. During this time, my lovely and insightful aunt sent me a brief e-mail entitled "Exams" and wrote one of the most useful sentences I've ever encountered: "Take a walk in the sunshine (or a run) and make a great big salad with all kinds of yummy fresh things and some nuts. Take a deep breath. Smile and enjoy the pleasure of learning."

So I set to work (on the salads, walks, and runs that is). My staple was a salad with radishes (which are oh-so-good and 99 cents a bunch!), celery, lettuce, and cucumbers, with tofu instead of nuts. Then, when it came time to empty out the remaining ingredients that had been hiding in the cupboards of the kitchen, I concocted a salad with quinoa, a can of black-eyed peas, and some frozen green peas.

Aside from academic pursuits and the job hunt, I think this is going to be a good summer- especially if there are salads involved :)

PS- promising a more stream of consciousness post next week. For now- simplicity is the name of the game. Sorry to bore.

Summer Quinoa Salad
This time around, I shelled peas (which is quite relaxing) and blanched them. Otherwise, this recipe is geared towards frozen peas.

1 cup quinoa, rinsed
1 can black eyed peas, drained and rinsed
1 cup frozen peas, thawed
2 tbs chopped parsley
1 tbs. good quality olive oil (I swear by the Spanish stuff)
1 tbs. lemon juice (or juice of 1/2 lemon)
1 scant tbs. chardonnay or white wine vinegar (really any kind is fine here)

Heat the quinoa with 2 cups water over a high flame until the mixture is boiling. Then lower the heat, cover, and cook for 10-15 minutes. The quinoa will be done when the grains have expanded and little curly q's have formed around their edges (you'll know what I mean!) Qunioa cooks pretty quickly, so keep an eye on it. When done, put aside in a bowl to cool.

When the mixture is still warm but not steaming hot, mix in the black eyed and green peas. Then add the parsley, olive oil, lemon, and vinegar, adding salt and pepper to taste. You can eat it like that, but I'd recommend putting it in the fridge for a couple of hours and enjoying it cold- preferably with a beer and a rooftop view.

Bon appetit!

Some Inspiration

New Goose

I doubt I'll get silk stockings
out of my asparagus
that grows too fast to stop it,
or any pair of Capital's
miracles of profit.

Lorine Niedecker

I Could Hardly Wait

My grandfather used to be a chemist. His profession took him around the world- to countries like Germany and Japan. As a result he knows phrases in multiple languages (including "do your feet itch?" in Japanese).

When my brother and I brought our high school calculus and chemistry problems to my grandpa, his eyes would light up with adventure. He'd pull out a fresh sheet of paper and a number two pencil, then he'd work his way through every problem that we threw at him with the precise methodology and thoroughness of a true chemist.

My dad and brother picked up the gene- they both analyze whatever comes their way with some form of the scientific method. They like to fix things that are broken, utilizing the mechanical skills that come so naturally to them.

I, on the other hand, get lost in the process. I have no desire to take something apart and put it back together. Despite the fact that they're equally beautiful, I'm much more passionate about the various constructions of the written word than elaborate drawings of the structures of chemical compounds and organic molecules.

But sometimes I get the desire to experiment... often through literary analysis*, mobiles, or music, but most recently my experiments have taken place in the kitchen. The majority of them turn out pretty lackluster. I comfort myself over steaming plates of mundane or burnt food with pep talks that my mother would give me: "It takes experience- there's a learning curve to everything! Now you know not to add 3 tablespoons of lemon juice to that dish instead of a half teaspoon!"

Today marks a good day though- I decided to make one of my favorite toppings to pizzas- a gremolata. I'm sure that you just elicited a "Huh!?" Basically, there's only one place I know of that graces the surfaces of their pizza with this simple, fresh topping of parsley, lemon zest, and garlic- but I assure you: it makes all the difference. You can put it on pasta with a generous grating of Parmesan or you can toss it in a salad of cooked carrots. I decided to use it as the base for a basic potato salad. As far as I'm concerned, it was a pretty successful experiment.

*One of my most proudest moments was when I decided to dedicate a paper to the claim that Captain Ahab in Moby Dick could be seen as a reincarnation of Buddha. I received the paper back with a C- and the words "Nice Try Sister!"

Simple Potato Salad with Gremolata and Radishes
I used purple potatoes (!!) because they were local and looked good on the shelves of Berkeley Bowl, but please use any type of potato that suits your fancy.

For Gremolata:

1/4 cup chopped italian flat-leaf parsley
1.5-2 tsp. minced garlic (about two medium-sized cloves)
1.5 tsp. lemon zest
2 tbs. olive oil (I used Spanish-style)
1 tsp. lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste

Mix the above ingredients together in a bowl and let sit.

Potato Salad

2-3 potatoes
3-4 radishes, sliced horizontally
1 tbs. cider vinegar (or any other kind will do- whatever you like to dress salads with)

Boil the potatoes in a pot of salted water. Remove when they're easy to pierce with a knife. Then, when they're not too hot to handle, slice the potatoes first in half and then in smaller pieces.

Assembly: Place the radishes and potatoes in a bowl. Then toss with the gremolata and vinegar. Taste to see if you need to add more salt, pepper, or oil.

Enjoy!

The Space Between

I am a worshiper of negative space. I could spend the majority of my time with my neck craned back and my eyes looking up at the sky, treasuring the brilliant blue streaks of light as they envelop the branches of trees or peak out from the spaces between buildings.

I've been really fortunate to live in some locations that are really conducive to this tendency of mine- from the deciduous forests of Ann Arbor to the the tall ancient apartment buildings of Madrid, and finally, the glorious trees that line the Berkeley streets...all of these objects generate unique silhouettes against the sky.

Yet, there's one problem here in Berkeley. I get distracted when I'm trying to piece together these disparate collections of light. There are lemons in the way.


Yes, these yellow orbs emerge like teardrops from the trees, just waiting to be relieved of the burden of hanging onto the branches for their dear lives. Lemons grow practically year-round in California. Perhaps for this reason, Berkeley citizens don't seem to mind leaving such delicious fruit on their trees. What they don't realize is that they're tempting people like me, who want both an unobstructed view of the light between branches and a free pile of lemons for my cooking adventures! How inconsiderate!

So I've developed a scheme. When I'm on a run along the Berkeley streets, I sneak by these overloaded trees and grab a couple of lemons, only to dash off into the distance before someone notices the crime that I've committed. I've scored quite a few lemons this way (and a couple of unripe oranges. big mistake!)

I think I could dedicate a (very boring) book to my history with lemons. I cannot imagine a time when we didn't have two baskets of them (one for regular lemons and the other for meyers, which deserve a post on their own) in the kitchen. To this day, visits to my grandmother's house entail picking both types of lemons from her trees in the backyard and lugging them home in leftover plastic bags. Given that we had a continuous supply, we'd put lemon on everything we ate- cucumbers (pepino con limon y sal), rice, meat, even popcorn. In fact, my brother and I used to eat them raw, with salt and chili powder sprinkled on top. I guess I'm lucky to still have enamel on my teeth!

So this recipe is for those who have much saner relationships with lemons. It's a pico de gallo salsa that's meant to accompany a Mexican feast of huevos rancheros. Actually, the idea for the feast came about during a study break with Frances, while staring at the light emanating from the spaces between the branches of a willow tree.

Pico de Gallo Salsa
This will be even more amazing in the summer, when tomatoes are in full season!

2 large ripe tomatoes (or 6-7 smaller ones), diced
1/4 of a medium sized onion (white, red, or yellow), sliced thinly and diced
1/2 of a serrano chile, also sliced thinly and diced
juice of 1 lemon
1-2 tbs. chopped cilantro

Combine the tomato, onion, and chile in a bowl. Add the lemon juice and cilantro and stir. Let sit for 15 minutes- season with salt and pepper to taste.

Makes about 2 cups