Familiarity

A few months ago I found myself literally sighing may way back and forth to campus from my apartment, feeling a bit of teenage self-remorse at the fact that the beautiful Berkeley hills with the fog nestled just so perfectly upon their grassy surfaces just weren't doing it for me anymore. Things had become too familiar.
I've always found myself to have a very fickle relationship with the familiar. When I was at school, I felt attached to the places and scenery that I knew by invisible strings, and upon feeling their slight tug on my shoulders as I walked around I longed to be liberated- to be somewhere new, where my senses would be overwhelmed by the unknown. Yet, I knew that eventually, after I did escape, something else would become familiar, and I would yearn for the old familiarity that I was once so weary of.

Luckily, I'm not there yet in my Parisian reverie. I'm constantly overwhelmed by new, different, sometimes incomprehensible things, but I'm still doing fine. Sometimes, in the dark corners of the day when I'm walking alone on some empty street I do get a dull pang in my stomach, signifying a desire, just for once, to run into someone I know. Yet, at the same time, I'm finding that little colonies of familiarity are settling into my existence here, just like inconspicuous sandcastles along a gentle shore.

Take for instance, this market I can't stop talking about. After two weeks of not waking up entirely too early on a Saturday to stop by the place, I had almost forgotten how happy my visits there had made me. In the meantime, I felt like things just weren't fitting into place. I kept buying food I didn't enjoy, finding my French even more inadequate when I talked to strangers, and just feeling like I wasn't really connecting with anything or anyone.

Then, last Saturday, despite the clouds of impending rain descending on the city, I stepped out the door and went to the market. I couldn't believe it, but I felt as if I was returning to something that had always been a part of my life. The two middle-aged cheese vendors that always roll their eyes at my strange requests in broken French gave me the very same look. The old grizzly guy working one of the many produce stands gave me a wink as he shoveled rustic spinach in a bag. And of course I almost buckled at the knees when the cute guy at the charcuterie stand smiled as he handed me some sliced bacon.

I left the market elated, and as I walked past the bars that I hadn't seen in a couple of weeks, returned home, and carefully unpacked my haul, I just felt right. The same people. The same vibe. I need that. I need some familiarity.

My class is coming to be the same way. I've made friendships that have completely altered my experience here for the better. We deal with the unfamiliar on our own, but laugh about it together over some wine and cheese on these well-groomed lawns.... carving out spaces of familiarity in this city that so many people already know.

Anyway, I digress. This latest recipe is something I'm extremely happy about, not only because it's from this super cool British guy named Rick Stein (thanks Rob!) but also because it's easily assembled from any market haul. Just to give a quick explanation, Rick Stein shares exactly my belief about food- the fact that combining ingredients at their peak in the most simple ways can produce amazingly delicious dishes that anyone can savor without an ounce of pretention. This recipe is so easy, and yet produces something that is unbelievably good. It's a pea dish made from shelling peas, spring onions, and some bacon or prosciutto. I'll attach the video, which is super entertaining, as well.

Peas Braised with Onions and Ham
Taken from Rick Stein

1 bunch of spring onions (the onions with the smaller round white globes)
2 thick tranches (or slices) of French style bacon (or one good slice of Parma ham)
1-2 garlic cloves, sliced thinly
2 cups of freshly shelled peas
1 handful of finely chopped parsley

Pour a good amount of olive oil in a medium-sized pan (make sure it's somewhat deep) and place over a burner at medium heat. When the oil is quite hot add the onions and stir until they're slightly browned on the outside, add some water and cover to simmer. Slice your bacon or ham into "little jewels" as Rick Stein says, or small little squares as I would say. Check on the onions- when they're soft add the ham and garlic and start stirring. Cover and let simmer. When the bacon is cooked (you'll have to wait less time if you use prosciutto of course) add the peas and cover. You'll only want to cook the peas for a few minutes... don't be afraid to taste a few as you go to make sure you get the texture that you want. When the concoction is cooked take it off the stove, pour it into a bowl and top with the chopped parsley. It goes incredibly well with some crusty bread.

Bon appetit!

On Almost-Autumn Days and Soup

It's the perfect kind of overcast day. The kind that causes me to mentally check out- leaving my books behind on the table while I stare out the window with the utmost sensation of comfort and warmth within.

I'd like to imagine that these are the days that inspire poetry, reminiscences of autumns past, home-grown football games in damp, grassy yards, and impromptu soirees around steaming cups of tea.

And when the rain sleeks the glossy surface of my window, I know that the draining heat-filled summer days have come at least to a temporary halt... and that's a relief.

If I wasn't sick with what may or may not be swine flu, I think I'd take advantage of this weather to bounce around outside, and then maybe draw a tree or take a picture of a peculiar front door that I find :) but as I've been stuck here, with an overwhelmingly large pot of chicken soup that I somewhat ruined by plunking a Reggiano rind in the mess, I have needed to do something to keep my mind away from simple linear regressions (econometrics homework).

So I'm going to give you another recipe for chicken soup- sans le fromage

Chicken Soup for the Ill and Healthy
adapted from this recipe by Orangette
This feeds so many you won't know what to do with it. I'd actually recommend freezing some. Anyway, I think it's important to have a recipe for chicken soup handy for those times when you do fall victim to microbial beasts.

3 bone-in chicken breasts (or you can mix it up with thighs as well)
1 bunch of thyme
2 leeks, chopped into small pieces- don't be afraid to use the green parts
3 medium sized carrots, chopped into bite-sized pieces
3-4 stalks celery, chopped into bite-sized pieces
3 cloves garlic, diced
2 boxes of low sodium chicken stock (around two quarts... but a little less will do)
1 cup either tiny pasta or rice (I used wild rice)
1 bunch parsley
2-3 cups spinach
Ground black pepper or whole peppercorns
Salt

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Wash the chicken breasts and toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and as much thyme as you'd like... make sure you rub the spices into the skin. Then place in an oven-safe dish and cook for about 30 minutes (you'll want it to be cooked through with golden skin... according to the original recipe). Set aside after taking them out of the oven

In a large stock-pot saute the leeks in some oil until they're translucent. Add the garlic, carrots, rice, and celery and saute for a few more minutes. Then add some springs of thyme, salt, and black pepper.. feel free to add any more spices that you see fit. Finally, add the whole chicken breasts and then the stock. You'll want to bring the whole mixture to a boil and then simmer, for maybe 30 minutes or so... until the vegetables are tender. During the cooking process, add as much chopped parsley and spinach as you'd like. When everything looks like it's cooked the way you'd like, then take those chicken breasts out and shred the meat from the bones, adding it to the soup.

I'd serve it with a squeeze or two of lemon and some fresh parsley on top.

Enjoy!

My kitchen

In all honesty, I should probably entitle this post: "My mom's kitchen" because it is my mother- the full-time navigator of the corporate world, the endless burst of energy in human form, and the best mom I could ask for- that made the kitchen the most comfortable space in my home.

You see, being home for the summer means readjusting- relearning the rules of the kitchen, the nooks where certain utensils, pots, and pans reside, the corners where we hide the jars of plum-raspberry jam from Fresno, and the surfaces of the counter top that are prone to get messy and therefore must be kept under vigilant watch.

Unfortunately, in this three person home, my mom's kitchen is also a "one person at a time" kind of place. It's really not an issue of physical space (multiple people could comfortably cook at once in the room) but rather of mental space. When my mother, brother, and I are in the kitchen, the energy is unstoppable. The room transforms into an arena, with two people challenging the one proposing to cook to a competition of words. Ironically, the person wielding the pots and pans is in danger- the other two are free to attack on all verbal fronts. My brother and I reproach my mother's recycling habits, my mom and brother ridicule my predilection towards beans and tofu, and my mom and I LOVE making fun of my brother's cleaning habits. Oh man.

Anyway, I say this in jest. People are totally welcome to come over and cook- but when it's just the three of us, things get dangerous. That's partly why this blog has been barren for the summer (aside from that lovely Turkish coffee post, you saved me Ana!)- it's HARD to get in that kitchen and cook. I'm telling you!

But sometimes there's no verbal warfare in the kitchen. It's as if we all relinquished white flags before entering the room. In fact the only thing one can hear is music. On these evenings, my mom will come home from work and put some of the most soulful, meaningful, and creative music that I know on the little kitchen stereo. The familial discussion will cease, and the foot stomping on our worn wooden floors will commence. Any potential difficulties cooking together disappear, as my mom and I shout the lyrics to the amazing music and dance like there's no tomorrow. I find myself singing songs with crazy titles like: "Free Man in Paris" and with lyrics along the lines of: "Tin soldiers and Nixon's coming. We're finally on our own!" As we sing and dance, we cook- it just works, no one says anything, we just each take a role and know what to do. Generational gaps crumble in that kitchen. Words no longer have any meaning...well, unless they're the lyrics to a song.

At about the time that I finally realize how ridiculous I look protesting the Vietnam war in the middle of my kitchen, and that I am not at Woodstock, dinner is ready to be served. We turn the music down, exhausted, and sit down to eat. My dog, who already has no idea what the heck we're doing, sighs heavily and lies down, defeated, under the table. What a catharsis.

Last night was a similarly great experience. My mom was out to dinner so my brother and I put on an old CD from our childhood and cooked away. We made some fajitas and rice, adapted from recipes from some lovely books. I thought I'd share them with you, as they were quite delicious.

So here's to music, company, and kitchens. Three things that have made my life that much richer.

Improvised Fajitas
(with a spice mixture adapted from "The Complete Mexican, South American and Caribbean Cookbook", a gift from a truly remarkable friend :))

1/2 yellow or white onion, chopped coarsely
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 bell pepper chopped
1/2 serrano or similarly spiced pepper, chopped
2 tomatoes, chopped
leftover cooked chicken, beef, or grilled vegetables
1 1/2 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. oregano
1/2 tsp. chile powder
dash of cayenne pepper
salt and pepper to taste

Heat some oil in a skillet on medium heat. Add onions and garlic and cook for a few minutes- until onions are translucent. Add bell and chili peppers and cook, again for a few minutes. Add spices, tomatoes, and meat/grilled vegetables. Cook for a good amount of time on high heat, then, if there's a lot of liquid in the pan, bring heat down to low and cook on a simmer.

Mexican Rice
(adapted from "Cooking with the Seasons at Rancho la Puerta")

1/2 white onion (or other half from fajitas), coarsely chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 serrano or similarly spiced pepper, chopped
1 carrot, minced
1 tsp. California chile
1 cup long grain rice
1 medium tomato pureed with 2 cups water
salt and pepper to taste

In a medium saucepan heat a small amount of oil. Add onions, garlic, carrots, and pepper and cook for a few minutes, until onions are translucent. Add the rice, chile powder, and a bit of salt and cook for a minute. Add the tomato puree to the pan, bring mixture to a boil. Then turn heat down and simmer mixture for thirty minutes (I'd check on it after 20)... until rice is fluffy.

Enjoy!