my muse has a first name, it's c-h-e-s-t-e-r

How mad are you going to be if this turns into a bl*g entirely about Chester?


Vermont in March: The snow has melted to reveal dead grass and frozen mud; a bounty of dog poop and cigarette butts; cardboard, beer cans, and Sunday circulars that have blown out of recycling bins. My muse and I walk by the lake most days, where the ice has broken up and smashed into one corner of the bay. It's gorgeous and bitterly cold, which is what I aspire to be, as well. My muse aspires to pee on every single bush and tree lining the waterfront.

At the local neighborhood co-op, where my muse is not allowed to shop, the staff daily rearrange the same old local vegetables in an attempt to convince consumers that butternut squash is a novelty item. I buy cauliflower, watercress, and walnuts from distant lands and wonder what my muse is doing.

What my muse is doing:

At home I spend a couple of hours gazing at my muse as he sleeps. Then I cut the cauliflower into florets for roasting and wonder if there will ever be flowers here.


While my cauliflower roasts, I compose a poem called "Ode to a Sleeping Dog...Seriously, Chester, That's My Pillow. The One I Put My Head On at Night."

My muse cares not for roasted cauliflower.


I set it aside to cool for a few minutes and toast some walnuts and make the dressing, while my muse does yoga (Extended Dog Pose).


Seriously, how mad are you? My muse and I want to know.

He eats kibble, I partake of Roasted Cauliflower and Watercress Salad and pine for blossoming trees, an iceless lake and squashless grocery store, my muse running through fields of wildflowers, his ears flapping in the gentle breeze. I'm going to be waiting until June, because it turns out Vermont skips spring entirely and after an extended winter moves right into summer. Until then, Roasted Cauliflower and Watercress salad: The cauliflower, still warm, ever so slightly wilts the watercress. A slick gloss of sherry vinaigrette. Toasted walnuts. A little cheese.

My muse recommends the kibble.

Roasted Cauliflower and Watercress Salad

Adapted from my girl Melissa Clark at the New York Times

I've eaten this salad, and variations on it, many times over the past couple of months. As often as not I've used spinach instead of watercress—delicious. It's also good without the cheese if you're some vegan hippie type. You can refrigerate all the different parts in separate containers and then bring them to work and assemble a salad for lunch; your coworkers will be very impressed/think you're crazy into Tupperware (the salad won't be quite as good because the cauliflower isn't warm, but it's better than a Cup-O-Noodles from the vending machine).

1 head cauliflower, cut into bite-size florets

6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, separated

1½ teaspoons kosher salt, separated

¾ teaspoon pepper, separated

1 tablespoon sherry vinegar

2 bunches watercress, large stems removed

¼ pound Gruyère, diced or grated (about 1 cup)

2/3 cup toasted walnuts

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. In a bowl, toss together the cauliflower, 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1 teaspoon salt and ¼ teaspoon pepper. Spread the cauliflower on a baking sheet in a single layer. Roast, tossing occasionally, until tender and dark golden, ~30. Let cool for 10 minutes.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar with the remaining ½ teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper, and then whisk in the remaining 4 tablespoons oil.

3. In a salad bowl, toss the watercress, cheese, nuts, and warm cauliflower. Pour the vinaigrette over the salad and toss until well combined.

actual spring greens

At my mother-in-law's recently we had a discussion about mesclun. Not mescaline, people, mesclun. She may have ridden her scooter across the country at the age of 65, but my mother-in-law is more Raging Granny than Easy Rider. She does make a mean salad, though, which is the reason we were talking about mesclun. Our non-trippy discussion occurred over plates of the tiniest, tenderest greens,


which were apparently sold as mesclun, though they didn't resemble the "mesclun mix" found at most grocery stores (you know the stuff: leaves of baby romaine, a few sprigs of browning frisee, some radicchio). So our question was, What the hell is mesclun? Though my mother-in-law did not say hell, I'm sure.

Weirdly, Mark Bittman answered our question in his Minimalist column this week. The word mesclun is from the Italian for mixture, and "when it first came to our collective awareness, it was a random collection of trimmings from the garden, never made the same way twice." Now it's a mix of greens selected for shelf stability, grown in Mexico, and airlifted to a supermarket near you. Mark Bittman's answer to the crappy mesclun mix found at that supermarket near him is to make romaine-lettuce soup, which I vow to you now I will never cook or eat. (What is going ON with you Mark Bittman? A cup of cream and some sauteed lettuce? Are you trying to make me break up with you?)

My answer is to eat as much I can of those greens I first had at my mother-in-law's, before they go out of season. They're closer to the "random collection of trimmings from the garden" version of mesclun, though I've bought three bags, all of which were similar. I think sprouts may be involved,


and the yachtsman called them "clover-y." Mine came from Pete's Greens in Craftsbury, Vermont (via City Market), though I'm sure a farmer is growing something similar in a hoop house or field near you.


I can't post a recipe for buying greens, obviously, but I can tell you how my mother-in-law prepared hers: Tossed with red-wine vinaigrette and a grate or two of Parmesan. I've been re-creating this salad all week, complete with the vinaigrette she used; it's quite tasty.

Red Wine Vinaigrette
Adapted from The Pleasures of Cooking for One, by Judith Jones

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons olive oil
¼ table salt
¼ Dijon mustard

Mix all four together in a small container and shake madly until emulsified.


This dish goes well with romps in New Orleans cemeteries, viewings of The Wall, and existential, nonsensical discussions of everything from fractals to doughnuts. It's also nice to eat around the table with family, or by yourself on the couch with the windows open on one of the first nights of spring.

how i roll

This is how I roll: In general, three deep. Culinarily, I like to make myself a big batch of something on Sunday and eat it all week. You, however, do not need to do the same. If you're the kind of go-getter who regularly changes out of pajamas, the type of high achiever who takes hours or days, not weeks or months, to reply to e-mails, then you just may be up for taking a recipe for gruel and transforming it into a course or side dish for your next dinner party. The one you will invite me to via smoke signal, the dress code for which will be black fleece.

This week I will be featuring a couple of recipes that can be either eaten as gruel de la semaine or served as a component of a fancier meal, depending on how you roll.


Let's start with beets, which may be ugly (frightening, in fact) on the outside, but when roasted and peeled are not only pretty but delicious, perfect for a dinner party. They also have a long shelf life, perfect for a week in my fridge. This roasted beet salad has a secret ingredient: almond butter, a smear of which on the bottom of the plate transforms a somewhat common salad into something quite special, a salty, sweet, savory, addictive first course suitable for guests, or for lunch alone in pajamas. Because even slothful people deserve something special for lunch, don't we?

No, seriously. Don't we?

Roasted Beet Salad With Almond Butter and Gorgonzola
adapted from this recipe, which appeared in Gourmet

½ cup toasted, slivered almonds
½ garlic clove, chopped
pinch of cayenne
¼ cup + 2–3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
5 or 6 medium-to-large beets

2 tablespoons Sherry vinegar
3 tablespoons finely chopped shallot
3 tablespoons finely chopped chives
baby arugula
Gorgonzola or blue cheese

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Cut off all but ~½ inch of beet tops and carefully scrub beets. Wrap each beet in tin foil and place on a baking sheet. Bake for 45 minutes to 1½ hours, or until you can slice through the beets easily with a sharp knife. If the size is not uniform, beets may not all be done at the same time, so pull them out as they're ready. When they're cooked, peel off the foil, let them cool, then peel and cut them into ½-inch wedges.


2. While beets are roasting, grind almonds to a paste with garlic, ¼ teaspoon salt, and cayenne in a food processor. With motor running, add just enough oil to make a silky paste.

3. Whisk together vinegar and ½ teaspoon salt in a bowl, then whisk in oil. Add shallot and chives and toss some of the dressing with the beets (I used about half with my six medium beets—plenty to coat the beets and then some. Lightly dress arugula with remaining dressing.

4. Smear a spoonful of almond butter on the bottom of your (or your guests') plate(s), top with beets, arrange a dainty little circle of arugula around the edge, and sprinkle with blue cheese.

ladies who lunch & the gentlemen who iron maiden them

To make up for missing the Neko Case concert last night because I had so much g.d. freelance, I am now sitting on the couch watching a documentary about Iron Maiden's reunion tour and wondering whether I can talk the yachtsman into writing another bl*g post. Things are not looking promising: He is captivated by the washed-up, balding-yet-long-haired metal heads on the TV screen.

So it's just you and me again. You and me and lunch. We'll always have lunch. Well, I'll always eat lunch, anyway.

Slightly congealed balsamic dressing warming up in the windowsill: 3 tablespoons evoo, 1 tablespoon of your nicest balsamic, 1 small shallot (minced), some chopped herb, s&p.

The sweetest, prettiest little cherry tomatoes in the world. If I were a vegetable, I would take them a'courtin'. But I'm not, so I ate them.

Baby romaine from Half Pint (who also grew the tomatoes), goat's-milk feta from Doe's Leap, walnuts from who-know's-where.

I cannot in good conscience tell you to watch Iron Maiden: Flight 666, but I unequivocally recommend this salad. It's crunchy and salty and tangy and sweet and savory. The yachtsman is playing air guitar. Life is gooooooooooood.

fickle

I assume when people say they like shrimp that they're lying. Objectively, shrimp is disgusting. It combines two of the worse aspects of food. The worst food texture? Rubbery. The worst food taste? Fishy. Shrimp? Fishy rubber. Rubbery fish. Yucky yuck.

I used to have bad feelings about beets, too: They were a revolting combination of sugar and dirt. But I recently tried fresh (versus canned) beets after years of not eating them at all, and my attitude has changed: Now I think they taste earthy and sweet, and I want to dye my hair with their juice.





Roasted Beets Over Arugula Topped With Goat Cheese

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

2. Make a batch of my Greek stepmother's dressing: 1 small, minced shallot; 3 tablespoons olive oil; 1 tablespoon GOOD balsamic vinegar; a pinch of sugar; some chopped herb (marjoram is nice, but anything will do); s&p.

2. Wash and trim most of the greens and the wartiest parts of the bottoms off a bunch of small to medium beets.

3. Make a foil packet for the beets. This is essentially going to be the beets' steam room, so leave enough room between them, and then fold it up nicely so the steam doesn't escape while they're roasting.

4. Roast until they can be sliced through with a sharp knife. Depending on the size of your beets, this could take 25 minutes to an hour.

5. When roasted to your liking, let the beets cool until you can handle them, then slide the skins off and chop into halves or thirds or quarters or eighths or whatevs.

6. While they're still warm, dress the beets very lightly, and let them sit for a bit while you troll the internets read a few pages of a Russian novel.

7. Dress a bunch of arugula with the same dressing and top with dressed beets and some goat cheese.

Leftover dressed beets will keep in the fridge for longer than it will take you to eat them, but not longer than it will take you to finish that Russian novel.

cooking bender, part 3

This is so simple, it does not require a recipe. Start with some chickpeas, preferably cooked at home, though the canned kind will do just fine. Squeeze some fresh lemon juice and grate plenty of Parmesan cheese over them. Add a splash of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt. Now add more lemon juice. That's right, now add even a little bit more. Perfect.

Via Orangette.

bad news for chris

It appears as though I love veganaise. That would be vegan mayonnaise, people, and I swear to you, it’s quite good -- much less greasy and more flavorful than regular mayonnaise. The vegan British playwright made a pasta salad during my time at the convent that I've been thinking about all day as I eat peanut butter toast (I'm on my fourth piece now), the only food in the house.


As far as I can tell (I idly sat by while the vegan British playwright toiled over a hot nun’s stove), the recipe is as follows:

Cold Gruel a la Veganaise

1 package of whole wheat spiral pasta, cooked in heavily salted water
a head of broccoli florets (you could blanch them if you prefer)
2-3 stalks of celery, sliced
1/3 cup pignoli nuts
a handful of what the British call coriander (that would be cilantro)
veganaise, added to taste
fresh lemon juice, added to taste
s&p

The vegan British playwright does not eat nightshades (which, frankly, is taking things a little too far), so there were no tomatoes in her version, but tomatoes, asparagus, walnuts, or spinach would all be nice additions.

When you invite me to your barbecue this summer, I will come bearing a bowl of cold gruel a la veganaise, and a six pack of liquid courage for you to drink before you eat it.

home sweet...yes, i'd love to come to dinner

Judging from the contents of our fridge, Chris has been living on kosher Coke, sake, and turkey sandwiches while I was away. Luckily I was able to scrounge up the ingredients for my old boyfriend peanut butter toast, which I ate in bed while watching Heroes and waiting for my luggage.


I don't understand how people raise babies. Two nights in a row of less than five hours sleep have incapacitated me. If I ever had a baby, I would do nothing but lie in bed, watch TV, and eat food that I could make in the toaster oven.

Or I would lie in bed and watch TV until it was time to go to my stepmother's for dinner. Maybe she could raise the baby, too.

A Greek-ish salad with black lentils

Warm potato salad with sugar snap peas and radishes

Mark Bittman's chick pea salad