Champion of the Cold

As soon as autumn hits, I enter a state of extreme health flux.

Sniffling and tired, I know that I either A.) am sick, B.) have allergies, or C.) am just sniffling and tired. Whichever it may be, there's really only one cure: soup! Well...and tea. And...hot toddies. And toast. And cookies. And apple cake. Okay, right, right! So there happen to be many remedies, but let me introduce you to a true potion, a real honest elixir. This is a soup that will set you straight AND knock your socks right off.

Garlic is magical. Immunity-boosting, germ-tackling, and an all-around powerhouse, it is seriously good for your body, especially in the cooler weather. This garlic soup has everything you want and need. The garlic is roasted, so that garlicky punch just mellows right out, and you'll just taste the sweet, smoky roasted flavor. You can and should experiment with the quantities of garlic and potato: I tend to like it more garlicky and less potato-y, but certainly arrange the amounts however you like. The soup is smooth and simple, but also unique. It freezes well, and you can easily halve or double this recipe.

Now move along! Go get yourself better.


40-Clove Garlic Soup

4 heads of garlic, halved crosswise
2 T olive oil
5 C chicken or vegetable broth
a handful of small or 2 medium Yukon gold potatoes, chopped into large chunks
1/4 C grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
salt and coarse black pepper

Heat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Cluster garlic halves (cut side up) on the center of a sheet of aluminum foil. Drizzle with oil and wrap the foil into a tightly closed bundle. Roast until tender and golden, about 40-45 minutes. Let cool, then remove garlic cloves from their skins. (I use the tip of a small sharp knife to extract them, or sometimes I end up needing to squeeze them out.) Set aside.

Bring stock, potatoes, and roasted garlic to a boil in a large pot. Reduce the heat and let simmer, stirring occasionally, until potatoes are tender, about 12-14 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in Parmesan. Let cool slightly, and then purée in a blender until very smooth. Season with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with more Parmesan, some sliced scallions, a drizzle of hot sauce, and some crumbled bacon if you have it! Serve with good bread or a grilled cheese sandwich, of course.

The Oat Boat Has Sailed

Some foods' reputations are just entirely wrecked.

Let's think about foods that make us squirm. Liver and onions, gruel, boiled beef. For some folks, it's Jell-O or fruitcake. Up until somewhat recently, before most of us understood their true beauty and usefulness, Brussels sprouts and anchovies had worked their way onto that list as well. Often, it's the traditional preparation that becomes outdated, or it's the idea of thing (organ meat, gelatinous textures) that gets people worked up. Then, of course, there are the historical implications that really do us in. Granola, with its hippie skin that it's frantically trying to shed, is one such food.

I've spent at least 18 years trying to figure out granola, trying to connect with it, attempting to get to the heart of it. You'd think that it'd be easier, what with the fact it's merely a cereal, for crying out loud. Somehow, though, it's not. It's like perfecting scrambled eggs: so simple, yet never-endingly complex. So many factors, and so much trial and error, go into getting some very simple dishes completely perfect.

The thing I've learned about granola recently is that oats are entirely unnecessary. In fact, I think oats sort of (yes, I am about to actually say this out loud) ruin granola. Agh! Gasp! What am I saying!? I am, in fact, saying that the oat boat -- at least for me -- has sailed. But, wait. Listen. Yes! Give me oats in my oatmeal! Yes, give me oats in my cookies, cakes, bread and pancakes. Even give me oats in my granola bars. Just don't put oats in my granola. I love you, oats, but I can't be bothered.

I was given a gift of granola at the end of the summer from one of my students, which I actually set aside for about a month or so. I tend to see granola as a food I don't love, even though I've had some amazing granola in my day. It's just that I've had so much terrible granola: granola with tough bits of dried fruit that break my teeth off, granola that is undercooked or overcooked, granola that tastes like absolutely nothing, granola that is cloyingly sweet, granola that should actually be called muesli, granola that is comprised of nothing but oats, granola that has odd things in it that don't belong there. I am wounded, you see.

The gift was in a beautiful jar, though, and it looked to contain all sorts of things I love: almonds and coconut and other gems. And yet I didn't open it. Until, one day, when I did, just to sniff it a bit. And that is that day everything changed. That is the day I started re-loving granola. That day stacks up right next to the day I realized anchovies were one of the best-kept secrets of incredible cooking, or the day I realized that Brussels sprouts could be, if treated properly, turned into absolute gold. The smell did it for me. I poked at it, tasted a bit (still with extreme trepidation) and, then, sold. SOLD. I was in. All in.

The contents of the jar disappeared within a few days, and I was immediately clamoring for more. I'd stare at the empty jar and feel sadness that confused me. I was pining for granola, and it wasn't the type of granola-feeling I was used to having. In my granola-deprived stupor, I wrote to the kind mother who had gifted it to me. Must. Have. Recipe, I frenetically typed, and then finished the email, trying to sound clear-headed and civilized, but clearly coming from a state of horrid deprivation. I was quite close to driving to the grocery store and camping out in the parking lot until I received the recipe from her, all so I could be closer to cooking up this crack for myself.

The recipe came back soon, and I scanned through it, calculating quantities and flavors and anticipating the process. I knew there would not be oats in the recipe, and I had prepared myself. The whole thing was, actually, endearingly simple, which sort of surprised me. There really isn't anything super funky in this granola. It's just simple ingredients: no granulated sugar, no actual oats, no weird fruit.

The nuts and seeds are all raw, which is key. Nuts or seeds that have already been toasted or processed in any way have either had oils added to them or have already produced oils that will, when baked, oxidize and burn. We don't want this. We want raw, and we want simple. We want to look up granola on the Internet, hope that it's not married yet, and set a date to reconnect. We want to meet granola again after a decade-long hiatus and notice how beautiful it looks, how impeccably groomed it is, how well-dressed and well-mannered it is. We want to rediscover this creature that we thought had quite possibly ended up in the loony bin or prison. We want to realize that this, this is what we've been waiting for. No obnoxious quirks, no disgusting habits, and certainly no unnecessary ingredients. Just the pure love we've been hunting for. We want to find happiness. We want to find this granola.

The Good Granola
Thanks to Denise for this recipe and the gift that started it all.

2 C sliced or chopped raw almonds
2 C large unsweetened coconut flakes
1 C raw sunflower seeds
1/2 C raw pumpkin seeds
1/2 C chopped raw pecans
1/3 C maple syrup
1/3 C coconut oil
2 t vanilla
2 t cinnamon
1/2 t salt

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F. Combine first 5 ingredients in the biggest bowl you have. Combine the remaining 5 ingredients in a saucepan over medium heat. Whisk constantly until coconut oil is melted and everything is combined. Mix the wet in with the dry and toss to coat.

Spread out mixture in an even layer on a parchment-lined baking pan and bake 15 minutes. Stir, shuffle, and toss the granola on the pan. Put back in the oven for another 15 minutes, then stir again. Return to the oven for another 15 minutes, watching carefully. You'll want it very golden and toasted, but not burned. Cool in the pan. When completely cool, store in an airtight container. Makes roughly 6 cups, which should last you about one hour.

You can certainly add dried fruit or freeze-dried fruit once the granola has baked. The original gift-batch I received had dried blueberries in it, which was lovely. I tend to just add extra bits and things to each serving, rather than committing to a fruit-theme for the entire batch.

Serve any way you'd like! I love it with coconut milk, but I've also eaten it with just a giant spoonful of almond butter. It's found its way onto salads and soups lately, too. There are very few places I wouldn't put this granola, in fact. It's just that good.

Excuse Me! You Seem Like Such A Nice Customer.

Dear Customer,

Welcome to my farmstand at this farmers market! I can see this is a very important day for you. This is, after all, the only day of your whole life that you will be able to buy vegetables. Ever. In fact, after today, all the vegetables and fruits will be gone from the world and you will have to subsist on pieces of meat and glugs of Diet Rite. You know, like prehistoric people. It's going to be awful. You'd better get ready. You'd better get focused. You're smart and nice, so I know you can do it!

Since there are really only a few hours left before the apocalypse, you'd better hustle through this farmers market really quickly and angrily. Everyone here at the market, myself included, would really prefer if you could figure out a way to push everyone with your body while managing to also block everyone from getting anywhere by standing really still in the middle of the pathway. If you could take a minute out of your super busy Saturday to figure out how to do that, it'd be great. You're such a good helper!

You're also asking so many great questions, like Why does this cost so much? and Why does this apple have spots all over it? Then it's so neat when you whip around to your friend who is wearing a spandex athletic outfit that matches yours and you say in a really loud voice, THIS PLACE IS TOO EXPENSIVE. WE SHOULD HAVE JUST GONE TO THE GROCERY STORE. And while you're whipping around in your athletic outfit which also includes a full face of makeup and spotless $300 sneakers, make sure that you're extra careful! You'll want to make sure your two gigantic matching Bernese mountain dogs, your two wayward Golden Retriever puppies, and your excitable, yipping Chihuahua-Pomeranian mix stay nowhere near you, because their job is to assault the other customers by licking and jumping on them so that they want to be nowhere near my farmstand. Thank you!

Moms and dads of the market! I'm so glad you're here, too! The thing you really contribute to the farmers market is a sense of community. You're really special because you make this place so close-knit and fun. When you bring your six kids, all under the age of six, to the market, it makes everything so much more exciting. I always go home at the end of the day thinking, I'm so glad those parents all bring those four-seat strollers with 24-inch tires. You're so prepared for the crowds, narrow paths, and rugged urban terrain! And when your crying, screaming kids just hop right out and you're pushing around an empty stroller the size of Steven Spielberg's yacht, it just makes so much sense. Could you also remind your kids as they run around yelling their faces off and charging into other people that it's best if they squeeze all of my tomatoes, and not just twenty of them? I really think all the tomatoes are better for selling when they have puncture wounds from two year-old fingernails. Thanks!

Oh! And also! See this corn here? I grew it all by myself, after days and months and years and decades of hard work and planning. What I really like is for customers like you to stand at the corn bin for at least 20 minutes while shucking each and every ear of corn before you decide if you want to buy it or not. It's a good thing I have you here to shuck all this corn for me! Phew. In fact, I purposefully brought to the market all of the most damaged corn that I grew, so everything you see here is either ridden with small insects that will kill you or already rotten down to the cob. I think the other customers like to watch you shucking all of my corn and then tossing each ear back into the pile with disgust, as though it's full of rabies and scary doll heads. My favorite thing is when you shuck my corn for a really long time and then decide to not buy any at all!

Since we're clearly all in this together, and we're both such stewards of the land and celebrators of the earth, make sure you do a few last things for me. Make sure you always pay with 100 dollar bills and be sure to roll your eyes at me when I tell you we (still) don't take credit cards. If you enjoy a crepe or a tamale from the food vendors, be sure you don't tip them and get really mad at them because there's a line. UGH! I KNOW! I am also so mad that the farmers and vendors are all selling things and making money here at the market! It's the absolute worst. And if you turn and walk away from the line because it's all too much, I understand. On your way out, just stop back by my stand and grab my truck keys from me. You and your family can take a well-deserved nap (I'm sure you're SO much more tired than me) and when I'm done selling my wares, we'll all go back to my farm together and play some Monopoly. And don't worry. There might be a few more peaches left on a tree. And, yes, yes! Absolutely. They're all yours.

Love,
The Farmer

One Last Hurrah, One First Hurrah

August, you beast! You've contained multitudes, and you've done quite well for yourself. You should feel accomplished. September, go ahead then! It's your turn to shine and make us proud. With, you know, things like Labor Days and pancakes. And we're talking here about pancakes that make you feel like moving around and getting things done on your day off, not pancakes that make you feel like taking a four-hour nap at midday. And with all this recent talk about "summer's over," I think it best that we steer clear of anything that could be mistaken for hibernation. Onward!

Zucchini Bread-Banana Bread Pancakes
This pancake base uses oat flour, rather than all-purpose flour, and the almond meal is completely optional. I sometimes use ground flax or brown rice protein instead. Don't worry about messing these up -- it's pretty much impossible to do!  (photo viewable on Instagram link)

1/4 C grated zucchini, moisture squeezed out
1 small ripe banana
1 egg
1 t agave
1/4 C milk (any kind will do -- I lean toward unsweetened coconut milk)
1/4 C oat flour or ground oats
1/8 C almond meal
1/4 t cinnamon
1/2 t vanilla
pinch of baking powder
dash each of nutmeg and allspice
pinch of salt

Mash banana in a bowl. Mix in egg with a fork. Add zucchini, banana, milk, vanilla, and agave. Combine oat flour, almond meal, cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, baking powder, and salt. Add dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and mix until combined. Cook by 1/3 cupfuls on a hot, greased griddle and flip when bubbles appear on the tops and undersides are golden brown.

You can also make these with just the zucchini or just the banana. I've added applesauce and pumpkin to the batter before, and (as mentioned above) they just aren't very mess-up-able. As long as you have what looks like pancake batter, you should be just fine!

Stack pancakes sandwich-style with almond butter in between and anything you'd like on top. I lean towards apricots and apples lately, but nearly any fruit would do! These keep well in the fridge, and can be heated up nicely in the toaster or microwave. Makes 3-5 pancakes.

Tea Party

Spring is springing, you know, and that means we shall all put our kettles and teacups away! We're soon due, you know, for vats and vats of iced tea. Prepare your pitchers and pans and glasses! Prepare your ice (only the finest!) and assemble your tea bags. Most importantly, though, get your iced tea spoons ready! What's that, you say? You haven't any iced tea spoons? Sit down, then, and listen up. I'll tell you a story.

My maternal grandmother was by no stretch of the imagination a Southern belle. She did, however, take iced tea very, very seriously. In her house, there were iced tea glasses, iced tea spoons, and an iced tea pitcher. This is what you called them, and this is what they were for. Iced tea. When one set the table for lunch or supper (a job designated to me my entire childhood and beyond), one set the iced tea spoons and iced tea glasses in their proper places. Even if you weren't a sugar-in-the-tea person, you still got a spoon, since you never knew when someone might become a sugar convert overnight. I loved this job. I still do, and when I set my table or my mom's table now, a wave of quiet nostalgia sweeps through me, and I deeply miss my grandma's tables, her dishes, and her tea.

What next, you may ask? Well, the table-setter has been designated, and now the vote is cast: tea or water? Even if we weren't at my grandma's, and it was just dinner at home with my immediate family, a vote was always necessary. This is still the ritual: the cook tells the table-setter when the food is nearly ready, although sometimes the cook handles this task herself if everyone else is off galavanting around. Typically the vote takes place five minutes before the food hits the plates (because no one likes melted iced in their drinks). The cook's command is, take the drink orders! or more commonly, see what people want to drink! or sometimes simply do the glasses!, or if things are feeling more rushed, damn it! we still need drinks! someone?!

Everyone is asked if they want tea or water. This means you may have either tea or water. If you want an additional beverage, you can get it yourself. But everyone has tea or water. You can choose, but come hell or high water, we will all be properly hydrated. There's a reason that this system has worked for generations. I mean, the hydration has paid off -- 

we do all have really nice skin, after all! The votes are collected, and the drinks are poured. 

Everyone gets ice. The tea isn't flavored. It's regular black tea, although it's always decaffeinated if you're in my parent's house or my house. Sometimes you drink a lot of tea at a meal, and you don't want to be more affected than necessary (the liquor that you're drinking alongside your tea will take care of getting you affected). I do wish I had a nickel for every time I've asked tea or water?, as I've likely spoken this more than I've said anything else in my life. It's good to think about this; about how much good fortune has roared through me during my life; how many family meals I've been lucky enough to be a part of. 

                                                

As I set the table each time, I'd crack the ice cubes from their trays into the ice pan, and my grandma would remind me to put 7 ice cubes in her iced-tea glass and 8 in my grandpa's. Was this just a trick to make me learn how to count? Certainly not. You may recall that I tend to be quite particular about things like ice amounts, so it's no surprise. Precision runs in the family. To this day, I find myself counting the ice cubes in my own glass, perhaps taking one out, putting some back in, taking another out. It needs to be right. A good, properly crafted drink is a very important thing.

I don't really recall a time when I didn't drink iced tea at my grandparents' house, and my mother remembers it the same way. Was I drinking iced tea when I was two years old? It's quite possible. The iced tea at my grandma's, as well as the iced tea of my mom's, was and is straightforward. Black tea, or a black tea/orange pekoe blend, typically in the form of Lipton, is the name of the game. These days, my mom and I usually make decaf iced tea, and I tend to mix it up a bit; green tea sometimes, rooibos or herbal tea the next. Sometimes a mixture if I'm feeling adventuresome! 

My grandma made it incredibly strong and dark, and, back in the day, she'd doctor hers up with spoonfuls of white sugar. Later on, she moved on to Sweet n' Low packets, which she called pinkies. As in, Honey, hand me a few pinkies, would you? I loved it when I could beat her to the punch and offer her the pinkies before she even asked me to pass them.

The glasses were tall, and without iced tea spoons, you were completely screwed, because Lord knows you would never stir your tea with a table knife, lest you be sent away from the family forever. I have always taken my iced tea without sugar, although I love using iced tea spoons, so sometimes I will stir my tea in its glass and pretend that I'm making something happen. Occasionally, I will make a pitcher of sweetened iced tea, so the sugar will already be in it, but sometimes I'll add sugar to my glass of tea just so I can taste the syrupy sludge at the bottom of the glass.

I think often about long, elegant iced tea spoons, and other such utensils that basically only have one purpose. It seems crazy, and yet I am madly in love with this kind of crazy. My own iced tea spoons live in a drawer where they rarely see the light of day. And while they seem so elegant, one will read in any etiquette manual that they should never be part of place setting for a fancy meal. When the iced tea spoon has been used for stirring, I've learned, one should never place it back on the table. Either place it on a saucer or on an iced tea spoon rest. If there is no designated resting place for it, and it's a very informal setting, you may rest it on the edge or your plate, but if it's an affair that's a bit fancier, or you're surrounded by people you don't know very well, you keep the spoon in the glass and hold it to the side while you drink. Take notes, people! You never know where you'll end up and what kinds of things you'll be offered.

Iced tea spoons are often called soda spoons, too, and at my grandparents', they were the tool of choice for an ice cream soda, such as a purple cow, a Boston cooler, or a Coke float. If you order a milkshake or an ice cream soda at any restaurant, chances are very good that you'll be provided with an iced tea spoon to get the job done well. And if you're in the South and you're in the market for a set of flatware, you'll likely find iced tea spoons as a part of the set, as they will typically take the place of soup spoons. I mean, who wants to eat soup when you're soggy and melting? Head up north a bit, though, and it'll become trickier and trickier to locate iced tea spoons, especially in the winter. 

My iced tea spoons are from a thrift shop, and I tend to polish them even when they don't need to be polished. My mom and my grandma taught me how to polish silver, and when I open the jar of polish and wet the sponge, I suddenly feel like I'm doing something very useful and important, akin to the setting of the table. I'll keep on track with this system, I know, because our roots are divine. Our traditions hold us. Even now, when I eat lunch or dinner at home by myself, I always ask myself the question: tea or water? In the winter, I may lean towards water, but once spring and summer are upon us, I'll always always go for the tea. 

 

Take Two

If it's 6 pm and I'm drinking coffee, then something must be wrong.

It's similar, I'd reckon, to a regular person having a cocktail at 10 am. In my case, though, I'm currently drinking to try and find myself, not to try and lose myself. And, sadly, it's decaf. And there's a good chance it'll be followed by a cocktail. But still, you're welcome to feel a little sorry for me if you'd like.

First of all, my coffee was terrible this morning. Something in the preparation went completely awry. I made it the exact same way I always do, and yet it was horrible: thin, weak, and with basically no redeeming qualities at all. I drank half of it and then gave up, too frustrated and too hurried to try again. I contemplated getting my hands on another coffee once I was at work, but I convinced myself that water was a better choice. I was wrong.

I was obsessed with my mistake all day. My morning's broken ritual caused me to feel like my day hadn't ever really begun, and as a result, I felt like I was spinning myself around in a hamster wheel for hours. I thought obsessively about everything I would do right when I made coffee next, everything I would do to avoid another cup of coffee that was not only reminiscent of diner coffee, but also a complete embarrassment and a day-wrecker. Once I was home, and we had gone for our out-of-sorts walk on the beach, and I had cleaned up the out-of-sorts kitchen and given Murray his out-of-sorts supper, I just couldn't take it anymore. The espresso pot taunted me and the coffee beans smelled like a miracle. And I had to have coffee. I had to try again. I had to prove that I could make a decent cup of coffee and I had to re-start my day. And I did.

So here I am now, having consumed a very civilized cup of coffee, ready to start my day. It's 6:24 pm, so I'll have to make it quick, but it can be done. I'm feeling a great deal better, more equipped then I've been for the past ten hours. I'm thinking about what Abraham Lincoln said when presented one day with a beverage by a hotel waiter: If this is coffee, please bring me some tea, but if this is tea, please bring me some coffee. 

I get that Abe, I really do. I have such little tolerance for food and drink that isn't up to par. The thing, though, is this. I really don't want the beluga sturgeon caviar and the foie gras from the fanciest goose. I just want the thing I order to be a good version of the thing it's supposed to be. And in the case of this morning, I needed to kindly ask the server (um, that would be me) to go back to the kitchen and fix the mistake. This isn't a free-for-all, I told her. This isn't a small matter. This is the tool that carves my day! This is important. This is coffee. So let's start fresh, because it's never too late for a second take. And considering the way things are going, there might even be pancakes for dinner.

Peas On Earth

Let's talk about that pea under your mattress. You know, that one that's there to determine whether or not you're a princess. The one that was so unbearably painful to sleep on last night. While it's been useful for its intended purpose, I recommend we put it to even better use! I recommend to you an incredibly comforting, yet wildly unsexy dish: peas & peanuts.

I'm so anxious to know all sorts of things: have you had peas & peanuts before? Do you love it? Do you hate it? Did you grow up eating it? Do you live in Michigan? Tell me everything!

I'll tell you what I know about peas & peanuts. It's remarkable, I think. And yet I totally understand how someone might think it's too strange to fully embrace. Many things are like this, I think. Egg salad, bulldogs, Devendra Banhart, unagi, children, dollar stores. You know.

Peas & peanuts is definitely a salad, I'd say. I'm unsure as to its origin, although it seems to be pretty popular in Michigan, and its pure quirkiness (as well as its unapologetic mayonnaise base) tells me that its been around for many decades. I first had peas & peanuts at Bluebird in Leland, Michigan, and theirs is still the best I've had. Even though this recipe has very few ingredients, I've found that it's tricky to get it perfectly balanced. I've seen recipes that call for a myriad of other ingredients, like Miracle Whip, bacon, or raw onion, and I've gotta say I'd recommend keeping it a bit simpler than that. Experiment with the base and then, after that, feel free to go crazy. I've been working in the perfect balance of salt and sweet with this recipe, and I feel confident that this is a good starter pack for the peas & peanuts novice.

Peas & peanuts. It's crunchy, it's smooth, it has snap and it has flair. It's not necessarily sophisticated, but who on earth needs sophisticated when you've got something so remarkably satisfying and delicious in front of you? It's good in moderation, but it also can be addictive enough to warrant eating an entire bowlful. I have come to love it as the start to a meal, but it's also excellent with pizza for some reason. I love peas & peanuts because it's extremely unlikely. It's somewhat ridiculous, this salad, but it's comforting and incredibly good. It's just the thing you need, whether you're a princess or not.

Peas and Peanuts For One

1/3 C frozen peas, thawed
1/3 C Spanish peanuts
2 T sour cream
1 t mayonnaise
1 t sugar
1/4 t garlic powder
drizzle of Worcestershire
squeeze of lemon
dashes of salt and pepper

Whisk together sour cream, mayo, sugar, garlic powder, Worcestershire, lemon, salt, and pepper. Add peas and peanuts and stir to combine. Season to taste. Serve with a terrible romantic comedy on the couch.

Kale For President

If only the universe would shut up about kale. I mean, even kale wants everyone to shut up about kale. It's exhausting! Completely, utterly exhausting. 

Yes, we know it's healthy. Supremely healthy. Yes, we know that it is a miraculous gift given to the world by some sort of magical creature (who thinks it's absolutely HYSTERICAL to watch us angrily wrestle those giant, obtrusive ribs out of the kale before we eat it). And, yes, we know that everyone who is anyone is eating a giant vat of kale right this very second. Pretty people eat kale. Smart people eat kale. Good people eat kale. I know, I know! We get it!

I suppose this is the best time to admit, then, that I actually do like kale. But, wait! I'm not one of them! I promise! Here's the thing. I definitely didn't always like it, and there are still times when I wonder if I would still eat kale if it wouldn't have gotten so famous. I wonder this about most of the foods that I eat, actually.

And my relationship with kale has been a bit of a rough and unusual road. But here's the thing. First of all, lacinato kale is the only way to go. Do NOT make me prepare curly kale, or I will stab your eyeballs out with a kale rib. I do not like finding small creatures in my vegetables, and curly kale practically pays insects to roost in its fancy curls. Lacinato kale, though, is flatter, easier to manage, and has lots of cool nicknames, like dinosaur kale, Tuscan cabbage, and palm tree kale. Yes, it has massive ribs that, when removed from an entire bunch, leave approximately one tablespoon worth of kale. And, yes, many a bunch of lacinato kale has rotted in my refrigerator, the rot initiated no doubt by the icy, guilt-ridden stares I give it when I see it lurking in the drawer. But, still, it's the best kind of kale.

As I've mentioned in the past, I make a mean kale salad, and that's what really got me started on this obnoxious vegetable that insisted on making its way into my life. I also had an incredible encounter with kale a few weeks ago, and it's really gotten me thinking. So, here's the dish: grits and kale tacos at Bullhead Cantina, this terrific, albeit severely understaffed, new restaurant in my neighborhood. They're perfect, these tacos. A dollop of smooth white grits, a pile of garlicky sauteed kale, and this endearingly sweet harissa-pineapple-bourbon reduction. I will eat these things until the cows come home. They sound awful. But they're truly life-altering.

I've taken this recipe into my own kitchen, and so far it has become a really hearty, lovely breakfast of grits and kale, minus the tortillas. Garlic, yes. Fried onions, yes. Cheese in those grits? Of course. I'm working on the perfect tomato-pineapple chutney to serve with this dish, but I'm not quite there yet. I love the purity of this dish, and I love that it's suitable for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I love that I could put it into a tortilla, or not. I love that it's simple and beautiful. And, yes, it's healthy. It might even be hip. And no, I am not collecting a million dollar prize for admitting that. Watch out kale! You're fancy and important, but I've got my eye on you. Don't you dare try to pull a quick one on me! I'm watching you. 

(No need for an actual recipe! Sauté chopped kale in olive oil and garlic. Prepare grits with water, a splash of cream, butter, salt, pepper, hot sauce, and cheese. Top with something crunchy or put it in a tortilla. That's all!)

Dog Valentine

When you are a dog, your main concern is love. The things you need to know are: who will give you love and when it will happen. In fact, you spend most of your days thinking about love and how to get the proper amount, the amount that will sufficiently fill up your tumbling dog-heart and your sweet dog bones. It's remarkably exhausting, to say the least. The idiom "working like a dog" came about for good reason, you know.

In an effort to accumulate his desired amount of valentine love yesterday, Murray set forth with a baking project. His dream, he told me, was to make treats for his friends at the dog park: Sidney, Nico, Kayla, Dixie, Luta, Henry, Casey, Rocky, Hunter, Oscar, Pepper, Duke, Sophie, the other Sophie, Yoshi, Bowie, Chubbs, Lulu, Sierra, Brownie, Alfie, Molly, Snickers, Ava, Mango, Doc, Apollo, Golddust, Marvin, Zinc, Emma, and, "you know, everyone else." He looked away for a moment, thinking some more about valentines. "Plus Buttercup and Charlie." I agreed. Something had to be done. 

We busied ourselves in the kitchen, choosing a recipe from The Doggy Bone Cookbook (thanks, Mom!), selecting the proper size heart-shaped cookie cutters, and creating the dog dough, which made some of us drool just to sniff the peanut butter as it was mixed in.  Forty minutes and five dozen hearts later, we were ready for assembly. Everyone would get their own bag of treats, Murray insisted, and they needed to have valentine stickers on them. Or they just wouldn't be right.

Ziploc bags are difficult when you don't have thumbs, but easier when your mother does. We taste-tested, just to make sure they were edible (they were), packed up the treats in bags, and prepared ourselves for our adventure. "Ugghhh, if I only had a backpack to put these valentines in!" Murray grumbled, impersonating Eeyore so well that it was almost eerie. "A backpack would be nice, I agreed, and I know it's frustrating to not have something when you feel like you need it, but this nice pink human bag will work just as well," I offered. He perked up, then, when he realized we were actually going outside, where zillions of scents were waiting for his very nose. And then we were off!

Murray followed me as I delivered the valentines to the humans, and he sat patiently in the snow with each delivery, hoping to receive one of his own valentines. Luckily, he was sweet about his friends getting the treats, and, luckily, he is lately becoming quite easily distracted by his new orange toy as it's cast through the air. (Fetching? Not really. Watching it be thrown, lumbering over to it, gathering it in his mouth, shaking his head about, then dropping it and moving on to something more interesting, yes.)

And that was Valentines Day. I tried not to mope over my past six weeks of love lost (oh, sheesh! Andy and I are over, by the way. More about this later, when my heart is back in place), and found it all to be quite cured by grits & kale tacos, margaritas, and a few wild laughs with some girlfriends at a new taco and whiskey bar that just opened down the street. No cupid, exactly, and no candy. No love interests, and no flowers. But we had something much better. We had the furriest, peanut-butteriest, wildest romp in the snow. We had friends with tails. And, of course, we had each other. 

Here's to love!

Pea-mutt Butter Dog Treats

from The Doggy Bone Cookbook

Preheat oven to 375. Whisk together 1/4 C peanut butter, 1 T vegetable oil,  and 1 C water. Add in 2 1/4 C whole wheat flour and 1 C oatmeal. Mix well. Roll dough to 1/4" thickness and cut with cookie cutters. Place on parchment-lined cookie sheets (very close together, if you'd like!) and bake for 35 minutes. Cool and store in an airtight container (or inside a dog's stomach).

The Symptoms of Happiness

The snow will go on forever. The outside temperature will never again be above 10 degrees. I will have to wear snow pants for the rest of my life. But not all hope is lost! At least there's pie. 

When I first started out writing about food, I made a list of possible topics to cover. It started small, but days later, I was still scratching down ideas, still conjuring up hundreds of food memories that were each such a critical part of my past and such a vital part of my culinary life.

One of the first things I wrote down was that pie at Colean's. Growing up, my good friend Colean lived nearby, and I'd spend a lot of time at her house, building obstacle courses in the basement, trying to catch and pet her obese pet rabbit, listening to the fascinating slosh of her water bed, and, always, eating. Her mom, Gloria, was a big cook and baker, and seemed to always be trying out something new in the kitchen every time I came over to play. I'd be invited to stay for dinner, and I always hoped it would be her teriyaki flank steak, coarsely cut across the grain, dripping with salty sweetness, and igniting what has now become a deep love for those incredibly complex, carefully-balanced Asian-style sauces. 

(And what is it about young girls and steak, anyway? I laugh as I write that question, but I think of my teriyaki steak obsession every time I hear one of my female students declare that their favorite food is steak. I've taken careful mental notes over the years, and I'm continually astounded by how many 8-12 year-old girls are absolutely obsessed with steak. I was very much that steak-obsessed girl, too, and it baffles me to this day. Steak just doesn't really do it for me these days, but damn! I loved it when I was younger.)

So, I was eleven years old. The obstacle course had worn us out, and it was time for dinner. We'd have teriyaki steak, and potatoes, and a vegetable, and I remember thinking that my mom would be proud that I was eating a well-rounded meal. (See, mom? It worked! You taught me the power of a square meal without making me thinking it was lame! How'd you do it?) Despite that fact that Colean and I would be constantly corrected for singing at the kitchen table, I always loved eating there. Eating at friends' houses was exciting and valuable, like going on a mini-vacation. It was fascinating and delicious to see how other people lived and ate, but I was always excited to go home, be with my family, and eat the food that I knew. 

There was a lot of baking going on in Colean's house, and yet I only remember two particular desserts. First, I came over one day to a giddy Colean, waving her arms around as she danced through the kitchen, announcing, Welcome! We have freshly baked Rice Krispie treats! I was polite enough to keep it to myself, but all I could think was, Rice Krispie treats aren't baked. How can someone not know this? 

The second dessert was this. This pie. Straight out of the Junior League cookbook (which at the time had just been published), this was my first peanut butter pie and, with any luck, it'll also be my last. It's an outstanding pie. I only had it that one time at Colean's, but I always wanted it again, and would hope for it madly as I rode my bike over to her house. I was too shy to ask her mom to make it again, and I remember thinking, I'm going to have to make this pie every day when I grow up.  

I got to it a bit earlier than that, though. This was, in fact, the first pie I ever made by myself, crust and all. And now that I'm grown up, and I've had the good fortune of eating and baking a great many peanut butter pies, I still love this one the very most. Perhaps it's because this pie is truly very well-balanced, or because it reminds me of being full-throttle happy and free, or because I associate it with that pure exuberance I get when I eat something and know that I can replicate it in my kitchen with my own two hands. No matter the reason, this pie makes me unendingly happy, just like it did the first time I had it. 

When tasked with a dessert for Thanksgiving with Andy's family last November, I made this pie for the first time in years. Praying it was decent, I snuck a small bite before everyone else so that I could confirm it wasn't poison (this is something I always try to do with a cake or pie that I take somewhere to share, although I laugh now as I think about it -- if it was bad, what would I actually do? Stand on the table and announce, "DO NOT EAT THE PIE! WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EAT THE PIE!"? I'm not sure. But this, fortunately, was not the case at Thanksgiving. My surreptitious bite confirmed that it was edible, and even quite good, so I relaxed a bit. But when Andy's grandma tasted it, she smiled her grandma-approval smile, and she commended me on a pie well done. And grandma approval? Well, that's true success. That's not good pie, that's perfect pie. That's true happiness.

Peanut Butter Pie

from the Springfield, IL Junior League Cookbook

1 C  + 3 T powdered sugar (divided)

1/2 C creamy peanut butter

1 baked pie shell

2/3 C sugar

1/4 C cornstarch

1/8 t salt

2 C milk, scalded

3 egg yolks, beaten

2 T butter

1 t vanilla

1 C whipping cream

chopped peanuts, peanut butter chips, and chocolate shavings for garnish

Blend 1 C powdered sugar with peanut butter until mixture resembles tiny pellets (I use a handmixer or food processor for this). Cover bottom of pie shell with half of the mixture. Combine cornstarch, sugar, and salt in top of a double boiler. In a separate bowl, slowly pour scalded milk into egg yolks while whisking. Pour egg-milk mixture into double boiler, whisking over medium heat. Stirring constantly, cook until pudding is smooth and thick, lowering the temperature if it reaches a high boil.

Remove pudding from heat and add butter and vanilla. Working quickly so that the pudding will melt the peanut butter, pour half of the pudding into the pie shell. Cover with remaining peanut butter mixture, and then top with remaining pudding. Cover and chill for at least 4 hours. 

Combine whipping cream and 3 T powdered sugar. Whip until soft peaks form. Spread whipped cream over pie and top with garnishes.

Note of deliciousness: while I do appreciate that this pie doesn't rely on chocolate to cloud its peanut buttery magic, I do often serve the slices on top of a small puddle of hot fudge. Which is amazing, but you could also serve slices on top of small mud puddles and it would still be really good.

The Holes In Our Hearts

 

It's only in the empty spaces that we can grow. 

Just about two years ago, when the last of my two grandfathers (pictured here with my grandmother) passed away, I remember thinking about emptiness more than I ever had before. Having your own emptiness is easier, I realized, than watching someone else suffer from emptiness, from a deep and transformative loss. 

There's this place of pain in between change and growth, and it's truly a force to be reckoned with. We can (and beautifully do) offer support to those who are hurting in the form of hugs, well wishes, laughter, kind words, and perhaps a cake -- and these actions are vital. They carry us when we can't carry ourselves. They keep us alive when we think we can't go on. But the only true healer is time. It's really only in the empty space, in the span of time where pain grows abundantly, that we can find ourselves again.

I look deeply at this photograph of my grandparents in 1955, and I suddenly remember why photography is so important to me. Good photographs are good because of the emptiness they contain. The best photos leave you asking dozens of questions but also manage to satisfy you and tell you a important story. They fill in an empty space while they create an empty space, which feels to be the perfect system, and the perfect representation of how we tend to live our lives. Empty? Fill. Fill? Empty. It's engrained, but I love the idea of trying to ditch that system, at least for a little while. So I'm trying to be patient, trying to figure out how to be less urgent in my intentions, less urgent in my desire to fill everything that feels so empty.

And so, as 2014 begins, I am trying to embrace emptiness: more spaces between glasses and mugs in the cabinets, a shelf with nothing on it, fewer shoes, an empty breadbox, time in which my body isn't moving frantically in order to get from point A to point B. Fewer things, more time, more air for breathing. The things we've lost, both willingly and unwillingly, are gone perhaps so that we can live more deeply and purposefully. Having things and being full make us feel good, but our real truths can only be seen when we have less. Crisis strikes or emptiness fills us and then, suddenly, the world can see who we actually are. When we have fewer things, cleaner slates, and emptier hearts, we are our real selves, and only then can we begin to truly understand the true depths of happiness and the possibilities of the human heart.   

I wish you a very happy and purposeful 2014, my dear readers. Take your time, honor emptiness, and live as big of a life as you can. And may you be patient with the holes in your hearts this year. You do, truly, deserve it.

The note that accompanied the photograph of my grandparents: a friend or relative had come across the photo and mailed it to them decades later. (And, yes, steak! Also, for some amazing reason, Hershey's Syrup.)

Food That Works

Person #1: Are you hungry?

Person #2: Yeah, are you?

Person #1: What do you feel like?

Person #2: Oh, I don't know...a sandwich, maybe? But I don't have much money. But I don't know where we'd go, since I only like really super-hot sandwiches. I'm not sure where to get something like that.

Person #1: That actually sounds pretty good. I'm so hungry right now, though. I wish I could have a sandwich right this second, while we're getting gas in the car at pump #2.

Person #2: I know, me too...WAIT A SECOND! What's this?! HOT HOT Breakfast Sandwich? Here?! At the gas station? For only $1.99?!

Person #1: We have to have it! Do you think they only have one sandwich available? Can you go check?

Person #2: (scampering to the gas station shop) I'm on it!

Rabbits, Grapefruit, Dog: The Best of 2013

RABBIT, RABBIT.

That should be the very first thing you say in the new year if you want the very best luck to come to you. If you neglected to do it this time around, then consider your good luck granted to you personally by me. And go ahead and braise some rabbits in 2014. Now that's good luck!

Everyone! Thanks so very much for being with me this year. It's been fast and slow and beautiful, fierce and shy and kind. I love sharing my food life with you, and I'm happy you're here. In no particular order, here are my top picks from 2013.

Happy 2014 and be well!

Tomato juice. Cocktail onions. Green peppers. Kohlrabi. Mussels. And, yes, grapefruit. These are a few of the things I've been trying to like for YEARS. So far, I've come part way on only one: grapefruit. I still don't like to eat grapefruit, but acquiring new tastes is quite a process for me sometimes. I do now have a newfound love for the urgent, tart, and earthy juice of a ruby red, especially in a cocktail or a smoothie. And that's progress!

I've realized and admitted that there isn't a time of day that I don't want to eat a hardboiled egg. I love them for every meal and every in-between, and I've even taken to having one before my coffee in the morning. Cooked just right, with deep but bright yellow yolks, they are sun pulling through the clouds. If I'm lucky enough to get my hands on some truly fresh eggs, I relish those creamy orange yolks, a true reward for a city girl like me. I crack the shell off on the cutting board, peel with a rebellion and an irreverence that is very unlike me, and slice it in half with a knife that's perfect for the job -- one whose blade is just as tall as the egg is when it's laying on its side. Cracks of black pepper, some flakes of Maldon salt, and sometimes a thin drizzle of olive oil, a tiny smear of Brownwood Farms Kream Mustard, or a little dollop of sweet relish. Really, why should egg salad have all the fun?

I am just now getting to know this versatile, delicious sauce, and, for crying out loud, I don't even know what "UB" means yet! I can't imagine a meat that wouldn't pair well with it, and I see it as a condiment/marinade/potion that could really take the world by storm. The square bottle itself is lovely, but the sauce is the real star. Good on everything? I plan on finding out just how true that is. 

Why would I buy a bag of quickly-drying-out Brussels sprouts for twice the cost of AN ENTIRE STALK of fresh, bright-green gems? (Well, as it turns out, a stalk has a lot of sprouts and unless you have a family of twelve, it may be slow work getting through the entire thing before it starts looking less-than-beautiful. But they do freeze, and what kind of person would pass up a stalk of something that is not only supremely nutritious and lush but that also makes a perfect weapon?)

Oregon Fruit Products, where do I begin? Your products are so magical, but your distribution is so spotty. This is challenging for me as a lover of your canned Royal Anne Cherries, but I will blame it on the grocery store buyers in Chicago, who seem to think that this product is not as important as I do. Happy was I several weeks ago when I stumbled upon four jars of these cherries in a tiny, cramped, and truly amazing supermarket called Big Apple Foods. Yes, they are $6 a can, and yes, they are worth it! I love that this company has been around for ages, and their beautiful art deco-style labels are hard to beat. Grown in the Pacific Northwest, I plan on sending my dear friend and Seattle-dweller Aimee to the farm to make friends with these fruit guys. Besides being a key ingredient in my great-great grandmother's ambrosia recipe, I've been using them lately to pair with this incredible cheese from Idyll Farms:

Which brings me to #6 on the list! This new(ish) Alpine goat farm and creamery on Michigan's Leelanau Peninsula has simply turned my world around. These folks (and goats!) create the kind of cheese that makes you want to never eat any other goat cheese for the rest of your life. It is the deepest, steadiest, smoothest, and most sublime cheese I have ever had. What I know is that everyone involved in this operation is doing everything right, and it shows. From the gregarious, charming man who sells their cheeses at the Northport Farmers Market, to the people who turned their lives 180 degrees to start this farm and create the thing they love most, it's a perfect model of business, and the perfect model of cheese. Does Murray like this cheese? Yes, of course. He does, after all, know when a cheese is destined for greatness. Thank you, Idyll Farms. You are not only the finest cheese I have tasted this year, but honestly the best I have tasted in my entire 34 years. Keep it up! It's beautiful.

Speaking of Murray, who has a new year's resolution of losing about ten pounds, loves this peanut butter even more than its over-sugared, over-salted for-humans counterpart. A whisper of this stuff in his purple Kong and he is transfixed, transported, and, frankly, the happiest dog on the planet. As he's working on licking it out of his toy, he glances up at me every once in awhile to just gaze at me with the brightest eyes and a smile of true gratitude. (Plus, I buy one and one is given to a needy dog? Yes please!)

My brother's girlfriend, Roisin, has absolutely excellent taste in gifts, and she's so good at choosing exactly the right thing for everyone. In fact, last year, she made the Best of 2012 list! Remember that amazing list book that I am so madly in love with? From her! So, she got me these really good dish scrubbers made of peach pits. Stronger, less gross, and less blue than SOS pads, they are amazing in that they will remove any gunk or funk but won't ever scratch your dishes -- not even your nonstick pans! And they are machine-washable! Miracle of science, miracle of gift-giving, miracle of scrub-ability.

I've been trying to de-gluten this past year, and I couldn't have done it without these amazing products. Versatile and supremely healthy, they are absolutely perfect for baking. So, watch out, wheat! Brown rice and oats are coming, and they're wielding Brussels sprout stalks!

Speaking of not eating gluten, I just can't get enough of this doughnut chain in the Chicago suburbs called Spunky Dunkers. First of all, try to find a better name for a doughnut shop. You can't! Second, try to find a more Mayberry-like interior, old-timey and practically surreal. Third, these doughnuts are really, really good.

Dish of the year: chop chae. It's a Korean miracle! I've always loved noodle dishes, but this one was the true winner this year. Relatively easy to make, chop chae is the perfect balance of flavors, and is endlessly satisfying. Glassy, glossy sweet potato noodles, cabbage, carrot, and green onion, all stir-fried in sesame oil and sweetened soy sauce, this dish is simple and perfect. I add Sriracha, peanuts, lime, which gives it a Thai-sort of flair. This is the dish I could eat every single day. 

I have a newfound love for pears. Bosc, Anjou, Comice, Bartlett: give me all your pears! I like them a bit battered but still somewhat firm, and I always want them with cheese. Want to impress me? Bring me a ripe wedge of Camembert, a hardboiled egg, a slice of rustic, pillowy bread, and a pear. Add on a cup of coffee or a glass of Prosecco, and I am all yours. Oh, and is that a square of dark chocolate in your bag? Sounds perfect.

In early November, we took a venture to Ohio to visit my dear and darling friend, Meghan, who birthed a splendid little girl in July. It had been ages since we'd seen each other, because this country did its best to keep us very far apart for several years. But we were together again, and cooking side by side in her kitchen like we used to. With our other friends giggling and clinking out in the yard to collectively maintain the pork on the grill, the two of us fell back into our kitchen system, shimmying around each other, stepping over dogs, slicing, searing, boiling pots over, laughing, and cursing. We'd stop to just look at each other sometimes, marveling at our good fortune. Though only for one dinner, we were together again, dancing our kitchen dance, and riding the cooking wave that we started on over a decade ago when we were so lucky as to live together. Dinner at Meghan's that night wasn't just a meal. It was a chapter in a book, a breeze through my heart, a piece of perfection.

Lucky Break Wishbones, you do it all! You stand in for all those real wishbones that are too small, too greasy, and never plentiful enough. You look like a real wishbone, you feel like a real wishbone, and when I buy a pack of 50, you give everyone at the Thanksgiving table multiple opportunities to get the bigger half. Brilliant, beautiful, and fair: just like every turkey dreams of being.

Sugar, you know, is a drug. These gummi bears, though, they're a lifestyle. The company is called Albanese, and every one of their jewely bears has a tiny A on its belly to prove it. Headquartered in Merrillville, Indiana, which is about an hour from Chicago, the outlet store calls to me, begging me to come to this land of colored sugar, where every one of the twelve flavors is about as perfect as an artificial flavor can be. And they aren't ordinary gummi bears. They are the softest, most perfectly chewy bears on the planet. Distribution is awkward: Roisin (who introduced me to these bears!) and I like to get them at the butcher shop, Gepperth's, on Halsted, but some small grocery stores carry them too. Every store that carries the bears buys in bulk and bags or boxes them up in their own way, so it's important to always look for the most airtight packaging you can find. Fresh and shining like perfect gems, this is the candy I hate to love. But I do. See that seafoam green-colored one? That's the very best flavor.

Ninety-nine cents. That's it. This bottle of salty, spicy, silky hot sauce will cost you less than a persimmon. It's sold everywhere in Chicago, although I suspect distribution is perhaps limited to the city only. They also offer a giant bottle (at least a liter) for $2.99, which leads me to think that if you called the factory and asked nicely, they would probably fill up your bathtub with this stuff for less than ten bucks. For once, I have set aside the Cholula. It's Valentina for now.

Speaking of budget deals, this is the finest $11 bottle of whiskey this side of anywhere. Clean, sharp, and smooth, and suitable for mixing or drinking by itself, this is my whiskey of the year.

Another golden liquid in a tall bottle! Rice bran oil, as it turns out, is the new grapeseed oil. Extracted from the germ and inner husk of rice, rice bran oil is notable for its VERY high smoke point of 450 degrees. This means you can fry with less splattering or get things golden brown or perfectly crispy without burning them, and, like grapeseed oil, it's touted for its health benefits. It's also excellent in just about any scenario that would typically call for vegetable oil or olive oil. It's light, versatile, and, basically, a total powerhouse in the kitchen.

My kitchen towels used to plague me. They were all different, and not all of them were actually good at kitchen tasks like wiping, drying, absorbing, and scrubbing. Every time I needed a fresh towel, I dreaded it. The choice was overwhelming. Do I pick the absorbent one that leaves white lint on everything? Do I pick the one that is beautiful but not very business-oriented? Or, I just dried my hands with this soft one, and now I want to use it to wipe the counter, but I can't because I don't want to stain it! This other one is in tatters but it's the most effective towel I have! Help! Finally, this year, I came to my senses. I ditched them all for an entire case of bar mops. Every one, identical. No hemming and hawing. Every last one, durable, absorbent, and practical. They are simple, and they do it all. Bleachable and perfect. When one gets holes or stains, I'm not sad about letting it go. There are dozens in the stack on the hutch, and I won't lie -- the uniformity is really, really appealing to me.

Last but not least! Not only #20 in the list, but my #1 love this year, and by far the most important and beautiful project I have ever embarked upon. Murray started his job as my sous chef in January, and he got off to a VERY rocky start. He was blockaded out of the kitchen in those days because he wouldn't let me just cook. He broke through and over blockades though, which was both infuriating and hysterical. Now I know that he, like anyone in a new kitchen, needs time to understand the space and find the best way to use it. Now that we know each other well, and our hearts understand each other, we can cook together and be together in one of the most fluid partnerships I've ever had. 

So, thanks, Murray. You are my near-perfect cooking companion. My in-the-way rug, my patient friend, my gentle giant. My muse, my peace, and my official cheese-taster. My always-there-for-me, always-happy, always-eager, forever calm polar bear. The gentlest, most loving animal I could ever have the pleasure of knowing. My kitchen dog. My mascot. Murray.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Lots of love to you and those you love.