Chai + Chai + Chai = Sunday

(This mismatched teacup and saucer makes me feel so reckless!)

Remember when Oprah invented masala chai last year? Oh, wait a second. Sometimes I get "Oprah last year" confused with the ancient kingdoms of South Asia thousands of years ago. They're pretty similar, after all. Don't worry, it's confusing stuff.

I've been reading Climbing the Mango Trees by Madhur Jaffrey, and it's incredibly, wonderfully inspiring. Growing up, you'll learn, her life was simultaneously wild and safe, and it was packed deeply with the aromas, foods, beauty, challenges, and culinary memories of her culture. There's loads of fascinating history, and all of that remarkable storytelling that she does, and it will change the way you think. It will, possibly, have you fervently making a grocery list as you read, and, after the first sentence or two, it might inspire you to drop everything you know and attempt to turn your entire culinary world into hers. Just like when you watch Pulp Fiction and you want a Big Kahuna burger, but slightly more refined.

While there's actually not much masala chai drinking going on in the book (yet), I still have been thinking about it a great deal, and yesterday I made a batch that I plowed through rather (embarrassingly) quickly. Today, batch number two came about, and, well, you know the rest. It's so simple yet so complex, just like the perfect story, and just like the perfect meal. It's sweet and savory and it kind of makes me a little less cross about the whole winter thing that's been going on lately. And here we are now, you and me, both thinking about chai. Probably you should go make some right away. 

Masala Chai

makes approximately 8 cups

4-6 inches of ginger, peeled a bit and sliced into thin rounds

12-16 cardamom pods

3 t black peppercorns

3 cinnamon sticks

10-12 whole cloves

1 vanilla bean, sliced in half lengthwise

6 C water

6 bags of black tea (or the equivalent of looseleaf tea)

2 C whole or 2% milk 

1/2 C packed brown sugar

Combine the first five ingredients* in a pot or dutch oven. Crush and bruise the spices using whatever tool you have that works best. I use the flat side of a wooden mallet, or a wooden pestle. Add the water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover partially, and simmer for 10-15 minutes. Remove from the heat and add the tea. Steep 5 minutes, discard tea bags (if using), and add the milk and sugar. Bring the tea to a simmer over high heat for just a minute, whisking constantly until the sugar dissolves. Strain the tea and serve. I've found that ladling the tea into a French press and straining that way is very successful, although any sort of fine mesh strainer would do.

*Vanilla bean is a very American addition to masala chai, but I really like it. You can also add many other spices, so experiment a bit. Star anise, nutmeg, mace, licorice root, fennel seed, bay leaf, coriander are all interesting additions.

 

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