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.