Seasonal Shmegegee: Buttercup Soup

As I was walking home from the gym, swearing to god I’d be a better Jew if he could give me the strength to say no to carbs this holiday season, I passed by my local farmer’s market.

It occurred to me that my empty-fridge approach to dieting was not a good one. Weight Watchers grants dieters unlimited amounts of certain foods; sexy stuff like water, broccoli, celery and carrots; fibrous fat free alternatives to my usual chocolate, pasta, and cheese. It's best to fill up on the forgiving when trying to lose weight.

I’m not sure what attracts the hipsters to my market, but that’s who lurks amongst the cruciferous vegetables and tubers. From what I can tell, these folks purchase vegetables as a conversation point or as decor for their home, an alternate to bye-bye Bush chatter, and that retro ashtray.



Lest ye think I fib, witness the following short conversation I heard while waiting on line:

Customer 1: “Those beets you're holding are like, amazing looking. They like still have their stems and leaves. They’re so cute and like, real and beet-y, and like from the farm. I love them.”

Customer 2: “Yah, I know, I had to have them. I totally love them.”

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Customer 2: “Want to hear something really crazy?”

Customer 1 gives a nonverbal invitation to crazy-share.

Customer 2 “I’ve never cooked beets.”

Customer 1: “Weird. You're a vegetarian, right? So weird.”

Customer 2: “Actually, I'm a flexitarian, so I'm an omnivore, but whatevs. Anyway beets, I mean, how hard can it be, right? Like, I’m basically going to boil them, right?”

Customer 1: (Body language indicating that she has never cooked beets.) “Or roast them, right? Like in an oven?”

Customer 2: “Yah, totally. Um, but I should like blanch them before I roast them, right?”

[Blanching a beet before roasting is like rinsing a box of dried pasta before you boil it.]

Customer 1: “Definitely. Definitely blanch them and then roast them. I mean, like, you have to. Or they'd be gross.”

Customer 2: “Yah. Totally. They’re like so pretty. Yah.”

Listen up ladies, these are beets. Not a scarf, not earrings, not a pair of shoes. If you don’t know how to cook them, that’s okay, but admit it and then go home and figure it out. Don’t toss around terms that don’t make sense. You sound like a couple of shmegeggees, and that's not hip.


Personally, I’m totally stumped by those cute little buttercup squashes. They’re everywhere, mocking me like little orange and green striped turbans. So I took one home, and did a little web research. Three recipes for buttercups on epicurious. Only seven on foodnetwork. There are more recipes for toast.

I was like a new mother without Spock; I’d have to rely on my instincts.

So I peeled the thing (major pain the ass), sliced it and roasted it with an onion and a couple of sprigs of thyme. When it was golden and soft, I pureed it with some buttermilk and maple syrup (it’s what I had), and was in keeping with my hopes of thinness.

It was really good. Subtle, interesting; a muted peach-orange color, creamy, and a wee bit tart. Gentle. It wasn’t rocket science, but it was different and good and I’d tried something new.

Moral of the story: this fall (maybe for the holidays) pick up something you’ve never cooked before. For the sake of your waistline (and community involvement), make it a vegetable from the farmers market. Research, then give it a go. If it fails, order out. If it succeeds, you just made a new friend.

What’s to stop you? All you have to lose is that which you don't know.

Buttercup Soup
The fun in this soup is the double-butter; buttermilk, buttercup, yet virtually fat free. Even better, because of those onions it's super creamy.

Makes 4 to 6 servings.

1 small buttercup squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch wedges
1 vidalia onion, cut into 1-inch wedges
5 sprigs thyme
1 tablespoon olive oil
Salt
3/4 cup buttermilk
1 1/4 cups skim milk
1 tablespoon maple syrup
Minced chives, for garnish

1. Preheat oven to 425. Place squash, onion and thyme sprigs on a roasting pan, drizzle with oil and sprinkle with salt; toss. Place in oven until golden and soft, about 25 to 35 minutes.

2. Discard thyme sprigs, and place roasted vegetables in a blender. Add buttermilk, skim milk and maple syrup; puree. Add more liquid if needed, choose buttermilk for more tartness and skim for less.
3. Pass soup through a strainer; remove and discard solids. Adjust seasonings as desired. Serve soup warm or chilled, garnished with chives.

Don't Rely On Pie: Apple Crumble

Pie, pie, pie. Friggin’ pie.

Pie is my undoing in the fall. It taunts me from the covers of Saveur, mocks me on Martha, and sits innocently, in a $4.99 kind of way, at every two-bit grocery store in this fine democratic nation.

Friggin’pie. Every since my stint working for Martha, when she let a room full of people know that “You should never, ever make a pie crust again,” – this from the woman who has the ability to motivate women to spackle their ceilings. I sigh: pie.

But every year, I attempt the thing, and every year I zero in on what I need to do differently. I need to work the dough more, or work it less. Do more frissage (schmearing in of the butter to the flour), use my hands, use my food processor, buy a marble slab to chill, for forty days and forty nights, so that I achieve the perfect temperature and my moody-as-a-teenager dough will work with me.

And I will continue to try, because I have a dream and that dream is that I am the type of woman who can make a kick ass pie. And, because when I fail at pie, I get to enjoy my favorite morning carb: breakfast pie. (The pie is a disaster. I cannot subject others to it! But yet, I cannot waste…)

Until I get it right, when I need an I-have-5-pounds-of-fresh-picked-apples-in-my-fridge dessert, I can count on crumble. Like pie, I get that hot mushy-cinnamon-appleness, and instead of a layer of crust, there’s a pecan and brown sugar crunch topping. Plus, it gives me a reason to buy a pint of perfection: Haagen Daazs Vanilla Bean Ice Cream.

Friggin’ pie.

Apple Crumble
Makes 6 to 8 servings

For the topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup rolled oats
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small bits and chilled
1/2 cup pecans

For the fruit filling:
5 apples, combination of Rome and Golden delicious for firmness, macintosh for sauciness, peeled cored and thinly sliced
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon flour
Juice from 1/2 lemon
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 375F. For the topping: In a food processor, combine flour, oats, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pulse to combine.

2. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times until mixture has pea-sized pieces of butter mixed in with the flour and oats. Add the pecans and pulse a few more times to coarsely chop the pecans and to mix them through the topping. Transfer the topping to a bowl and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, lemon juice, and salt. Toss ingredients together. Transfer the filling into an 8 x 8-inch baking dish.

4. After the topping has chilled, loosely scatter it over the top of the fruit in the baking dish. Bake for until fruit is bubbly and top is golden, 35 to 45 minutes. Cool for 15 minutes before serving.

Marathon Carbonara

Yesterday was my favorite Sunday of the year, the New York City Marathon. The event turns the five boroughs inside-out (forget about driving), with over 2 million spectators cheering on 40,000 runners.

The marathon doesn’t suffer from the obvious consumerism of the Thanksgiving parade; this event feels like the city itself; difficult, sweaty, and leaves you panting, but encourages you just as you’re about to give up, and helps you over the finish line. It’s a tangible manifestation of love and support, self-imposed challenges and successfully rising to that challenge.

I ran it in 2005 and loved every minute of it (though the training, not so much). I make it a point to scream my head off in support of the runners every year. For those who couldn’t make it, or who want to relive it, join me for:

The Six Faces of the NYC Marathon
Face 1: The anticipation of the runners. The faithful are out before the race, coffee and pom poms in hand. They are largely friends and loved ones of the runners, with their homemade posters of encouragement.

This group gets me going – it means it’s officially marathon Sunday, and I’m getting chills for the excitement of the day. I’m emotionally anticipatory and the supporters bring a few tears, because they’re so sincere in their celebration and love of their friends.

Face 2: Achilles runners. Achilles runners are other-abled; this running club supports blind runners, wheelchair runners, those with MS. These are the most motivating runners.

I saw a few men in their arm-powered cycles with a flag that said “new veteran”, next to a US flag. These men who looked like they hadn’t been old enough to serve just five years ago had returned home without the appendage they left with. I found myself with more tears; it’s hard not to feel humbled in the face of such unapologetic earnest determination.

Face 3: The top runners, moving faster than I can sprint for 26.2 miles. No tears, just awe.

Face 4: The masses. When I ran the marathon, a friend told to put my name on my shirt. “You have no idea how much you need to hear that,” he counseled.

He was right. This marathon thing is hard, especially if you’re running for 4 hours, like me. I go out there and scream every last name I can read at the top of my lungs; if they didn’t need it, they wouldn’t have taped their names to their shirt.

The runners always seem surprised to hear their name; returning my yelp with a thumbs up, mouthing the words ‘thank you’, or giving me a warm smile.

The tears come, sure enough, from the other words I read on these shirts: “for Dad”, “for Aunt Kate”, “for my son”. Sometimes there is a picture (of an 8-year-old), sometimes there is a birth and death date. Either way, you know that when these folks are taking the most difficult strides, they are pulling their strength from someone who isn’t there that day.

Face 5: The crowd thins out. Now the runners are 70 year old women in decorated bras, 80 year old men with odd, labored gates or small groups of Japanese women, running slowly and supportively in a group with enormous smiles. The sweep truck comes (akin to the Santa float in the Macy’s parade), but the stragglers keep coming. These folks will be run/walking 8-hour marathons and need the support.

At this point, I strolled over to the dance party in Ft. Greene Brooklyn, with a DJ who welcomed every marathon straggler like he was a dearly loved sibling who’d just been released from a “you-got-the-wrong-guy” prison stint 10 years. Like those welcome home parties you’d see on old episodes of the Sopranos.

With the proper words of recognition and shouts of the crowd, suddenly these gasping folks were hopping and dancing with the kind of smiles you usually see on a blissed-out toddler.

Face 6: It’s over, baby. See you next year. The winners have already crossed the finish line and the only thing left to do is take that face in the mirror to the gym for a no-holds-barred work out.

Spaghetti Carbonara
Serves 4 to 6

Carbonara has all the things that we want, but deny ourselves, like bacon, whole eggs and cheese. To heck with it; life’s too short for all that denial.

Why are we always so stressed out about bacon consumption, anyway? I decided to look into this, and flipped over my pack-of-pork to see how many calories are in a strip of bacon. I was thinking 80 calories, maybe 110? '

Turns out, a piece of cooked bacon has 30 calories. It surprised me too. I can burn that off on a 15-minute dog walk. Do some sit ups and eat your bacon; your eyes, nose and ears will thank you.

3/4 pound spaghetti or bucatini
¾ pound sliced bacon, chopped
4 large eggs
1 ½ cups pecorino romano, grated
kosher salt and coarse black pepper
¾ cup roughly chopped parsley, or 1 cup frozen peas (optional)

1. In a pasta pot, bring salted water to a boil and cook spaghetti according to package directions for al dente. Add frozen peas (if using) for the last minute of cooking.
2. In a large, wide pot (large enough to fit the pasta), cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy, about 6 to 8 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and reserve; pour out excess bacon fat and discard. Remove pan from heat, and let cool slightly.
3. Add eggs to pot and whisk together; add cheese. Add hot pasta and peas or parsley (if using), and toss with tongs until pasta is coated with sauce. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

When In Salem, Do As Witches Brew: Bourbon

I am a firm believer that the best travel days are the unplanned ones. I prefer the barest of provisioning, a skeleton of an agenda, and hopes for happy stumbles to plane tickets, scheduled dinners and fuss.

Last weekend I went to see my college roommate in Boston. She’d been working too hard and needed an excuse to play outside the city. We went apple picking in Ipswich and stumbled upon a chowder festival, then went lobster-roll hunting and fell upon a party in Salem, Massachusetts.

Turns out that for the entire month of October, Salem is a Halloween festival for adults. The cobblestone streets running the length of downtown are filled with vendors selling witches’ hats, reading tarot, and yes, offering the ubiquitous street-fair kettle korn (I cannot resist it’s power). There are bats in the trees, men in capes, and the ghosts of the women who were killed for sorcery in the late 1600s. Don't believe me? Go feel the vibe for yourself.

I love Halloween, but feel like too much of a goober and too little of a slut to dress up in the type of costume that would be appropriate for someone my age. Gone are the days of my Tattinger Girl, Sexy Cat, and Wet Dream (think: slip and a water-filled spray bottle) costumes. The last time I tried to hedge my bets with cute (Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz), my boyfriend's ex showed up as Rollergirl and I won the frump award. No thanks.

To put ourselves in the mood, we signed up for a dungeon tour led by an enthusiastic Australian in a top hat. Spoooooky. With time to kill, we hopped on our brooms and flew over to the Salem's central hotel, to get our Octoberfest on.

After wading our way through the weddings thick with coastal Mass accents (no, they’re not joking), we relaxed at the bar. Within minutes, two witches sat on the stools next to us. They had long black and green hair, hats with blinking lights, and long black dresses. They carried small cauldrons of something, and my drinking partner couldn’t help but inquire, “Whatcha got in that cauldron?”

“Eye of newt. Would you like one?” Witch 1 asked.

“Yes, please,” said my friend.

We unwrapped and sucked on our crisp chocolate balls, not sure where this conversation would lead. They began:

“We Halloween in Salem every year,” said Witch 2. Some summer, others winter. They Halloween; these women were living my dream.

“We’re up from Philadelphia for the weekend. We’re old high school pals," added Witch 1.

Soon we were talking about jobs, kids, and where one could get a good deal on a witches hat in Salem. They ordered 2 bourbons on the rocks.

And then Witch 1 removed a packet from her frock, added something to her drink and mashed it down with a spoon. “You never know if a bar will have good mint, so I bring my own,” she explained.

If you want a Halloween potion done right, best to make it yourself.



Bourbon Drinks
from Cocktaildb.com:

Mint Julep

Boston Sour

Manhattan

Hot Brick Toddy

American Grogg

The 3 Year Old Egg: Apples and Onions

I recently had a friend visit from Boston. She, like many before her, was brimming with enthusiasm to visit New York. Couldn't wait to walk around Central Park in the fall, yada yada yada.

But was there any way to avoid Brooklyn? It would mean an extra hour on her trip, the BQE, and, with all due respect, it ain't Manhattan. No matter what the Slopers and the BillyBurgers tell you, when visiting for the weekend, Manhattan's where you want to be. Yankee cheer to you.

So I asked the Catholic Brothers if my friend and I could bunk there for the weekend, as they had an extra room and we had an aerobed. "Yes!" they cheered, knowing full well that I'd make it up to them in meals. I brought a box of goodies, including five pounds of slab bacon, duck, lamb and ribeye, thanks to Pat at Pat LeFrieda Meats.

All was well, and everyone woke in the morning with happy thoughts of what bliss a full refrigerator would bring. The taller of the twins whipped out his "Just Add Water" Bisquik mix, I began thickly slicing bacon, and my Boston friend mmmmmed with anticipation in the corner of the room, which is her specialty.

And then one of us (me) flew too close to the sun. I spied a dozen eggs in one of the vegetable drawers (admittedly, an odd place for a dozen eggs). I grabbed the eggs from the refrigerator, held them high and asked, "How does everyone take their eggs?" Twin Tall told me to put them down. "But why?" I asked.

"Because they've been here since I moved in, three and a half years ago."

On the one hand, ew, but on the other hand, fascinating. I was in the presence of 1300-day-old chicken eggs. Since my friend and I spend the better part of our time contemplating what happens to our very own 36 year old eggs, this was something of great interest to us. We exchanged looks, and she, a scientist, asked that I reveal the eggs.

I opened the box, and we all peered in. The hint was in the heft; the package was as light as, well, an empty package. Over the course of 1300 days, these little orbs had exhaled all they had; the eggs evaporated all their liquid through the shell. I was holding a dozen egg shells, with nary a blowhole between them.

We marveled, as one does with science. And then we sat down a fine breakfast of Bisquik pancakes and bacon.


Apples and Onions
This weekend, I was a houseguest of upstate friends in Staatsberg, New York. The she of the couple is a great cook, as one might expect when one is born to an Italian mother and a Jewish father. (To not cook would send all kinds of relatives spinning in their graves.) She and I share a love of food and cooking; she's one of the only people who cooks when I visit. I appreciate this like you read about.

Plus, every time I visit, she teaches me something new. This time, to accompany her pork roast, she made a simple dish of "Apples and Onions" at her husband's request. After the roast was in the oven, she cut an apple and an onion into wedges, tossed them with a little oil and seasoning, and put them in a roasting dish to cook alongside her pork.

The dish was simple and divine -- my favorite kind. It will accompany all my future pork dishes. Try it; you've got to do something with all those apples you've got.

Tuesday is Jewsday: Apples and Honey

I've got a intensely ambivalent relationship with my religion right now.

On the one hand, I love being Jewish. I like Heeb magazine and gefilte fish; I like to feel like I've got a birthright to Katz's pastrami, Russ & Daughters' whitefish salad and Yonah Shimmels kasha varnishkes. I like to consider myself kin to the intellectual and comedic pioneers in this country. Like so many secular Jews, I love the culture.

But culture is one thing, and religion is another. This time of year I get beyond the cultural trappings, and I want to drive to temple, park a few blocks away, and walk over holding my dad's talis bag. I feel like I have this external force acting on me, a pull from the moon saying "You never call, you never write..."

Unfortunately, I've been temple-free since high school. Sure, I went to shul in San Francisco, another one in Gramercy Park, and one in Brooklyn. I go to shul, but I don't have a shul. When I ask my friends about their temples, they'll tell me where they belong, quickly followed by, "But you don't want to go there. Find a better one." As a result; I feel disconnected; homeless.

And now that I'm dating a Catholic man, my house is strewn with pamphlets from the weekly mass he attends. He loves church, and is all aglow when he comes by afterwards. I'm jealous; I want that too. I want that spiritual check in, the faith, the high.

But the doctrine, not so much. It leaves me as cold and confused as the culture leaves me warm and fuzzy.

So this week, instead of getting existential about my faith or lack thereof, I retreat to the part of my religion that I like -- the culture. The people. The family. A Jewish friend and I will be celebrating the holiday temple-free by taking ourselves to dinner in New York -- a new place for the new year with an old friend.

I will bring apples and honey in my purse, we will say a prayer in hebrew before we eat.Thought I might not be chanting the right words in the right place, I will be Jewish in my own way, by taking the time time to stop, acknowledge and celebrate.

Happy New Year. Cha'ag Sameach!

Apples and Honey
One of the things I -- and many secular Jews like me -- always celebrate religiously (if you'll excuse the pun) is the food. The brisket, the challah (and challah french toast the next day), the matzoh balls and the kugel.

On Rosh Hashana, Jews are thankful for the earth's bounty and the harvest, and wish one another a sweet new year. In my family, we would always dip an apple in a little bowl of honey. Apples represent the local harvest, and honey the sweet new year.

For more holiday recipes, check out my friend Stacey Ballis' article in Oy! A Chicago-based Jewish magazine.

Kinetic Couscous

Last New Years, I resolved that this would be the year I’d write a book. Well, a book proposal at least. I’m not married, I don't have a kid, plus, I took a few lucrative gigs this year to give myself time, and now I’ve got it.

Nuthin but time. Yeppers, that’s me. Full of time. Just me, time, and a blank screen. Ti-ai-ai-me is on my side. Yes it is…Time won't give me time / And time makes lovers feel / Like they've got something real / But you and me we know / They've got nothing but time...if you're lost you can look--and you will find me / time after time / if you fall I will catch you--I'll be waiting / time after time ...A time to be born, a time to die / A time to plant, a time to reap / A time to kill, a time to heal / A time to laugh, a time to weep. It's a regular time-o-pallooza over here.

Any new mom (ie. everyone who lives in my neighborhood) will look at me like I’ve won the lottery. “Oh, if only I had more time!” she whines, explaining why her husband is eating microwave popcorn for dinner. Again.

You're right; I can't relate and it’s not just because I don’t have a microwave. I can relate to people who, like me, have time. Like retired people; like my dad. He wakes up and thinks about getting out of bed. He gets out of bed. He gets ready for a meal, eats, digests, then watches some TV. Then he thinks about the next meal he’ll eat, and eats again. Then it's time to sleep, wake up and do it all over again.

Things that would just be small components of a busy person’s day become major things that me and the retirees need to wrap my head around. Like getting a manicure. I’ve procrastinated that for two weeks, because, well I don’t know if I can take an entire hour from my day to do it. I have so much to do, and that just seems like such an indulgence.

Ordinarily, I am that busy person you give things to when you want them done. But now, you can count on me cancelling every dinner date and coffee I have planned, because it’s hard to squeeze that 45 minutes out of my day. I’m just really tight on time.

But don’t take my word for it; ask my dog. She hasn’t been walked for three days.

Mealtime is hard because I haven’t been shopping in a few weeks. It’s just too time consuming. And anyway the pantry has stuff... I could feed a small village with dried beans, barley and other food that’s only there because I don’t like it and if I did I would have EATEN it by now.

See? I have plenty to tide me over, no need to leave the house. Plus, if I did, it might rain, and then I’d get soggy. Who wants all that time-consuming fuss of toweling off. And anyway I don’t have an umbrella. And I definitely don’t have time to stop by the hardware store and buy one.

I’m not shopping or leaving the house, and even though my fridge is bare, and my pantry is filled with food I don’t want, I can find something to eat. But who has the time to cook? I could be writing the 37th incarnation of the book proposal. That’s my focus right now, that’s where my energy is. My numero uno priority-o.

I need to focus. Should I turn on NPR? Nah, they’ll just distract me. Wouldn’t want that. Then I’ll have to search the web for at least 45 minutes to determine whether Trig is actually Sarah Palin’s child or not. And I did that yesterday.

My belly is rumbling -- it needs to be fed. I could, I suppose, go downstairs and get a slice, or a yogurt, or a bagel. I have fifteen shops on my block that will let me get my lunch on. That won’t take much time at all.

But I am on the fourth floor of a walk up. Down and back up again. What a hassle. Then I’d have to put on shoes. And get dressed. Maybe shower. Ach, no…too much effort.

But now, seriously, I need to eat. And I really don’t have much time to cook, because I’m so hungry. I’m losing focus. I need to eat right now. I’m having a blood sugar crash. What do I have that won’t take more than, literally, five minutes, because that’s all I have. I’ve got to get back to work. And who has 30 minutes, Rachael? You might not understand this but people are busy.

Five Minute Couscous
By The Wooden Spoon

¾ cup couscous
pinch ground cinnamon
salt, pepper (you know the drill)
handful sliced almonds
smaller handful raisins
half-handful of torn basil or parsley
olive oil, if you feel like it

1. Plug the kettle back in. You were just using it for coffee, so the water should take no more than 30 seconds to heat up.

2. Assemble most of the ingredients in a to-go container: couscous, cinnamon, seasonings, raisins. The kettle is ready. Pour in a cup of water. Stir it a bit with a fork. Put the lid on it and let it sit two minutes.

3. Taste it – it’s good! Whoa. And it took two minutes? And it’s kind of like cooking because the couscous went from dry and inedible to soft and yummy. Fie on those recipes that want me to simmer it and take out an actually cooking implement. I’m going green with all the energy I saved.

4. Fluff that couscous with a fork, add the herbs and voila! Take it out of the container, (what are you, an animal?) put it on a plate and drizzle with a little olive oil.

5. Now get back to work. You've taken enough time.