Fragile Industries

Going Off the Rez....

 

I'm going away for a week.

I  have had a 12+ hour day getting the home front in order before I leave.  For Mom: O2 deliveries, food run, a bunch of tupperwares for Mom's meals carefully labeled, along with toting 6 (count 'em, 6) liters of Smirnoff upstairs (moi?  an enabler?), directions for cat meds written out, along with lists of phone numbers for everything from my cel phone to the vet to a helpful neighbor, copies of my itinerary.  Lori the White Trash Cleaning Lady is in thrall to Mom and will be here for a few hours every day, so all should be well.

Then the pre-packing: more tupperware to take with me, containing lots of wiccan herbs and crystals and special sachets and god knows what, so that I can cleanse and purify the farm.  20+ acres.  There will be a full cleansing, a sage smudging with outdoor burning of aromatics (lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus, from my own garden, plus bunches and bunches of purchased sage), plus homemade and sewn purification sachets and bath teas -- then a chicken baked with sage, lavender, rosemary --- herbs d' provance ... did witchcraft influence French cuisine?

 

Then crating a fragile but adorable lamp for grandbaby that I hope makes the trip (LOTS of styrofoam and bubble wrap), books, dog chews, cat treats, sex toys (My farmer is so cute!  He found a toy shoppe in Minneapolis and ordered ahead, there will be a parcel to pick up on the way from the airport -- the advantages of an Asbergian lover is they focus so wonderfully) and if I'm lucky I can pack some clothes.  Those seem optional.

 

I'm more worried about leaving my lush garden than Mom or the cats.  With my assiduous care, 12 gorgeous plants in pots stand on the 3d floor deck, with silk flowers staked alongside and wire-mounted to branches (like that's going to fool anyone)  -- they are a marvel.  Less than 8 weeks from seed, and they are 3'+ tall and 3' wide, bursting with rude good health.  I pray they don't start blooming while I'm gone, I have to murder the boys once they show themselves.  I've gone over the top with organic nutrients and pest control, I have a sensor for light, alkaline-acid balance and watering, I have named every leaf.

 

And now they're on their own for 8 days.  I've explained it to them, they nod their green heads, but I wonder if they really understand that today's soaking, feeding and massage is the last for a while.  Oh yeah, they call them weeds, but these are the most pampered plants in the universe.

 

Thursday, we had a bit of excitement -- a woman was brutally murdered about 2 blocks away.  There may be a serial killer on the loose in My Little Town -- the crime was nearly identical to the brutal murder (I'm just copying the "Breaking News" lingo -- "brutal murder" is what makes it to CNN, as these have) of a couple living about 4 miles up the coast on Faria Beach.  So of course I'm triple-checking locks and windows, but the real threat were all the news and police helicopters hovering within view of the deck.  That's when I got the silk flowers out.  Bless our sweet neighbors -- two came by to remind us to lock up carefully at night.  I think Mom and I are on the list of The Crazy Ladies We Love on Kingston Lane. 

 

All this will wash away once I'm in the pleasant, cow-fucking land of Minnesota.

 

I can't wait to see what happens.

 

See ya in a week or two.

 

Christmas (Yam Baby Version)

It's Christmas every day, it really is.

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Return of Recipe Corner

I'm making an easy sweet yam/orange juice bake for tonight's potluck. No marshmallows.  (Blech.) None of the tubers going into the dish look especially holy, but the blessed Yam Baby lives within me.  As one of my Devoted Readers reminded me, Yam Baby lives within us all.

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Wishing you a wonderful holiday.

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LISA'S ORANGE-GLAZED YAM BABY

serves many many polite people or about 10 yam lovers

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about 6 enormous yams / sweet potatoes (as close to football size and shape as possible)

12 T salted butter, softened (1 1/2 sticks)

1 C packed dark brown sugar

1 C white sugar

2 C orange juice

3 T grated orange peel, minced fine

1-2 T yellow mustard (no Grey Poupon foo-foo mustard here, use the cheap stuff)

2 T cornstarch

pinch each of (don't go overboard on this or it gets overpowering, no more than 1 1/2 teaspoons total):

• ground ginger
• ground cloves
• ground nutmeg
• ground allspice
• ground cinnamon
• ground mace
• (if you're missing one of these, use pumpkin pie spice, or forget it.  It's not rocket science.)

Peel yams and slice into rounds between 1/4 to 1/2" thick.  Lavishly butter a 2 1/2 quart casserole.  That's the really enormous one covered in dust at the back of the cupboard that only gets used at Thanksgiving and potlucks, or, if you overcook like me, any time more than two people are coming over. Layer yam slices in tight concentric circles, sticking the little end bits and slicing mistakes (it happens) underneath to fill in gaps.  You want to jam as much yam in that casserole as possible, it shrinks down. Make the top layer pretty, rather like Potatoes Dauphinois (look it up).  You'll probably have slices, butter and sauce left over.  I had enough left to make an extra loaf pan's worth -- assemble it and stick it in the freezer uncooked for a later treat. 

Combine sugars, orange juice and peel, mustard, cornstarch and spices in a medium saucepan.  Whisking constantly, heat on medium high until it comes to a boil and thickens (about a minute's boiling). Add 8 T butter, remove from heat, and keep whisking until melted.  Pour evenly over yams so all surfaces get moistened.  Dot top with remaining butter.  Cover with lid or foil. Bake covered at 375 for 1 hour 15 minutes, remove cover and bake 15 minutes more.  It will be a seething cauldron of yam yummyness and will stay warm, covered, for a good half hour, enough time to get to the potluck or brown the rolls before dinner.

It is to die for.

Here It Is, Your Moment Of Zen

This being Christmas, I've stored up little moments for some Devoted Readers on my list.

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For Cat-Loving DR's, a Cat Circus:

http://barista.media2.org/?p=2174#comments

For Brother Michael, who enjoys tormenting cats with clothing:

http://www.flickr.com/groups/catsinclothes/pool/

For my most recent Ex, who misses the rodents and enjoys archaology:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/3120950.stm

For gr8fudgemmm, who may be approaching That Special Time in A Woman's Life:

http://www.herbalremedies.com/wild-yam-cream.html

For Houston, who missed this one while Christukkah faux-tree-shopping:

http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/shopping/product/detailmain.jsp?itemID=9352&itemType=PRODUCT&iProductID=9352

For my First Ex, who wonders why Keith Richards wasn't invited:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16315755/

For Brother Steven, who told me John Lennon died, and has a file of his own:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16315755/

For Peter (Changes In The Glass), who enjoys Truly Awful Covers:

http://www.zonicweb.net/badalbmcvrs/hallofsh.htm

For Adrianne and Kathy R, who like me are experiencing the nightmares of moving: Don't Hire Dave!

http://www.cbc.ca/consumers/market/files/home/moving/

For Blage and Jafabrit, who are both brilliant artists, proof that we can all aspire to be collected (note page title):

http://www.diannevetromile.com/BadArtCheap.htm

For Jaye, who still wants to be a lawyer (honey, when I first met my in-laws, I told them I was a stripper to get some respect):

http://www.ahajokes.com/law019.html

For Any DR I've forgotten or left out, proof of the global love of Yam Baby:

http://emeagwali.com/nigeria/cuisine/igbo-new-yam-festival.html

I'm Not Making This Up

Recipe Corner: Bacon-Wrapped Dates, and Christmas Memories

When I was a kid, I enjoyed Chrismas -- all my Christmases.  Because of the "yours, mine and ours" nature of my multiply-married parental units, I had three Christmases a year: Christmas Eve, when my stepfather's children would come over for gifts and a traditional dinner with all the trimmings; Christmas morning with my mother, stepfather, godparents and eventually, my younger half-brother; then Christmas Day with my father and his family and friends.  Once I hit college age, however, I turned into a scrooge and had the Christmas blues annually.

My "bah humbug" phase lasted until about six years ago, when my future ex-husband wanted to have a Christmas Open House, huge, festive, decorated to the max, with a grand feast to last all day. I resisted at first. Christmas celebrations did not turn me on. Then I decided to cooperate as a gift to him. And if I was going to do it, I'd do it up right. I scoured thrift stores and Walgreen's for frugal decorations, candles, bought a forest of greenery, and decorated every square inch of the house with an old-fashioned Dickens Christmas flair. I baked sweets and bought a ton of delicacies -- ham, turkey, meatballs, smoked salmon. I made my trademark hot appetizers -- mini curried turnovers and bacon-wrapped dates. I invited everyone we ever met or worked with. As I worked on the invitations, the decorations, the feast, something totally unexpected happened. I got the Christmas spirit! We went out shopping for little all-purpose gifts, like candles and candies and scented soaps and potpourri and keychains and notecards, everything under $2 each. We wrapped each individually and put them in a huge basket for each guest to take their own from the grab bag as they left. I felt very Martha Stewart as I surveyed the house, the spread, the CD's shuffle of holiday tunes, especially all our friends and family having a blast. The whole Christmas budget was spent, as our gift to those we loved and one another. During the marathon party (10 hours!) I knew it was the happiest season I'd had in years and years. I was glad later that we'd made such a production -- my father died the next year and the party was his opportunity to enjoy our friends and for him to charm them in turn.

I live hundreds of miles away now, and it may be a while before I have enough local friends and family to host another blow-out like that. But a little piece of that Christmas spirit returns to me every year as I put up the decorations, even if they are just for me.

Recipe: Bacon-Wrapped Dates

A sticky, salty, sweet, chewy delight.  Couldn't be simpler, and they go like hotcakes. Just wrap half a strip of bacon around a seeded date, secure with a toothpick and bake at 350 degrees until the bacon is crisp. Make more than you think you'll need, people love them and the house smells great. They can be made well ahead of time and frozen in freezer bags. Bake frozen or not. Serve hot from the oven. Great to keep on hand, frozen, for unexpected company.
Enjoy!

Mmm, Mmm Good -- Salmon Chowder

  I used to live on San Francisco's Fog Line.  A completely sunny day was rare at our house.  The Pacific's eastward flow of fog and bitter-cold wind would engulf us by late afternoon, if not earlier.  The Mission District, a half-mile away, would bask in its warm microclimate while I, shivering, lit the fire and wrapped myself in sweats.  On such afternoons, when considering dinner plans, my mind would turn to bubbling pots of stews and soups.

I have always loved to cook.  An obvious reason to enjoy cooking is if one enjoys good food, which is certainly true for me.  But more than that, I enjoy sharing food, especially cooked in quantity, even with total strangers.  A bond is made when one breaks one's own bread with another.  I had watched my mother, a very good cook, receive strokes from family and friends for her efforts and set out to become a great chef, with sometimes comic results.  I prepared my first solo dinner when I was about 8 or 9 out of "The Betty Crocker Cookbook For Boys And Girls" (an early gender consciousness-raising title, considering this was the mid-60's) for my godfather and "uber-mench" figure, Hal.   I will have to write a separate post about Hal -- he was a good and beautiful man.  He was watching me while my parents were out, and I rewarded him with (and I am not making this up) "Happy Face Dinner."  It consisted of a meatloaf base baked in a pie tin with eyes, nose and mouth sculpted from mashed potatoes.  I believe peas figured into the mix somewhere, too.  I served this abomination to poor Hal, who consumed it with every indication of delight, and probably great lashings of catsup to get it down.  Out of my hearing, my mother apologized to Hal when she returned.  "But it was GOOD!" he said loyally.  I had nowhere to go but up from "Happy Face Dinner."

Nearly forty years later, I still come a cropper sometimes.  A few months back, I invited a friend for dinner.  This was the first dinner I had prepared for him, and I wanted to set the proper gourmet tone.  I knew he was vegetarian, with the occasional fish thrown in.  No problem.  I had been reading several books about Italy and its cuisine (Marcella Hazan's Complete Italian Cookbook, Italian Days, Under the Tuscan Sun) and conceived a meatless menu of Tuscan relish (featuring roasted garlic, olives and pimento, among other good things) to spread on baguette toasts as a starter, while I completed the polenta with wild mushrooms, and caprese salad (fresh mozarella, tomatoes, basil, with a dash of balsamic and fruity olive oil).  My friend sampled the relish and politely put down the half-eaten appetizer.  He asked about the main course.  With some embarassment, he told me, "I don't think I gave you a clear idea about my food limitations.  Not only do I not eat meat, there are three foods I loathe: olives, mushrooms and eggplant."  Shit.  If I had made the eggplant side dish I had considered, I would have hit the trifecta.  "Oh, well, scratch plan A, now it's time for plan B," I said gaily, but inwardly I gnashed my teeth.  I found some cheese to go with the baguettes, finished the polenta and set it aside, and put on a pot of water for pasta.  Plan B involved Trader Joe's bottled Marinara sauce and linguine.  Only the caprese salad was salvaged.  I'm not sure, but dessert may have included coconut, which I now know is also on the Will Not Eat list.  Henceforth, I check every ingredient before preparing food for my friend, and we have shared many successful meals since then.

What happened to the Tuscan Relish and mushroom polenta?  It was served with much fanfare the next night to an appreciative audience.  Like so much of provincial cuisine, it only improves by the next day.  (Incidentally, that meal marked the Bubba's first understanding of the concept of wine pairing.  The Bubba's idea of a good drink is lemonade or a Long Island Iced Tea, not wine.  But I served a Chianti Classico in the old-fashioned straw-wrapped bottle and told the Bubba that it, too, was from Tuscany.  The Bubba, eyes wide, cried, "Hey, this wine is GOOD with this food!" I saw a 40-watt bulb light over his head.  He now also likes Pinot Grigio with fish.  I feel like Annie Sullivan.)

So now it is fall, and even though I live in My Little Town on the California Coast, sunny and temperate year-round except for the occasional monsoon or landslide, I'm still dreaming of soups and stews.  Last night I made a fabulous Salmon Chowder.  It will be even more flavorful tonight after a day's rest in the refrigerator.  This is safe for the lacto-ovo-fish vegetarians among us and is fabulously healthy, except for the butterfat (and what is life without butterfat?).  As the cookbooks always say, serve with a crusty loaf or soup crackers (which I dislike, but to each her own) and a green leafy salad for a complete meal.  Great for casual entertaining.

SALMON CHOWDER

• 1/4 C butter
• 2 medium or 1 very large yellow onion, chopped coarsely
• 2 bay leaves
• 1/4 C all-purpose flour
• 1 quart vegetable broth
• 4 pounds red new potatoes, scrubbed (unpeeled) and sliced
• 1-2 C diced bell peppers (green, yellow and red for color is nice)
• 1 1/2 C corn (frozen is fine, even good quality canned -- save the juice and add to:)
• 1 quart milk (whole)
• 1 1/2 pounds salmon fillet, cut into smallish chunks (remove and save skin in one piece)
• salt and fresh ground pepper
• paprika or chives (optional)

In an 8-quart stockpot (non-stick is best), melt butter over medium heat.  Add onions and bay leaves, stirring occasionally, until onions are tender but not browned.  Stir in flour and cook and stir over low heat while it bubbles for a minute or two.  Stir in vegetable broth, 1 cup at a time, mixing until smooth after each addition.  Add potatoes, bell peppers and salmon skin and cook at a low simmer, covered, until potatoes are just tender, about 20 minutes.  Remove skin carefully and discard.  Add corn, milk and salmon.  Mix well and heat just below a simmer for another 20 minutes, covered.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.  (Can be held and refrigerated at this point.  Just remember not to let boil when reheating.) Serve garnished with a dash of paprika or minced chives.  Makes about 4-5 quarts.

This is not a gluey-thick chowder, yet has a rich mouth-feel.  If you like your chowders to double as wallpaper paste, increase the butter and flour accordingly in equal quantities, but I will not be held responsible.

And Now a Brief Message From Our Sponsor

My best buddy Houston is coming to town for an impromptu visit this weekend. He is bringing his mother, Dorothy. I know and love his Dorothy -- she has been my guest at several parties and at least one "stray dog Thanksgiving." That was my traditional Thanksgiving observation when I lived in San Francisco; a motley gang of singletons and duos left stranded on the rocks of a family-oriented holiday would gather around my table, clutching to their bosoms their assigned pot luck casseroles (or, for the cooking-challenged, a bag of ice, or nothing at all). Ray knows and loves my mother, Dorothy. With this visit, our beloved Dorothies meet for the first time. This is Momentous.  ". . . Our castle's strength / Will laugh a siege to scorn." -William Shakespeare, Macbeth.  Given the importance of both these strong, beautiful and charming women in our lives, I expect a thunderclap at the very least. They are very different in their life experiences, yet they have strong similarities in character and humor, so I know they will enjoy each other. Houston and I are planning a great time waiting on them hand and foot, so they need not leave their overstuffed chairs for the entire weekend. Maybe Joan Rivers will be on QVC and my Dorothy will introduce Houston's Dorothy to a new vice. Maybe Houston's Dorothy will describe the genealogic research she has done (well, Houston, really, but Dorothies are very big on the royal "we") and captivate my Dorothy, who is fascinated with family history.

To give this state occasion the attention it deserves, I will be called away from the umbilicus I call blogging for the next few days, so the Katrina Diaries will be taking a brief sabbatical until next week. In honor of the rapidly-approaching Thanksgiving holiday, Houston and his Dorothy's Southern roots, and my recent stay in Alabama, I leave you with this recipe. It is an excuse to eat an otherwise healthy vegetable so heavily amended with rich and sweet additions that, poured into a pie crust, it would be dessert. This is not for the faint (or occluded) of heart. You must ignore the Food Pyramid, all Surgeon General warnings and the lingering sense of naughtiness at seeing this on your entree plate. It defines Guilty Pleasure. Of course, I am talking about that Southern staple:

Sweet Potato Casserole

Filling:

• 3 C cooked mashed potatoes
• 1 C sugar
• 1/2 C butter
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 1 tsp. vanilla
• 1/3 C milk (canned condensed is best)

Combine in large bowl and mix with electric mixer until well blended.  Pour into baking dish.

Topping:

• 1 C brown sugar (yes, MORE sugar)
• 1/3 C butter (and butter)
• 1/2 C flour
• 1 C chopped pecans (optional)

Mix topping until mixture resembles course crumbs.  Sprinkle over casserole.  Bake 25 min. at 350 degrees. [note: no indication given of how many this serves]

This is taken from Melva Hudson's recipe (all parenthetical comments my own) in a local cookbook I picked up in Alabama, "Family Favorites" from the Bassett Creek Baptist Church in Grove Hill, AL.  I like to collect these fundraiser cookbooks when I travel in the U.S.  Most of the recipes are a country mile from gourmet (cream of mushroom soup is the ubiquitous ingredient) but they are a repository of regional cooking, while it still exists.  (In places where no one watches "the Ron Jeremy of cooking," Emeril -- quote courtesy of Anthony Bourdain in Kitchen Confidential.)  Six separate recipes for this dish appear in the spiral-bound cookbook from Grove Hill, but this one is so good it was actually printed twice, as Sweet Potato Casseroles IV and VI.  I figure that's a sign from the cooking goddess.  Thanks, Melva.  Since Houston, I and the collective Dorothies are always on diets, I am unlikely to make SPC IV or VI during our visitors' stay, but we will certainly toast the South, its great cooks, and gracious hospitality.  Give it a go yourself and tell me how you like it.  Don't blame me for the calories. 
See you next week.

Recipe Corner: Moroccan Almonds

I served these spiced nuts as a cocktail nibble before setting out the salad course at my Casablanca-themed Oscar Party.  They look great in little brass bowls, which are surprisingly easy to find at thrift stores (and then you can turn around and give them back, because who wants to polish all those brass tchotchkes?).  Savory-sweet and spicy, they go well with any kind of drink.

MOROCCAN ALMONDS

1 1/2 Tablespoon melted unsalted butter

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/2  teaspoon cinnamon

1Tablespoon brown sugar

1 cup unsalted (preferably non-roasted) almonds

Combine melted butter with spices and sugar.  Toss almonds with mixture, coating well.  Place on baking sheet and bake in pre-heated 375 degree oven for 8 minutes, stirring two or three times.  Cool and serve.  Keeps well if tightly covered.

Adapted from The Casablanca Cookbook.

Tuesday Recipe Corner - Tuscan Relish

True provincial cooking is an exercise in economy and what's on hand.  When I was a starving student and newly married with irregular habits, dinner was largely a function of what was nearly rotten in the refrigerator, which resulted in some unusual combinations.  I learned a lot then, and was fortunate to be married to an undiscriminating eating machine.  It was sort of like provincial cooking, as close as one could come in Southern California in the 1980's.

This recipe is a good example of my favorite way to cook: all amounts are approximate, the flavor can vary according to what's good, fresh and available, and the method is instinctive.  I'm still dreaming of Tuscany, like last week.  After reading the recipes in "Under the Tuscan Sun" and several Italian regional cookbooks, I felt I had a feeling for the ingredients and techniques of central Italy.  Slow food, but simple.  Mellow, but fresh.  So I bought some roasted peppers (though you could make your own if you're ambitious), rummaged around for the rest, and made the following for an antipasto relish, similar to caponata or tapenade, but with the voluptuous taste of roasted garlic and a beautiful red color.  Spread it on crostini, over polenta, toss with pasta -- it blends beautifully with any starch, and is plenty good on the side of any roasted meat.  Adjust the flavor or seasoning to your liking, although it won't need additional salt, with the olives and capers supplying plenty.  Top with grated Parmesan-Reggiano, if you like.

• 1 full head garlic
• good quality olive oil (about 1/2 cup in all)
• 8-10 cherry tomatoes
• 1/2 large brown or yellow onion
• 2 T capers
• 6 oz (about 3/4 cup) roasted peeled red peppers (in jar is fine)
• about 15 pitted caponata olives
• 1 tablespoon fresh oregano
• 4-5 large basil leaves, chopped

Slice the top off the head of garlic, exposing the tops of the cloves.  Drizzle with a tablespoon or so of olive oil, wrap in foil and bake at 400 degrees for about an hour, until cloves are very soft.  Put cherry tomatoes in small baking dish, drizzle with some olive oil, and roast with the garlic until tomatoes are soft, puckered and slightly browned here and there.  In the meantime, slice onion into thin rings and very very slowly cook in 3-4 tablespoons of olive oil, covered, stirring from time to time, for about 40 minutes until resembles marmalade -- do not allow onions to brown.  When tomatoes and garlic are done, allow to cool, then squeeze garlic into food processor bowl.  Pulse with tomatoes, any cooking juices from the garlic and tomatoes and about half the peppers in food processor until smooth.  Add cooked onion and its juices, along with remainder of peppers and other ingredients, and process in short bursts until finely chopped, but with recognizable texture remaining.  Mix in more olive oil as desired.  Refrigerate overnight (it just gets better and better for up to a week) to allow flavors to mellow and blend.

recipes Food and Drink

Tuesday Recipe Corner: Fennel

I have been reading "Under the Tuscan Sun," and craving a visit, perhaps lifelong, to Tuscany.  As food is an integral part of the Italian experience, I feel very close to my childhood visits to my grandmother. Fennel was an essential ingredient around the kitchens of my father's family, I just didn't know what it was, or even its form.  It was like the elephant as perceived by the blind men: a snake (the trunk) a column (the leg), a rope (the tail).  Similarly, fennel seeds gave bread and Italian sausages their distinctive flavor, which bore little relation to the stalks and bulb when chopped into Grandma's garlicky olive salad, and the mild delicate fronds were something else again, sauteed with breadcrumbs and parmesean to top spaghetti and meatballs in the spring.  I knew the latter dish as "finnocchio" (Italian for fennel) and had no idea where to find it when I wanted to recreate the traditional dinner for Daddy's birthday in late April.  At that time, the early '80's, it was rarely available in the supermarket fresh.  For that matter, I don't know where Grandma got it, but knowing her, she was not at all above pulling it out of someone's yard.  Fennel grows like a weed in California, great bushes of it, reeking of anise.  I do not like the strength of licorice, but fennel's flavor, though similar, is milder, particularly when cooked, and a little greener, grassier.  It is as common in Italian cooking as celery is in America, an essential aromatic.  Once I figured out the finnocchio-fennel connection, and that it was all one elephant, my kitchen was never again without the seed, and I use the bulb often in salads: red onion, fennel and orange is a classic, or a caponata (replace the celery, or add an equal amount diced fennel).  It is heavenly with arugula, but so is everything.  Carl, a reprehensible ex-boyfriend, once complained of our frequent breakups that when we were apart he couldn't bear seeing the fennel in his kitchen and would throw it out, only to buy it again when we tried to get back together.  (May he choke on a fennel seed, bless his heart).

One of its most comforting preparations is in a simple soup.  Its assertive flavor make it a poor choice for inclusion in an all-purpose broth, but it can marry well with some other root vegetables.  This recipe is my version of one used at Greens in San Francisco, which blends it with celery root (also called celeriac).  I think of it as a basic Tuscan peasant soup, capable of endless variation.  Its richness can be enhanced by adding up to a cup of light cream, and/or the bread can then be omitted, so that it is entirely suitable for the first course of an elegant meal.  Alternatively, it can be topped with chopped bitter greens, the sautee'd "finnocchio" of my childhood, or diced pimento.

Fennel and Celeriac Soup

• 3 leeks
• 1 fennel bulb (about 1 pound), with greens, if available.
• 1 celery root (about 1 pound)

Trim all green from leeks, and set aside white parts.  Discard ragged outer greens.  Slice and wash inner light green leaves well.  Trim thick outer leaves and feathery parts from fennel.  Set aside fennel bulb and about half the feathery greens, and chop outer leaves and remainder of greens.  Trim top and bottom from celery root and pare skin.  Put pared root in a bowl of water with a little lemon or vinegar to prevent from browning.  Put in large saucepan or medium soup pot: the chopped inner leek greens, the outer leaves and half the greens from the fennel, and the top and bottom and parings from the celery root.  Add:

• 2 carrots, peeled and diced
• 1 bay leaf
• a handful of parsley
• 1/2 teaspoon fennel seed
• 1/2 teaspoon celery seed
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 8 cups water

Bring to a boil, simmer about half an hour, and strain.  There should be about 6-7 cups.  In the meantime:

Heat together in large saucepan or medium soup pot:

• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1/2 cup water

until butter melts.  Slice the reserved leeks into thinnish rounds, quarter and slice the fennel bulb and the celery root.  Add to butter and water, along with:

• 1 teaspoon Kitchen Bouquet (optional)

Stir and stew very slowly for about 20 minutes, adding moisture as necessary.  Do not brown.  Pour the strained stock over and simmer, covered for 15 minutes.  Allow to cool slightly.  Blend in batches until completely smooth.  Allow to sit so foam settles out.  Reheat for serving, do not allow to boil.  Add

• cream or half-and-half (up to a cup)

at this point, depending on consistency, if desired. Correct seasoning with salt and pepper. 

While reheating, broil baguette slices, two per person, brushed with olive oil, until desired crispness.  Place in bowls and pour soup over, piping hot.  Garnish with chopped fennel greens and/or finely chopped arugula and/or watercress.  Pass freshly grated Parmesean cheese.

A good dessert would be broiled figs drizzled with honey.

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Tuesday's Recipe Corner, With History, One Day Late (So Sue Me Edition)

• Serendipity seems to surround me, lately.  Last Friday, in a bookstore, I walked in with my Holy Grail Book Search in mind: the perfect set of Dickens -- complete, new enough to be readable, old enough to have charm -- and three gorgeous volumes of such a set slept, resonating slightly, on the shelf just by my left elbow as I entered.  Not complete *cries*, but I carry on bravely.  While there, I picked up a book with a provocative title and it opened in my hands to a poem by Eloise Klein Healy, my poetry teacher and muse to my dearest late friend / psychic twin, Steve H., who deserves a post or three all to himself.  So I bought the book.  Today, when I realized I had missed Tuesday's recipe post, for very good reason, so don't shout at me (all 1.5 of you who read these things), I thought I'd feature picnic food, because the weather is heavenly, I'm going to a poetry festival on Friday, and hope to have a picnic beforehand.  A classic picnic dish I've done before is cold poached salmon with cucumber sauce, but I do it out of my hip pocket, so to speak; I don't have a recipe.  I picked up my threadbare Julia (French Chef Cookbook), and it fell open to "To Poach A Salmon", Show 94.  I realized I learned from her, when I probably reached her elbow, during the old PBS series.  I never reached the shoulder of that 6+ foot tall goddess, either physically or in skill, but I worship at her temple.  Religion begins at home, and my mother was a slavish devotee from around 1970 onward. I already liked to cook, but, as with so many in America, Julia Child brought Mom and I the gospel of good French food, demystified.  Not even, necessarily, French: the basic laws rested on the quality of the ingredients, and fearlessness in the kitchen.  I remember the lusty joy of her "Bon Appetit!" at the close of each show. During my first marriage, I worked my way through "Joy of Cooking" and Julia, slavishly, learning.  When she died last year I surprised myself and burst into tears.  She was a friend of the family, a mentor, a personal icon for my favorite tribute to people I care for.  To share food one has prepared is a communion.

Now, to the salmon.  I will not repeat Julia's recipe here; you can look it up yourself, buy the book, whatever. With Julia's usual panache, the recipe calls for an entire salmon in any event.  A tad excessive for picnic fare a deux.  Instead, I offer poached salmon steaks, the sauce, and directions on assembling a salmon mousse terrine, all of which can be enjoyed and transported alfresco, assuming temperate weather and enough ice to prevent botulism.  I have made all of these for company, the terrine for several Oscar Parties, to enthusiastic reception. 

Poached Salmon Steaks

• 1 6-8 oz. salmon steak per person
• 1 Tbsp. salt & 1/4 C dry white wine or vermouth per quart of cooking water
• fresh dill and parsley
• peppercorns, coriander

Check salmon steaks for bones, pluck out any with tweezers.  Set aside. Place enough water to cover salmon in wide, shallow pan(s), add wine, salt, herbs, and 3 or 4 each of peppercorns and coriander in each pan.  Bring liquid to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes.  Reduce heat to point where water is barely simmering, add salmon, and watch to make sure water does not boil, or even bubble, but "shivers."  After 8 minutes, turn off heat (remove from electric stove -- the tool of Satan) and allow to rest in water for 3-5 minutes.  Remove gently with large spatula, remove skin, and serve immediately or chilled.

Cucumber Sauce

• 1/2 to 1 C plain yogurt (MUCH better with the whole milk version, but if you're really being saintly, low-fat is OK) -- enough to blend with:
• 1 large or 2 medium peeled, grated cucumber
• 1 Tbsp. lemon juice
• 1 Tbsp. fresh dill, chopped, or 1/2 tsp. dried dill

The amounts above are approximate, play with until you have what you want.  Tip: to avoid a runny sauce, grate the cucumber well ahead and drain on paper towels for at least half an hour before blending with other ingredients.  Chill to allow flavors to blend.

Salmon Mousse

• 1 envelope unflavored gelatin
• 1/4 C cold water
• 1/2 C boiling water
• 1/2 C mayonnaise
• 1 Tbsp. lemon juice
• 1 Tbsp. finely grated onion
• dash Tabasco
• 1/4 tsp. sweet paprika
• 1 tsp. salt
• 2 Tbsp. finely chopped fresh dill (optional if serving with cucumber-dill sauce)
• 2 C finely flaked poached salmon (remove all skin and bones)
• 1 C heavy cream

1. Soften the gelatin in the cold water in a large mixing bowl.  Stir in the boiling water and whisk the mixture slowly until the gelatin dissolves.  Cool to room temperature.
2. Whisk in the mayo, lemon juice, onion, Tabasco, paprika, salt and dill.  Stir to blend completely and refrigerate for about 20 minutes, or until the mixture begins to thicken slightly.
3. Fold in the finely flaked salmon.  In a separate bowl, whip the cream until it is thickened to peaks and fluffy.  Fold gently into the salmon mixture.
4. Transfer to a 6-8 Cup bowl or decorative mold.  Chill at least four hours.

(Courtesy of Silver Palate Cookbook, Rosso and Lukins, with additions)

1. For a truly spectacular presentation, decorate the mold first: prepare an aspic with gelatin and chicken or vegetable stock, and pour half into mold.  Chill until fairly firm, chilling remainder of aspic in separate bowl until thickened.  Then lay fresh dill fronds attractively over surface and pour thick aspic over, chill until firm.  THEN add salmon mousse and chill at least four hours.  Be advised that it will look too pretty to eat, and some people are unaccountably alarmed by aspics, but I say the hell with them. 

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