my food narrative, or, i got it from my mama

I am becoming my mother. Yes, everyone, this is happening. They say every woman turns out like her mother eventually, and it seems I am not immune to this curiosity of female evolution. More and more I’m noticing stronger similarities between us as I continue to settle into my...shall we generously call it... adulthood.

For instance, we’re both emotional people, easily moved to tears be they of joy, sadness, empathy or just feeling. But I wasn’t always like that. Where I used to roll my teenage eyes at her habit of tearing up during sappy TV commercials, I’m now notorious for the same thing, and if it involves a dog well then you can just forget it. I also have a similar style of diction, especially when I lose my patience. When I say, “let me tell you something” I can hear myself in one ear and her in the other. We like the same perfume, we gravitate towards the same types of people, but most significantly of all, we take the same approach to food.

Everything I know and everything I feel about food and eating is somehow inspired by her. Beginning with the no thank you portions of my childhood, I was taught to always be grateful for the food put in front of me, and to put your best dish forward for guests. Likely a function of being the oldest of seven kids, she will always buy too much, especially for parties, as it's "better to have too much than not enough", a philosophy I've adopted that runs up my credit card bill but leaves me at peace, even if I am eating leftovers for a week. I sweat at the thought of running out of food in front of company.

For my mom, eating is one of life's greatest pleasures. It's most often simple, like the Italian sandwiches she buys for weekend lunches from the refreshingly brusque, perpetually cranky woman at our favorite meat market, who I love visiting when I'm home even though she's never nice to me. Their prosciutto is a thing of beauty. Good, simple meals are some of the best, especially when shared with loved ones.

She also believes wholeheartedly in the occasional all out splurge, which I do my part to encourage. I was raised to believe that if you're gonna eat, if you're gonna spend, you might as well do it big, because the experience is well worth it. Splurging most often coincides with celebrations, but I also come from a family that looks for reasons to celebrate, so there you go.

And she's rubbed off on me in simpler ways, like my habit of stopping to read the menu in the window of every restaurant I pass by, which my boyfriend and friends graciously indulge. This drove me cah-raaaazy when I was little, but here I am, lingering, perusing, just like her. And I have the same maddening reluctance to commit to one restaurant over another when traveling, nagged with fear that I could've had something better. It is torture, and I am trying to chill out.

Other rules of Judy's to live by...I never eat breakfast but I adore brunch, I will happily spend good money for good food but nothing irks me more than overpriced mediocrity, there is always a reason for Champagne, there is also usually a reason for cocktails, order scallops if they're on the menu, cook often and have fun with it, and know that feeding myself well is a simple key to a high quality of life.

One of the only rules I haven't picked up is clean while you cook, but I'm only 24, so I have some time. Overall though, I've learned quite a bit from her influence. Our experience with food shapes our narrative, I think, more than we recognize. I examine my habits and the story they form, and realize how many of them are touched by food. As a necessity, it's woven quietly into the fabric of day to day living, but it has so much impact on our happiness, our memories, ourselves.

I'm lucky to have been raised to embrace food unabashedly and to take great enjoyment in the simplest of provisions. Along with curly hair and big lips, I will most certainly pass this down to my daughter some day, and I hope she's as grateful for it as I am.

On happy routines and the farmers market

It's nice to step back and appreciate the small things. I did a lot of that this weekend. The weather was beautiful, both days the kind that beg you to begin noticing your surroundings again after months of rushing from point a to point b. Blossoms are everywhere and the air is fragrant with spring's beginnings. I don’t remember DC being so beautiful last year, but then again I’ve warmed to the city considerably in recent months, and I think I’m more willing on the whole to absorb the good things here.  

I went on my first real run through the city in a long time, and had my first trip of the season to the farmers market, though admittedly it was the second attempt of the weekend. I think I was just so happy to be wearing short sleeves outside that I managed to convince myself the market would be open on Saturday. My enthusiasm translated to me mixing the days up, and considering that I made Jake walk the mile plus with me, I think it’ll be a little while before I live that one down. But the morning wasn't wasted, as the walk there was lovely. 

I returned by myself early this morning (after double checking the hours…) and took my time walking through it, savoring all the vendors I hadn’t seen for months. The Dupont market stays open year round, but I tend to tire of apples and cold weather, so I wait until the spring yields a little more bounty and warmth. Sliding back into my beloved routine was so exciting.

That sounds like a contradiction, or like I’m very boring, but the hour I spend at the market with my hands buried in piles of tender greens and my nose overwhelmed by all manor of fresh goodness is one of the best parts of my week. I fall in love with the bright colors, the abundance of babies and dogs, the knowledgable chatty vendors and of course the generous samples. Even though it’s only March, I can almost taste the sweet corn and I pine for sticky hands full of peach juice. But in the mean time, here's what today looked like...

baby lettuce

beautiful rainbow chard

more of the beautiful chard. so colorful!

peach blossoms...who knew?!

more blossoms...

and of course apples

tulips...some of my favorites

And lastly, breakfast was sour dough with strawberry jalapeno jam, maple
cured bacon and runny free range eggs. 

a soup to bridge the seasons

I have a well-documented thing for soup. Rich stews, fragrant broths, chilled purees, studded with fresh veggies, topped with crème fraiche…I find a way to incorporate them into my diet all year long. I’m big into comfort food that doesn’t bog me down, and one-pot meals that require only a crusty baguette to round them out, so I often rely on some form of soup to fill that niche.

There’s one that I fall back on more often than any other, introduced to me a while back by my friend Sarah, by way of a blog we both love, Molly Wizenberg’s Orangette. She brought it into work one day for lunch and within a month, at least 4 people on our team had all followed suit with their own unique spins on it, myself included. It’s a simple soup based on three ingredients…canned tomatoes, chickpeas, and stock, and these basic pantry items yield surprisingly deep flavors when combined with a few aromatics.

I’ve been eating tomato soup since I could hold a spoon independently, maybe even before that, and this is easily one of my favorites. It rivals the roasted tomato offering from Fork, etc. in Philadelphia, where I used to linger for many a work day lunch when I lived in the city of brotherly love. Until I invest in a food mill, I’ll never achieve the same silky texture, but this comes close.

We’re experiencing an early spring in DC this year, and I get the feeling that I won’t have many more opportunities to enjoy this, so I wanted to share it before the chilly evenings disappear for good. Note, the original version calls for earthy rosemary, which is wonderful, but lately I’ve been experimenting with more “exotic” add ins…by which I mean I recently bought some sweet smoked paprika and have been using it in absolutely everything. (As a result, my apartment smells kind of like a tapas bar, which I do not mind at all) I leave you to play around with your own herb and spice preferences, or give this one a try.

Modified from Orangette’s chickpea-tomato soup

2 cans chickpeas

1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes

1 14.5 oz can diced tomatoes

4 cups chicken or vegetable stock, I favor Kitchen Basics chicken stock

1 large shallot, minced

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon sweet smoked paprika

½ teaspoon cumin

½ cup wild rice (optional, I sometimes add it for a little heft)

2 tablespoons olive oil

A few pinches of sugar

Fresh black pepper

Warm the oil on medium-low in a large soup pot (I use my Le Creuset dutch oven) and sauté the garlic and shallots for two minutes until soft, then add in the smoked paprika and cumin and sauté for another two minutes. Add in the tomatoes, stock, half the chickpeas (drained and rinsed) sugar and a few grinds of pepper and bring soup to a boil, then simmer on low, mostly covered, for about 20 minutes.

Turn off the heat and use an immersion blender to puree the soup to your desired consistency. Add in the remaining chickpeas and serve, or if you’re adding the rice, do so with the rest of the chickpeas, and let the pureed soup simmer on low for another 15-20 minutes, until the grains are soft.

Finish your meal with some crusty bread and a small spoonful of sour cream or mascarpone. In the meantime, I'll be eyeing this gallery of spring soups on Saveur's website. 

a short explanation

Most people either have blog names that are self-explanatory, or they make a point of elaborating on them in the first post or two as a way of introduction. I guess I forgot to do that. Not like it’s especially profound or anything, but it does mean something to me, so I’ll write about it a little.

My kitchen counter is the center of my life. I feel most comfortable there. Growing up, it’s where my mom and I would talk through the events of our days; her with a glass of wine and me usually hovered over a big bowl of ice cream. By extension of those many nights, I’ve come to associate standing at my kitchen counter with the daily release of everything outside of “home”, of putting away work or school and having a few hours in my own element.

Now, it’s where I pour a glass of wine and open my mail after I’ve carried out my daily ritual of standing in front of the open refrigerator pondering what I can eat at that very moment that won’t ruin my appetite for dinner. I am forever standing in front of my open fridge. Sometimes I don’t even remember walking there, and yet there I am, reaching for the hummus.

It’s where I prepare my meals and sort my thoughts. Repetitive tasks like chopping and dicing are oddly therapeutic, and give my brain time to breathe and think about things I’ve put out of mind during the day. I can mindlessly cut up tomatoes and remember to pick up my dry cleaning or wish my friend a happy birthday. The steps to a recipe and my random thoughts intertwine in a stream of consciousness. Mince shallots and sauté in olive oil for two minutes, I wonder if it will be warm enough to run outside tomorrow, then add garlic.

And there are few things more rewarding to me than preparing a good meal, whether it’s the twentieth time I’ve made an old favorite or the first time I’ve truly gotten a new dish right. I look forward to lazy weekends when I can spend hours in the kitchen, perched at the counter with no time constraints.

It’s also where I invariably end up standing in the presence of company. I like to look out over it to the rest of my apartment and watch people making themselves at home, kind of like how my dog Bernie used to regularly sit at the top of the stairs and preside over the house. It’s my spot.

And it’s the first place I look when I can’t find something, because chances are I’ve recently left it there. Something else I am forever doing is losing things, especially keys and metro cards. So, in short, this blog is a reflection of thoughts I’ve had and things I’ve made while standing at the counter, or in some cases, in front of the fridge. And that's pretty much it.