Presence of the Knife

Last night, my friend Kris asked me how I got into cooking, why I like it. I took a moment, and remembered a (paraphrased) point from Ruth R.'s Garlic and Sapphires:

"Cooking is dangerous. You have to pay attention, meditation on the edge of a knife, and it gives me solace."

That's what I feel, and sometimes why I cook the same foods over and over. It's not so much that the eating of them is comfort, but that the making of them is. I love chopping. I like peeling. I have another job away from this desk where sometimes I get to use a chef's knife and cut romaine lettuce, and really, that ups my happy for the day.

At that moment, all I am focused on is how wide to make the cuts and how to make sure that my fingers are not in the cuts. And that present, that presence is pure bliss. I'm not thinking about deadlines, bills, relationships, or anything. Not anything but lettuce.

It's like those guys that mow the grass and make it almost a zen practice, or the woman that vacuums when she's anxious (you know who you are).

That being said, I cut myself sometimes, burn myself sometimes still and generally am on occasion extremely clumsy, especially when a glass of wine is in reach of my elbow. It's a practice, ok?

Friday night: Champagne and Radishes

My sweet sis came to visit the little kitchen this weekend, and in celebration of her visit, I went shopping for some extra veggies for this vegetarian. My biggest score came from the Vegetable Bin on Thursday afternoon -- easter egg radishes.

These colorful beauties from Johns Island called to me, and so we built an impromptu meal around them.

Of course, we started with some butter with coarse salt for the radishes, then prosecco (the most important part!), Persian cucumbers, cheddar cheese, gouda, a random addition of herbed popcorn, more prosecco, crackers, and avocado tossed with lemon and salt.

We ate all of this on my bed, listening to music, and using a bath towel as an impromptu picnic blanket. Right now, I have a bit of a miniature dining table --ok, that's an understatement -- so we ate and laughed and tried our best to not get crumbs on the bed quilt.

The next day, we enjoyed more bubbly at Virginia's, a spot in easy walking distance from our favorite shopping on King Street. Oh, and they have fried okra, something we two sisters make a beeline for. Cheers!

Be A Good Girl and Eat Your Flowers

I love all things flowers -- and I don't just mean the scents. And yes, you CAN bring bring flowers (Try it, seriously. You'll have me at "hello"). But really, I mean flavors. That's right, you crazy Americans, you can eat flowers. My two faves are violet and rose, and you can make fun of me all day. You're so weird!, you say. I really don't care. I will eat my flowers and like it.

-- Rose. There was this part in Like Water for Chocolate that made me really think this as more than a Valentine add-on. Yeah, this book could make anything sexy, but the roses actually sounded good tasting.

The key is to use organic, old fashioned roses. Don't think you'll be able to use those hot-pink long-stemmed varieties from the cooler case at your local grocery. One, they are filled with chemicals. Two, they don't have much scent, and therefore, not much flavor.

But if you use the right roses, the results are divine, like the roses surrounding the Virgin of Guadalupe divine. Case in point: the rose milk paleta from Las Paletas in Nashville. Delicate yet rich and blush colored. And that combo rarely happens.

Not so divine. The rose wine that once exploded in my pantry. It was was so bubbly that it escaped it's bottle, and although it promised amazing Firefox deliciousness, I have never had the guts to try it again.

-- Violet. I've been hopeless in this respect for a long time. In fact, when I was 16 or so, I had petty cash for a family vacation to Wilmington, and I distinctly remember going to a specialty gourmet store (this was WAY before the Food Network) for fun and buying balsamic vinegar and violet pastilles. Really? Did I have a hard time getting a date for the prom? What? Why no, why do you ask? But anyway, I digress ...

Violet is like eating perfume, and especially when it is in that European concoction of after-dinner mints or gum. Granted, this delicate purple bloom doesn't counteract a garlic-filled repast, but it makes a worthy effort, and y'all, it's purple.

A Beets Paperback Romance

I first noticed him in high school. He was the kid with glasses on the relish tray, pickled and, well, not that appealing to my Pop-Tart loving self. I liked the showy guys (like jalapenos) who stayed up late and probably drove fast cars.

But a few years ago, I met him again. He'd grown up, been dating goat cheese and was suddenly oh-so-much more appealing. I'd also matured, way past Campbell's Won Ton Soup and deep into the heart of roasted chicken, black beans and succulent artichoke, dripping with butter onto my tongue.

My friend Hilarie Lambert re-introduced us again at a dinner party, and the attraction was definitely there. He wasn't sour like before, or strange, and he had this amazing complexity that I'd never noticed. Even though we briefly chatted, I knew that I'd be thinking about him again soon, and I was.

We flirted. We'd go out to lunch, especially to our favorite lunch spot where he seemed to get a lot of attention, and where I'd get a little more than expected. We'd meet at the farmer's market, and I'd stop and chat for a while, but we'd never make firm plans.

Still, this Spring I started thinking about him again. I knew he was fresh into town, ready to go, and I heard that he was at the farmer's market and willing to hang out. I made a date to see him -- I was late, way too unfashionably late -- and he was just leaving when I arrived. He looked a little put out among the boxes, but I persuaded him to join me anyway. I was determined.

We got home, and he seemed to relax into himself, to radiate his sexiness even more.

But, as I always am, I was a bit nervous, despite knowing exactly what to do. I left him to be, and said, "Another night."

Last night, beets and I went all the way.

Roasted in a mere inch of water, a little sprinkle of olive oil and kosher salt and cracked pepper, he came out luscious and tender. The scent of roasted beets is like sweetgrass after a May rain. It's very subtle, and the opposite of the fuchsia stains it leaves on my cutting board, my knife, really, everything everywhere. It's a hot mess of a vegetable, but with tortellini and some freshly shaved Parmesan it is a revelation -- of living, eating, spring and all things good and earthy.

Lingering lamb shanks

I've been dragging my feet a bit thinking about writing this post, as I was so excited to cook these babies up. 

Honestly, they were less than stellar ... I lightly floured and browned them in my cast iron skillet, then used homemade chicken stock and red wine, some fresh rosemary, garlic and cherry tomatoes to braise them. They stayed on the stove for about 10 minutes, then went into the oven for 2 hours.

I hung out, had wine and cheese, opened the oven door, closed it, had a handful of almonds, watched an episode of Mad Men, then checked again. Y'all, I was hungry, and so I pulled them after two hours. They could've gone another 30 minutes at least.

Once reduced, the braising liquid became a chunky, luscious sauce, and I served that over some jasmine rice. Easy. Added arugula for a green, and I was good to go. 

Added note: photographing meat is hard! This is reminiscent of a 1960s Betty Crocker cookbook photo -- sorry.

The meat and sauce had an amazing flavor, but I felt more cave woman pulling the meat from the bone than fine diner pulling it away with her fork. I ate it and hoped for the best when I warmed it up the next night. Nope. The next night, it dried out a bit so was a little more jerky-esque in some parts. 

Sigh.

The flavor was delicious, though, so I will try again. All the recipes I saw called for more than 2 shanks, so I was trying to adjust the time and porportions.