Raw Broccoli Salad (With cherries! And parmesan!)

He was already wearing that green sweatshirt, I swear! (Not that I wouldn't have art-directed him into it.)

 I am so totally not a raw-food person. If you say the words “raw cashew crust” to me, for example, I am not going to want a bite of your pizza, and I don’t want any sprouted-sunflower “brownies.” Plus—I think I may have mentioned this before—I had a raw-food housemate in Santa Cruz who alternated chewing grains of brain rice, which he soaked overnight, with chain-smoking Marlboro reds. “Maybe cook your food and quit smoking?” I suggested, and he (fair enough) gave me the finger.

 

And yet. And yet, once I fall in love with something raw, the cooked version starts to seem off to me, debased. Sushi is a great example: raw salmon is, to me, the epitome of silky, luscious perfection, after which a piece of cooked fish suddenly tastes like the oily smell of cat food. Likewise, once we started eating kale raw, in the salad that this one is based on, cooked kale started to seem so limp and sulfurous—like all its vim and vigor, its robust green kaleness, had gone up in steam. And now broccoli.

 

I’m not saying I’ve given up my crack addiction. But a funny thing happened: we were testing an idea I’d had for ChopChop (it will be in the summer issue), whereby kids try out four different cooking methods with the exact same ingredients to better appreciate the fact that how you cook something really affects the way it tastes. Our ingredients were broccoli, salt, olive oil, and lemon: we roasted the broccoli, we sautéed it, we steamed and then dressed it, and we tasted it raw—with the oil and salt and lemon, still—just as a control. And, to my incredible surprise, the raw won my kids over. “But doesn’t the roasting really bring out the sweetness?” I asked them, and yes, it did, they could see that. Steaming brought a clarity of flavor, sure. But they just really liked the freshness and sweet crunch of the raw vegetable—the same way they’ll more happily eat a carrot right out of the ground than a cooked one. “Also,” Ben noted sagely, “I used the really good olive oil.” It was true; he did. But still.

And so I made this salad, in which the broccoli, like ceviche, is sort of cooked a bit by the vinegary dressing and turns bright green. It is completely delicious—garlicky, sharp, tender, crunchy, and vibrantly green-tasting—and, if you’re afraid, quite unlike the large, punishingly raw florets that might accompany the ranch dip at your work functions. The cherries add just the right amount of sweetness and chew, while the cheese contributes a little funky, salty richness. Yum.

"Honey, you don't have to eat all that--I was just faking it out for the photo." "I know. But can I?" (As seen on That's Incredible! Vegetable-Eating Children.)

Raw Broccoli Salad

This salad is great after an hour and even better the next day. Lightly fried sliced almonds are a delicious addition. My family has decided to hate walnuts, but they’d be good too, as would something like fried garlicky breadcrumbs. Be sure to cut the broccoli small so that it gets well coated by the dressing. And please note that the recipe calls for sherry vinegar--not sherry or cooking sherry.

2 pounds broccoli

½ cup olive oil

3 large cloves of garlic, smashed, peeled, and finely minced

4 tablespoons sherry vinegar (or wine vinegar or balsamic vinegar)

1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt

1 cup freshly grated parmesan 

2/3 cup dried tart cherries (we get ours at Trader Joe’s)

Cut the broccoli into very small, but distinct pieces. I cut the crowns off the stems—but very close to the stem, so that they fall apart, or can get pulled apart, into very small florets. Then I peel the tough skin of the stems and chop the stems fairly fine. Put all the broccoli (except for the peels, which you can toss out) in a large bowl.

Now, in a small pan, heat the oil over medium heat and fry the garlic in it until fragrant and just on the verge of coloring (which you will need to intuit, given that it won’t have colored yet). Add the salt and vinegar, and stir for another minute as the vinegar sizzles furiously and the whole thing becomes outrageously fragrant. Pour the hot dressing over the broccoli and toss very thoroughly with a pair of tongs. Stir in the cheese and cherries, taste for salt (and, while you’re at it, for vinegar and oil), then cover and allow to sit for an hour at room temperature. Stir, taste again, re-season, and serve.

Gratitude, for the millionth time

I am a little bit at a loss for words about your response to last week's open letter. This heart-stoppingly aggressive thing happened to us, only the net result was, crazily enough, buoyantly positive. Because not only a) did I get to see Ben angry for the first time ever, but then b) by the time we were in the car, he was already laughing that the whole thing had been worth it for the good story we'd be able to tell. (Plus, the next morning he said, brushing his hair, "Now I don't even want to trim my split ends!") And also c) the wagons circled fast and tight. And d) our people near and far, known and unknown to us, expressed their empathic outrage in, literally, hundreds of ways. Thank you, oh thank you. 

And as far as the questions about the guy and what his problem was or might have been, his problem was--to put it plainly--masculinity. Although Birdy, when I was saying aloud, in response to a particular strand of comments, "Is this guy autistic? This guy's not autistic--this guy's an aggressive dick!" Birdy, maddeningly fair-minded Birdy, said, "But Mama, isn't your whole point that you don't know who people really are, what their whole story is, just from looking?" Such a pain in my arse, that kid.

And what, my darling girl, would our yelling friend have to say about *your* particular style of self-presentation? 

With love and gratitude and the promise of the regular good stuff soon, like tasty vegetables and holiday crafts, I swear.

xo

An open letter to the guy who chased my son out of the men’s bathroom after mistaking him for a girl

I just want to start by applauding your decision to shout at us right off the bat. “She was in the men’s room! Your daughter was in the men’s room! A girl in the men’s room!” For one thing, how else will we learn? For another, how else will we be covered in spittle? Plus, I think it’s good, if you see something unexpected, to proceed with violent certainty rather than with, say, wonder or even doubt. Like the time I found that slightly darker O in my bowl of Cheerios and freaked out because I knew for sure that it was a wheel from the landing gear of a miniature UFO that was going to abduct me and probe my anus; if it were cereal, it would look like the rest of the cereal. Likewise, if you see a doll with short hair, even if it’s lying next to a pair of scissors, you should think, “Ew. When did Ken’s boobs get so big?”

It made sense, too, to continue to insist that he was a girl, even after he calmly explained that he had been in the men’s room because he was a boy. (“It’s Ken! But Ken has boobs!”) And your distress over imagining that a preadolescent girl saw your man parts—“I was naked in there! She saw me naked!”—makes such an important point about the prevalence of peeping-Tommery in young girls, and the ways that middle-aged men are vulnerable to them.

To answer your question, “Are you its mom?” more unambiguously: Yes. But you’re smart to ask, because maybe the whole family is a transgendered house of mirrors and I’m really “its” dad! (Last laugh—i.e. my having it—alert!) Certainly, though, it made a lot of sense to imagine that I had colluded in the perversion of sending a girl into the men’s room because, after all, what parent doesn’t want their daughter to be in a tiled room full of urinating men?

In conclusion, thank you for your valuable input. I can only hope that my son will leave behind his girly days of placid confidence and grow into somebody as manly as you—with the kind of balls it takes to scream at a child in public.

yours truly,

Its Mother

Contest Winner / Daylight Savings

You guys, I had to reread through my contest announcement to see if somewhere I had, by mistake, asserted that the contest’s subtheme was Catherine Newman Lovefest 2013: “Only the most doting and affectionate comments will be considered!” Maybe you just sensed that I was thinking that? I love you too, so much.

Drum roll . . . random number generator. . . 157!

Stacey5:05 PM

Pick me! Must read the profanity-laced, potato-peeling scene!

I only put in from 1 to 216 because I subtracted my own name, one of dale’s comments and, one of Beth’s comments, and, yes, my good friends at Zuupdesign. As always, the winner--Stacey, I'm talking to you--should email me (address at right!) with (his or) her address.

Meanwhile, while I am loving the bright evenings, I must complain that the time change is killing me softly this year. I am so tired that all I can talk about is tiredness, and how the tiringness of mornings and afternoons makes me really tired, and also how tired I am and feel. AND NOT ONLY THAT (sigh), but if you have the kind of insomnia that means you wake up at 4 every night to read for an hour, the time change means that now you’ll wake at 5, which means that an hour later it’s 6 and there’s no time to go back to sleep. 

The cat is also very, very tired. He’s like one of those Salvador Dali clocks, melting onto every surface. Or like Tom, after he gets run over by Jerry driving a steam roller, and then he slides down the stairs.

ALSO (almost done) it’s nice that it’s not so cold, but then the heat doesn’t kick on, so then while you’re reading in bed at 5-really-4, your shoulders are freezing. Did I ever tell you about Michael’s solution to the conflict between my cold night shoulders and his accessible-boobs requirement? How he cut out a groping window from the front of a long-sleeved shirt of mine? I know. He’s a problem-solver.  

The Cassoulet Saved Our Marriage: Give Away!!!

My sweet vegetarian girl's birthday dream dinner. Seriously. "Oh my God, you got white bread! Mama, thank you so much!" "You're so welcome, Oliver Heidi Birdy!"

Oh my darlings, thank you for sobbing down memory lane with me your sweet birthday wishes for Birdy. It really has been a decade, and so I am wishing you a happy anniversary, and I remembered to get you flowers, they just didn't come yet. Look out your front door, in May. That blooming tree? That'll be from me!

In real life, the cover is not pixelated at all. In fact, it is exceptionally lovely and boasts the fancy detail known in the business as "spot gloss." But don't take my word for it!

Meanwhile, if I told you that I secretly think of food as an idiom for love, you’d roll your eyes, I know. It’s about as secret as the fact that I drive with Scotch tape on my forehead to prevent squinting wrinkles, i.e. not very secret. The Cassoulet Saved Our Marriage: True Tales of Food, Family & How We Learn to Eat is, therefore, my perfect book. Because every story in the collection understands that food is always so much more than food: the way we put it on the table or don’t manage to put it on the table, or the way we love it or (!) hate it, or the way it stands in for memory, like Proust’s madeleine, only more like Proust’s buffalo chicken wing or Proust’s macaroni and cheese (or Proust's blackaroni and cheese, Deesha Philyaw’s name for her family’s heart-stopping take on it). Also, the book has recipes.

Somewhere is a picture of Birdy with sweet potato in her hair, but this isn't it.

I am proud to have a story of my own in this anthology, “Talk with Your Mouth Full,” about dinner-table conversation, including current goings-on as well as a bit of reminiscing from the sweet-potato-hair days. I am also proud to be in such ridiculously talented company. I have to tell you that Karen Valby’s story, “The Hunger Shames,” actually made me cry three separate times (page 133, page 137, and, when you turn the page and see that the recipe is for Doro Wat, page 138—if you’ve got the book handy). Or this, from Jen Larsen’s story, “Food Hater”: “‘Some people cook food,’” is what my mother should have said, followed by, ‘instead of shaking and baking, or hamburger helping, or cranking open a tin can of carrots and boiling the stuff inside until it can be used as spackle for the cracks in your heart.’” And Phyllis Grant’s story, “Recipe,” which includes Step 3: “Lean over the sink to peel potatoes. Say fuck fuck fuck fuck over and over again. Try to untangle depression from fatigue from clumsiness from failure. Remind yourself that sleep deprivation is a form of torture.” (Who is this Phyllis Grant? I wondered to myself. I see she has a blog, dash and bella, I said to myself. Ah, I notice she has 11 bazillion readers! I really have my finger on the pulse. Of a tortoise.)

10.

I actually don’t know why I started singling stories out. They’re all so absurdly good, and the editors, Caroline Grant and Lisa Harper, are just the loveliest people in the world. So you should buy the book. But first try to win it here! That’s right. Simply type in a comment to enter. I’ll pick a winner at noon (12 EST) on Friday. Good luck! Thank you for playing! xo

10

O knees upon knees! O elbows upon elbows! Birdy is 10: diminished, but beloved still. This March light! The light of her downy-headed emergence. She is the girl of my dreams.

Happy birthday to all those new ten-year-olds out there. So glad we're not still on babycenter together, weeping about the nighttime and the daytime and our nipples tugged out past neighboring zip codes. Unless you're back on babycenter because you have a new baby. And then I am too envious for words.

Yours, gratefully.

xo

Winter Bright Salad

A while back, I was visiting my friend Ali in Brooklyn, and, when lunchtime rolled around, we got a salad from her friend Anna’s unbelievably good Italian restaurant Al Di La (if you are ever near there, please try to stop by and eat even just one thing from her menu). This salad was called Winter White and if I’d never eaten Anna’s food before, I would not have been enticed by the description of it: raw vegetables, mostly roots (turnips, celery root, and radishes), but also fennel, cauliflower, fennel, and leeks, thinly sliced, lightly dressed, and topped with a bit of crumbled blue cheese. It sounds about as exciting as notebook paper, but it was, of course, extremely, shockingly delicious. And now I’m a little obsessed.

We don't exactly scream "salad". . . 

The fact of that salad, combined with the fact that we continue to reap the grubby, endless root harvest from our CSA share, has inspired me to rethink the way I go about preparing a salad in wintertime. I’m starting to be less about the lettuce and other “boughten greens” (as I like to say, like Ma Ingalls), and more about the veggies that are actually right here, in the house with us, begging to be seen and understood for the bright, crisp sweetness that lies beneath their earthy hides. Hence this recipe.

but we clean up nice!

I tried making it with finely sliced vegetables first (also done on the mandolin), and that was good too, but everyone likes it better this way: everything finely julienned, which I accomplish easily if treacherously on my beloved Benriner. You could grate the vegetables in the food processor or on a box grater, and it would be a little shaggier and juicier as a salad, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing—but I do love the beauty of the distinct twiggy lines of color here.

The salad is good as is—which is how we are mostly eating it—but you could also use it to top a simple collection of green leaves, or as a taco or sandwich filling. You can use any good, sharp vinaigrette (we are still using this, which Ben makes for us in big batches every five days or so) and add cheese or not (a handful of coarsely grated parmesan is our favorite right now). A couple of anchovies would be heavenly—but I defer to the vegetarian in the house.

Oh, and the veggies. As long as they’re sweet and delicious, use any firm friends you’ve got kicking around: carrots, beets, and turnips (like I use here), but also rutabagas, radishes, celery root, or parsnips, in addition to other crisp, hard winter veggies like cauliflower and fennel. And then add some herbs if you like—a handful of parsley just brightens everything up so beautifully, doesn’t it?

p.s. Thank you all for your sweet anniversary (bone-iversary! you remembered!) wishes. xo

Winter Bright Salad
Makes 4 servings (this is a dense salad)

The herbs and cheese are optional here. Leftovers are fantastic.

Enough winter veggies (carrots, beets, turnips, rutabagas, radishes, celery root, parsnips, cauliflower, and/or fennel) scrubbed or peeled and finely sliced, julienned or grated to make around 2 or 3 packed cups
A good, garlicky or shallot-y vinaigrette, see below (you'll use around 1/3-1/2 cup, or so)
½ cup slivered parsley (or a couple tablespoons of another fresh herb of your choosing)
1/3 cup coarsely grated parmesan or crumbled blue cheese or feta (optional)

Toss the veggies with some of the dressing to taste then, um, taste it. If it needs a little more something to brighten the flavor, consider adding an extra splash of vinegar and/or a pinch of salt rather than more of the vinaigrette. Add the parsley and/or cheese, toss again, and taste. Serve right away, or cover it and eat it later (but taste it again at that point--you may need to drain off some liquid and redress it).

Actually, I'll just re-post the vinaigrette here, for the sake of ease. You won't use it all, but leftovers are so great to have around.

Perfect Vinaigrette
Makes 1 cup

1 clove garlic, minced or put through a garlic press
1/3 cup white-wine vinegar
2/3 cup olive oil
¼ teaspoon dried marjoram (or oregano, if you prefer)
2 teaspoons kosher salt (or half as much are you even paying attention?)
Pepper

Shake it up in a jar. Store it in the fridge.

San Francisco, 1990

Be Mine

This year's Valentine's Day shirt was based on our new favorite character from this movie. 
I've probably mentioned that I make the kids t-shirts every year. Others have been more classically romantic. . .

This one, made with an old-lace napkin. (Me, choked up over that little Ben face? Don't be silly!)

Or this, made by painting over a doily (see link below).

And every year I feed them yogurt with a heart of raspberries arranged on it.

So Birdy was just little then. Who even cares? [sob]

And I make the table super-fancy. Or as super-fancy as one can get without remembering if there is an iron, and where it might be.

The bad photo quality might make this look depressingly like your grandma's tenement-era apartment.

And I make some sort of a treat.

I have no feelings about this face whatsoever. [sob]

Nothing says "I love you" like root vegetables!

Valentine's Day is my number-one favorite holiday of the year! It is possibly the only holiday that never, ever results in me tantruming around the house referring to such things as "the fucking turkey" (as in "Maybe next year you can stick your hand inside the fucking turkey.") or "the fucking teacher gifts" or "the fucking snowflake garland that I have now sewn my sleeve into" or "the fucking oven mitt that is on fire, you asshole." In fact, it could be that I have never once cursed with respect to Valentine's Day! Although, having said that, I admit that it's unlikely to be true.

If you need a quick last minute idea, I've got loads scattered around the internet! Try one of these:

• For truly quick and lovely doily-print t-shirts, click here.
• For PBJ thumbprint heart cookies, click here.
• For our romantic musings on paint colors, click here. (warning: not a useful idea!)
• For my fancy doily-patterned cake, click here.
• For little kids, a Valentine lacing card here.
• For a romantic heart-beet salad, click here.
• And for the oldy-but-goody of Birdy's preschool cards, click here. (warning: not a useful idea!)

Happy Valentine's Day, my sweethearts.

xo

Mid-winter Pursuits

Birdy

Blowing bubbles in the snow. (Have you heard about the snow here? Two feet! The children have grown hunchbacks and long beards since they last went to school.)

And teaching herself to play the guitar, which she is doing beautifully. Ben, meanwhile, is learning the ukulele. This ukulele, in fact, which he bought with his birthday money. If I had a single musical cell in my body, we could have quite the family string band!

Ben

All stop-motion animation all the time. His latest movie is here, and it features his own original ukelele soundtrack! (Don't believe his generous credits; this is really all him now, although, yes, I did wrap that teeny-tiny package, and Birdy did draw the ad.) The rest are all here. You can even subscribe, if you like, which will thrill him no end.

Craney

Watching the snow from the nest of Ben's bed. And also sleeping.

This particular cat posture is called "Bunny Feet."

Me

Blanket-making (Tutorial coming soon! I actually took pictures this time!)

Reading.

My friend Amity's brand-new book, which is harrowing and unforgettable (and--yay!--getting rave reviews all over the place). It's a little like Room, which I also loved, in that it's a story about parenting under duress and you're not sure how you feel about anything. I couldn't put it down.

Eating.

You can't see the jalapenos, but I swear they are in there.

Jalapeno-Cream-Cheese Scrambled Eggs. A new eggy favorite, although the Vinegar Egg is still my truest love. To make this new-comer, beat an egg in a cup with a nice pinch of salt and a teaspoon of cold water. Heat a generous half tablespoon of butter in a small pan over medium-low heat. When it's hot, add the egg to the pan with a tablespoon of cream cheese and a tablespoon of chopped pickled jalapenos (I blot them dry first on a paper towel). Scramble until done to your liking. (Easily doubled.) Yum.

Also nagging everybody about snowy boots and Lego everywhere and, most romantically, Valentines, and why haven't you done them yet? [No photo.]

Michael

Shoveling. And shoveling.

(Thank you, sweetheart! Kiss kiss kiss.)

What are you guys doing? Is it snowy there?

xo

Adobo Carnitas

I have a chicken-wing hangover today, so these photographs are not actually as unbearably tempting as they typically would be.

Meat that has been cooked into submission and is collapsing into succulent shreds might really be my favorite thing to eat in the world. So, if you want me to say something I like about February, besides the spring light of morning, it’s that. Long-cooked meat. It might not sound like much, but it’s good.

Although they are still pretty tempting, actually.

Although, and now this is February speaking through me more sighingly, I am having a little trouble feeding my kids lately, my kids who are bifurcating into a blood-smeared teenaged carnivore—like something out of a vampire movie—and a doe-eyed, leaf-chewing herbivore. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That Ben’s actually going to end up eating Birdy? I know. Thank goodness everybody likes beans is all I can say.

This recipe is so easy and so good. You can cook it in a crock pot and stop at the point where the meat is falling apart, and it’s delicious. I cook chicken legs this way, and also pork chops. Yum. Or, and here’s where things get crazy, you can cook it in a Dutch oven, and then finish it on the stove top, watching closely as the liquid evaporates and the pork starts to brown in its own fat. We call this adobo carnitas, and it is pretty much as good as you can imagine: the vinegar boils away into a profound and tangy sweetness, and the meat goes all crisp-edged, and all that fat you would have skimmed off if you were serving it at the stew stage—well, it all mysteriously “evaporates”! Just like that. It’s gone, so don’t give it another thought.

We eat this in tacos or burritos mostly or, as shown above, in a pile of shreds on a plate.

Edited to add: This is similar, but not identical, to the "Pork So Good It Could Make You Cry," thank you for wondering! The flavor is different (bay/pepper/onion/garlic/vinegar here versus scallion/ginger/sugar/sherry there) even though the sweet/salty succulence is the same.

This is the meat in the crock pot, stopped at the stew point. It is juicy and delicious like this.

Pork Adobo

If you stop at the stew stage, serve this over rice. If you take it all the way to carnitas, eat it in tacos or by itself, since it won’t be saucy any more. As noted above, feel free to swap in chicken legs or thighs (cook these for 2 hours or so) or bone-in pork chops (ditto) and stop at the stew stage.

1 onion, halved and sliced

4 cloves garlic, smashed and peeled

2 bay leaves

¼ teaspoon black peppercorns

4 pounds pork (country ribs, a Boston butt, or a boneless picnic shoulder)

½ cup soy sauce

½ cup white vinegar

1 cup water

Put the onions, garlic, bay leaves, and peppercorns in the bottom of a crock pot or Dutch oven. Add the pork, then pour the liquids over it, cover it, and cook it: in the crock pot, this means high heat for 6 hours or some lower heat for more hours; in the Dutch oven, this means tightly covered in a 325 oven for 4 or so hours, but you’ll need to check it every hour or so make sure there’s still liquid in there. Add water if there’s not.

The pork should be inclined to fall all to pieces—to shred up if you even so much as press it with a wooden spoon. At this point, remove any bones and any obvious solid clumps of fat, skim the surface, and serve over rice.

Or: cook it in on the stove top, in the Dutch oven, over low heat, until all the liquid boils off and the meat starts to fry in its own fat. Watch closely at the end so that it doesn’t burn. Die happy.

You probably already have everything but the pork. 

If your pork comes with those weird stretchy undies that keep the maxipad in place after you have a baby in the hospital--just remove them! 

Shouldn't you brown the pork and onions? No! Easy, right? 

Everybody gets really well acquainted in here. There won't be enough liquid to cover, but it doesn't matter.

A different meal, cooking it to the carnitas phase in the Dutch oven.