The Saddest Lunch Ever

Image courtesy of Walmart.com.

It's sad when the only thing left in your kitchen to bring for your cubicle lunch is a single stick of Frigo Cheese Heads Light String Cheese.

I think I need to go grocery shopping.

Drink, Don't Drool

Drool bib (complete with glaring grammatical error) courtesy of clothing.cafepress.com/.../373140574.

"How many glasses of wine did you have last night?" My dad asked when I called with the details of my open mic triumph.

"Just one before reading my essay. Then I had one waiting for me when I got back to the table," I said. He laughed.

"That was a good idea. A lot of performers have a drink to help them relax before going up on stage. Even Barbra Streisand has to take benzodiazepine for stage fright. When's the audition?" he asked, referring to my audition for 2nd Story--the reason I had subjected myself to the nerve-wracking open mic night in the first place.

"Tuesday at 7:30."

"You'll do great," he said. "They already like your story. The audition is just to make sure you're not some weird, enormous person who drools."

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied.

"Just do your best," he said. "And don't drool."

From this conversation, I mined two important pearls of wisdom: drink and don't drool. Ever a Daddy's Girl, I tried my best to follow his advice. The drooling part was easy. I have never been a drooler. Check!

The drinking was a little more difficult. F and I were meeting after work at Story Studio, a writing center tucked away on the second floor of a renovated factory building in Irving Park. We planned to hang out there until my audition, which was conveniently located in the room next door.

F and I recently became Story Studio members, which includes discounts on writing classes and unlimited access to the writing center's comfy lounge. So we have been going at least once a week to sit on the couch and write. There's no TV, no Internet access, no snacks or cats to distract us from our Important Work. We bring the bare minimum: sandwich fixins and bottled water.

It's probably not cool to bring alcohol to the writing center. But I didn't care. My father had prescribed a glass of wine. And Sunday's open mic experience was so successful that I thought it most prudent to recreate the essentials. I wore the same outfit. I arranged my hair the same way. And I bought some wine.

I felt very classy waiting in line at the 7-Eleven after work with my $2.49 mini bottle of Pinot Grigio. Behind me stood an obese man from whose unbuttoned shirt his massive, grimy stomach protruded. He didn't smell very nice, and he repeated in a guttural whine, "Someone stole my cigarette rollers! Someone stole my cigarette rollers!" I paid, stowed my wine in my lunch box with the turkey, dinner rolls, and bottled water, and stepped out into the 95-degree heat of downtown Chicago.

I was sweating before I even reached the L stop, where I shoved into a train car that was at least ten degrees hotter than the sidewalk. Wedged against the doors of the train in the sweltering heat, I clutched in one hand a horrifically heavy bag filled with my laptop, two books, a notebook, my executive planner, and God knows what else--and in the other hand, my lunch box filled with cheap wine and Butterball deli meat.

An inauspicious start.

But once I got to Story Studio and set up my laptop on the couch in the cool lounge with F, I started to feel much better. I sneaked sips of wine from the brown paper bag hidden in my lunch box, and felt almost relaxed. Almost.

Although I wasn't nearly as sickeningly anxious as I had been before the open mic, I was still nervous.

I shouldn't have been. The audition went smoothly. Sitting on a comfortable, overstuffed couch with two attentive girls, I read the essay even better than I had on Sunday. They laughed, they nodded, they made the appropriate listening noises. And when I finished, they clapped.

Then they asked questions. After countless interviews for countless jobs, I consider myself a pro at fielding questions like, "What is your greatest strength?" and "Why do you want to work here?" and "What is your proudest accomplishment?"

I realized last night, however, that I am not at all a pro at answering questions like, "What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you?" Which is what one of the girls asked, leaning toward me with an engaging smile like a best girlfriend craving gossip.

I will freely admit that at times--most times, really--I tend to think too much. Immediately, my overheated brain crowded with all the possible implications of this seemingly casual question:

Does she mean the craziest thing I've DONE? or The craziest thing that has ever happened TO me? What does she mean by "crazy"? Does she mean "strange and unexpected" or "wild and kinky" or just "insane"?

Besides the fact that I'm not really the wild-and-crazy type, my mind instantly cleared of any and all fascinating tidbits to share about myself. I won't tell you what I finally came up with. Anything you imagine is sure to be crazier than what I actually said.

Other than the fact that I'm not interesting on demand, I think the audition went splendidly. I did the best I possibly could. I breathed. I talked. I laughed. I was confident and personable.

And my dad will be proud because I did not drool.

Baby Got Balls

I worried it would be humiliating. I worried my throat would close up, or I would pass out, or burp into the mic.

I am not a good public speaker. The last time I read my writing out loud—in a short story class a few months ago—I couldn't breathe. I gasped through my two pages of handwritten scrawl, sounding like I was on the verge of tears. When I finished reading, the teacher comforted me.

The first and only time I sang in public was even worse. I thought that if I took the private singing lessons offered in high school, I might get over my fear of public speaking and become a more confident, sparkly person. Although I couldn't breathe—much less sing—in front of the teacher for the first week, I warmed up to her and was belting out folk songs by the end of our time together.

And then she said, "So what will you sing at the recital?" Um. I hadn't known there would be a recital. Had I known I would end my private tutorial with public singing, I surely would not have signed up for this. But once I’ve committed to something, I don’t quit. I couldn't back out. And I only knew one song: "I Have Twelve Oxen."

I got up on stage in an old church in front of the entire school chorus and their parents, and I sang a twelve-verse song about cows. For your edification I have found the lyrics:

I have twelve oxen, they be fair and white,
And they go a-grazing down by the dyke.
With hey! with how! with hey!
Sawest not you mine oxen, you little pretty boy?

It doesn’t even rhyme. And the other verses are just as bad. There’s one for each color of cow. I sang in a high, warbling, gaspy voice, and when I finished, my teacher comforted me.

Last night, for reasons I will soon explain, I voluntarily signed up to read a personal essay in front of a microphone in front of a room full of strangers. In the middle of my essay is a rap song. Not only was I planning to read in public, but I was going to rap—two nightmares rolled into one ten-minute performance.

What does an open mic have to do with food, you may well ask. Not much, if truth be told. Except that the essay I read aloud to strangers last night was adapted from my blog post "The Worst Meal of My Life." I reworked this post into a personal narrative that I submitted to 2^nd Story, a Chicago writing group composed of thirty writers who perform personal narratives in bars around the city. There's an application and audition process, and if you're accepted into the group, you meet three or four times a month to workshop, rehearse, and perform in public. It's intense and difficult to get into. I thought that if I could get into this group, the workshops might make me a better writer, and the performances might turn me into a more confident, sparkly person.

Long story short, I submitted my essay to 2^nd Story and they called me in for an audition. Which is tomorrow. Which is why I decided to try out my essay on an audience first. Auditions are scary. But an open mic is scarier. If I can get through an open mic, I reasoned, the audition will be a piece of cake.

So last night F accompanied me to Story Club at Uncommon Ground, a coffee shop/restaurant/wine bar. We were ushered into the back room, all brick with funky art on the walls, cozy tables for two, and window seats with pillows. Another door led to an outdoor patio. If I hadn’t felt like throwing up, I would have really appreciated the ambiance.

We were an hour early, so we ordered drinks. I tried to pace myself, but downed the first glass of wine while sneaking wide-eyed peeks at the mic. No podium. No chair. Just a microphone standing naked against the brick wall in front of an entire room full of tables. At the moment, the tables were empty.

As 8:00 rolled around, the tables began to fill up. And I began to panic.

“Why am I doing this again?” I squeaked to F.

“Because you’re great,” he said, patting my hand.

“But what if I embarrass you? Will you still love me if I stink?”

“Absolutely. But you won’t stink. You’ll be great, babe!” he said. “Don’t forget to breathe.

“OK,” I said, hyperventilating.

The organizer of the event, D, came over to introduce herself and handed me a clipboard to sign in. I was the first and only name on the list.

“I’m so glad you came!” she said. “You can go first.”

Then, suddenly, it was 8:30. D took the mic.

“Welcome to the first-ever Story Club. Tonight we have three featured storytellers, and one guest writer. So let’s get started with our guest writer L, who will be reading her story ‘Baby Got Stock.’”

Without further ado, I wobbled to my feet and strode with assumed confidence to the front of the room. There was a stool tucked back against the wall, and I dragged it into the center of the makeshift stage. D helped me lower the microphone a full foot then sat down at a nearby table. I was alone.

I heard myself say, very loudly into the microphone, “Wow. I didn’t know I’d be the only guest writer...” A few people tittered, and I began to read.

I wasn’t nervous! My hands didn’t shake, my heart didn’t race, I didn’t sound like I was on the verge of hysterics. I actually sounded pretty good. And people were laughing in all the right places. Like a baby bird testing the air with its wings, I lifted my eyes from the page and directed them out into the audience. I was reading without looking! I turned my head a little to sweep the room with my confident gaze. I imagined this is what flying feels like.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad! I kind of like this!” I thought as I made eye contact with various audience members, all looking up at me, all listening intently to what I had to say. It was exhilarating to have the floor to myself for a full ten minutes. I don’t talk all that much, in real life. So it was a novel experience.

And then I came to the part I had been dreading. The part of the essay that—if I could pull off—would be really funny, and if I couldn’t, would just be humiliating. I rapped. To the tune of “Baby Got Back.” About stock.

The crowd didn’t quite get it. They were slightly older than the intended audience, so perhaps they didn’t know the song and thought I was just crazy. But there were a few nervous laughs, and I just kept on trucking.

The time seemed to speed by, and before I knew it, I had come to the end. I had done it! I wasn’t humiliated. My throat didn’t close up, I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t burp into the mic. The crowd clapped and cheered, and I sat down to F’s huge grin. I hadn’t embarrassed my husband, after all.

I tried to listen attentively to the three “featured storytellers” who followed me, but I was too full of adrenaline to make sense of the words. I’m sure they were great, but I couldn’t tell you what their stories were about.

As we were leaving, an older gentleman stopped by our table to share his own story about cooking in college:

“My roommate was going to make us his mother’s famous meatloaf. He talked about it all day, and we were all really excited. When I went into the kitchen that afternoon to see what he was up to, I found him heating up a frying pan. Then he plopped in two big scoops of mayonnaise. It started smoking and running all over the pan, and I took a look at the recipe. ‘Um, Bob,’ I said, ‘You were supposed to use margarine.’”

Then a guy at the next table leaned across the aisle,

“That was fiction, right?” he asked. “You didn’t really eat that stock, did you?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

“Ugh! What a great description.” He said, and smiled.

When I got home, I treated myself to a cupcake. After the open mic, reading my story to a handful of people tomorrow night should be much easier. I’m looking forward to it, whether I get into 2^nd Story or not. And if you catch me now, while I’m still feeling triumphant, I may even sing you a few verses of “I Have Twelve Oxen.”

An Act of Bravery, or Public Humiliation

Microphone image courtesy of http://dylanbrody.com/blogs/?page_id=15

Tonight I rapped in front of strangers.

And I LIKED it!

I'll let that sink in. Check back tomorrow for the whole story.

Ahead of the Curve

Image of asparagus with fried farm egg courtesy of The New York Times.

Mado was just reviewed in The New York Times! I'm officially ahead of the curve.

After enjoying one of the best meals of my life at Mado with my supper club in March, I took F for dinner last month, and he finally understood what I had been raving about. He has been talking about his hanger steak ever since, and chose to celebrate his 30th birthday there last night.

Our good friends and fellow Top Chef devotees joined us for dinner. A group of talented cooks and shrewd epicures, they were smitten with the buttery pate, somehow spicy and reminiscent of Christmas; the asparagus with fried farm egg; the crisp trout that tasted like camp fire; the Gorgonzola polenta; the wood-smoked chicken that fell off the bone—the list goes on and on. We each ordered a different dish, and tried them all.

Our friend J, especially, knows food. He sends me articles about how to make homemade pasta sauce and what to do with ramps. He bakes the best scones I've ever tasted and knows everything about kitchen knives. As our waiter cleared the last plate from our table, J asked, "Can I work here?" Our genial waiter (who, in answer to our questions about the menu, earnestly mapped the cuts of pork on his own body) took J's question in jest.

But J was absolutely serious about donning an apron and heading back to the kitchen. And in that moment, I knew the dinner was a success.

In her extremely positive review, Monica Davey of The New York Times captures the mood of Mado perfectly: "On a cold, rainy spring evening, Mado offered escape without effort, the smell of a wood grill... a momentary journey to some quiet farm while still sitting in the city’s chaos."

After my third visit to Mado, I can safely say it's my favorite restaurant. I can't wait to go back.

Ramps! Ramps!

This week's CSA shipment arrived yesterday in its forbidding gray crate. This huge, horrible plastic monstrosity will squat in our tiny apartment until next Wednesday when, for a brief morning, it will wait like a stocky raincloud on our front steps for the CSA delivery man who will toss it into his truck and leave its twin, belly full of produce, in its place.

What was inside the belly of this particular crate? 1 green pepper, bunch of oregano, radish sprouts, 3 yellow onions, 2 zucchini, rhubarb, cherry tomatoes, 3 bananas, 2 lemons, AND MORE RAMPS!

What on earth will I do with more ramps? I still have three ramps left over from last week. I tried to use them, I really did. I made ramp biscuits and a ramp omelet. Both were perfectly lovely, but I'm afraid I have discovered that I'm not the biggest fan of ramps (except for their delightful name, which I have been startling F by randomly shouting in the voice of little Danny Torrance from The Shining: "Ramps! Ramps!")

For now, the ramps are banished to the freezer, where they will remain until I figure out what to do with them. Anyone want some ramps? If you provide postage and refrigerated crate, I'll send them to you.

The Worst Meal of My Life

Every supper can’t be gourmet. Every dish can’t come out just right. And every so often, we find ourselves presented with a meal so revolting, so nauseating, so horrifically memorable that it stays with us for the rest of our lives—like a foul aftertaste that won’t rinse away. I still recall with dismay a neighbor’s damp tuna casserole I was too polite to turn down. I haven’t eaten tuna casserole since.

When faced with a truly ghastly dish like tuna casserole, I remember with an involuntary shudder a description of a meal so repulsive it scarred me as much as if I had eaten it myself. If you’ve read Yorkshire veterinarian James Herriot’s memoir All Things Bright and Beautiful, you will undoubtedly recall the moment when James—who had a “pathological loathing of fat”—was offered a tea-time snack by one of his favorite farmers:

…my toes curled into a tight ball as I found two huge slices of pure white fat lying on my plate…I knew beyond all doubt that there was no way I could eat what lay in front of me. Maybe I could have managed a tiny piece if it had been hot and fried crisp, but cold, boiled and clammy…never. And there was an enormous quantity; two slices about six inches by four and at least half an inch thick with the golden border of crumbs down one side. The thing was impossible.

Mrs. Horner sat down opposite me. She was wearing a flowered mob cap over her white hair and for a moment she reached out, bent her head to one side and turned the dish with the slab of bacon a little to the left to show it off better. Then she turned to me and smiled. It was a kind, proud smile.

…I took a deep breath, seized knife and fork and made a bold incision in one of the slices, but as I began to transport the greasy white segment to my mouth I began to shudder and my hand stayed frozen in space.

In spite of his roiling stomach, James ate every last lump of that bacon—and “never knowingly ate fat again.”

Adam was my Mrs. Horner, so to speak. I shared an apartment with Adam and our friends Mark and Felix during our senior year of college and after a few months of take-out pizza and mooching off of our friends’ dining hall cards, we figured it was about time we learned how to cook.

Felix was already an accomplished chef. I often awoke on Saturdays to find him in the kitchen in his pajamas making crepes. Mark and I had no cooking experience, so we stuck with variations on chicken. But Adam was adventurous. His shopping strategy was to buy whatever looked interesting—or was on sale—even if he didn’t know what it was.

“Hey LNE, should I get borscht?” he called me one afternoon. “I’m at the grocery store and there’s a big jar for 99 cents.”

“Um, sure Adam.” I said. If I had known what borscht was, I would have talked him out of it. For those of you who don’t know, borscht is a bright red Eastern European soup made primarily from pure, undiluted, dirt-flavored beetroot juice.

That evening, Adam set the table with a bowl for each of us. We watched with mounting apprehension as he poured borscht into our bowls straight from the jar. It streamed, pinkish-purple, into our green salad bowls and the color contrast turned the juice to a dull brown. As we stared down into the murky depths, Adam expounded with pride on our authentic Ashkenazi repast.

I discovered many years later that borscht can be quite nice with the addition of ingredients—like vegetables, sour cream, meat, salt, and pepper. It can be served cold or hot, and the hot-style Ukrainian and Russian borscht is a delicious hearty stew often served with thick brown bread. But Adam’s borscht had no such ingredients. It tasted like fresh, dark dirt. It was thin and watery and gritty all at the same time—and cold. And there was no bread.

But that wasn’t the worst meal of my life.

To make kitchen clean-up more fun, Adam encouraged spontaneous rapping. On any given weeknight, you’d enter our apartment to find four dorky Jews in a tiny kitchen, rhyming in fits and starts about chicken or girls or Hegel.

Adam's penchant for improv carried into his cooking; he claimed that recipes were for the unimaginative. One night after dinner he collected the chicken bones from our plates, bits of skin and meat clinging between the ribs. Rapping to the tune of “Big Stompin’ in My Air Force Ones,” Adam filled a pot with water and threw in the bones.

“Boilin’ some bones for some tasty stock,
This is one dinner you won’t want to hock.”

The bones floated grotesquely in the boiling water, bits of tattered gristle and fat swirling in their wake as they made their rounds in the churning water, bobbing, spinning, dunking in the current.

“Adding some kale,
’cuz it was on sale” he beat-boxed.

He tossed in whole leaves of kale, which spread over the water’s surface like the wings of a drowned bat. He dumped in rough-hewn chunks of onion, a palmful of salt, thick slabs of carrot and half a head of cabbage.

“This stock’s gonna simmer,
For tomorrow night’s dinna’.” He rapped, stirring blissfully.

Most people consider stock the basis for a soup. But to Adam, it was a complete meal. With glee, he checked on his simmering stock throughout the night and the next morning and afternoon, updating us on the progress of our impending supper.

I thought I could escape. I had an evening sculpture class and I planned to grab dinner at the dining hall during a break. But when I told Adam that I would be leaving for class soon, he insisted that I fill up on a good meal first.

“It’s ready just in time.” He exclaimed, and set a lone place at the head of the table with the biggest bowl we had—a giant mixing bowl—and filled it to the brim with stock. He sat down across from me with his economics book to keep me company—and hostage.

I stared into my mixing bowl with horror that I hoped didn’t show on my face. Adam had fished out the chicken breast carcasses, but the smaller rib bones had softened and detached and now swirled on the oily surface, butting up against my spoon. Bits of gristle and congealed chicken fat bobbed among the shreds of soggy kale in the broth beaded with grease. The carrot had all but disintegrated into sodden chunks, imbuing the mess with a delicate orange hue. It smelled like rotten cabbage.

Under Adam’s benevolent gaze, I lifted the spoon and held my breath, using every one of my facial muscles to keep my lips from twisting into a grimace of agony as I took the first bite. My throat closed with that rush of heat that starts behind the tongue signaling the first faint tug of nausea. I forced myself to swallow and scooped up another spoonful.

The broth was the easy part. I tipped the spoon straight down my throat so the oily water touched as little of my tongue as possible as it made its descent. But the leaves of kale and chunks of onion were too big. There was no way around it—I had to chew. The sharp, bitter onion had a grainy crunch and the greasy strips of kale stuck in my throat.

I ate the entire bowlful.

When all that remained were the bits of chicken bone and gristle, Adam saw me to the door. Full and queasy, I thanked him very much for dinner. He smiled, like Mrs. Horner, a kind, proud smile.

After six hours of sculpting scrawny naked men with yellow toenails—which did nothing to settle my stomach—I came home to find my three roommates clearing the table of Chinese take-out cartons and fortune cookie wrappers.

“Hey!” I cried, “What happened to the soup?” Mark and Felix exchanged a look and hurried to the kitchen. Adam handed me a fortune cookie and laughed sheepishly.

“It was disgusting.” He said, and put his arm around my shoulders, “I can’t believe you ate the whole bowl.”

It took me a few years to get over my fear of stock. I’ve considered making it a few times, but have been thwarted by the memory of what can go wrong. I finally mustered the courage last fall and attempted to make stock with the Thanksgiving turkey carcass, and ended up with a pot full of solidified fat. But at least I didn’t feed it to anyone.

I will admit, however, that there have been times when I have made disastrous meals, and my loved ones have eaten them anyway. That’s just what you do when a beloved friend—whether a little old farmer, a gentle roomie, or a newlywed new to cooking—cooks something special just for you.

Adam’s Stock
Serves 4

Ingredients:
30 cups water, divided
4 chicken breast carcasses
1 bunch of kale, un-chopped
1 onion, quartered
1 carrot, sliced
½ head cabbage
¼ cup salt

Bring 6 cups of water to boil
Add next 6 ingredients (through salt)
Boil for 10 minutes, then reduce heat to low simmer
Allow to simmer for at least 24 hours, adding water as necessary

Work Birthday Party

Photo courtesy of CubicleThinkTank.com

Today is my birthday, and I know that there was a secret work party planned for 9:30. Since it's a breakfast party, I sacrificed my daily morning oatmeal in anticipation of a bagel or a donut.

It's now 9:50 and no one has come to get me. Do you think they forgot about me and are eating my donuts? Oh, the perils of birthdays at work.

A Kitchen of One's Own

Image courtesy of Jade 629.

F and the boys went to Star Trek Friday night, and I eagerly anticipated having the apartment all to myself. I love these infrequent nights alone because I can rent a movie F would have no interest in watching (recent picks: Shall We Dance?, The Jane Austen Book Club, and Monsoon Wedding) and make a dinner F would hate, using ingredients he despises, like mushrooms, cheese, and cauliflower (not necessarily together).

I did not have any of those ingredients, but I did have a bushel of ramps left over from our CSA box. Since I did not want to waste one moment of my glorious night at the grocery store with the produce guys, I decided to make myself dinner using ramps and anything else I already had at home.

A search for ramp recipes online led to the discovery that they are most often used in omelets and soups. Ramp soup did not appeal to me, but an omelet was the perfect dish. We had received a whole carton of farm-fresh eggs in our box, and I hadn' t used any of them yet. We also had a lot of grape tomatoes left over from last night's dinner. And so, I devised a Ramp and Roasted Grape Tomato Omelet. I was very proud to have come up with this recipe all by myself. I wonder if this is how Julia Child felt when she mastered Mousse de Foies de Volaille.

Ramp and Roasted Grape Tomato Omelet

Ingredients:
1 tsp butter
1 egg, 2 egg whites (beaten together)
1/8 cup thinly sliced trimmed ramp bulbs and slender stems plus 1/2 cup thinly sliced green tops
½ cup grape tomatoes (roasted):
* Preheat oven to 425
* Place tomatoes in pan and season with salt and pepper
* Drizzle with olive oil and toss
* Roast until the smallest tomatoes begin to pop, about 15 minutes

Melt butter in cast iron skillet over medium heat. Add ramp bulbs and stems to skillet; sauté 3 minutes.

Add green tops and sauté until ramps are soft, about 9 minutes.

Transfer ramps to a bowl and mix in roasted tomatoes.

Add eggs to skillet over medium heat; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Heat until eggs are almost set (about 2 minutes). Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Fold in ramp and tomato mixture.

Serves 1

It's a little on the messy side, but tasted pretty nice! I think some cheese would have gone a long way with this one, but I didn't have any.

Saturday Farmers Market

Some photos of the Farmers Market on Saturday morning:
Tents at the end of the street.Chef demonstration.
The asparagus man was very confused when he asked, "Do you like asparagus?" and I replied, "Oh yes, it's beautiful!" My purchases: a big basil plant and a tub of dried pears. Barry and the basil.

Iron Chef

The challenge:
Use dandelion greens, ramps, and grape tomatoes in one meal.Rinsing the dandelion greens, to be sauteed with olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, and sea salt.

Ramps! Which turned into...Ramp-Buttermilk Biscuits with Cracked CorianderAnd the grape tomatoes for the sauce that accompanies the parmesan chicken paillards:A mere two hours later, and viola!Parmesan Chicken Paillards with Cherry Tomato Sauce
Sauteed Dandelion Greens
Ramp and Buttermilk Biscuits with Cracked Coriander

Flirtation in Aisle 6

Photo courtesy of The Daily Green.

"Hello!" a frantically waving be-aproned man calls to me from across the piles of tomatoes in Aisle 6.

"Hello." I wave back, smiling in embarrassment as old women turn to look at me with disdain.

"There you are, my pretty friend." Alfredo says, tenderly scooping the bunch of bananas from my shopping basket. "We were wondering when you'd come. He was missing you." he gestures to Marcus, his fellow produce man, who winks at me.

"No, he was the one." Marcus points at Alfredo. "He was asking about you all day. And here you are! How is your boyfriend today?" he asks.

"Oh, just fine." I reply, not sure how to slip into the conversation that F is, in fact, my husband. F hates the produce guys.

"Where is your boyfriend?" Alfredo asks.

"He's at home."

"Sleeping?" Alfredo asks hopefully. He always asks if F is sleeping, or watching television, or playing video games, while I am diligently shopping for our dinner.

"No," I reply, "He's working."

"Oh, working." Alfredo is disappointed. "That's OK, then." He perks up, having thought of a new challenge, "He should make you dinner tonight."

"I agree! I'll tell him you said so." I reply, retrieving my forgotten bananas from the scale.

"I would cook for you." Marcus says, his eyes twinkling.

"You can't cook." Alfredo says.

"Neither can you."

"But I'd learn... for you." Alfredo gazes into my eyes.

"The produce guys were asking about you again." I tell F when I get home.

"Grrr... I hate the produce guys." F shouts, glaring at the grocery bags.

To save my marriage, I realized I must find a new way to obtain my produce. So I started looking into CSAs (Community Supported Agriculture). In my research, I discovered that most CSAs send a box of produce once a week at a fixed seasonal rate of approximately $500. If you'd like meat, you can sign up for a weekly meat box for an additional $400. If you're hankering for fruit, you can buy a fruit box. You get the idea. It's great for families who can use up all of the veggies, steaks, and apples, but not so convenient for young couples who don't eat for four, and haven't yet figured out a good system for canning and freezing leftovers.

Most of the friends I asked about their CSAs said that they found it difficult to use up their shipments. My friend M also warned that the contents of the boxes are limited to the crops grown on each farm. While this is a good thing because you are getting the freshest seasonal vegetables while helping to sustain local agriculture, there were times when M received a box full of potatoes and little else.

She eventually switched to Irv and Shelly's Fresh Picks which is different than most CSAs because it supplies products from a range of local farms, giving you a wider variety to choose from. And the payment system is flexible, so you can order shipments from week to week, instead of paying the fixed rate. That way, if you go on vacation for a week, you won't have a box of spoiled veggies waiting on your doorstep.

But what really appeals to me about Irv and Shelly's is that you can purchase a small produce box stuffed with seasonal surprises, and then supplement your box 'o' greens with other things, like baked goods, meat, and any other seasonal fruits or vegetables. You can, for instance, include a single apple, instead of purchasing a whole box of fruit.

So what did we get in our first "Fresh Picks" crate yesterday?

Our fridge is now stocked with eggs, asparagus, ramps, dandelion greens, broccoli, and grape tomatoes. I supplemented with strawberries, 2 navel oranges, and some tempeh, which I've never had but have been wanting to try. We grilled the asparagus last night to accompany some cornmeal-crusted catfish, and the broccoli and grape tomatoes will be easy enough to use up. But dandelion greens and ramps!? I didn't even know what these leafy wonders were until I looked at the list included in the box.

I'm delighted by this challenge. Even F is thrilled.

"This is the best thing we've done in a long time!" he exclaimed last night, holding aloft a fluffy bunch of dandelion leaves. "And you didn't get any of this from the produce guys. We need to do this every week." he smiled wickedly.

While eating one of my CSA navel oranges for breakfast, I have devised this evening's menu around ramps and dandelions.

Behold The Thursday Night Menu:

Parmesan Chicken Paillards with Cherry Tomato Sauce
Sauteed Dandelion Greens
Ramp and Buttermilk Biscuits with Cracked Coriander

Check back later for photos!

The Rite of Spring

Every year I count down the days to May 6 when white tents and produce trucks appear across the street, heralding what—to me—means the first day of spring: the Green City Market.

On Wednesdays and Saturdays until the end of October, the Green City Market takes up residence in the park next to the farm at the Lincoln Park Zoo. The city skyline rises majestically in the distance, while farm animals graze and cluck behind a white picket fence next door. It's a strange and wonderful mix of Midwestern charms.

Saturdays feature live music and chef demonstrations, and dogs and children scamper underfoot. Wednesday mornings are calmer, populated by retirees and young mothers with strollers. On these quiet mornings, I like to walk to work by way of the market, browsing the stalls and picking up cubicle snacks.

I was at the market promptly at 7am when it opened this morning. Even this early in the season, the stalls were full of flowers and fruits, vegetables and baked goods, salsa samples and crepes. I sampled all of my favorite salsas and crackers, petted a few puppies, greeted the farm chickens, tasted some Wisconsin cheese, and admired all of the flowers I cannot buy on account of a certain fat, greedy cat.

I bought a basket of Gala apples, feeling very country chic as I carried them around the market (the chicness vanished as soon as I squatted in the dirt to take photos of the produce).
More on Saturday!

Soup of the Week

This is my new favorite soup:

Creamy Carrot Soup
From the March issue of Cooking Light
4 servings (serving size: 1 1/2 cups)

Ingredients:

• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 3/4 cups chopped Vidalia or other sweet onion
• 2 pounds carrots, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
• 1 teaspoon fine sea salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• Dash of ground ginger
• 2 cups water
• 2 cups fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
• 2 tablespoons heavy cream, divided

1. Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion and carrots to pan; cook 10 minutes, stirring frequently. Stir in salt, pepper, and ginger.

2. Add 2 cups water and broth to pan; bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 25 minutes or until carrots are tender. Remove from heat; cool. 3. Place half of carrot mixture and 1 tablespoon cream in a food processor or blender; process 20 seconds or until smooth. Pour pureed mixture into a large bowl. Repeat procedure with remaining carrot mixture and 1 tablespoon cream. Return mixture to pan; cook over medium heat until thoroughly heated.

And here it is! I wish I had a sprig of parsley or mint to finish it off, since the jaunty little herb really makes the photo on the Cooking Light website. I promise it tastes far better than it looks below! As we have already established, the whole point of having soup for lunch is for an excuse to eat a big chunk of bread. So I spent Sunday making Buttermilk-Oat Rolls. These taste strangely like croissants—a good thing.
All in all, a far more satisfying (and colorful) cubicle meal than a Lean Cuisine.

A Very Special Pig

Really big pig image courtesy of Jonny Hunter of UFC.

All across America the ding of the microwave has just sounded the completion of a Lean Cuisine. We scarf it right out of the plastic tray in front of our computers, barely tasting the flash-frozen peas and dry chicken. But that’s OK, because in this fast-paced, pre-packaged world, food is just fuel to keep the machine running.

Eating is a solitary, harried event; it is seldom the basis for a leisurely expanse of time with friends and loved ones. It’s the rare family that eats a home-cooked meal together every night at the kitchen table with the television turned off. And it’s even less common for a group of families and friends to cook and eat together, turning a meal into an evening-long event for which good food is integral to the enjoyment of good company.

The Underground Food Collective (UFC) does this every night. Composed of a group of friends and families (including little ones and babes-in-arms), the UFC cooks and eats every meal together on a farm in Madison, Wisconsin. This group—composed of professional chefs, experienced home cooks, and farmers—has started a catering company featuring Pre-Industrial Pig Dinners throughout the country, bringing people together under one roof to enjoy a full meal composed of one very special pig.

So on the very day the swine flu was announced F and I braved death and attended Chicago’s first Pre-Industrial Pig Dinner.

We drove through a torrential downpour to West Town and found the nondescript apartment building belonging to a certain James. As we sloshed up the steps bearing wine and umbrellas, I noted the drab hallway and the worn carpet, leery of what we would find beyond the battered front door. But I needn’t have worried. Upon entering, I beheld the most gorgeous apartment I have ever seen in Chicago—including some of the half-million-dollar brownstones that F and I have toured as “Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Smith, attorneys and prospective home-owners.”

We found ourselves in the midst of a bustling throng of chefs, farmers, and waiters, whirling through a professional kitchen with an island that stretched as far as the eye could see. The kitchen was every home-cook’s dream: stainless steel shelving, hanging pot racks, acres of cabinets, and gleaming pots and pans.

Awe-struck and awkward, F and I dodged chefs carrying chopping boards and pig parts, and shuffled to the side of the room. A waiter greeted us, “Two this evening?” and led us to the back of the spacious brick front room to a table set for six. We were among the first to arrive, and by the number of tables scattered through the room, James looked to be expecting around 60 people.

We took our seats against the far wall in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows lined with flower boxes and surveyed the room. Long pine tables were set with mismatched china and flickering candles. There was a stone fireplace to the left, and a canoe hung from the ceiling to the right. The bookcase behind me held Ulysses, a Spanish dictionary, and a smattering of philosophers. Carved wooden ducks perched on various ledges and rested on shelves that held more candles, pieces of driftwood and a set of antlers. A colonial iron chandelier with still more flickering candles hung above the next table. As the thunderstorm raged outside, F and I relaxed in James’s warm, rustic apartment, anticipating our pig.

The meal was very good. Not extraordinary, but definitely very good. I’m sure that you could find a gourmet porcine meal of finer quality at one of the many lauded restaurants throughout the Windy City, but F and I had not signed up for a restaurant experience. What made this evening special was the expectation of a long, leisurely meal among new friends. The family-style courses were paced throughout three and a half hours, so we had plenty of time to digest and get to know our dining companions.

Lisa and Chuck were a few years older than us and at first I found them aloof and a little intimidating. She wore a gray turtleneck sweater and pearl earrings and was well put-together with a sophisticated style that I have never quite been able to master. He was a little rumpled with square-framed glasses and wayward hair. But as the night progressed and we shared plate after plate of pig and glass after glass of wine, we found that Lisa was endearingly silly and Chuck was a rumpled intellect. The other places at our table were occupied in time by Kurt and Rory, both startlingly beautiful college students from Madison. He wore stonewashed jeans and a cowboy-chic button-down shirt; his blond hair fell to his shoulders over the starched collar. She dressed simply in a black tee-shirt, her only adornment a small silver cross. She had a perfect, tiny face with big, earnest eyes. They looked like they had just arrived from a JCrew photo shoot set in Wyoming. As with Chuck and Lisa, my first impressions faded as the evening progressed and Kurt and Rory stepped off the JCrew page. Kurt had a disarming, puppy-like tendency toward long-windedness unhampered by a lisp, and Rory was quick with a shy smile revealing petite, childlike teeth. Kurt was the beer distributor for the event and described in lengthy detail the process of brewing mead on his tiny stove top.

The six of us ate a lot of pig—the seven-course dinner included bacon, pork belly, pulled pork, pork fat, pork broth, pork sausages, and other bits and pieces of swine (plus dessert, which was not pig). Among our favorites: pulled pork with golden raisins and white radishes, pork sausage and micro-greens, white beans in pork broth, and my new weakness—fried pork fat with toasted black walnuts. This dish was crispy and strangely sweet, almost like candied orange peel. It was utterly surprising and delicious, and I could have eaten a heaping plate of fat, against my better judgment. Luckily, the family-style plate was small and I limited myself to a sensible portion. The dishes were augmented with products from local suppliers: Red Hen baguettes, fresh Wisconsin goat cheese, and Kurt's lemongrass beer. Unfortunately, the menu was taped to the far wall and written on brown paper, so without my glasses, I couldn’t decipher the finer points of what I was eating. I will be sure to print the menu below, if the UFC posts it online. In the meantime, here are some visual highlights:

Those are all of my photos. I’m getting braver, but I’m still a little shy about taking pictures—especially when it means making my dining companions wait while I snap photos of the food. But when the UFC posts their pictures online, I’ll add more below.

After three and a half hours of pig plates and scintillating conversation with our new friends, F and I were reluctant to leave James’s beautiful apartment. As we gathered our coats and opened our umbrellas, I wondered why we considered getting together with nice people to eat good food a “Special Event.” The concept is pretty simple, really, and it would be simple to put into practice in our every-day lives, if we were so inclined. But are we inclined?

When I posed these questions to F on the way home, he replied with a pithy flash of wisdom,

“Eating is private.”

And it’s true. In many European countries, mealtime is a celebration of togetherness, of letting go of the day’s frustrations, and of enjoying the company of friends and neighbors over food and wine. But here in America, creating and eating a meal is often just another task to cross off our busy schedules. We eat in private—at our desks, on the couch, at the counter—without real enjoyment. Without company.

I will admit that I am a private person. When reading about the UFC’s collective meals, my first thought was that you’d have to really love these people to eat your every meal with them. While I long for more dinners with my friends and family, I wouldn’t want to make them nightly events. I would miss my dinners alone on the couch with F. It’s difficult, but it must be possible to find a fulfilling balance between privacy and community.

The UFC has a good thing going here and, while I definitely think the evening was worth the price, I can recreate the same experience in my own apartment for free. I may not have access to a fresh hog, but I do have my own collective of friends and family to celebrate with from time to time.