I’ve gone grain crazy as of lately. There are so many different types of them to explore. It started with a pack of bulgur, coarse grinds of whole wheat with a muddy tan color and toothsome, chewy texture. If you like wild rice, you’ll find some similarities here. Then I went freaky for smoky roasted spelt, also known as freekeh. Now I can’t get Missy Elliot out of my head.
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You know how salads in restaurants tend to have eight things in them, at least? Or else, it’s not really a salad, it seems. One of those ingredients is usually cheese; another is usually nuts (and it’s usually crusted with something sweet). There’s often meat, grilled and served hot in contrast with the cool greens. It gets more complicated, too. Dried or fresh fruit, oily crusts of bread or croutons, dressings that are an army of ingredients in themselves, and so many types of mixed lettuces when you couldn’t identify one by name.
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Ever had a really good, juicy carrot? Not the kind that’s all white and dehydrated like your skin in the winter, I mean a plump, bursting balloon of sweetness, with a few wisps of fuzzy roots and wrinkles, maybe, but a thin skin that betrays its more-orange-than-an-orange flesh? Thankfully, I have. And it’ll never be forgotten. Granted, I can eat carrots any way, shape or form: raw, cooked, juiced, shredded or mashed — and yes, wispy and dry as my skin right now, too. But it’s a whole other level of enjoyment when the ingredient is at its prime.
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Sometimes the simplest things really are the best. I’d planned to cook, eat, and write about an elaborate dish on my day off. It would be exciting, colorful, and completely novel. It would also somehow incorporate soaked and mostly-cooked white beans, which I had leftover. After a morning of deliberation and preparation, it was done: sour citrus wedges, briny olives and mealy white beans, unexpectedly brought to congress with plenty drizzles of olive oil. But once it was photographed and poised to be eaten, I found that I didn’t really want to shovel it down. It was just a bit much.
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I’ve been having a love affair with beans lately. This may have happened by default, with so few fresh muses in season to cook with, or else a newfound appreciation simply gained on its own merit: beans are infinitely versatile, used in every cuisine, hearty, and nutritious. They are the main ingredient in comfort foods of so many cultures, like the French cassoulet. But beans also have a stigma attached to them, especially in our meat-loving culture — that of a “poor man’s protein.” (And please hold the gas jokes.) “Beans are not enthusiastically embraced by everyone,” Ken Albala wrote in Beans: A History. “More than any other food, beans have been associated with poverty.” Yet thanks to them, and to a dizzying bar full of folks enthusiastically embracing them, beans have made the Greenmarket of New York City $2,500 richer.
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Sick of the same old squashes? Bored of the brainless old ways to cook them, too? (i.e. Roast until tender. Puree into soup.) I think this happens just about every January. It’s the winter’s-here, we’ve-done-our-soup-thing, home-cook-head-scratching blues. The holidays are over, and reality has sunk back in; it’s back to the daily grind. And what? You’re coming down with a flu, too? Yep, you’ve got it bad. Better get some antioxidants in the system, STAT. Luckily, eating squashes (not just in soups) are pretty good at doing that.
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The taste of goat’s milk is hard to articulate. There is a world of verbiage that others have affixed to it, but language fails me here. It’s not pungent, I don’t think… and it isn’t mild enough to be called “buttery.” But it seems too potent for the word, “earthy.” Whatever it is, it was such a novel tastebud sensation for me when I first detected these inscrutable traits — by accident, smothering asparagus (grassy, sulphuric) and scrambled egg (slightly metallic) in an omelet several years ago — that my face turned a wild flipbook of expressions, from shock to curiosity to disgust. The mind rejects such an unexpected onslaught on the body, and I decided that I hated goat cheese that day. Time and again, I would taste it and the once unfamiliar flavor became less overwhelming. But the thrill is not gone.
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What is this, la-dee-da?

It’s a frittata.

La-dee-da.

No, it’s really not la-dee-da, it’s eggs, with pickled cabbage and spinach in it. Okay, well maybe the goat cheese is a little la-dee-dah, but it’s used pretty sparingly. So the whole dish is most certainly not a fancy one. It’s just what you call an omelet if it had never been flipped, so you don’t have to master the art of French cooking like Julia Child and have that euphoric moment once you get the hang of flipping it right — but it’s euphoria eating it, all the same.
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Hold the fries with these: who needs them when you have a crisp on the bottom, chewy on the top homemade noodle encapsulating a juicy nugget of better-than-Grade-A beef, with melted shreds of sharp cheddar and caramelized onions inside? That’s a happy meal for me alone. Alright, and some soy sauce (or ketchup? I can’t decide!) doesn’t hurt for dipping.
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Is there something slightly devilish about making a great batch of sugary-sweet treats, for the sole purpose of bestowing upon others as “gifts”? Do you get that Grinch-like smirk, stirring a bowl of melting chocolate and butter, thinking, this is not all going in my belly, ‘cept for one teeny bite? And then, does it dissolve just as quickly as those last slicks of butterfat when your first “sneak” lick from the spatula turns into two, then three, then five? Concluding with a sigh, that we’re all in it together. ‘Tis the season for overeating. Yours, mine and their ultra-rich holiday foods.
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