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Roasted parsnip, spinach and walnut kofta (with secret melty cheese!)

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Parsnip and spinach kofta

Today’s recipe goes with yesterday’s recipe in much the same way that today’s meandering ramble continues the fine tradition of yesterday’s meandering ramble, and of the day’s before that. Think of it as a three part series on gratitude, annoyance, and regret, if you like. I apologize for talking about my boys so much, lately, but, mama, they’ve been on my mind. I promise to talk about something more universally interesting tomorrow. Like Lindsay Lohan. And her childhood. Before bed, David reads with Isaac, and I read with Malcolm, and then I cuddle with Isaac for a few minutes before I get on with my life. I used to fall asleep nearly every night, and wake up an hour later feeling trampled and discombobulated and with my whole evening shot. So I only stay for a few minutes now (super intense concentrated cuddles). Last night Isaac gently ran a finger down my cheek three times, slowly, and then touched my lips. It seemed like such a mysterious and beautiful gesture, so I asked him why he’d done it. He said, with a serious smile, “Because I just love you.” And I just love him, too, so I repeated the gesture on his incredibly soft cheek. He giggled and traced a more complicated pattern on my chin and nose and eyelids, and I tried to repeat that, too. And so it went, until he was laughing with his ridiculously lovely belly laugh, which I wish I could bottle, along with the rest of this moment. My first thought was that he touched my cheek because I look old, because he could tell that I was aging. But I think that children rarely notice that their parents are growing older. And Isaac frequently tells me, “You don’t look old at all, to me,” prompting the suspicion that everyone else in town is talking about how old I look. And then I thought about how I keep telling him that he’s getting older, that he’s growing so big, that he’s a big seven-year-old and should be able to keep up or get to sleep all by himself. I thought that I hadn’t heard him laugh like that in some time. I thought about his school picture, in which he’s not smiling at all. He is, in fact, frowning, and there’s a bit of a challenge in his eye. It’s as if he just told the photographer, “don’t you tell me to smile!!” His whole life, Isaac has been a glowing smiler. He used to beam at people from his bjorn. His whole face lights up in a delightful and infectious way. I thought about how cranky I’d been, lately, not for any particular reason, it’s just a pattern one gets into. And how it must have seemed to him like I’m always annoyed, because he walks slowly or spills his juice or won’t get to sleep. Ugh. I thought about how Malcolm’s teachers sounded annoyed when they said his name, and feared that I might do that, too. We only get one chance at this! Phew. Did you hear about that Lindsay Lohan? She got arrested again! I read about it on the front page of the Guardian!

We ate these kofta with the white bean tomato bisque, almost as a sauce. David dunked his right in, and I ate mine with lettuce and tomatoes, all wrapped up in a warm tortilla, and the soup on the side. (It probably would have been better in pita, but I didn’t have time to make any!) I thought they turned out really good. I was quite proud of myself. Parsnips obviously have such a nice flavor, and they go well with earthy spinach, and the walnuts added just a bit of crunch. And then there’s the secret melty cheeeeeeeese!!

Here’s You Only Live Once by SJob movement. I just love it!!
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Apple cherry chocolate chip bars

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Cherry, apple, chocolate chip bars

On days like this I’m so glad that I have everything in my life tidy and organized. That I’m on top of it all! I’m looking forward to the meeting that all three of Malcolm’s teachers requested – I’m sure they want to tell us how well he’s doing, and how he’s got everything tidy and organized, and he’s on top of it all, too! I’m glad I don’t have to spend the day feeling guilty as hell because I yelled at him about the state of his notebook and his backpack and his uncorrected essay and his seeming complete apathy about anything related to school. So that he left for school saying he hated me, and I don’t have a chance to apologize and tell him how smart he is for nearly eight hours. That would be a horrible feeling! I’m glad that I don’t have to feel like a bad example to him because I’ve got teetering piles of bills (piles? Heavens no! You should see my up-to-date and immaculate filing system!) that I only seem to pay when the next one is due. I’m glad that I didn’t yell at Isaac on our snowy walk to school because he’s always half a block behind, and he can’t walk faster because his rib hurts, and I’m glad that I don’t have to worry that he has low energy and constant bouts of strep and tummy aches. Because, of course, he eagerly eats every meal I lovingly prepare, in all their wholesome goodness, and gets plenty of protein and vitamins. I’m glad that I can keep my house spotless and tidy, and I don’t feel as though I spend hours digging in sand, as I clean, because within seconds the clutter collects and the dust settles, and the counter is covered in crumbs. I’m having a lovely, peaceful day, sitting in my pristine, spare-but-stylish house, watching the soft snow fall quietly outside, not thinking about the crumbling plaster in every wall, that can only be fixed by a fellow this guy knows, who was an excellent plasterer, but is now long-dead. Who is having an anxious and grumpy day? Who is? I feel better now, though. The snow has shifted to rain and back to snow. But it’s warm in here. And it’s Clio’s first snow! She may have pink eye and an upset tummy, but can that stop her enjoyment of the snow? It cannot! Snow makes her crazy!! She races back inside and flies around the house, bouncing off of furniture, throwing herself at me at an alarming speed. And yes, this is an old house and the plaster is crumbling, but I love it anyway! Yes, we have numerous teetering piles of papers, but the papers are mostly drawings by the boys, and they’re beautiful, clever, well-executed drawings! Maybe I’m not exactly on top of this sea of worries and responsibilities, but I’m floating along with it, rising and falling, okay for now.

Malcolm likes fruity candy. Many days he asks for a dollar to go buy some fruity candy at the store down the block. But as nice as it seems for him to come home from a long day of school, when it’s cold and wet outside, and buy a box of candy, and cuddle on the couch with the puppy and watch a movie – nice as that seems, I can’t let him do it every day! So I bought him some dried tart cherries. They’re very nice! Chewy, fruity, lovely and sweet/tart. He ate half the bag, and then I put the rest in these bars, along with some apples and some chocolate chips. I added ground walnuts to the batter for a change of pace, and they made the bars lovely and dense, with a mysterious walnut flavor. I made these like brownies, which is a fairly lazy and easy way to make something. Melt some stuff in a pot, stir some other stuff in, and spread it in a pan. And that’s that!!

Here’s A Tribe Called Quest with 8 Million Stories. They’re having a bad day. But it’s a good song!
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Golden beet, turnip and sweet corn bisque

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Golden beet and turnip bisque

Well! Thank god all of that Thanksgiving nonsense is over, and now we can get on with our lives, and go back to being ungrateful acquisitive bastards. Now here’s my christmas list. See that you get exactly what I specify!! I’m kidding, of course. But I was thinking about the phrase “thank you,” and how, when it seems spontaneous and sincere, it’s as welcome and unexpected as sunshine on a winter’s day. I have a friend with four children, and her three-year-old doesn’t talk much. But he’ll say “thank you” at the most surprising times, when she does some little thing for him. And when she told us about this, she put her hand to her heart as if the fact that he says “thank you” is so sweet it almost hurts. It’s a funny thing, being a mother. You do so much for your little ones, all day every day, and you can teach them to say “thank you” out of politeness. But it’s not likely that these small, incompletely developed people understand why they should feel grateful for your tireless service. After all, you’ve been catering to them since before they were born. To them it’s just the way life is – it’s how they need and expect it to be. They don’t know how much your life has changed since before their birth – how much you’ve given up for them, and how much you’ve gained. Your life is theirs, in some ways. Their knowledge of you and their sense of your history with them is something that they cling to. And, to be honest, I feel so cranky and anxious half the time that I forget to acknowledge the sweet things they give to me every day. I take for granted their light and warmth. The other day Isaac came and sat behind me on my chair, and rested his head on my shoulder. Did I say “thank you” for this great gift? I did not, I said, in a cranky voice, “what are you doing?” I feel like I’ll always regret that! I was thinking today that we’re all like oblivious children as we move through the world. People ring up our groceries and put them in bags, serve us in restaurants, leave us tips when we serve them in restaurants, help our children to cross the street, pick up our garbage, pump our gas. We might say “thank you” because it’s polite. but when it seems sincere, when somebody really seems to recognize the value of each small job in all of its great weight, that feels like a gift in itself. And then gratitude feeds upon gratitude to form a giant mountain of thankfulness!

When I make a meal, David always says thank you. And when they hear him say it, the boys say it, too. And then they say, “but I don’t really like it, can I have pasta and tamari instead?” But they liked this soup, they all liked it! It was a little smokey, a little sweet, a little tart and a little spicy. But overall warm and comforting.

Here’s Gratitude by the Beastie Boys. Live!
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Say “Happy Thanksgiving!” with a double crusted fennel, pecan, and black bean pie!

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Black bean, fennel and pecan pie

Memphis Minnie tells us that she hates to see the evening sun go down, and I know what she means! Dusk always makes me feel a little melancholy, particularly this time of year when it comes so early. When I was little we’d go for walks after dinner, at that time of day that people had their lights on but hadn’t closed their curtains yet. It always made me feel lonely to get a small glimpse of other people’s lives, in the circle of their own lit rooms. Sometimes it seemed that my family – my mom and dad and brother and I – were alone on a little raft of space, surrounded by vast empty darkness. Yes, I was an odd child! For some reason the light feels wider-reaching and more substantial now. I said during this recent power outage that I would never take light and heat for granted again, and I stand by that. So we here at The Ordinary would like to wish everybody a happy thanksgiving, filled with light and warmth. Not just the magic of electrical light and warmth, but the light of knowledge and the warmth of human connection. The warmth of the circle of your own family, and the warmth generated by the kindness of strangers. The bright clear light that chases out the darkness of ignorance and cruelty. The vivid light of inspiration and creativity, like the sparks that I see shooting out of my boys, particularly when they click against each other, creating fireworks that I can’t really contain in this house! The eccentric individual light of life that glows in each person, that we might try to hide sometimes. Let it pour out! Let it gleam! Let yourself shine and glow! And, of course, the warmth of a hot meal, shared with loved friends – we wish that for everyone on earth. Everyone! Awwww, man, I know, we’re getting a bit sappy and cliched – I see you rolling your eyes, you in the back of the class! That’s what we do in America on thanksgiving. It’s tradition. But I wish it for you anyway – I wish you warmth and light!

Here’s Nina Simone, with Jelly Roll. She shines and glows, even when she’s wrapped in black. And Mos Def, with Umi Says His Umi told him to let his light shine onto the world…

Life is not promised
Tomorrow may never appear
You better hold this very moment very close to you
Very close to you
So close to you, So- close to you
Don’t be afraid, to let it shine

We’re going to David’s mom’s house for thanksgiving, and I’m bringing this double crusted pie. It has black beans, fennel, spinach, pecans, a bit of sharp cheddar, a peppery crust. I haven’t tried it yet, but I’ll let you know if everybody does a spit take when they taste it!
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Banana-chocolate chip-cranberry sauce cake

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Banana cranberry sauce cake

Hello, and welcome to another installment of “Claire clumsily paraphrases wikipedia in an attempt to share an artist that she loves.” David recently purchased a many-volume set of Memphis Minnie CDs. So much good music! She just kills me. She, quite literally, rocks. In the past I haven’t been able to find recordings of all her works, but I’ve read her lyrics like poetry. It’s so wonderful to be able to hear them now. Let me tell you a little something about her… She was born Lizzie Douglas, in 1893. She learned very young to play guitar and banjo, and ran away from home at thirteen to try to support herself as a musician. She landed in Memphis, Tennessee, and played in nightclubs and on the street. She travelled with Ringling Brothers circus for a while, and eventually she married and recorded with Kansas Joe McCoy. In the thirties she moved to Chicago, and formed a band with drum and bass, thus single-handedly inventing rock n roll. (What? what?) She went on to record during the forties, but her popularity and her health failed in the fifties. She died in a nursing home in 1973. Her songs are remarkable. On her gravestone it says, “The hundreds of sides Minnie recorded are the perfect material to teach us about the blues. For the blues are at once general, and particular, speaking for millions, but in a highly singular, individual voice. Listening to Minnie’s songs we hear her fantasies, her dreams, her desires, but we will hear them as if they were our own.” You do feel this way when you hear her songs! Her life was so different from mine – so wild and uncertain and vulnerable – and yet when I hear her songs I often think, “I feel that, way too.” Her words are so human and raw and honest and mysterious, all at the same time. The picture you form of her, from her songs, is of a woman who is strong and funny, empathetic but guarded, and who has been hurt and has known a lot of pain.

Here’s I Hate to See the Evening Sun Go Down,

I hate to see evenin’ sun go down
I hate to see evenin’ sun go down
Cause it makes me think, I’m on my last go-round

Some people take the blues, go jump overboard and drown
Some people take the blues, go jump overboard and drown
But when they gets on me, I’d rather stay ‘n go sit down

I been to the river, looked it up and down
I been to the river, looked it up and down
But when my mind never let me, to jump overboard and drown

There’s such a strange hopefulness in the lyrics, with the very blues that are bringing her down also buoying her up.

She has quite a few songs about prostitution, but I love the odd beautiful detail of Hustlin Woman’s Blues…

I stood on the corner all night long, counting the stars one by one
I stood on the corner all night long, counting the stars one by one
I didn’t make me no money, Bob, and I can’t go back home

New Dirty Dozen is a sassy, funny insult song, based on the game dirty dozens, which involves inventing increasingly hurtful insults about a person’s family, until somebody can’t take it any more and gets angry…

Come all you folks and start to walk, I’m fixing to start my dozen talk
What you’re thinking about ain’t on my mind, that stuff you got is the sorriest kind
Now you’re a sorry mistreater, robber and a cheater
Slip you in the dozens, your papa and your cousin
Your mama do the lordy lord

She has beautiful songs about rambling, about being cold and homeless, with sore feet and not enough to eat, songs about being treated cruelly by policemen and judges and doctors and boyfriends, songs about dirt dauber wasps building nests on her when she was a child, songs about superstition, even a song about President Roosevelt and a mule, she has a lovely song of admiration about Ma Rainey, she has generous songs offering shelter and food to desperate men, she has saucy, sexy songs, songs full of hunger and pain, songs full of warmth and humanity. And she plays guitar like a mother-flipper!

Here’s a small playlist of Memphis Minnie songs.

And here’s a cake that uses up leftover cranberry sauce and bananas that are past their prime. It’s rich and moist and tasty. I added chocolate chips, cause I love them, but you could easily leave them out.

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Chickpea pot pie & sweet potato hashbrowns

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Back when I had a real job, about a million years ago, I was project editor on a book that revealed the secrets of being a successful entrepreneur. It was all about money, obviously, with a lot of attention devoted to marketing. People were consumers, first and foremost, and they could be manipulated into buying things if you made them feel a lack or made them feel bad about themselves in some way. It struck me as so sad and cynical, and I still think about it, particularly this time of year when the market-targeting-messages are coming thick and fast. It’s holiday season, and we’re all taking the time to be thankful. This year, I’ll tell you that as well as being incredibly grateful for the things I have, I’m going to declare my gratitude for the things I don’t have, that I don’t want. I’m grateful that I’m at a place in my life that nobody can shame me into wanting something I don’t need, or make me feel so bad about myself that I believe somebody can sell me something to make everything okay. Believe me, I still have plenty of insecurities, but I know what they are, they’re my familiars, and I will not let anybody exploit them for financial gain. I do not want longer eyelashes, I do not want perfect children, I do not want my children to have everything that they think they want, I do not want a bigger house or a cleverer car, I do not want quilted toilet paper, I do not want to be the life of the party, most of the time I don’t even want to go to the party any more, I do not want a smarter faster phone, I do not want cheaper cable TV, or any cable TV, because I do not want to watch your commercials. I’m thankful to be liberated from fabricated need!!

Chickpea pot pie

I do want to bake nice warm comforting meals that I dream up in the nice warm comfort of my happily eccentric brain. This is (obviously) modeled on a chicken pot pie, but it has chickpeas in it!! I made the chickpeas myself, from scratch, and weirdly, this is the first time I’ve ever done that. You could easily make this recipe with a can of chickpeas, though. This pie would be vegan if you used margarine instead of butter in the crust. I used a bit of olive oil in my crust, because the other week I didn’t have enough butter, and added olive oil and it turned out nice and flaky, so I thought I’d try it again. I thought the sweet potato hash browns turned out well!! I’ve never quite taken to sweet potatoes, because they don’t seem to get crispy like regular potatoes. They did this time!! I fried them in butter, with a bit of cheddar and rosemary, and they were lovely!!

Sweet potato hash browns

Here’s Tom Waits with Step Right Up. Live, in 1977!

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Chocolate-covered, raspberry-filled coconut shortbread cookies

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Raspberry coconut chocolate-covered cookies

Isaac says that the worst thing about turning seven is that you’re all achy when you wake up in the morning. And I said, “just you wait till you’re forty-three and when you drop a pencil it’s not worth bending down to pick it up!” (And then I worried that I was belittling his complaint. And then I worried that he was coming down with something, because a seven-year-old shouldn’t be achy! He seems fine, though.) But I spent some time thinking about it, this morning, sitting on the couch with Clio and not getting anything done. (She’s no help, this puppy! Does she shoo me off the couch and say, “get to work!”? She does not! She makes ridiculously cute little grumbly clucky noises “ooonph, ooonph” and curls up on top of me with a big sigh so I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to!) Ah yes, I was thinking about it this morning, whilst slowly recovering from a busy weekend of I’m-too-old-to-be-a-waitress, especially in shoes that are a size too big. I’ve been feeling very stressy, lately. With stomachaches and headaches and rashes. Of course a big part of the problem is that I stress about the symptoms, I’m too aware of them when they’re there, and not grateful enough to feel better when they’re gone. Something I think about quite a bit is feeling good – a specific moment in time when you feel good and you know it. You walk down the streets of your town feeling sunny and light and happy and comfortable with yourself. You’re not hungry or tired or manic. You’re not worried about anything. The sun is shining, and it feels good to walk in a place that you know and love. It’s not a lot to ask, really – it’s more the absence of discomfort and anxiety than anything else – but it seems like such a precious, elusive feeling. It would be nice to bottle it as an elixir for the next time you have a sniffle, or you shut your finger in a door (that’s me, last night!), or you’ve got worries weighing down your heavy feet. It’s a feeling I associate with youth and springtime, but you can feel it in the winter, too, even when you’re forty-three and you don’t always feel like bending down to pick up a pencil.

I like songs about this sort of moment, and I was listening to one the other day, but I can’t remember what it is! I’ve started a short playlist of the ones I can think of, and I’d appreciate your help in adding to it! Songs about feeling good, in your neighborhood. I’ve stretched the rubric a little for some of these, but the nice thing is, listening to these songs makes you feel good!

I had a meeting with a client who asked me to make a dessert for a dinner party. (Okay, so the client was my mother and the meeting was a glass of wine in the afternoon! Before pick-up at the school! Shocking!) The party was a wine-tasting featuring Argentine wines, and the maternal client requested a dessert with coconut, raspberry and dark chocolate. So I decided to make a version of Argentine-style alfajores. These little cakes are made with a subtly-flavored coconut shortbread, sandwiched together with raspberry jam, and coated in bittersweet chocolate. They also reminded me of the empire biscuits that my scottish mother-in-law makes. I think they would make a nice sweet for a holiday party, because they’re portable – you can stuff a few in your pockets and wander from conversation-to-conversation, fully stocked!!

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Roasted root veg stew with chickpeas, red wine and oj, and semolina mozzarella volcanoes

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Roasted root veg and red wine stew

(I promise this is the last time I’ll talk about the damn power outage – until the next time!). I live in a small city. It’s a nice community made up mostly of kind, eccentric people who have either had family here since the 19th century, or who have recently moved here from New York or Philly because they had a kid or got a dog, or just want a bit of peace. It’s built on a mid-1800s industrial scheme, with lots of brick row houses, attached or semi-attached, and small back yards that look into neighbors’ small back yards. Like many communities in which people live in close proximity, the town is quite liberal, socially and politically. We respond well to natural not-quite-disasters. Snowstorms and floods bring people out to walk the quiet streets and help neighbors shovel out or dry out. During the recent power outage, everybody gathered at city hall in the center of town to power their phones and lap tops – our only connection to the outside world! I’ve been thinking that you could write a tense, highly-wrought existential play about city hall during the ten days without power. The technology that usually keeps people apart, separate in their own rooms, with their own devices – the technology that sometimes seems to have made it impossible for people to have a coherent conversation without checking their little glowing screen – brought people together in this small building. It was first come-first serve for an outlet, and people would divide into groups – some in the bright front room, with the coffee and donated donuts and cakes, and some in the cramped, dark back corridor. You saw people you didn’t know lived in this town – people you didn’t see in your daily routine, because they don’t have children or dogs. At first the place was packed, and everyone was friendly and cheerful, everybody making the same jokes, asking the same questions. We’ve all been through it before, we’d get through it again. Everybody wanted to know the same thing – when would the power come back on, was it safe to drive out of town. The ladies that worked at city hall didn’t know. The men in official-looking suits didn’t know. The mayor wandered about, looking lost. He didn’t know. Surely somebody knew? Surely the power company knew. No, nobody knew. Nobody. And then people started to act stressed and depressed. Why was it taking so long? Why could nobody tell us when it would be fixed? But somebody would say they’d seen footage of other towns, where things were worse, and nobody could complain after that. The crowds thinned as the nights became freezing and people left town. You’d overhear the mayor admitting that they hadn’t even started work yet. Then people started to get angry. The fabric of society was breaking down. There were tales of crews of electricians from Ottowa or Ontario, but nobody saw them, there were no fleets of trucks. They were phantom linesmen, and we were told not to talk to them or they’d go away. There was a sign scrawled on white board. “Don’t yell at the linesmen.” The linesmen that nobody saw. The crowds dwindled, and the people that remained were desperate and dirty and angry. By the last day people stood on the steps of city hall screaming and angry, helpless and powerless. And the curtain falls on the dark stage, exeunt omnes. Can’t you just see it? I don’t really know what it would be about, but I’m sure I could write some sort of review that talks about alienation in the age of computerized communication and electrical lights as a symbol of our futile search for false knowledge, and you know, some kind of double entendre about “power” for the people. Oh yes.

Pretty root vegetables

And this is exactly the kind of meal I longed to make during that time that I promise not to talk about any more! Warm, comforting, and very flavorful. We got some root veg from our CSA, and it was the prettiest root veg you’ve ever seen! Golden beets, and peppermint candy-striped beets. By the time I’d roasted and stewed them, they were quite drab, but they made up for it by being delicious. I thought I’d combine all the root veg-y flavors – sharp peppery turnips with sweet carrots and potatoes and earthy beets, with a sauce of red wine and orange juice, lemony sumac and smoky paprika, and autumnal herbs. It turned out very nice. And I made these little semolina muffins, but I tucked mozzarella inside, and when it melted and the muffins baked, it came out of the top like little volcanoes. Fun, and tasty with the stew.

Here’s Neighborhood #3 (Power Out) by Arcade Fire.

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Wild rice & french lentils with roasted mushrooms & butternut squash with cauliflower and carrot puréee

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Wild rice, french lentils and roasted vegetables

We’ve had our power back for over a week now – we’ve had it back as long as we’d lost it. But I still have dreams every night that we don’t have power, and I wake up in a panic. I’m embarrassed that it affected me so strongly, but I’m not alone in my residual stressedness. I’ve talked to many people around town who say that they, too, are having trouble recovering from the incident. They say it feels like getting over the flu – they feel physically tired and draggy and unwell. It’s stress! So strange and powerful a force. The other day on the radio we heard a news story about people driven out of their home by war – worried about keeping their families warm and fed through the coming winter. A small part of me thought, “I know what that feels like!” And then the rest of me thought – “no you do not! Don’t be absurd! You have no idea!” We were anxious and uncomfortable, but we were never really in danger, once the storm had passed. We had a fully stocked grocery store 15 minutes away. We have a house, with walls that keep out the worst of the cold, even when the heat isn’t on, and with doors that lock. We have relatives an hour away who got power back before we did. This is something I think about quite frequently – even before the storm hit. I think about people who don’t have my comfortable life. Who don’t have the luxuries that I’ve come to consider necessities – hot water, electricity, my choice of pretty much any food I can think of. I think about refugees and fugitives – people driven out of their homes by war or occupation. In my own life, I’ve come to realize that it’s the small, every-day things that ultimately make me happy or anxious or disgruntled. I wonder if it’s the same for people who are completely unsettled and unstable. I found myself so undone by … what? anxiety? Discomfort? … that I couldn’t concentrate on much of anything, large or small. I’d been so anxious about the election – so worried that Obama wouldn’t win, but on election night I couldn’t concentrate on the results coming in, and I couldn’t let myself feel as happy and relieved as I should have that he won. I could only feel anxious about when we’d get our power back. I couldn’t think clearly about the bigger political picture. It made me wonder about times and places when the bigger political situation causes stressful personal circumstances. Can you find enough strength and hope to change the situation when you’re brought down by anxiety about your next meal, or when you don’t have a safe, warm home, and winter is coming?

I like wild rice, but I don’t cook it very often, because I’m so comfortable cooking basmati, that it’s a worry-free situation for me. Quick, tasty and dependable. This dish combines wild rice with basmati and french lentils. It’s very autumnal, especially with the addition of roasted butternut squash and mushrooms, and the flavorings of sage and rosemary. I thought this was really tasty – savory, a bit sweet, a bit smoky with the cheese. Comforting! I made a purée of cauliflower and carrots to go with this, and flavored it with sweet smoky spices like cardamom and ginger. Sweet and soft where the rice is earthy and full of texture. A nice combination!

Here’s Police on My Back by The Clash. It might sound silly, but this is one of those songs that gets me to thinking about how you find hope and happiness when your life is dangerously uncertain.
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Savory sweet potato, turnip and pecan galette with smoked gouda and cranberry sauce

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Sweet potato & cranberry galette

During the power outage (is she still going on about that? yes, but I’m almost done) it sometimes seemed to me that Malcolm has enough energy and Isaac is bright enough to light up the whole town. Monday night, the night of the storm, I had the clever idea of having a halloween movie-fest. We’d watched Coraline and were half-way through The Corpse Bride. Poor little Isaac was already hiding in the next room, creeping in to watch half a scene, and racing out again at the extra-spooky parts. And then the house went dark. Inky black dark, with wave upon wave of rain and wind battering the windows. Heh heh! Nothing to worry about here, boys! From that moment on I felt that I had to be brave and make the best of the situation for the boys. Of course I didn’t do such a good job of that, but I tried. Wednesday before the power came on we dropped them at school, and then I came back to the cold, silent house and indulged in a little breakdown. The truth is, the boys didn’t seem to mind the situation all that much. They handled it much better than I did. They were cheerful, especially Malcolm – nothing seemed to phase him. He didn’t mind not going to school and not taking baths, of course. He’s never felt the cold all that much, unless he’s sick. If TV wasn’t an option, he didn’t miss it. He loved making a fire in the backyard and holding bread over it to toast. He liked to play with the candles, which the small drops of wax on every single table in the house will forever remind us. He likes to be with his brother, though he drives him absolutely crazy. He liked to walk all around town, scrounging for interesting things thrown up by the storm. He liked playing games by candlelight. I taught him how to play spit, and he plays it exactly the way you’d expect him too. He’s smart and fast, but he keeps his cards in messy piles, which slows him down. I played blokus with Isaac, and though he’s sweet as sugar and was trying to let me win, he won anyway. Isaac seemed a little more nervous. When I sat in the kitchen playing solitaire, he stood close by me talking and talking, in the way he does when he’s anxious. He sang constantly. He sings his life. He seemed to try to fill up the unusual silence with his voice. When he got sick, his fast-paced nervous ramble accelerated as his fever rose, all through the night. When he finally got to sleep in the morning, Clio, who was ill herself, lay back to back with him, smushed up as close as could be. I took him to the emergency room to get a strep test, because none of the doctors had power in their offices. I was worried we’d have to wait for hours and hours, but I nearly cried with how efficient and nice the nurses and doctors were. I’ve spent a lot of time in waiting rooms with Isaac. It might sound siilly, but it’s an oddly precious time for me. We’re both usually a little tired and worried, and Isaac is so sweet and funny and chatty, and it always feels like a pocket of time separate from the rest of our days, running at its own pace in its own little world. In the emergency room the feeling was intensified, because we were so tired, and we were in a hospital, and all the days had been so strange. I had trouble sleeping at night during the blackout, because it was so completely dark and silent and cold. One night I ran through all of the events of the days in my head, cataloguing and documenting, trying to remember through the fog of my worry. It was a dark, cold week, but all of these moments with my boys glowed and shone.

This is something I had thought about making all through the blackout. The day we got power back, I roasted the sweet potatoes and turnips, warming up our icy kitchen and driving away the cold stale smell. We had (and still have!) tons of sweet potatoes. I thought it would taste nice to combine them with turnips (sweet & sharp) and a layer of cranberry sauce (sweet and tangy). Some lovely melted smoked gouda and crunchy pecans would provide the savory balance of texture and flavor. I thought it was very good. Malcolm, who had been back to school for two days, and was catching up on sleep, was so tired that he burst into tears and said, “I don’t always want pie. Sometimes I want a nice soup!” I didn’t have a full stick of butter left in my empty fridge, so I added some olive oil, and it really resulted in a flaky, crispy crust, so I might try it again! We ate the galette with potatoes roasted with cumin and paprika, which turned out very nice as well.

Here’s Velvet Underground with Beginning to See the Light. We’ve been teaching the boys about VU. And everything felt so upside down we very nearly did have wine in the morning and breakfast at night!

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