DEATH, BIRTH, & DINNER

There is an excuse for the long period of silence herein—a couple explanations really, and good ones.

To start, there was an entirely-too-soon laptop death. I needn’t go into details, really. The fault was mine, but there was, of course, a period of denial, followed by a period of anger, followed by one of mourning in which I could not think of writing upon any tool other than my poor, dead portable. In retrospect, I can only say that never should a laptop be placed upon a cedar chest covered with a quilt—even if only for a few moments, to burn a Lyle Lovett CD for instance, as one may start to enjoy the company of one’s friends and family and return to find the laptop frizzled to pure uselessness.

Last Friday, however, my new laptop arrived, chocolate brown and quick and memory-rich, signaling a rebirth of independent computing, communicating, and, yes, blogging. Goodbye, office chair and bulky desktop. Hello, world.

But there is more birth in this than the computer. For the last three months have signaled a distinctly strange season of consumption in which my favorite foods consisted of canned pineapple and cheese ‘n crackers. Yep, Chris and I are expecting. And, though we are deeply excited, it has not been a period of fine dining and gustatory discovery. Chocolate milk and grilled cheese, awesome. Double-calcium banana smoothies, yum. Filetto Sopresso; quiche; lamb burgers: no thanks.

Happily, however, first trimester behind me, my appetite for "finer” things is creeping back. Yes, hot fudge sundaes covered in oreos still call nightly (I refuse, of course, most of the time), and Clausen pickles remain one of my favorites, but I’m regaining some degree of normalcy—a brief respite, I suppose, until August.

Chris and I took these pictures in Pittsburgh’s Strip District over the holidays. Our time in the Strip signaled the first moments when I actually considered that I might be pregnant. The sight of Chris’s cappicola sandwich was terribly disturbing to me, though I knew I should be delighted at the sheer indulgence of it. The Strip District is food-lover's perfection—raw and wild and expansive. Enjoy!

Cappicola & Egg at Primanti Bros.

Delicious Baccala (Salt Cod) at Wholey's

Wholey's Oysters

Biscotti's at Biscotti Brothers

Fresh, Homemade Tofu at Lotus Food Market

TURKEY IN TOUGH TIMES

I am pleased to say that I am not the only individual so driven by the craving for leftovers that they cooked a second Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, I spoke to quite a few serial-seconds yesterday at market. It’s a natural inclination, I think, for those of us who spend the Thanksgiving away from home. The bustle of the big day (in our case, ten adults and eleven kids) leaves little time for the sort of slow enjoyment that comes from snatching finger-fulls of stuffing from the fridge late evenings and eating it cold in the dark quiet of the kitchen.

Second-Thanksgiving also provides the opportunity to focus on favorites. No rutabaga or sweet potatoes for us. Instead, I made our two family dressings (a French-Canadian meat stuffing of pork, beef, and potato and a simple, buttery bread stuffing); braised cabbage with bacon and veal stock; homemade apple sauce with honey and vanilla; and butterscotch pudding topped with salty pecans. At my preference, we drank red wine, rather than the appropriate white, and fed a few bits of extra meat to the dogs. After a cold, grey day at market, second-Thanksgiving was wholly soothing experience.

And on the subject of market, next weekend marks the final Chattanooga Market of the 2008 season. Though I’ve now celebrated five market-season finales, this year, for a number of reasons, I’m balancing a measure of relief (free Sundays!) and sadness. To start, our good friends Susanna and Joe moved to Bozeman, Montana this week. Susanna was a constant help at the market with her happy, knows-no-stranger outlook, and Joe was actually an inspiration of sorts for conception of Alchemy, having farmed and marketed under the pseudonym “Tomato Joe” for at time. In addition to that, the current economy creates a constant supply of what-ifs for small businesses. Some vendors may return next season; some may not. Needless to say, all of us are hoping for a strong, celebratory conclusion to the year, replete with spirited buying and locally-inspired gifting. If you’re in the Chattanooga area, grab your gift list and head over. If you’re not, find some artisan outlets in your town and give them your holiday dollars.

In closing, the final weeks of market produce came down to apples and popping corn. Pictured above is Rainbow Farm’s lovely, purple popping corn which rises to tasty fluff in a bit of sizzling olive oil. In these difficult times, if you must sit down with the Wall Street Journal or any news for that matter, I highly recommend that you have some fresh, hot popping corn alongside. It’s four ears for a buck, after all. And it really does offer some significant contentment when the final bowls of turkey soup have been slurped.

AUTUMN & ALL

Think of this blog as your virtual Indian summer. Yes, I know, Pennsylvanians, you’re expecting six inches of the white stuff this evening, but let your mind roll back a few weeks to orchards, the apples within, autumnal leaves, and Christmas card photo ops aplenty.

Fall and winter are hiking season for Chris and me. Freed of my ophidiophobia (yeah for hibernation), not to mention Sunday market, we scour the surrounding counties afoot, bundled and tobogganed, a sack full of odd foods that qualify both as light (weight-wise) and filling (tummy-wise), and we intended to begin our season a few weeks ago at the Georgia commencement of the Appalachian Trail near Dahlonega.

But we were distracted. The first of many roadside apple stands offering fried pies, cider doughnuts, bushels of dozens of apple-ly shades, and*sigh*boiled peanuts was cause for a turn about. We bought a gallon of pulpy cider (the good, unfiltered sort with matter suspended at jug bottom), one of the doughnuts, one fried peach pie (who thought that they’d offer peach in autumn at an apple stand?); a half bushel of Pink Ladies; and a sack of their boiled peanuts.

Now, just to be clear: Chris and I adore boiled peanuts. It’s true, for years we resisted. All through grad school as our South Carolinian friend Joel raved of their goodness, we turned up our noses. To be fair, the canned versions lurking in the canned vegetable aisle—and the only kind Chris and I had tasted—are poor representatives, leaning more on their legume heritage than their nutty nature. But good boiled peanuts are a unique experience, as authentically snacky as potato chips but paired with the feel-good warmth of a shot of whisky. And then there’s the shelling: sucking the spicy juice from them, tossing them on the ground or out the window—an inherent dose of relaxation in the whole process, like pinching Royal Reds from their tails at a beach bar.

(the peanut boiler at Reece Apple House where we bought our second bag)

AUTUMN & ALL, CONTINUED

These peanuts were appropriately, but not overly, salty; they retained their textural integrity; and they were lovely, long, finger-like specimens. We enjoyed them in the car heading hike-ward, though, just as we neared the end of the bag, we were again lured from our quest by B.J. Reece Apple House, which offered not only apples, but apple picking. And so with a half-bushel bag in hand, we trudged into B.J.’s orchards for a good dose of vitamin D as well as Yates, Arkansas Blacks, Mutsus, Fujis, and Braeburns.

Let me assure you, the best way to truly taste apples is among the trees, enjoying one variety and then another in stomach-ache inducing succession. Wash these down with more cider. And continue until your bag is ridiculously full, bursting at its seams. If you don’t have apples rolling round your trunk at day’s end, you’re doing it all wrong.

(apple cannon)

We were nearly to the trailhead when we stumbled across these obscenely large pumpkins at Burt’s Farm in Dawsonville. No, you’re not looking at a Dali here; these 50 and 60 pounders appeared to melt from the earth, antagonists to their own circumference and girth, equally beautiful and ridiculous. When we finally made it to the trailhead and climbed the 600 steps to the top of Amicalola Falls, feathered in ruby and gold, I felt much like Burt’s specimens, fully gorged on the pleasures of peanuts, cider, and apples; plumped; and as utterly autumnal as any swath of squash and scarecrow.

SOMEONE ELSE'S COOKING

Today, I have been fully successful at being unsuccessful at absolutely anything. Following a two-day Oktoberfest Chattanooga Market, I am simply useless, unable to accomplish a single task: house cleaning, book work, freelance writing—all of it sits untouched, like the lunch dishes yet on the dining table. I’ve been twice, thus far, to the Starbuck’s atop Lookout Mountain. I enjoyed apple pie for breakfast and again post-lunch. And I have played more than one round of Jelly Car on my iPhone.

Needless to say, the sun room is adorned with dog-hair tumbleweeds (oh, yes, I was also supposed to brush the dogs); the recycling may soon collapse in on itself implosion-style; and I will surely resort to bottom-of-the barrel underwear (tie-dye) tomorrow morning. What’s more, and this is simply inexcusable, I have tons of yet-salvageable basil waiting to be made into pesto. There is a chance of a first frost tonight, but still I sit by the fire indulging my lethargy.

Here’s the thing: the anxiety of uselessness builds on itself. I’m now not only not accomplishing anything, but I’m also spending so much time lamenting my inactivity, that, at 3:17 p.m., it’s as if I’ve exhausted all possibility of redeeming myself.

There is a bright spot in the day, however: someone else’s cooking. Though I generally love cooking in any form (talking about cooking, reading about cooking, writing about cooking, cooking itself), there are times when it’s nice to have something prepared for me—something which I won’t have to analyze for its book-worthiness. There are no notes to be taken, no precise measurements, just a little silver tray in the fridge bearing meatloaf, potatoes, and steamed carrots courtesy of my in-laws. They will need to be warmed, of course—twenty minutes or so in the oven. But they’ll be no mincing, no mixing. The flavors will be a surprise (I haven’t paired them after all); the dishes will be minimal; and I will end my day in the perfect do-nothing style in which I began.

SIZZLE, SMOKE, & A LACK OF SPINACH

Last evening, my friends Monica and Brian hosted their wedding reception at Chattanooga’s Pot House—a lovely log cabin on the banks of the Tennessee River. The party was perfect. In the utterly brisk woods, with an old-timey band (two guitars, a mandolin, a tuba, and sear-sucker suits), we enjoyed corn dogs of various sorts (jalapeno/pineapple turkey dogs, traditional all-beef corn dogs, and veggie corn dogs) and a brilliant autumn-foliage-themed cake with a meringue layer. The crunch of meringue aside a thick layer of silky buttercream—pop rocks step aside, this is the textural sensation of the adult-set.

Previous to this, Chris and I were in Tuscaloosa for the Alabama-Ole’ Miss game. Here, as is standard, we visited Dreamland. Now, deep breath, for me, the Dreamland ribs are an aside; I’m not crazy for ribs after all, with their need for tugging and tearing, their required toothpicking post-consumption. No, for me, the very best of Dreamland is the fresh, cottony white bread and sauce. The sauce provided initially (in its neat, Styrofoam cup) is good. But the sauce that drips from the ribs and pools plate-bottom, flecked with bits of charred meat, is divine. Its vinegary bite, eased by the grease of the ribs, emerges a run-off of twangy-complexity and smokiness. And the quilty-soft sponge of Sunbeam is the ideal transport.

With nary a vegetable in sight, this weekend was pure Southern-style perfection--good parties, football, and an abundance of meaty deliciousness.

SOMETHING WONDERFUL (WHICH I MAY KILL WITHIN THE WEEK)

Lettuce. (I know, I know, it doesn’t sound like much, but check this out.)

My sweet market-neighbors Carol and Walter of Rainbow Hill Farms sold me this still-in-the-dirt head, and informed me that, as needed, I can pull mature leaves from the bottom, keeping the rest intact. The head will continue to grow and produce (sunny spot, watered and fed, of course) indoors, over the winter, indefinitely. Fresh lettuce via countertop all year long!

Need a few leaves to add some crunch to warm roast beef and provolone on rye? Rather than buying a whole head at the grocery, just clip a few and crunch-away.

Hungry for a salad? Lob the whole head off with a kitchen knife and continue to feed and water the roots. A new head will blossom in a few weeks.

I suppose I should count myself lucky for all the hours I’ve spent peddling spice blends out-of-doors among growers and artisans and bakers and happy shoppers. (At 35+ markets a year, that is roughly a minimum of 6 weeks of my life in total; yikes!) But, I have to be honest, this time of the season, market starts to feel like a drag. Sunday mornings, I want to lay in bed with my husband watching Meet the Press; I want a mimosa-accompanied brunch, damnit; I want to laze in the web of a two-day weekend.

But here’s the thing: just when the season starts to lull and the summer’s tomatoes disappear, there’s something new—be it veggie or bookmaker, coconut cupcakes or big band festival—that makes the market new again. This time, it’s lettuce. And if I can keep it alive and thriving, it is sure to have me satisfied until the first arugula glows its verdant glow on the spring market tables.