• the quotidian (8.31.15)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace



    With anchovies and raw eggs: my first real Caesar salad.

    Nectarines.

    Don’t cry over spilled milk. Drink it.

    Veggie tats.

    The truck is fixed.

    Procrastination.

    At the fairgrounds: warming up for a show.

    Progress: just because no one sees it doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

    This same time, years previous: the new bakery, grape parfaits, puppy love, walking the line, chocolate yogurt cake, oatmeal, jacked up, why I don’t teach my kids science, and losing my marbles.    

  • tomatoes in cream

    Really, people. I’m not sure where this recipe has been all my life. It’s a classic, because Ruth Reichl found it in an old issue of Gourmet, and because it’s French and everything French is classic, right?

    I made it for supper Wednesday night, along with salad and fresh bread. It’s simple—just tomatoes, butter, and cream—and the prep is leisurely, making it the perfect accompaniment to a pre-dinner glass of wine while listening to NPR (and shouting orders at everyone to fold the laundry, empty the compost, check the animals, shower, put away their shoes, set the table, etc). The family ate it politely—no raves—but I more than made up for their apathetic and uncultured natures with my joyous exclamations and multiple servings.

    I had the leftovers for lunch the next day. It was even better the second day, perhaps because there were an abundance of juices. My adjectives of choice: creamy-rich, silky, thick and meaty. I ate it from a bowl, transporting it to my mouth via a spoon and buttered piece of fresh sourdough.

    If you have any doubt as to the integrity of this dish, please take a minute to ponder tomato soup. Milk, butter, and tomatoes, right? Tomatoes in cream is tomato soup, but in a more noble form. This is the real deal. It’s tomato soup not being blended into oblivion, and it’s lovely.

    Tomatoes in Cream 
    Adapted from Ruth Reichl’s blog, and, in turn, from the 2001 issue of Gourmet, and, in turn, from Elizabeth David, a contemporary of Julia Child and the author of French Provincial Cooking, a book I do not own but am thinking I should perhaps purchase.

    Like all great simple recipes, the measurements are estimates. Some versions of this recipe call for minced garlic and/or onions. I’m sure that would be delicious, but I like the simplicity of just tomatoes and cream. The original recipe doesn’t even call for salt and pepper, but I think the salt, at least, is crucial—don’t skimp on it.

    5 Roma tomatoes
    1-2 tablespoons butter
    1/3– ½ cup cream
    salt and pepper

    Melt the butter in a skillet over medium heat. Once the butter has melted—let it brown a little, for extra flavor (or because you forgot about it)—place the tomatoes in the skillet, cut side down. Poke the skin-covered backs with a knife. Sprinkle with salt and set the timer for five minutes.

    Cooking process, short version: 
    Simmer for 20 minutes, flipping every five minutes.

    Cooking process, long version: 
    When the timer bings, flip the tomatoes and set the timer for another five minutes. Again, timer bings, flip, another five minutes. And again, bing and flip.

    Now they are cut-side up. It’s been fifteen minutes and the tomatoes are collapsed and wobbly. If there isn’t much tomato liquid, poke their innards with a knife until the juices flow. Sprinkle the tomatoes with salt and simmer for another five minutes. Bing! Add the cream and gently shake the pan to incorporate the cream with the buttery tomato juices.

    Serve hot, with plenty of fresh, buttered bread to mop up the juices.

    This same time, years previous: peach crisp, it all adds up, Bezaleel scenes, they’re getting it!, the quotidian (8.27.12), pasta with lemon-salted grilled zucchini and onions, fresh tomato salad, 2011 stats and notes, roasted tomato sauce, topping for apple crisp, and pasta with sauteed peppers and onions.      

  • on love and leftovers

    Monday, for the first time, my three older children were all out of the house, working. The older two headed out first thing in the morning, and then right after lunch I dropped my younger daughter off at the horse farm. She has been begging—begging—to have a job. Her mantra: I’ll do anything to just get out of the house. Monday was her first afternoon. I was eager to learn how it went. Did she fight with her sister? Did she apply herself? Would she be ready to throw in the towel? (Answers, respectively: no, yes, and absolutely not. Whoop!)

    Of course, send the three older kids off to work and the youngest one is bound to feel left out. “Can I call Papa to see if I can go work?” he pleaded.

    My husband, bless his heart, said yes. There were only a couple hours left in the work day and his job was in a remote setting and close to home. “Besides, it’s our anniversary,” my husband reasoned to me over the phone. “A couple hours of free time is my treat to you.” 

    When I pulled up to the job site to drop our son off, my husband walked around to my window. “I shouldn’t have scheduled that meeting with customers this evening,” he said. “I’m sorry. When I said yes, I had forgotten it was our anniversary.”

    “That’s okay. I kind of forgot it was our anniversary, too. All we’re having for supper is leftovers.” 

    We fist bumped and I drove off, laughing. Such a team, we are. Nineteen years together and we eat leftovers to celebrate.

    Actually, no. That’s not true. We ate the brown rice and curry in order to empty out the fridge and fill our bellies. There was nothing celebratory about that meal, just ask the kids.

    Later, though, after the children were in bed, we snuggled on the couch while watching a show, and, when I licked my chocolate peanut butter ice cream right off the cone and into my lap (!), my husband straight a-way jumped up to fetch me a washcloth. True love, that.

    This photo, taken by our younger son when we were in NY, is a pretty good illustration of our individual personalities and relationship.

    Me: upbeat, needy, and demanding.
    Him: long-suffering, reliable, and resistant.

    Our relationship: the two of us, so totally different, smashed tight together.

    So about that (non) celebratory anniversary dinner? The way I see it, there’s plenty enough celebration in the simple comfort of ordinary togetherness. The relaxed supper of leftovers at the nineteen-year mark is just icing on the cake.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (8.25.14), don’t even get me started, atop the ruins, tomato jam, on not rushing it, basic oatmeal muffins, chocolate malted milk frosting, earthy ponderations, part three, and odds and ends.