Comfor•table

Egg, anyone?

A year or so ago, Nalin subscribed to this independent zine affectionately titled Put a egg on it. It aspires to be "about food, cooking and the communal joys of eating with friends and family." And, as its name aptly suggests, it does happen to include many ideas for food made more delicious with the addition of a fried egg on top. How could we pass that up! Its November 7th blog entry starts out with good advice: "On a chilly night, it’s good to have shepherd’s pie — slightly buttery smashed parsnips on top of slow cooked beef stew crisped under the broiler. Yum." Well, that is sort of how tonight's meal came to be, but not due to having read that entry ahead of time. Rather, seeing fall descend upon us now like a heavy cloud at 4:30 p.m., and feeling rather chilly to boot, a pie of sorts sounded just the ticket. I guess many of us are just on the same page.

What we did instead was a fish pie, inspired by The Naked Chef Takes Off, the recipe book by a Jamie Oliver who looks little more than 16 on the cover. This book has the most amazing comfort food recipes; maybe that's because he tends to use pancetta or bacon in almost everything. Well, his Fish Pie recipe doesn't have bacon in it, but given the caloric punch, it might as well have. It's a pretty easy thing to create: Boil some potatoes for mashing (with a little olive oil and salt and pepper) and a couple of eggs for quartering; steam some spinach or greens; sauté some onions and carrots (I also added some halved brussels sprouts) and then add heavy cream until it comes to a boil (adding a little mustard, a little lemon, chopped parsley, and a couple of handfuls of cheddar or Parmesan to the mix after taking off the heat); cut white fish fillets into strips; and then assemble all together in a cast iron or enamel pot that can go into the oven near the top on 450 degrees for 30 minutes or until browned in this order:

• Spinach, fish and eggs at the bottom
• Creamy vegetable mixture in the middle
• Mashed potatoes on top

Voila. Fairly quick meal in just one pot. Just how we like it best. And with the cream and cheese, just about the epitome of comfort. Of course this gets me thinking about other comfort food we like during the fall and winter months. My dear friend, Heike, just bought me the most amazing book as an early birthday present. It is The Family Meal: Home cooking with Ferran Adria, the legendary chef of elBulli. And it is sublime. Some of the recipes I have already tried are amazingly simple, use the most basic of ingredients, and speak to comfort in the most tangible of ways, through taste:

• Polenta & Parmesan gratin (I served this with a simple tin of smoked sardines in tomato sauce on the side; I swear, I'm feeling more and more like my grandparents every day)
• Baked apples with honey, brandy and cream (this was the best way to eat all those apples we picked!)
• Sausages with mushrooms and garlic (I mixed in a few peppers as well)
• Mexican-style slow-cooked pork (for tacos)
• Oranges with honey, olive oil & salt (need I say more?)

There are 31 meals in this book, one for every day of the month. I can't wait to go through them all. But in the meantime, whether it is a braise of meat and lentils, a tagine of chicken and preserved lemons, or a lovely Japanese stew, winter affords us the opportunity to try out many new things, if not for the simple reason that standing in front of a hot stove is actually quite comforting in and of itself during those cold, windy nights.

Here's to comfort; here's to life.

Fall's a-comin'

Madhvi's fish stew

With fall finally here, we have already started making soups and stews now once or twice a week. I always bemoan the end of the growing season and the abundance of fresh vegetables, but October actually brings so much amazing choices, albeit with vegetables and fruits that may feel limiting to those who are unaccustomed to cooking a lot with greens or root vegetables. I couldn't believe how brimming over the tables were at our farmer's market this morning. We came home with three or four different types of kales, a couple varieties of mustard greens, loads of potatoes, a few pounds of tomatoes (still!), carrots, leeks, white and purple eggplant, jerusalem artichokes, pears, the list goes on. And it is not too late to stock up and freeze things for the winter. Over the next couple of weeks I'll try to post some good recipes for stews, soups, or braises that are easy and amazingly flavorful, but I'd like to focus in on one stew that was introduced to us a couple of years ago by my sister-in-law, Madhvi, who is one of the most amazing cooks I know. What I admire perhaps most is how effortless she makes it all seem. It is inspiring.

When visiting Connecticut the fall before last, we were treated to many meals, but one that stood out, perhaps because of its simplicity, flavor, and heartiness, was a fish stew that Madhvi made one evening. She cooked everything in a lovely cast-iron pot. I've made a version of this stew many, many times, since. This is how I generally prepare it:

Ingredients:

• 1 lb. firm white fish fillets (mahi mahi works really well)
• olive oil 
• 2-3 carrots (peeling optional if using organic carrots)
• 3-4 medium potatoes, cut in chunks (peeling optional if using organic potatoes)
• 2 leeks or a large red onion (your preference)
• chopped greens of your choice (kale, spinach, amaranth, mustard greens)
• a half glass of white wine
• 2 cups organic chicken stock (or vegetable stock if you avoid meat other than fish)
• 2 cups organic marinara sauce (or 1 cup roasted tomatoes — if using roasted tomatoes instead of marinara, add another cup of water)
• ground cumin (to taste)
• turmeric (optional)
• salt
• pepper
• 2-3 cloves of garlic
• 1-inch square chopped ginger
• chopped cilantro or parsley

Preparation:
Cut up fish into chunks and marinate gently in about a teaspoon ground cumin, a dash of turmeric, a little salt and pepper, and lemon (optional). Pour about 1-2 tbsp of olive oil in the stew pot (cast iron is a lovely choice). When the oil is hot, add the fish and lightly brown. Remove from the pot briefly and add the chopped onion or leeks, garlic, and ginger and sauté for a few minutes. Add the potatoes, carrots, and greens (if using spinach, add towards the end of cooking) and a little more salt and pepper to taste. Stir to coat everything well in the oil and onion mix. If you need to de-glaze the pan from all the bits, add a half glass of white wine and gently scrape the sides of the pot. Add the stock, tomato sauce, water (if needed). Stir everything and then add the fish back in. Bring everything to a boil. Cover the pot and simmer on low until the potatoes and carrots are tender to the touch (usually takes about a 1/2 hour). When stew is done, check the seasoning and add more as necessary, then top with chopped parsley or cilantro. Serve with crusty bread and cheese. Although, recently, I added a 1/4-cup of quinoa to the stew about 10-15 minutes prior to being done for some added depth and whole-grain flair. Then it is quite a meal in itself. And so incredibly simple. 

Thinking about that fall in Connecticut, I was reminded of all the fun the kids had with their cousins. I've added a couple of pictures recalling that lovely time. We miss you, Madhvi, Bill, Aaron, and Sharon! Let's have a meal again together, soon.

Anyone up for a ride?

Matchy, matchy

Cooking dinner every night: How in the world?

The other day while driving home, I was listening to a rebroadcast of Terry Gross' 2009 interview of Ruth Reichl on Fresh Air from nearly two years ago. This one of the few radio programs I still try to catch as often as I can, in this case in a car, pulled to the side of the road in a nearby neighborhood, with sleeping boys in the back. Listening to the exchange of these two women toward the end of the interview was one of those magical moments that really clicked for me, as I had been having a really frustrating week, feeling a bit exhausted and unable to keep up with my daily routines; certainly everything was getting the better of me, and I was feeling a tad overwhelmed by the chaos one can easily feel with two small children, when it just seems impossible to get anything done. I had even announced to Nalin that I was going to start charting out a weekly plan for meals and activities; something I had rebuffed so easily in the past. And just that next day, here was Ruth Reichl, former editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine talking about how when she left the New York Times to work for Gourmet, she did so in order to be able to come home and make food for her family every night, rather than eat out at restaurants or get take out. This, she explained, was something she should have done a long time ago and that "family dinner" was so important. Of course, Terry Gross asks the question that was on my lips at that very moment: How would you come home and make food every night with the demanding job of editing the premiere food magazine in the country? And here is what she said in a nutshell (I'll put quotation marks around this section, but since I don't have it memorized, it is essentially a paraphrase): "Here's the thing about cooking: the big misapprehension is that cooking is time consuming. It is the preparation that is time consuming: the shopping and planning. If it is four o'clock and you are still trying to figure out what to have for dinner, then you have already lost the battle." I think that in the realm of parenthood, truer words were never spoken. She then goes on to explain how she would make a plan every Sunday night for the week. Every meal would be planned out and the shopping would be done. She stuck to her plan, and easy, yet satisfying meals would delight her family each night and provide a background for the day's events to be showcased through conversation and companionship.

Now I have heard of people doing this for years. And I have been encouraged to do this or have thought of doing this myself, but something always seemed to keep me from it. I've written before about often feeling a bit too driven by spontaneity to adhere to what I may perceive as rigid dictates in many areas of my life. This, unfortunately, extends to the way I organize my office (or don't organize), to the way I pack for trips (thus inevitably overpacking), to the way I plan my kids' activities throughout the day. You name it. For some reason, though, Nalin and I have really tried to make home-cooked meals at night a priority for our family for the last couple of years. Both of us come from homes where this was a ritual — stay-at-home mom and full-time working mom homes alike. What has kicked me in the butt, so to speak, is that my love of surprise and invention has turned into more of a dread. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing more exciting that seeing what you can whip up in the spur of the moment, but that joy gets dampened a bit when you are trying to juggle too many things at once. That's when take-out Thai food comes in to the picture... like, all the time. It's just so much easier. Not only that, we would find ourselves running out to the market on a daily basis to buy things for whatever struck our fancy on a given day. We'd end up sometimes spending even more money and time to cook, since we weren't optimizing what we already had on hand. So who says it's about necessity; I think that planning is really the mother of invention.

So I finally did it. I started making lists of everything we got at the farmers markets and what meat we had in the freezer to keep on hand; then, based on those lists, I started devising meals for the week that would utilize what we had and shop once for what we didn't. For many of you, that may seem like a no-brainer, to shop only once a week, but if I can get us to do that, it will be some sort of miracle. I am more than half-way through my first week at this plan, and already I'm feeling a bit more relieved. And I haven't had to go shopping since Sunday (it is Wednesday), with no plans to do so until the weekend. And what I am finding is that the creativity I thought I'd miss with this new ritual is evident more in the planning, leaving me free to create and move more freely during the week. Now the challenge of keeping up with this.

One line of Ruth Reichl's really struck me that afternoon, and I hope to keep it as a bit of an anthem going forward. In discussing how her family life changed so dramatically when she started making the time to cook each night and focus on family meals, she said simply, "It's when we all sort of really entered each other's lives in a really profound way." And isn't that what it's all about.

Kids and the city, part ?

Lamb pies on the curb at the Rogers Park Farmers Market
Photo by Nalin Bhutt

Before we had kids and while on a road trip to somewhere I don't remember now, Nalin and I listened to a fabulous book on tape of Family Man, by one of my favorite writers, Calvin Trillin. By that time, we were already living in Chicago and had settled into a fairly urban existence. And, although I don't recall my exact thoughts that day we listened to Trillin's words, I'm sure I nodded my head and smiled while listening, imagining that we too would raise our children in the hub of a thriving metropolis and attend raucous Halloween street parades just like his two daughters did, growing up in the heart of Greenwich Village. Well, our most raucous Halloween event with our children was a quite sanitized neighborhood kids fest in the heart of Rogers Park when Ettu was one and dressed like a monkey; but hey, you have to start somewhere.

There are a lot of reasons I love Calvin Trillin, not least of which are his Kansas City, Missouri roots. A Midwest boy transplanted to that strange and venerable island called Manhattan. His humor is so familiar and embracing and yet utterly new. It has been a long while since I read that book, but I'd love to revisit it now that I am parenting two children in the city. The questions of whether to stay in an urban environment or move outside the city constantly creep upon us. When we go to the museums or hang out listening to live music at the Food Truck Social with our kids dancing like crazy in the open streets, we think, yes, this is the place for us. When we visit friends or family with bigger homes and yards and open space, we see the glee and wonder in their faces and think, yes, this might be the place for us. But for now, we are where we are. My children are learning to skip rocks in the crater-like potholes in our alley that fill with water after a good rain. They eat hot, handmade goodies on the curb of the farmers market on Sunday mornings while waiting for their parents to scavenge for eggs, greens, and tomatoes. They grudgingly adhere to our admonishments to please not run so loudly down the hallway of our second floor condo. They barely flinch at the sounds of loud trains and sirens that pass them. They know every park within walking distance by name.

Wherever we go or remain, I hope that these days and experiences are shaping them to be flexible, tolerant, and inquisitive young men. All of us parents are in this same, crowded boat together, though. And we all do the best we can. As Trillin states in plain and simple words, "Your children are either the center of your life or they're not." And wherever we are, I suppose that pretty much sums it up.

Eggplant, kale, garlic, and tomato stir-fry

This came after the chili clams.

Chili, garlic clams and riesling while roasting tomatoes for winter

Courtesy of our iPhone

It's midnight, and I'm still slow-roasting these tomatoes out on our grill. I grabbed up nearly 17 pounds of lovely organic tomatoes at the end of our neighborhood farmers' market tonight for $1/pound. A steal, I'd say. After they are good and caramelized, I'll puree them, bag them, and freeze them for the winter. If I can keep this up for the rest of the season, I shouldn't have to buy a grocery tomato all winter. That's the goal, at least. Perhaps one day I'll learn how to can.

While I was preparing the pans for roasting, my lovely husband whipped up some chili and garlic clams and opened a bottle of our favorite riesling from Trader Joe's: Dr. Loosen. The boys nicely tucked away in slumber, we ate, sipped, and cut together. A nice late evening.

Teaching myself to wait

"The little things."
Photo by Nalin Bhutt. 

Simplicity and restraint are such difficult concepts for me to adhere to in life. I had a bumper sticker on the first car I ever bought myself (a lemon of a Volkswagen Quantum I just had to have) in college that said "Live simply." (Perhaps I should also admit to the "Free Tibet" sticker I had on the other side of the bumper.) Meanwhile, I'm quite sure that I was already on the road to racking up some fine credit card debt in the pursuit of such simplicity. And believe me, the irony has never been lost on me. We have a couple of books on our "special" book shelves in our office (the ones with our prized possessions) on the Japanese aesthetic philosophy of Wabi Sabi. In the one book, written by Andrew Juniper, he states that

"As the artistic mouthpiece of the Zen movement, wabi sabi ... is built on the precepts of simplicity, humility, restraint, naturalness, joy, and melancholy as well as the defining element of impermanence. Wabi sabi ... challenges us to unlearn our view of beauty and to rediscover the intimate beauty to be found in the smallest details of nature's artistry."

He ends his introduction by suggesting that this legacy, "left by the wise Zen monks of old" may offer us a new perspective on spirituality in a world moving toward "unrestrained materialism."

So what do I do with all of this knowledge and newly found conviction to lead a better, simpler, more aesthetic life? I find myself pining over the pages of my recent issue of Dwell on Japanese home architecture and style, envying the objects, homes, vision, etc. of all these others. If only I could have this, then maybe I could achieve that, I say. I think I'm missing the point a bit.

The book goes on to talk about the tea ceremony, a guiding force behind wabi sabi. Juniper then provides an interesting comparison of the tearoom and the church. "In the tearoom there is a sober veneration for unadorned rusticity, for the greatness to be found in the most restrained expression of the humble and simple." So here's my first problem. I'm not that much of a tea drinker. I've always preferred coffee. Nalin is the tea drinker. Perhaps this would be a good place to start. Obviously I'm not trying to draw completely literal parallels here, but it is interesting to consider our appetites as a mirror to our larger (excuse the pun) desires in life. If you go into any higher-end coffee shop these days, you cannot deny that the art of coffee is taken to new heights and more time with the endless options for handcrafted goodness, most notably in the individual pours of freshly brewed coffee (the Japanese got this right as well). But there is certainly an art and ritual to tea drinking and the tea ceremony that certainly cannot be rivaled. Juniper writes, "The intense concentration needed to perform a tea ceremony was both a discipline and a purification, for through the focusing of the mind on the microcosm of the tearoom, the rest of life's concerns would melt away."

And so this is what surrounds me tonight. The aches of realization upon seeing the ways in which my daily pursuits often act contrary to my ultimate goals. I need to remove myself from the haze of "need to" and focus on what can be. Perhaps then I can achieve a little of this noble and artistic pursuit.

"Food for the modern cook" and memories of a grand occasion

We have a cookbook in our shelves that is full of turned pages, printouts, food stains, etc. You know it's a good one. I reached for it today, as I've been feeling a little uninspired lately, even amidst the seasonal abundance of lovely food in our fridge. The name of the book is New Wok: simple stylish food for the modern cook, by Sunil Vijayakar, and it is one of the best things we have ever purchased. It appears to be out of print, but there seem to be several used options on Amazon. The recipes are Chinese, Indian, Southeast Asian, and they are incredibly creative and flavorful. The best part of opening this book today was the menu I found from a holiday party we hosted back in 2005. It has been safely tucked away here, even after we've revisited the book many times since. Many of the recipes in this book greatly inspired one of the most exciting food parties we've ever had. And my dear husband was the grand cook for it all.

As I read over the list of what Nalin cooked that night — papaya salad, okra-coconut stir fry, parchment wrapped prawns, fried tofu, tandoori chicken with mint chutney, beef kabobs, pea/potato pakoras, salmon/sesame fish cakes, spiced lamb poppadoms with mango chutney, carrot and raisin halva, etc. — I am filled with the greatest of taste memories. It was quite a spread, to say the least. Even now, I can picture Nalin slumped on a stool in the kitchen with wine in hand for most of the remaining party, truly exhausted, if not at least a little exhilarated. Of course those were the days before kids, so spending two or three days shopping, planning, and cooking for a party was a bit more feasible. Many of the recipes in this book that inspired some of the dishes Nalin made, however, do not require endless hours or too many complex ingredients. Which is why I reach for it today. There is something valuable in a thing that meets our needs in diverse circumstances.

And as I now become more inspired about the options awaiting me with the vegetables gleaned from this hot and wicked summer, I'm reminded of a poem by the great poet and organic farmer, Wendell Berry, whom my father introduced me to years ago when I was young and could not yet fathom its intent and relevance to the life I lead now:

The Arrival
Like a tide it comes in,
wave after wave of foliage and fruit,
the nurtured and the wild,
out of the light to this shore.
In its extravagance we shape
the strenuous outline of enough.

 May we all eat well and enough this night and always.

Simple summer evenings; simple summer food

It has been nearly a month since my last post. I can't believe it. I think the heat and activity of summer makes it a bit more difficult for me to sit and focus on writing in the evenings. I'm missing it, though. This won't be a long one tonight, but I did want to share our evening meal, as it was one of those simple, throw-together ones that make me happy, most of all because it came together without a trip to the store or a long, drawn-out preparation.

The most current issue of Saveur magazine has a great article on pestos this month, called "Why We Love Pesto." It's subhead on the cover grabbed me this evening as I was watching the boys and trying to think of what to make for dinner as time crept closer: "The ideal summer sauce for tossing with pasta..." As I browsed the article and perused the recipes, it struck me that I could certainly scrounge up enough veggies and greens to put together a concoction that might resemble aspects from a few of these recipes all in one dish. So here's how it came together.

First I made up a simple pesto in the food processor and put this aside:

• 2 cups total of basil and arugula from both my deck pots and the left-over farmers market bounty (you don't need to have only basil; some pestos don't have any basil)
• a few garlic scapes
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 1/3 cup cashew nuts
• a little fresh grated parmesan cheese
• a squeeze of lemon
• salt and pepper to taste

Then, after putting water on to boil for pasta, I looked around in my pantry and fridge for some vegetables to saute and toss with the pesto and pasta: 2 medium potatoes, a bunch of baby broccoli, a handful of cherry tomatoes (green beans would have been nice, but I didn't have them). I  cut the potatoes into eighths and then put the garlic in some olive oil to simmer on the stove. Once golden, I added the potatoes with a little salt and pepper and let them saute until somewhat soft (about 10 minutes on medium heat). I then added in the broccoli and cherry tomatoes. After about five minutes or so, I added in to the blended pesto and turned to low and covered for another five-to-ten minutes until the potatoes were soft*. During this time, I added the pasta (about 8-10 ounces) to the boiling water to cook. After the pasta was done, I reserved a little water before draining, added it into the saute pan and mixed well with the pesto and veggies. If it is a bit dry still, add some reserve water, since you probably have already used enough olive oil in both the pesto and the veggies.

*Note: it is definitely not necessary to cook the pesto for any length of time. I just did it for a bit to let the potatoes soak in some of the flavor while they were still cooking.

You may need a bit of salt and pepper at the end. Also, I did grate a little more parmesan cheese on top. We grilled a few goat chops that we had in the freezer from our "meat lady," with just a little salt and pepper for a few minutes and had these on the side. Everyone ate everything from their bowls. We even had a surprise visit at the beginning of the meal from our neighbor girl upstairs who is twelve, and she sat down with us to eat. We have been told numerous times by her mom that she is a picky eater, but she proceeded to eagerly eat the pasta as well as the goat chop and asked me to write down the "recipe" for her mom. Score. And I guess this is why we love pesto. It is easy, it is tasty, it is substantial, it is diverse, it is seasonal. A vegetarian dish (minus the goat chops, of course) that gives us a lot of complex flavor and a nice kick of protein with the nuts.

Lately I've been noticing a lot of posts on Facebook about what people are creating with their CSA boxes and farmers market finds. I love the idea that food, especially all this great seasonal food, gives us the great gift of encouragement. Encouragement to try new things and stretch our own boundaries and creative muscles. Tomorrow morning is another trip to the farmers market. Oh how I look forward to trying something new.

What lies beyond

Photo by K. Rajendran at Lake Michigan

My son Nooa turned two yesterday. This is not a remarkable thing. After all, time passes us by with such ease and fortitude, with nothing to hinder its intent. What is truly compelling is the way in which time changes shapes and becomes us. One day we look at someone we love and see that they are completely different than the day before. This is the magic of parenthood... seeing how time performs the greatest slight of hand in the words, gestures, and features of our children.

What lies beyond this day for Nooa is, I can only hope, a lifetime of discovery and grand experience. So far he has the appetite for it. I watch my children as they interact with the objects and people around them on our walks each day. They move through this urban landscape on foot, on scooter, by train, as though it is their own, and it is. I'm often reminded of a book I read a couple of years ago by Adam Gopnik, Through the Children's Gate: A Home in New York, about (as the book cover suggests) "...a family taking root in the unlikeliest patch of earth." He refers to the city as representing a kind of childlike hope... "waiting for something big to happen." I love this notion. Yesterday, we took a water taxi from Michigan Avenue to the river's edge at Chinatown. On this journey, I stared at the buildings and barriers and renewed architecture jutting up against the river and couldn't help but think of all the exciting possibilities this city had yet to realize. As we disembarked from the taxi in Chinatown, we entered into a beautiful park on the river. Here children were fishing, playing in the playground, running along its paths; a veritable oasis in the midst of old industry and the web of expressways.

In essence, time is certainly the greatest of gifts in the way that it keeps bringing us people, opportunities, and new ways of inventing ourselves and our surroundings. And in the most basic of ways, the words and phrases Nooa discovers and sings or exclaims with joy every day are a testament to what lies beyond. Uncovering and understanding. A whole world of syllables and sounds just waiting to be gobbled up and applied to that which he sees.

Happy birthday, Nooa.

Anatomy of a meal

Menu planning at its finest: an Indian meal for friends

The picture on the left is a little difficult to decipher, but let me explain. Over the years, Nalin and I have prepared many a meal for our friends and family. And it usually starts out with a little list making or menu planning on a torn-off sheet of paper. By the end of the process, that paper looks quite a bit like aged parchment, with smeared pen, some food splatters, and maybe even a few grubby fingerprints. For as long as I can remember, Nalin has been more than a bit fond of making lists, adding things to the list, making a note of that on the list, etc., etc. You get the drift. For procrastinating, impulsive, and fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants little ol' me, this has often been a little challenging to say the least, but his style has slowly grown on me. The lists Nalin makes on a daily basis are like maps, with the arteries of thought running this way and that in sequenced definition. For these meal plans, there is often a shopping list incorporated and sectioned by dish, the dishes themselves listed in order of preparation to time things right, some instructions perhaps, and then, usually at the end, notes on whether the dish worked well or not and what to do or not do the next time around. And it doesn't stop there. These lists and maps are a part of nearly everything we do in our household, much to my chagrin at times, I suppose.

Nalin has a great book on his bookshelf entitled Inspired: How creative people think, work and find inspiration. We got this a few years back, and it is one of those books you never quite tire of, and, in fact, it can be quite uplifting in those moments where inspiration seems about the last thing to be mustered. It is a collection of some of the greatest creative minds around. In the preface, the authors write, "This is a book about the creative process. The journey that starts with a blank sheet of paper and an open mind." Dick Bruna, the Dutch writer and illustrator of the lovely 'Miffy' titles writes,

"I'm inspired by very simple things. It can be a shape, a nice red door or a blue window. I collect objects that I like for their shape or colour. I also collect the presents that I get from children all over the world. I have a whole bookcase full of them."

And as I sit here paging through the book again as I write, I marvel at the sketches, notebook scribbles, photographs, and ordinary found objects that serve as the basis for so much wonder and creativity. It is at once both intimidating and utterly within reach. I think that Nalin would second this notion of Georgie Bean, an interior stylist, producer, and freelance magazine correspondent from Amsterdam: "Things I've collected over time always have relevance at some point later on." (Or perhaps he might just use that as justification for the piles of magazines, clippings, cards, etc. that permeate our existence.) But honestly, this is something that I more than admire, because it can be such a potent way of cataloging one's hopes and dreams for a future of realities.

So the next time I am asked to make a list for that next meal, or trip, or creative initiative, I would hope that I can respond with an air of grace and receptivity and respect the greater power of the process. And for those of you who wonder what we made that night, here is the list, a little more legibly rendered:

• black-eyed peas with bamboo shoots (a Nepali dish we love)
• okra in coconut sauce
• eggplant and potatoes
• green beans with mustard seeds and whole cumin
• rice with peas and onions
• raita with spinach
• homemade mint chutney
• mango pickle

A lesson in block printing

A couple of blocks Nalin brought back from New Delhi

A weekend's bounty

Today I'm on a time limit. I have an hour left. An hour left on my wireless connection at The Coffee Studio, an hour left on my laptop battery, an hour left before heading back to relieve the once-a-week babysitter I allow myself. An hour left to write. Most of the time, I'm found during those precious three-hour stretches running errands without a 23-month-old on my back and a 3-1/2 year old at my side. But today I've given myself an hour of that for precious ol' "me" time. So let's get on with it. (By the way, if you checked out the link to The Coffee Studio, you'll see a picture of me and a 3-month-old Ettu on their home page. You can see us only from the back, but the striped hat is Ettu. Needless to say, this has been our home town coffee shop for quite a while now, since it opened the same month that picture was taken.)

Last weekend we went to our first outdoor farmer's market of the season here in Chicago. We were gone for a good month in the early spring, but from what I hear, the weather was not too accommodating; now, it appears, spring has sprung. Shortly after coming home from our veggie venture, Nooa came down with high fevers and the next day, Sunday, was a dreadfully rainy day. A good weekend to stay put, to say the least. Luckily, we had just done our weekly grocery shopping and had all these great greens, radishes, rhubarb, and other fun finds at the market. I made a hearty potato, kale, and pinto bean soup, mildly based on this recipe (although I did forego the completely vegan plan and used whole milk instead of almond milk; I also used pinto beans instead of butter beans, opted out of the miso, since I didn't have it on hand, and I decided not to puree the veggies at the end, instead leaving the soup nicely chunky). Oh, and I did make homemade croutons out of some left-over onion buns we had with hamburgers the previous night. While the soup was simmering, I cut up the stalks of rhubarb for a pie. Normally, I am not a pie person, but I can't resist a good rhubarb pie. I had a pie crust in the freezer, which was rare and perfect for such an occasion. I used this recipe as a foundation (super simple!). I did use the crumble top recipe and added pure vanilla to the rhubarb mixture. I must confess, I forced Nalin out into the rain to buy some vanilla ice cream. I just couldn't resist.

There is something so primal about cooking around what we have gathered (ideally from our own gardens, in this case from someone else's!). Michael Pollan, in his book, In Defense of Food, makes a simple and provocative statement: "Eat Food. Not Too Much. Mostly Plants." This is not always easy or possible, but it makes a lot of sense. Yesterday, I needed to make something for an event at Ettu's school. Normally tempted to go out and buy something or at least buy groceries to create something, I rather gave myself the challenge of finding everything in my pantry or fridge. What I came up with was a fairly simple pasta salad: penne with a few cherry tomatoes and olives remaining in my fridge, some shredded asiago and parmigiana cheese found in my meat and cheese drawer, a saute of mustard greens, red spinach, garlic and spring onions added to the mix (all from the farmer's market), a bit of chopped sage that came back in our deck pots from last year, some toasted almonds, a little balsamic vinegar, and a healthy douse of olive oil. Et voila. A perfect al fresco dish.

Nalin and I were talking this morning about "eating our seeds today." In other words, investing in tomorrow by not indulging in today. This is a spectacularly hard concept for me to put into action. It is, in my estimation, my worst flaw. But this resonates on so many levels. And it is something that I hope to achieve in little ways every day. And now I see my time is up. So okay, a little indulgence (in this case my time and some precious hours of babysitting), is not always so bad. Perhaps it is even an investment. Let's all hope.

Home again

After just over a month, we have all circled back to our home in Chicago. And here I sit after a long bit of silence with not much, yet so much on my mind. Nalin had gone back to India the third week of April to be with his mother in her last weeks. We, in turn (the boys and I), traveled down to Missouri to be with my parents. Throughout that time, I thought often of our little routines at home: the way we play, eat, cook, read, sleep, etc., and how our interactions with one another so greatly influence our health and well-being. When someone is missing from that equation, everything seems to stand still. And yet the time with my family was beautiful. My sons reveled in the attention of their lovely cousins and aunties, and the continuous care from my parents, right down to my dad making grocery runs to the local "whole foods" grocery store for me, couldn't have been more appreciated. After all, home is where you make it and what you make of it. And home is where you are loved and where you love.

So here we are back again, although now so much has changed. Nalin's mom passed away in her home, with two of her sons by her side, nearly two weeks ago now. Yesterday, as I was preparing a meal for my family, back in the kitchen I know so well, I couldn't help but think of the literally thousands of meals she prepared for her family in her all-too-short life. I imagined her juggling the vegetables and bowls and pots from counter to stove and back with five children at her feet and in her line of sight. I conjured the smells of her kitchen and the delighted look on her husband's face as he tasted her lamb pilaf. She nurtured and nourished six amazing people (and of course many more now with spouses, grandchildren, extended family), with one of whom I am so lucky to spend my life.

A little over a week ago, Nalin and I spent time over the phone and through email composing a eulogy for him to read at his mother's memorial service in Kurukshetra. I had recently come across this quote from Susan Sontag that we decided to borrow:

Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of use is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

Nalin's mom had been a citizen of "that other place" for nearly a year. The only comfort was that she was able, for the most part, to be at home surrounded by those she loved and the familiar sights, sounds, and smells that became her sustenance throughout her final months, weeks, and days. As Nalin traveled back to India in late April, he read Meghan O'Rourke's piece in the New Yorker entitled "Story's End," with the subtitle: "Writing a mother's death." It is a stunning piece, made more powerful to me by the knowledge of Nalin sitting on a plane by himself reading it alone as he made the journey home that no child is prepared to make.

As I sat there a week ago, writing a mother's death in the far corner of a Starbucks in Springfield, Missouri, home never seemed more real or more poignant that in the moment he and I read the eulogy together aloud over the phone later that night, with thousands of miles between us. I must say, though, it feels much better to have him here now by my side.

 

A mother's reflection on her special day

I've just come up from checking on my sleeping boys. They are cuddled together so sweetly, and as I leave them I think of the countless and repetitive Facebook posts I read today: "[my children] are the greatest mother's day gift[s] I could get." Which begs the question, what gifts do we give our children? I suppose I hope that the daily things we do with our children, whether with food, with play, with reading, with vast amounts of affection are gifts that "keep on giving," so to speak. With respect to food and health, our "gifts" are often met with friction and sometimes outright refusal. While browsing the New York Times health blog, Well, tonight, I found this interesting article about mistakes parents make with regards to the nutrition of their children. It is always comforting to know that there is never an end to the ways we can enrich our kids' appreciation or openness to the gift of food. Here are the main points of the article, with some added thoughts from my experience:

"Sending children out of the kitchen"
I know all too well how difficult (and sometimes dangerous) it is to cook with two little ones running around the kitchen. Most of the time it is just plain easier to set them up with a video in the other room to keep them out of the way. It has occurred to me on several occasions, and now seems to be confirmed by studies, that having children involved in or at the very least witness to cooking and meal preparation paves the way for their interest in food. My older son is a part of a Waldorf-inspired playgroup, and every Monday they bake the bread that they then eat on Tuesday. He is so proud of this involvement and tries to help me every time I bake something. Try placing a solid stool next to a safe area of counter space and hand them the wooden butter knives, a cutting board, and some vegetables. Or make a little dough for them to knead and roll while you are at work. You'd be amazed at the fun they have.

"Pressuring them to take a bite"
We are all guilty of this. There are some meals or many, for that matter, that I just can't get my children to eat what I would like them to. Coercion just doesn't seem to work, and often it backfires. The article suggests putting the food on the table and using gentle encouragement for your child to try it. The most interesting part, for me, however, was this passage: "But don’t complain if she refuses, and don’t offer praise if she tastes it. Just ask her if she wants some more or take seconds yourself, but try to stay neutral." Just stay neutral. What an amazing thought. This definitely takes the judgment out of one's food experience. 

"Keeping 'good stuff' out of reach"
It appears that there are countless studies showing that when food is restricted, compulsive or binge eating can follow. I once read an article on this same wavelength, which inspired me to keep the applesauce on the same plate as the "main" dish I was serving my child for lunch, rather than showcasing it as a dessert later. Something about setting up some foods as prizes for the consumption of others that only led to an imbalanced approach to one's meal. And for snacks, I always serve the beloved cheese crackers or graham crackers next to the carrots or apple slices. There are times that the fruit and veggies are still left on the plate, but there are other times that the fruit is favored over those savory treats. I don't think this means that one should always serve chocolate chip cookies at the same time they are trying to get their child to eat their pasta for lunch. Let's be realistic. But I do think this is an interesting point. We have to be wise about what we feed our children in all cases, but we can be more thoughtful about how we incorporate a variety of tastes and choices into their meals and snacks. One alongside the other. I think this bodes well for their ability to make the right choices in the long run.

"Dieting in front of your children"
Wow. This is a big one. We all talk often about the modeling we do for our children. How we can't expect them to eat the right foods if we don't, etc. Our children are tuned in to our food habits in ways we can't even imagine, and they are likely to try more things if they see us eating them. They also will reject the things we reject. Given all of this, it is no wonder that a child's perception of their own bodies or relationship to food may be powerfully wrapped up in what they witness of their parents' food habits or preoccupations with dieting or food restrictions. What's worse is that at least one report has found that mothers who were obsessed with weight and dieting were more likely to pressure their own daughters into weight loss or food restriction. As for me, I worry more about the example I embody when I am drinking way too many ice coffees or eating way too many scones in the front seat of my car, as opposed to choosing those same carrots or apple slices I am offering my children. Nonetheless, it is all a very fine line.

"Serving boring vegetables"
I think this one speaks for itself. I have talked a lot in other postings about how vegetables are often served in ways that are uninteresting to children. I think the important thing is to incorporate them in healthy but flavorful ways in your food, be it in curries or soups, or a stir-fry, or a baking sheet of sweet potato "fries" with a bit of olive oil and salt. Make your veggies come alive.

"Giving up too soon"
We've all heard someone say, "My kid would never eat that.” That may be true now, but preferences change and change quickly. And one thing this article mentions is that sibling or friendship dynamics can alter a child's response to new foods. My sons are quite crazy about nori (thin, dried sheets of seaweed, used for sushi and as a condiment for many Asian dishes). They can eat it by the package, and we usually serve it with fish and sticky rice. This is certainly something that doesn't sound like something kids would like, but in my experience, they love it when they try it. As the article says, "exposure to new foods is what counts."

At the end of this very lovely day that is for mothers, I am left pondering all the ways we succeed and fail as parents. It is an incredible responsibility this thing called parenthood. I guess my greatest hope is that my kids grow up with an attachment to the world and people around them. And I can't help but associate an openness to food as one of those ties that binds and makes them more open and diverse people themselves. The Well blog also has a posting called "Share Six Words About Your Mother," where one has to encapsilate their mother in just six words. I guess I hope that these are the six words my sons say about me: "She tried, and so did I."

Happy mother's day to you all.

Market madness; can hardly wait!

A tree grows in Chelsea

Recently, during one of our late night (here)/mid-morning (there) conversations, Nalin mentioned that he was reading a lot during this trip to India. His current infatuation is Netherland, by Joseph O'Neill, who is married to Sally Singer, the former fashion news and features director at Vogue, who is now the editor of T: The New York Times Style Magazine. A couple of years ago, almost to the day, The Selby, one of our favorite photo sites, published images of the couple's apartment in the Chelsea Hotel, which they share with their three sons. Tonight I found myself looking closely at those images and browsing around to read more about Ms. Singer and her family (even though Nalin has been urging me to read about her for a long time now). One blog has a conversation with her discussing her favorite heirloom, a mid-century metal table with figures from the Sistine Chapel etched onto the face of it. Her sons have claimed their spots next to their favorite figures. She goes on to explain how she lives with this heirloom:

"As you enter our house and go down a hallway, you’re immediately in our kitchen, which opens into our living room. The table is one of the first things you see. It sort of defines the center of how we live because we’re always at that table. We eat on it every single day. Anyone who comes in and sits at it, looks down and smiles because they see a funny little face staring up at them. I’ve really come to appreciate it."

This is an absolutely lovely passage, and I appreciate that Ms. Singer, with what must be her vast knowledge and access to treasures of such distinction in her profession would choose an object of supposedly ordinary, daily family significance as one of her most priceless possessions.

Last summer, our family was in New York for a little over a week, house-sitting for friends who live on West 23rd Street, just two short blocks west of the Chelsea Hotel. Each day I found myself strolling past this hotel with my two young sons in tow. At night, I sat curled on the living room couch devouring stories of the legends of the Chelsea Hotel from a book by the same title on the shelves of our friends. It occurred to me that in this concrete jungle that is especially Chelsea, this hotel emerges from the earth and its surroundings like a tree, with years of growth and witness to everything both inside and out, broadly spreading into the sky, yet breathing in both the earth and the air around it, through its ironed balconies. There is a book we love by Tara Publishers in India called One, Two, Tree! that is at its core a counting book, and through its simple and colorful line drawings shows the tree growing with numbers of creatures one by one. A sort of Noah's ark of nature. This is how the Chelsea Hotel seems to me, drawing in such a vast array of individuals and families like Sally Singer's, whose children must run through the long corridors like squirrels on their branches. Mr. O'Neill and Ms. Singer have chosen to build their nest at the Chelsea, which has to be at times both hospitable and inhospitable to a growing family. And this is to me the beauty of it all.

There is an architectural concept of building a structure like a tree, paying attention to light and shadow, shelter and sustainability (and other important elements, of course), but I believe that this is actually a very organic metaphor without even trying. A building becomes a tree over time by its very existence through the people who live within it, regardless of its original intent. In other words, it is what inhabits a thing that makes it unique and dynamic. Perhaps three young children sitting year after year at their favored spots around a treasured kitchen table exemplifies this in the most profound and harmonious way.

A space of one's own and learning to love the little things

There are many days I bemoan the limited outdoor space we have to ourselves. Like many city dwellers, a small deck outside our kitchen is all we can claim as our own. I sit here at my parents' place in Missouri, envious of the open space that is their yard, especially as I watch my sons frolicking (yes, that must be the word) in the grass as if they have never had such an opportunity. Granted, we do live just four blocks from a lovely little beach on Lake Michigan, and our access to playgrounds and playlots gives my Missouri friends pause. But we can't help but long for the day we are able to have a space of one's own to play, to plant, to just plain live within.

But then I think again. During the last few years prior to the birth of my second child, I spent my career designing trade magazines for civil and structural engineers. One of the things I enjoyed most about the work was the not-so-simple challenge of being creative within the boundaries of space and expectation. Like so many trade magazines, one is fighting against the necessary advertising allocations and, obviously, the content itself, so the ability to splash beautiful images and large inviting typefaces, with enough white space to give breath to the words and pictures was generally not an option. I would page through design and art magazines at the nearest bookstore and drool at the audacity of photography spreads or wide-open fonts used solely for the purpose of introducing the article, not to mention those used later within the article themselves. We often would have two-to-three pages to introduce, use a few well-appropriated shots, and cram in the content and any graphs or supporting elements. And the paper we had to print on was not the stuff of legends. Even if we did have those awesome spread photographs, the paper would hardly do them justice. The odd thing is, I actually started to really love this game. We eventually got better paper, and my designers and I were able to re-conceive the design of the magazines to showcase more of the images and content. We kept things simple but, I hope, improved them overall.

This is not so different from our lovely little deck in north Chicago. We have yet to begin planting, as family circumstances have us away from home at this time, but we are excited to build our small garden with our herbs, tomatoes, a few peppers, flowers, perhaps more. Last year we got some woolly pockets, which we love, and this year we are even thinking of building a hanging wall garden from pallets such as this featured on Life on the Balcony. Our sons may not have a yard to play in now, but our choice to live in the city constantly gives them innumerable opportunities for exploration that few outside of a more urban setting can enjoy. I was recently reading an article in New York magazine called The Apartment: A History of Vertical Living, and I thought about an incident when, as a young child, I sat at the dinner table in southwest Missouri and announced to my parents that I would one day live in New York. I knew back then that I might just be more suited for the city life. I never have lived in New York, but Chicago has been home to me for thirteen years now, and I have only once had a bit of a yard outside our last six-flat apartment that I dared to claim as my own.

I am realizing, as I write this blog, that there is a reoccurring theme of making more out of less that swells beneath the current. I, by no means, claim to live the sort of simple life that I admire of so many, but I do value this sentiment above many others, even as I am tested by the weight of its reality. When I stomp my feet in frustration at my limitations, I at once am reminded of those friends of ours in Tokyo, New York, and elsewhere who make due with so much less than we, and the richness they enjoy without their cars or clutter.

And yet I do love these moments with all this open space. I hope my kids soak up every minute of it as I wave to them from the kitchen window. And when we return to Chicago, our little deck garden awaits our eager hands, as well as the wide open lake and urban space that is ours to inhabit, one walk at a time.

Things just [don't taste] the same without you

There is a story by Rosemary Wells that my son Ettu likes called "First Tomato." It is part of the three-story Voyage to the Bunny Planet, which tells the tales of small children who are transported from their mundane and solitary days to "the day that should have been." In "First Tomato," after a particularly bad day, Claire's voyage takes her to a vegetable garden, where she picks a ripe tomato at her mother's request. She so much wants to eat that tomato for herself but resists the temptation and brings it back to her mother who uses it to make her a delicious tomato soup. As she awaits the soup, she is transported back to her day, with a renewed sense of hope for the day to come. It is a lovely story and one that brings home the notion that our enjoyment of food is primarily due to the people with whom we share it. The simple act of a mother making a soup for her child comforts the child in a way that few things can.

Tonight I think of this while thinking of you, so far away from us here visiting in Springfield and you in India. I continue to roast tomatoes, prepare rice, and cook for our children, while you make food for your mother in her kitchen, so sick as she is yet asking for your kitchari to comfort and ease her hunger, if only through a few small bites. For years we always imagined you going back and showing your mother your facility in the kitchen, but it was always just easier to have someone cook for us when we were in India. And we rarely if ever did go into that kitchen. Now you are there, and the one thing, beyond your presence, that she wants most from you is your cooking. What a bittersweet feeling that must bring, since you know that even with this porridge, you aren't able to give her that day that should have been.

So here we are going about our day and eating our meals, and things just don't taste the same without you. But I know you are giving a gift that only you can give from one son to his mother, and like that first tomato, it is as precious as gold.

For the love of avocado

Okay, I admit it, I've got it pretty easy. Living in Chicago, I often take it for granted the amazing access I have to buy primarily organic and sustainable groceries and produce. I have incredible farmers markets (maybe not so much yet, since we do have quite the winters in this fair and windy city as you certainly know), several Whole Foods Markets, a handful of Trader Joe's grocery stores, not to mention many neighborhood organic food coops, including one a whole block away from my house. We may pay a little more for our food, but I seldom have to worry about pesticides or cruel animal treatment or preservatives. Traveling outside of this comfortable zone, I find myself having to think a little more about the food I am buying and where it comes from (not a bad thing to do even when we are shopping at Whole Foods, as I almost bought some lamb all the way from New Zealand the other day!).

When I don't have the luxury of choosing organic or local options for our produce, specifically, it is helpful to remind myself of the "dirty dozen" fruits and vegetables that are the worst in terms of pesticides. The Environmental Working Group has published this list for our collective reference, which I will repost now; however, you can find a wallet copy of this here.

12 Most Contaminated
Peaches
Apples
Sweet Bell Peppers
Celery
Nectarines
Strawberries
Cherries
Pears
Grapes (Imported)
Spinach
Lettuce
Potatoes
 
12 Least Contaminated
Onions
Avocado
Sweet Corn (Frozen)
Pineapples
Mango
Asparagus
Sweet Peas (Frozen)
Kiwi Fruit
Bananas
Cabbage
Broccoli
Papaya

This is an invaluable list in choosing the right food, and it can be reassuring to know that there are safer options when buying organic is not possible. The bigger hurdle comes when trying to buy seasonally or locally. Mangos and avocados are certainly not indigenous to Illinois, no matter the season, so my insane consumption of guacamole truly challenges this part of the equation. And I suppose moving to California or Mexico to ease these contradictions is not in the cards right now.

We have some close friends who are from New York City, originally, and despite of (or maybe because of) having grown up in environment that is as urban as it gets have committed themselves to living as sustainably as possible. They recycle; they compost; they garden; they shop for meat, eggs, vegetables, and fruits almost exclusively from local farmers; they can and freeze for the winter (no, they do not buy even a tomato from the market when it is not in season or cannot be obtained locally); they drink raw milk; they drink apple cider in season and freeze it for later; they rarely eat out and prefer to cook at home. Living in Chicago, this is a pretty daunting challenge, and yet, with the exception of buying bananas, the odd mango, and avocados (see!) every once in a while, they really are an inspiration. I don't think I am quite there yet, but I do value these goals and try to think about them when I shop. Do I really need that fruit from Chile; do I really need that lamb from New Zealand? Perhaps there are options closer to home that will do. Well, except for that avocado there. I just know it is calling my name.

These are a few of my favorite things (sung to the tune of, well, you know)

Photo by Nalin Bhutt

A blast-from-the-past photo from one of our lovely meals in Portland at clarklewis, back in 2008 (this was dessert). There with Sam Liu and an 8-month-old Ettu. Man, how time flies.

French crepes and the beauty of leftovers: an unlikely duet

Today was one of those sunny, crisp, early spring days in Chicago when you are dying to be outside yet still feel the bite of wind sinking its teeth into your still dry skin. Nonetheless, we bundled up in layers of sweatshirts and jackets, having optimistically put the winter coats away last week, and headed southwest to the Brookfield Zoo. Amidst the wind and chill, we all enjoyed our time, with Nooa beaming at the manic monkeys and sleepy tigers. On our way back into the city, the boys fell fast asleep in the back, and Nalin pulled over to check his iPhone for directions to a French bakery in Logan Square. He had received a Tasting Table update about this bakery and was interested in checking it out, since we were close by. La Boulangerie is a lovely French bakery, serving crepes, pastries, assorted breads, etc., with a bit of a French general store of jams, spreads, cookies, cocoas, and more peppered throughout the corner store. A tad hungry after our modest packed lunch of turkey and cheddar sandwiches and apple slices, which we gobbled at the zoo, I selected a Prairie crepe with brie, spinach, balsamic glaze, and pecans, along with a San Pellegrino Aranciata. With Nalin waiting in the car with the sleeping beauties, I browsed the bakery while my crepe was being made before my eyes. The long, thick strips of brie placed atop the chestnut-colored crepes got me thinking of an article Nalin sent me a few days earlier. In it, James Coomarasamy, BBC Paris correspondent, recalls how, during an early doctor's visit for his young daughter, his Parisian pediatrician gave him a "prescription" that suggested adding blue cheese to her diet. When he later asked the doctor about the specific medicinal qualities of the blue cheese, the pediatrician simply stared at him, stating that there was nothing medicinal, rather, it was to get her "used to the taste."

This is a fascinating idea, and one which seems to have such interesting cultural components. The concept of what one's child likes or doesn't like is highly random, or is it? Young mothers sit around talking about the fact that their love of watermelons or grapefruit during pregnancy must be the reason for their child's inordinate desire for watermelons or grapefruit (or, let's face it if we are honest about most pregnancies, french fries or milkshakes). I do believe, although I lack any scientific data (and frankly am lazy to do the research at this late hour) to back up this claim, that what we eat during pregnancy to some degree and what we expose our children to early at a larger degree does have effects on their taste. My sons have never been that crazy about cheese by itself per se (and Nalin and I devoured the delicious crepe before they awoke from their naps to taste it themselves), but when they have had cheese, it has usually been some form of sharp cheddar, gruyere, or triple cream cheese, which they happily eat in quesadillas, paninis, or fish stews. Again, I think the key is exposing them to the things that we eat and hope they will eat as they grow. One of my best friends, Heike, who is from Germany, has always followed this rule with her kids as well. Rather than going with a typically American "first food" regiment after six months of rice cereal, she incorporated a more German approach, introducing vegetables first in segmented color groups (greens, then oranges—I may have the order wrong, but you get the idea). Prior to a year of age, her daughter and son were both eating vegetables like crazy, along with snacks of rye bread with hummus, grapefruit and melon, and a variety of other wonderful foods. Her children who are the same ages as mine have a diverse palette because of this, I am sure.

Back home again and more than a little tired from a long weekend, I turned to the fridge to see what to make for dinner. Browsing the contents, I was relieved to see quite a few leftovers from the two to three previous days' meals: rice, dal, and potatoes from an Indian meal on Thursday night; tofu fried rice and massaman curry from Friday night's Thai takeout; Nalin's homemade congee from Thursday lunch. Plenty to go around for the four of us. I whipped up some simple guacamole with lemon, salt, and cumin from some nearly too-ripe avocados for the boys. As I sat there watching my sons eating their tofu and fried rice and guacamole with eager abandon, I could not help but compare their response now to earlier in the day with the turkey sandwiches. I had mentioned that "we gobbled them up," but by "we," I meant Nalin and I, mainly out of hunger. Nooa and Ettu were not that impressed. They always much prefer some variation of rice to any cold sandwich, homemade or otherwise. Perhaps this is their "taste." And one I never realized we had necessarily prescribed.

Thursday night dinner

Stone soup and other tales of plenty

Last year, for my son's first birthday, my mom bought him a copy of Tawny Scrawny Lion, the Golden Books classic by Gustaf Tenggren that tells the tale of the insatiable lion who suddenly becomes fat and happy after several bowls of carrot stew from his new found rabbit friends. So satisfied was he, that he was no longer interested in his hunt, kill, and eat sessions day in and day out. Reading this book to my sons, I had a tremendous sensation of deja vu, having read this book so often as a child myself. The colors and rhythms of the book jumped from the page in ways that made me ache with nostalgia. Interestingly, this time around, I was hyper aware of the violence of the story, as the lion makes his way through the tale killing and eating his prey and strongly desiring to eat the little rabbits who are being so hospitable to his scrawny self. I thought of editing the story as I read, but thought the better of it, as I myself was not spared these brutal realities when I was young. And I really cannot remember being troubled by it at all back then. And perhaps an edited version would only serve to downplay the tremendous turnaround that is the lion's, shall we say, redemption.

This story got me thinking later about other tales of food I read as a child that drew me in. The other memorable book that came to mind was Stone Soup, and, ironically, it is also the tale of how something magical can come from something so small and insignificant, such as a pot of water. As with the lion of the earlier tale, the villagers of Stone Soup slowly and unwittingly begin assembling the most amazing of soups, all thanks to a bit of cunning from the soldiers (like the rabbits) who have been rebuffed by them just moments earlier. A few veggies here, a little meat or fish there, a bit of grains as well. Some may say that curiosity killed the cat, well, in this case, perhaps it saved him. Soon there is a feast for all.

When I started to think about it more, I was a bit amazed that these two favorite books of mine as a child had so much in common, and that I had never thought about them in this way before (here's where my grad school degree in comparative literature comes in handy [insert wry smile here]). To this day, I am often in awe of the simple pleasures of making soups or stews. How starting with so little, a pot of water or broth, a few spices, some well-chosen vegetables, perhaps a little meat or milk, some rice or grains, can all come together to become the most satisfying of meals. It is magical.

I would love to hear some of your favorite children's books about food. In addition to the two mentioned above, I have compiled a list of a few on the top of my head that we have in our library, but I hope to keep adding to it going forward.

• The Gigantic Turnip
• The Very Hungry Caterpillar
• Walter the Baker
• Green Eggs and Ham
• The Tale of Peter Rabbit (the meal of berries and bread at the end of the book is always so inviting)
• Honorable mention: The Boy Who Ate Words (not exactly about food, but the metaphor is wonderful)

Happy eating, happy reading, and, most of all this night, happy sleeping.

Rule number 469

Photo by Nalin Bhutt

Nalin forwarded me this wonderful quote posted on one of his favorite blogs: 1001 Rules for My Unborn Son. I was just blown away, so I'm shamelessly reposting here:

"He didn’t come out of my belly, but my God, I’ve made his bones, because I’ve attended to every meal, and how he sleeps, and the fact that he swims like a fish because I took him to the ocean. I’m so proud of all those things. He is my biggest pride."  John Lennon

"...I've made his bones, because I've attended to every meal..." Isn't that one of our greatest gifts and responsibilities. I don't think I've heard it put any clearer. Thank you, Mr. Lennon.

Oh those sweet temptations

In his little three-year-old universe, about the best discovery Ettu has made is that of vanilla milk. I really tried for a long time to pretend that chocolate and vanilla milk did not exist, instead giving a "treat" of an organic apple juice box at the Starbucks when I was fueling up on my beloved caffeine (okay, not really, I still mostly drink decaf thanks to my ever-nursing son Nooa). But one day, after scouring the cold case at his eye level, he slips a vanilla milk box in my hand. "How about this today, mommy?" Perhaps I was tired and didn't want to go through the process of discussing why we weren't going to get this deliciously sweet and silky something (after all, what about all those hot chocolates I gave him over the winter; he is only three, but his logical abilities seem to outpace mine at times). Perhaps I was simply wanting to indulge him. Who knows. Nonetheless, we left Starbucks with him happily sipping his milk with wide eyes and a faint smile. Now it is a definite part of the vocabulary. Just today, he reminded me that it was probably time to go back to Starbucks for some more of that great vanilla milk. So here's what I did instead.

Homemade vanilla milk

• one small glass of milk
• one "guess at a teaspoon" pour of pure vanilla (preferably not imitation)
• one "not quite" teaspoon (or to taste depending on how sweet you want to make the milk; we opt for a little less sweet) of organic cactus honey powder (new discovery—check out the brand we use here)

Et voila! This is just one of those things, like any sweets, pastries, smoothies, etc., that you just feel better making at home, if at all possible. You can easily control the sweetness, the ingredients, and the portion. Don't get me wrong, I greatly appreciate that Starbucks has incorporated a no high fructose corn syrup policy for any of its food, and the vanilla and chocolate milk boxes they sell are organic. Everything is still just a tad too sweet, though. Not to say I won't cave in the future, but it is always nice to know there are other options (and by the way, we did do a lot of "less sweet" hot chocolates at home in the winter, made with unsweetened cocoa powder and a little sugar or honey to taste to keep the sugar intake a bit lower). When all is said and done, it never ceases to amaze me that just about everything is a little bit sweeter when it comes from the heart and your hands.

My love affair with roasted tomatoes (with a special thank you to Reenu)

I guess this posting should technically reside in the "Things that change the way I cook" segment, but for now I'll let it stand alone in all its glory. As you've probably gathered by now (or know simply because you are friends with or kin to me), I am an American woman from European heritage, born and raised in the Midwest, who happened to partner up with a pretty incredible guy from India. When I met him, he was already busy teaching himself the fine art of Indian cooking by infusing the techniques and ingredients of his motherland. Let's just say that I happily took a backseat to his culinary wisdom with respect to Indian cooking. And I've pretty much stayed there for the length of our relationship. Not to say that I never dabbled in Indian cooking. I learned how to make a pretty mean egg curry early on, and I got fairly competent in making dal without a pressure cooker, but for the most part I stuck to the things that felt more familiar and what I believed to be less time consuming. That is, until last summer.

Our friend Reenu from Palo Alto came out to Chicago with her son, Sahir, to hang out with us for a week or so. As is the case, it seems, with all of us parents with young children, our socializing as adults generally started in the evenings after our little ones were tucked in for the night. Although we had already started cooking earlier in the evening, so that the kids would have something to eat before bedtime, we would later get a bit more elaborate and more liberal with the spices. We would talk effortlessly about anything that popped into our minds: education, India, west coast versus east coast (and then where the Midwest fell in all of that), consumerism, politics. You name it, we seemed to cover it. And all of this talking would take place over the stove (a glass of wine in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other). We would then sink into our table bench and consume the bounty. That week, Reenu did most of the cooking, and there were some simple techniques she incorporated that have easily been responsible for my newly found courage in the art of Indian cuisine.

Some gorgeous onions from that day

The first Saturday she was with us, we went to the farmers market in Evanston, as we often do during the summers. The vegetables and fruits and breads we brought back between the three of us filled our counter tops and our kitchen table. We had piles of onions, peppers, radishes, greens, okra, eggplant, and tomatoes, oh yes, many tomatoes. Reenu came in with at least two to three huge bags of tomatoes, and I couldn't quite make out how we were going to eat that many tomatoes in a week. As we started to unfurl, wash, and tuck the veggies here and there, she asked for a large cookie sheet and started quartering the roma tomatoes and placing them one by one on the cookie sheet. When she had filled it to capacity, she generously doused the tomatoes with olive oil and set the baking sheet into the oven at around 300 degrees. After two to three hours, she took out the sheet and let the amazingly caramelized and shriveled tomatoes cool. After roasting a couple of batches, she then proceeded to puree them in the food processor. The result was the most lovely and thick roasted tomato sauce I've ever seen. This tomato puree was then used as a base for almost every dish we made over the next few days. Of course, every dish would taste completely different, depending on the vegetable, and whether it had tamarind, or cumin, or coriander, or yogurt added. But the unifying taste was deeply rich and a tad sweet, thanks to the caramelizing.

Unlike Reenu in California, we aren't able to enjoy the bounty of fresh, local tomatoes throughout the year here in Chicago, and I found myself toward the end of farmers market season scouring the farmers' tables for all the tomatoes I could find (seconds often were the best, since they could be as ripe as ever and still work great for roasting). I roasted a lot of tomatoes in those last weeks, placing Ziploc bags one after the other in the freezer. And during the winter, even though I would like to say I am always a local and seasonal  buyer, I did find myself bringing large bags home of tomatoes to roast and restock the freezer. This summer, I may just teach myself how to can, to preserve the flavor even better and have a much larger stash for the off-season.

So what did this simple but profound new discovery bestow upon me? Simply enough, it gave me the courage to cook more Indian food (as well as other things), since everything I started to make with these tomatoes began to taste divine (okay, so maybe I'm being a bit overconfident, but I was amazed at the difference). No more over-boiled or watered-down flavor from the fresh tomatoes added too early, too late, too wrong. And I've used these tomatoes in Italian dishes (in pastas and on pizzas), in salsas, as marinades, in soups, etc. It has been one of those things that has enriched my cooking in significant ways. And all from something that many Indian cooks would probably find to be a basic foundation (I never did ask Reenu where she learned this preparation). For this, I thank her deeply, for it is forever lovely the things we learn from others that become deep expressions of our day-to-day endeavors.

So perhaps I'll start a new segment entitled, "How simple ideas from friends have changed the foods I cook." I know then I would always have something incredible to write about.