Max and the Beanstalks

Our friend, Max, has spent a lot of time with his hands in the dirt. That is, when he wasn’t a student athlete, coach, husband, father, and Athletic Director for two universities in the mid-western United States. Since retiring [as AD] from Kansas State University, Max keeps an active hand as consultant and mentor to athletes, coaches and directors. He is a man who is wired to pay it forward by giving back to his profession as well as devoting boundless time and energy to his family and friend relationships.

Max also likes to get his hands a little dirty–by tending the soil.

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the hands of max

He grew up in Troy, Ohio in a family of three boys. Every spring his parents planted a large “truck garden” outside of town. A truck garden is larger than a backyard or “kitchen” garden. A pick-up truck is often used to haul things back and forth to the plotted site. His parents worked the fertile Ohio soil without motorized equipment, using only hand tools. Each summer they grew the fruit and vegetables their growing family would eat for a year.

From an early age, Max played alongside the garden patch as his parents worked. He learned the rituals of tilling, planting, weeding and harvesting. It became natural–this annual cycle of producing fresh food with your own hands. And feeding people you love from the harvest.

He carried the tradition into adulthood while raising a family and growing his career. Certain veggies are a mainstay. He always plants asparagus, beets, cucumber, green beans, leaf lettuce, onions, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes, and zucchini squash. He sometimes plants bell peppers, hot peppers, garlic, peas, or yellow squash.

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We are among the fortunate beneficiaries of the abundance that grows from Max’s hands and heart, in the friendship he shares with us. Visiting his home in Kansas or when he and his wife drive to our cabin in Colorado there is always a gift…fresh and delicious from the garden.

Two summers ago, Max brought something different. Green beans in a jar, packed in seasoned brine. It was a new thing–pickling the extra beans from a bountiful harvest.

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Admittedly, at first glance, these beans deserved some skepticism–pale and limp in liquid–I wasn’t sure whether I could even try them. That’s because I grew up in a household that served beans only from cans. At the family dinner table, my learned behavior was to move them as quickly as possible from mouth to paper napkin to garbage can.

Max’s proffered jars were placed in the cupboard and overlooked until later in the summer. I finally took one as a dinner hostess gift to a neighbor on our mountain hillside. She called me a few days later and RAVED about the pickled beans. She said they were BETTER than any other kind of pickle, especially for hamburgers. Did I have more jars to share?

Our daughter came to visit. She likes almost everything and is creative about ways to present food. I cracked open a jar of pickled beans and added them to a tray of small bites to have with drinks. At her suggestion, we placed them in icy martinis to sip on the shaded front porch.

I tried my own hand at pickling beans purchased from the local farmer’s market. It was a little trickier at the higher altitude of the Colorado Rockies, [see notes for high altitude processing at end] but they turned out fine. Now I’m hooked.

This summer I drove back for a lesson from the source–Max’s plot of land in the Manhattan, Kansas Community Garden. We rose early, Max, Lynn and I, to pick beans before heat, humidity, and biting insects overtook us.

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Max and his beanstalks

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morning produce

In the afternoon, we pickled our harvest from start to finish, ending the day with wine and unwind time–featuring, you guessed it, pickled beans.

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wine and unwind time starring beans, etc.

Our Latvian daughter-in-law comes from Russian heritage that pickles any and all kinds of vegetables. Current nutritional trends suggest that fermented or pickled food should be included daily in healthy diets. Preserving food this way is an easy activity to do at home. Everyone reaps benefits.

Pickled beans can be eaten as a low calorie snack or as a garnish to any food where pickles are used [Barbara’s hamburgers!]. They can be added to drinks such as Bloody Marys or vodka martinis. Let the beans stand as green centerpiece to a tray of rainbow colored hors d’oeuvres. They make a unique and perfect homemade gift to a friend, tied with a ribbon and a sprig of herbs.

Max–here’s to you. May you keep your hands in fertile soil and your beans in brine.

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max and lynn urick

MAX’S PICKLED GREEN BEANS–Makes 4 Pints

INGREDIENTS:

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green beans washed and sorted by size

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pickling salt, spices, vinegar, garlic, fresh dill

  • 2 pounds green beans–washed, trimmed and sorted by size
  • ½-1 tsp cayenne pepper [optional, if you like a bit of spice]
  • 4 heads fresh dill weed or 4 tsp dill seed
  • 4 cloves garlic, peeled
  • 2 ½ C. water
  • 2 ½ C. 5% white vinegar
  • ¼ C. pickling salt
  • 4 tsp pickling spices

METHOD:

  1. Sterilize pint sized canning jars and lids by boiling for a short time in a water bath. Place lids first in bottom of pot to keep jars off the bottom.
  2. Tightly pack same-sized beans, lengthwise, into sterilized jars, leaving ½ inch of headspace. [Stem end goes on top [Max style], unless you trim both ends of beans, which I like to do.]
  3. Make pickling solution by combining the vinegar, water, salt and pickling spices. Bring to a boil.
  4. Pour hot liquid over beans, leaving ½ inch headspace.
  5. Place one clove garlic, fresh dill weed or dill seed on top of beans before sealing lids. [Can also garnish with a strip of red bell pepper or red onion.]
  6. Remove air bubbles. Wipe jar rims. Adjust lids securely but not overly tight.
  7. Process in boiling water bath for 5 minutes. Water should cover jars by 1-2 inches.

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    water bath boil, cover jars by 1-2 inches

  8. Remove from water and set upright on countertop.

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    canning tongs to remove from preserving bath

  9. Each jar will have a small rounded dome in the center of the lid. After 15 minutes of cooling time, there is an audible “Ping” sound as the dome depresses and the jar becomes sealed.

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    domed jar in front, before “ping”, sealed jar behind, post-ping

  10. Let beans stand at room temperature for at least two weeks to allow flavors to develop. Refrigerate after opening.

VARIATIONS FOR HIGH ALTITUDE WATER BATH PROCESSING

If you are preserving at an altitude higher than 1000 feet above sea level, you need to adjust processing time as indicated in the chart below.

Altitude in Feet                    Processing Time [Increased by Minutes]

  • 1001-3000                                           +5 minutes
  • 3001-6000                                         +10 minutes
  • 6001-8000                                         +15 minutes
  • 8001-10,000                                       +20 minutes

After removing from water bath, leave undisturbed on countertop for 12-24 hours. Then check jar lids for sealing. They should not flex up and down when the center is pressed. If the lid does not seal in 24 hours, product can be immediately reprocessed or refrigerated.

Sunshine on the Back of Your Knees

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photo courtesy of patricia green-sotos in ubud, bali

It’s summer.

For some, this might involve a long trip across many time zones. Perhaps even to geography halfway around the world.

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Yellow Flower Cafe at sunset, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Because of our overseas lifestyle, I have been flying internationally at least twice a year for the past 30 years. In the beginning, I ignored the concept of jet lag and let my body find its’ rhythm by doing a lot of sleeping. It was easy for me to fall asleep on planes. When the engines revved up into humming white noise, I closed the window shade and REM sleep took over. After reaching destination, I slept some more. Eventually day and night became right again.

Recently, I made a long distance excursion from Paris to SE Asia [Singapore and Bali] then back to Europe two weeks later. Sixteen hours of flight time each way mixed with six hours of time difference.

 

Numerous tips have been written about preventing or overcoming jet lag. Some of them are actually helpful.

Things such as a good night’s sleep before a long flight, super hydrating by consuming more water than you want, and avoiding too much alcohol or caffeine. Avoid flying with a hangover [a hydration no-no], and immediately adopt the day/night schedule of your destination geography are also good ones.

Jet engines don’t make me automatically pass out anymore, so I think about my waking/sleeping hours on a plane differently now. I diligently perform ankle circles and spinal twists in my seat. I get up to walk or stand. I drink a lot of water and only one glass of wine with a meal. I nap rather than sleep for hours at a time. All are decent strategies for realigning my body clock for east to west or west to east travel. But they never quite accomplish the whole thing.

The girlfriend who travelled with me from Singapore to Bali for a yoga retreat shared two tips that were completely new to me. The first came from a limited study done in 1998. It was quirky enough that I wanted to believe it. The study concluded that jet lag could be eased by exposing the back of your knees to light, particularly sunlight, in the first days after travel.

An instant antidote I never knew! And perfectly timed as we had two recovery days in a Denpasar hotel with a pool before the retreat. We established a base of operation in poolside lounge chairs immediately after breakfast. If our knees overheated [front or back], we obligingly cooled them by sliding into the water. When boredom or cloud cover made it silly to continue this therapy, we went exploring.

 

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retreat location, ubud, bali, courtesy patricia green-sotos

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our room

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rice field view from our porch

The second jet lag therapy was more scientific to my medically oriented mind. It was the result of a hormone study by my friend’s physician brother on human cortisol fluctuations.

When I emailed him after the trip, he replied, “Jet lag is hormone dislocation.” Translation: The normal body clock [circadian rhythm] gets out of whack when you change time zones.

“Your cortisol level surges each day at awakening. It is set to your biological clock and changes only reluctantly–about one hour per day per time zone. Hence the lag.”

At the opposite end of the day, when it’s time to go to bed, the brain produces melatonin and off to sleep we go. Cortisol levels rise again with the sun. The cycle continues.

Big time zone changes mixed with fluctuating biorhythms can play out quite dramatically in young children. Our son was six-years-old the first time we flew home to the U.S. after moving to Singapore. During an early dinner in his grandparents’ home, we watched his head suddenly sag forward and plop down in the center of his plate, sound asleep in mashed potatoes and gravy.

Dr. JW suggests: “The fix [to jet lag] is in replacing the hormone [cortisol] at the right time of day. Hydrocortisone is safe and effective when you take it at 7:00AM local time for just three days. You can’t do it everyday, just with international travel. Combine that with melatonin [3-10mg, over the counter] to get you to sleep and you get it both ways. Works like a charm.”

Take 20mg Hydrocortisone for three days only, at 0700 local time, for international travel.

You need a medical prescription for oral cortisone and it may be challenging to find a physician willing to write one for jet lag, even in a small, limited dose. You could try substantiating your request by what Dr. JW says: “Simple replacement dose is not the same as a treatment dose of prednisone which overpowers your own cortisol. It’s safe and effective.”

I have yet to use cortisone therapy for jet lag, but I hope to try it. In the meantime, I researched that back-of-the-knees-light-study from the ‘90s. It was debunked, not too long afterward, as nonsense.

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On a personal note, though, for the first week after returning from Bali, I took 45 minutes each afternoon to lie on the floor by my dining room window and expose the back of my knees to sunlight. At a time of day when I really needed a jet lagging nap, I found that sunny knee time seemed to warm up my brain and nourish it, too. I became more alert and avoided the nap.

Fact or fiction, back-of-the-knee sun works for me. It’s now on my list of travel “dos”.

Regardless of “dos and don’ts” for recalibrating your body clock, you can simply live out your lag. With time, day and night cycles eventually return to “normal” wherever you are.

Just try to avoid falling asleep at the dinner table. Or make sure your meal is finished before you do…

Bonnes vacances à tous!

 

Treize–A Baker’s Dozen, Paris

There is a story behind the phrase “13–a baker’s dozen”. In the days when bread was sold by weight, bakers regularly gave customers an extra +1, or 13 items, on every dozen sold. There were strict penalties if found guilty of shorting the customer. Since loaves easily varied in size and weight, they made a practice of “giving more”. Today, generous bakeries might offer a “freebie” as a courtesy for buying a dozen.

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laurel in the treize kitchen

Laurel Sanderson was a baker long before she decided to open a restaurant in the back of a Paris courtyard. She comes from a line of southern home cooks and bakers going back to her mother and grandmother in upper Charleston, South Carolina, USA.

At twenty years old, Laurel took off to learn French–in France. She immediately found other English-speaking friends doing the same thing. The combined excitement of new friendships and travel initially slowed the process of acquiring a second language.

After four years of polishing her French and having fun, she moved to Paris and began working in a bar off rue Mouffetard in the Latin Quarter. There, a group of same-age ex-pats from all over the world bonded in friendship. Most of them stayed on. They gravitated from those beginning days of tending bar to the grown up world of food and beverage distribution, management, organizational planning, and in Laurel’s case–a bakery.

Fast-forward another fifteen years–after starting a family and ending her bakery business partnership, Laurel discovered a former auto garage, at the far end of a centuries old cobblestoned courtyard, in the middle of Paris. She envisioned a new enterprise, all her own, and named it Treize…a baker’s dozen.

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For the first two years, after opening in January 2014, Laurel managed with irregular part time help that came and went. Finally, in February 2016, she asked a friend from those early bartending days to join her full time.

Kaysa von Sydow is Swedish. For many years, she owned a special events business with food and beverages. Now she runs the front-of-the-house at Treize, which highlights her engaging people skills along with creative coffee, tea, juices, and drinks. She brings the best of Swedish café culture [Fika]–savouring the moment, slowing down, making time every day for a break with coffee, tea, a baked good and [perhaps] some friendly gossip. She also sources the best products for variety and bio-freshness.

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kaysa and laurel, chez treize

Laurel now focuses on lighting up the kitchen space, as well as the whole restaurant, with whatever she is doing: cooking, baking or treating customers as life-long friends.

Why did a southern girl from South Carolina open a miniscule resto in a space that evolved from a storage workshop for antiques, to a jeweler’s workshop, to a hair salon, to a mechanic’s garage? When asked how she made the switch from full time baking to chef she replies, “It was actually pretty easy. People want pastry, but people need food.”

There’s more to it than that, of course. She missed the tastes and recipes from her southern American roots. She wasn’t planning to return to Charleston because “home” was now Paris, with a husband and children. So she created her own style of southern comfort cooking and opened it to the public.

When you push open the many-paned glass door at Treize, it’s like walking into a favorite friend’s quirky kitchen and dining room combined. It’s highly organized with floor to ceiling storage, but overflowing with jars and baskets and tins and spices, hanging cast iron and copper pots, piles of fruits, vegetables and herbs. Even the windowpane grills hold ripening avocadoes. There are flea market finds decorating out-of-reach shelves; vintage muffin tins, dough cutters, cake pans, antique copper or enamel cafetières. There is a gargoyle. And cookbooks tucked in everywhere.

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a place for everything and everything in some place

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carrot cake under glass, a basket of biscuits, ginger root, & a gargoyle!

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On the largest wooden table, there is a seasonal flower arrangement next to a stacked pile of “Garden and Gun” magazines. [Laurel’s favorite periodical, from Charleston, y’all.] In the corner by the door, birch tree trunks support curling dried vines that snake upward toward the skylight. Vines decorated seasonally, of course. An antique glass chandelier hangs from the pressed tin ceiling. On one wall is a black and white mural of a little girl swinging meditatively into the air. Opposite, a chalkboard sign reads “In Buttermilk Biscuits We Trust” along with the recipe for this daily served bread.

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winter vines in twinkly lights, snowflakes, & pages from a french novel

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springtime in greenery and birdhouses

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southern biscuits, y’all

It’s an eclectic use of very small space. Vintage, antique-y, industrial-ish, chic/messy/favorite auntie décor are all terms that describe Treize. Your senses respond instinctively to the all-embracing ambience. Capturing any empty stool or chair, you melt into the friendliness AND the delicious food smells. It is the sanctuary you were dreaming to find–an escape in an accelerated world.

The kitchen is an incredibly small working space, but open to everything. As soon as anyone enters, Laurel and/or Kaysa look up with huge smiles and say, “Heeeeyyyyy, how are you? Come on in!” If they know your name, you are greeted with bisous [xx] too. By now, they know practically everyone who walks in, from around the globe.

The recipes change by the day and the season. Menus are based on traditional family recipes that Laurel grew up eating. Some are inspired from The Southern Cookbook. All have been updated and improved with Laurel’s creativity and by sourcing 100% bio ingredients. Top-notch staples of butter, flour, cream, sugar, seasonal fruits and veggies are easily found in Paris. They make everything taste better.

Everyday, Laurel bakes light-as-a-feather, melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk biscuits. [More than 40,000 since Treize opened!] Everyday, there is a three-tiered butter-cream-frosted carrot cake under glass. Laurel’s carrot cake is inspired. It is her own particular version. People come in just because they have heard about it. They return because they are hooked by everything else about Treize, too.

Laurel generally arrives first, very early in the morning. This is her quiet time to bake–biscuits, cakes [one or two in addition to carrot cake], and small pastries for savory tarts. Kaysa arrives next, soon followed by the current prep-cooks, Sam and Anne. Alam arrives last, but stays well past closing to finish cleaning and setting up for the next day. He moves quietly and knowingly in the back of the kitchen. By late afternoon, he nudges Laurel out to sit down for a moment.

After hours of multi-tasking: chatting up customers, overseeing and doing preps, sorting out Kaysa’s orders over the din of customers, unceasing chopping, cooking, baking– finally, it’s late afternoon and a special time to be at Treize. A bottle of wine is often opened and glasses poured. There may be time for more in-depth conversation while sitting on high stools around a tall table peeling oranges and lemons for the next day’s juices. It’s my favorite time to be there. I join in and the prep work goes faster.

I’ve spent many hours at Treize since stumbling into this hidden gem of a courtyard three years ago. I have taken friends or out-of-town guests or my family. I especially love going alone. In this coziest of environments, I find my better self.

There are stories about other people who find Treize, too. A family of five from Luxembourg was visiting Paris. They were looking for food after normal restaurant hours on a frigid wintery day. No place would serve them. They staggered into Treize–cold, tired and famished. Arms readily opened to hold the baby while mom ate her meal. The other children were nourished. Everyone was nurtured. They return every year.

A honeymooning couple scanned a fashion blogger’s website where Treize was mentioned and happily lingered over lunch and several rounds of beverages. A weekly table of mothers and babies has been coming in since before the babies were born. “Paris by Mouth” [restaurant review website] rents the large table several times a week to end their tourist walking tours with wine and cheese. A stream of regulars working in the area, bring in their own plates or coffee cups to be filled and taken back to work. A professional chess player, who summers every year in Paris, eats there weekly, if not more. A newcomer, curious about what he saw at the end of an ambient courtyard, walks in and claims his new favourite place in Paris. People find Treize. And they return.

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il y a d’or a la fin de la cour

The success of Treize is not hard to understand. But there are subtle, even humble, layers mixed into the daily joy of achievement. For Laurel, Treize is not about her or what she has built. It is about the connectedness created with everyone who walks in the door. It’s a throw back to an environment beautifully crafted twenty years ago in a bar off rue Mouffetard, where customers became friends. Sharing back-stories and experiences, staying in touch with each other’s lives, supporting one another through thick and thin. Both Laurel and Kaysa are masters of weaving friendship into work they love.

The essence of Treize, the thing that lingers, is this–no matter the time of day or the moment in the week or whatever else is going on in the world, when you push open the door, you always feel glad to be exactly there. It’s about broad smiles and sparkling eyes.  It’s about lighthearted banter between co-workers doing what they love to do. It’s about warm greetings to everyone, every single time. It’s the kind of place where you want to know their names and their stories. And they want to know yours, too.

There is a feeling of receiving something “more” each time you go. And that’s because the heart of Treize is not simply a baker’s dozen, it’s a baker’s soul…

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the smile that lights up a kitchen and a restaurant

TREIZE, 13–A Baker’s Dozen. 16, rue des Saints Pères, Paris 75007 FRANCE

American southern inspired menu. Hours: 10AM-6PM. Breakfast served from 10-12:00 noon. Lunch is from noon to 4PM. From 4-6:00PM, cakes, coffee, tea, wine, and drinks are served. Saturday–brunch is served all day. Sunday and Monday are days of rest. Evenings are for special catered events. No reservations.

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Full Statement: we believe food should be made by people [not machines], that animals deserve decent lives & farmers deserve to make a decent living. we hope you think so, too..

Wendy Hack #2: Relishing the Radish

It’s time to introduce a new hack, as in a shortcut or tip. Consider the radish–eaten in a certain way, as a starter course, particularly at lunchtime. [see previous hack here: Wendy Hack #1: Making Perfect Rice]

Shortly after moving to Paris we were invited to a long Sunday lunch, “style familial”, [family style] in the apartment of my husband’s administrative assistant. Traditional to such gatherings, there was a mixture of ages from toddlers to grandparents around the large dining table. There was a casual centerpiece of low flowers, printed cloth napkins and tablecloth, baskets of chewy baguette slices, small dishes of butter, and, of course, there was wine.

The unexpected was that a small plate of elongated red radishes with short green stems was already at each place setting. Also on the plate was a little pyramid of sea salt. After sitting down, our hostess said, “I will show you one way to eat radishes in France.”

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She picked up a radish in one hand and a butter knife with the other. She smeared good French butter on the surface and, with her fingers, sprinkled sea salt over it all. She bit into the radish down to the stem.

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That was the first course of our first French family lunch.

Recently, a former Paris friend [who is American] was back for a visit and came to lunch “chez moi”. I planned to serve a small casserole of “Latvian Lasagna” that I had already made. [More on this counterintuitive recipe in a future story.] I wanted a different kind of starter than plain old green salad. Early spring radish season was in full swing so that became the plan.

The great thing about French radishes is that they have no harsh “bite” or spicy bitterness to them. Sometimes radishes in the U.S. seem to leave a coating on your tongue that takes forever to wear off. The French ones are simply a beautiful mouthful of sweetness,  crunch and moisture. Combined with creamy butter from those Norman-grass-eating cows and salt crystals from the sea, a single red radish becomes the perfect trilogy of taste and surprising satisfaction.

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My friend delighted over the surprisingly subtle combination of butter and radishes. She had forgotten how refreshing they were to eat. And how easy to prepare.

Another way to serve radishes is with homemade guacamole–simply mashed avocado, minced red onion, salt, pepper, and lime juice. Step by step recipe here: Sipping Avocado Margs in Summer

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radishes and guacamole with other tasty things for a wine and unwind party

Buttered radishes would be an inspired idea to try anywhere else in the world–outside of France. You can’t call something so well known here as “inspired”, unless you are a foreigner. So, wherever you are, tantalize your guests’ taste buds in an unexpected way, wow them with a “new” starter combination, and save yourself the effort of making a whole salad. But if you do serve salad, remember to make your own vinaigrette, as told here: Babies and Rice So Very Nice

Happy Mothers’ Day and tell Mom to eat her radishes!

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french radishes in farmer’s market, laguna beach, california

Cocoa Cake With My Curry, Please

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It is almost impossible for the average person to prepare authentic Indian curry. That is, unless you were born into the culture. Or, if you grew up in India as did my American friend, Patricia.

On the other hand, you can learn to love to eat curry anywhere in the world at any stage in life. “Curry Love” began in our family when we moved to Singapore 30 years ago, in 1987. This is also where I met Patricia. It was our first overseas living experience. We left Denver, Colorado with two young children in tow for an out-of-country family adventure.

Patricia was born in a high ceilinged colonial bedroom in a remote village in central India. Two generations before, her grandfather built the hospital there. Infrastructure was limited because it was a tribal area, but the local people had medical care. A generation later, her father returned to India as a Village Extension Worker with a specialty in agriculture. His job was to bring clean water, air, and other forms of conservation [soil, sewage] to rural India. He moved his young family to a different village with a local population of 500. This is where Patricia and her siblings grew up.

From the age of five, each child in their family was sent to Woodstock, a boarding school, since 1854, in the foothills of the Himalayas. It took three days and three nights on a third class Indian train to get there. One carriage held all the students rounded up going to Woodstock, with many stops and re-hooking to different trains along the way.

Patricia graduated at eighteen and moved to the United States for the first time. At the University of Iowa she double majored in East Asian Languages and Literature [Japanese was her language] and Archeology. Four years later, she went back to earn a bachelor’s degree in Nursing [BSN]. She received her ESL degree in Singapore after moving there with her teaching husband and young family. When they returned to the U.S. after six years in Singapore, she worked as a neonatal ICU nurse for 25+ years. Now she teaches yoga, with a 500-hour teacher’s certification. Oh, and Patricia speaks fluent Hindi too.

During school holidays, back in the village, Patricia and her local friends entertained themselves creatively. After collecting dried dung patties for fuel, they cooked rice and curry in primitive little outdoor picnics. Later, in university years, her older sister began the tradition of weekly family curry night.

Many curry-themed parties were enjoyed in their Ulu Pandan apartment. Sometimes we dressed in traditional garb purchased in “Little India”. Little India is also where we ate “banana leaf” curry, with our hands. The heady smell of open containers of Indian spices intermingled with the overpoweringly sweet fragrance of jasmine flowers woven daily into necklaces is an enduring memory of this part of Singapore.

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Patricia and Bart centre stage on curry night, circa 1988-89

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our try at authenticity, Indian style, 1988-89

In May 2015, Patricia came to visit us in Paris. Of course she wanted to set aside a day to cook curry in between sight seeing, yoga-posing photo ops, and eating delicious French things.

Fresh ingredients were purchased at the Indian grocery in the 10th Arrondissement. Green beans, tomatoes, eggplant, green chili, garlic, ginger root, potatoes, onions, spinach, and okra. [Also the location for the best Indian restaurants in Paris.]

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It takes many spices to cook proper curry. We accumulated black mustard seeds, yellow mustard seeds, sambar powder, garam masala, turmeric, coriander and cumin seeds, dessicated coconut, dried curry leaves, cumin powder, fenegreek, red pepper flakes, sea salt and black pepper.

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The menu was all vegetable curries, as those are our favorites, with fried pokora [an Indian fritter made with graham flour and veggies] and coriander chutney.

I busied myself taking photos of the beautiful array of ingredients and spices, in between some chopping prep work. When it was time to begin cooking, Patricia talked me through each step, one by one. Suddenly, I developed an uncontrollable urge to re-arrange my spice cabinet. Each spice purchased in a plastic bag from the grocer now needed its’ own tiny jar with homemade label taped on. Simultaneously, old spices on the shelf were carefully considered or weeded out. It was detail work I knew how to do.

Admittedly, I abandoned learning curry prep from the beginning. I simply could not focus on the endless micro-steps of ingredients and spices from start to finish. Apparently I can’t write them down coherently either. Rereading my notes, I see only a list of words. No amounts or explanations. I have not one clue how to cook any of the delicious dishes we enjoyed that day. The truth is, you have to feel it.

I wasn’t kidding when I said you had to be born into Indian cooking to do it justice.

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our parisian curry feast, sans pokora, consumed long before in the kitchen

From the opposite end of the food spectrum I learned to replicate a different Patricia recipe. In the Green family Singaporean kitchen you could always count on two things. One was about food and the other was about tropical living. Ever-present on the countertop was a dark cocoa chocolate sheet cake. Everyone was welcome to dig in, anytime. The second thing was the house gecko that lived under the refrigerator. He scurried out, usually under cover of darkness, to eat mosquitoes or ants, and certainly food crumbs off the floor. In the beginning he was small, perhaps two or three inches in body length. Over the next four years he grew substantially longer–and wider.

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One day, Pat came home and noticed that someone had left the lid off the chocolate cake. Not a good idea in a tropical climate. On closer inspection, she saw the gecko, now a robust eight inch-er, floundering on his back in the thick, gooey, chocolate icing. Unable to re-right himself, wiggling wildly, he was going nowhere.

She picked up the cake pan and ran outside. Using a spatula, the gecko was flipped onto the grass in the apartment common area. Fearing fire ants would attack his sugary skin, she carried out pitchers of water and tried to rinse off the chocolate-y coating. Then left him to his fate.

Back in the kitchen, a bit of icing scraped off, the surface re-smoothed and the cake pan recovered. That evening her husband said, “What happened to the cake? The icing is so thin.” In the end she told him because, after all, the gecko was part of the family.

Miraculously, that chocoholic gecko found his way back to the five-star-under-the-refrigerator hotel. He remained part of the household until they left Singapore.

Deliciously fragrant Indian curry, darkly moist chocolate cake, and a loyal lizard are one part of my memories from Singapore. Unexpected and offbeat combinations of people, places and food have richly colored our overseas life. Many of my most vivid remembrances started with friendships forged in exotic locations. We laughed and we learned, as we leaned toward each other. Luckily, we still do. This one’s for you, Patricia.

PATTY GREEN-SOTOS’ COCOA CHOCOLATE CAKE

Butter a 9×13 inch cake pan. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Ingredients and Preparation:

  • 1 ¾ C. flour
  • 2 C. sugar
  • ¾ C. cocoa [best quality cocoa recommended]
  • 1 ½ t. baking soda
  • 1 ½ t. baking powder
  • 1 t. salt
  • Combine all dry ingredients in a large bowl.
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 C. milk
  • ½ C. vegetable oil
  • 2 t. vanilla extract
  • Mix the wet ingredients into dry. Beat at medium speed for 2 minutes.
  • 1 C. boiling water
  • Add this last, stirring just until combined. Do not over-mix.

Bake 35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.

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out of the oven, cool before frosting

Icing:

  • ½ C. butter
  • 2 C. powdered sugar
  • 4 T. cocoa
  • 3-4 T. milk or chocolate liqueur
  • Beat with mixer until light and fluffy. Spread over cooled cake and cover.

Enjoy while musing over the story of a Singaporean cake-loving gecko. Or go to Patricia’s “Gekko Yoga” website in Madison, Wisconsin.

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friends anywhere in the world–here in paris-may 2015

Wendy Hack #1: Making Perfect Rice

Editor’s note: There is a lot of talk about hacking these days. The word actually has a wide range of meanings. In contemporary terms, “to hack” means to gain illegal access to a computer. More informally, “hack”, means a tip, a trick or an efficient way of doing something. Sticking with informal usage,  A Taste of Mind will offer an ongoing, but intermittent series of “Hacks”.  To make life easier…

We lived in Asia for a total of fifteen years in two separate cycles. First in Singapore for three years, followed by an interim three years in the Mediterranean, followed by twelve years in Taiwan.

Throughout Asia, the daily carbohydrate staple is, obviously, rice.

As a child, I grew up in the American Midwest where our daily carbohydrate was the potato. When my mother tried to spiff up evening meals by serving rice instead, we shunned the whitely tasteless pile of grain. In frustration, she resorted to sprinkling sugar on top. It only made things worse.

Fast forward to adulthood and the move to Singapore where rice and noodles became a regular part of the family diet. So many delicious ways to eat vegetables or bits of meat over a base of rice. Our son and daughter learned the use of chopsticks at tender ages. Three-year-old Lara had her own style. Holding a chopstick in each fist, she painstakingly pinched food between the two ends. With some luck, it eventually got to her mouth.

For me, making rice was always a guessing game–ratios of water to rice, cooking time, lid or no lid, rice cooker or no rice cooker, and so on. Finally, it was our Taiwanese helper, Alon, who showed me that preparing perfect rice required only one thing–an index finger.

The index finger method works for any kind of rice–white, brown, red, black or multi-grain. It works in any size pot. It works whether cooking with gas, electricity or induction. It is the best way to prepare fluffy, un-sticky rice. It is not the way to make a crispy, blackened, bottom layer of rice as some Middle Eastern preparations do.

Perfect rice can be made this simple way at home or in a restaurant, too.

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Treize Restaurant, 16 rue des Saints Pères, Paris

Here’s an example. While hanging out one morning at my friend Laurel’s small Paris restaurant, Treize, she wondered aloud how to cook the rice for the lunch special. I offered to show her the foolproof-wendy-hacking way. When you know the chef/owner and it’s an open kitchen, the answer is “Sure, go ahead!” And that’s how a Charleston girl learned to make perfectly cooked red rice to accompany her southern black beans…

PERFECT RICE HACK

Ingredients:

  • 1 cooking pot and lid, any size
  • rice of choice, optional to rinse first
  • water

 

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brown or basmati

Preparation:

  • Place any amount of rice [rinsed or not] into a cooking pot.
  • Add water to cover and stir gently until floating rice grains settle on bottom.
  • Gently rest the tip of your index finger on the top layer of rice.
  • Continue adding water until water level reaches the line of the first joint.
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place rice in pan

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place tip of index finger on top of rice

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add enough water until it reaches the line of the first joint

Cooking:

  • Place uncovered pot over high heat. [Sometimes I add a drizzle of olive oil or vegetable bouillon cube for flavor.]
  • When water begins to boil, adjust heat to continue the boil at lower setting.
  • When there is no bubbling water visible and the surface of the rice shows craters, immediately turn heat to lowest setting and cover with a lid.
  • Set timer for exactly 5 minutes.
  • Turn off heat when timer buzzes.

 

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surface of rice becoming visible

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forming craters or sink holes

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when no boiling water visible, cover with lid, turn heat to lowest setting

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time exactly 5 minutes, then turn off heat

And there you go. No fussy measurements. Just a finger joint level of cooking water. And a timer. Rice is ready immediately or will stay warm under cover until ready to serve.

For small amounts of rice, the cooking is very fast, only a few minutes. For larger amounts with more water to boil away, keep an eye on it until it’s time for the final five minutes.

For heavier rice grains like black, red or multigrain, I measure water to just above the line of my index joint. Somehow it always seems to work.

TORTA DI RISO

Because I don’t measure rice there is usually enough for another meal. What to do with it? Well, there is always eggs-on-rice [see link for recipe: Comfort Food for Cal] or ginger fried rice. Recently, I have a new favorite recipe for leftover rice. It’s an Italian dish called Torta di Riso. Credit given to Sasha Martin from her memoir Life from Scratch.

  • 6 slices bacon, chopped [can be omitted]
  • 1 T. olive oil, plus more for baking dish
  • 1 chopped onion
  • 3 C. leftover cooked rice [any kind]
  • 6 eggs, lightly beaten
  • ½ C. grated parmesan cheese [or more]
  • ¼ C. chopped parsley [or more]
  • S&P
  • Red pepper flakes [my personal addition]
  1. Sauté bacon in olive oil until fat begins to render. Add onion. Sauté until it turns light brown. Set aside.
  2. In large bowl, place rice, cheese, eggs, parsley, salt and pepper.
  3. Stir in slightly cooled onion mixture.
  4. Pour into lightly oiled 8×8 inch casserole.
  5. Bake 400 F. or 205 C. for 35 minutes or until golden brown on top.
  6. Cool 15 minutes.
  7. Cut into squares or diamonds.
  8. Serve room temperature or cold.

Torta di Riso is a nourishing finger food snack. It’s great for picnics or hikes.

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mixing ingredients for torta di riso

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ready to bake

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bake til golden brown

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i like it crunchy on top and with red pepper flakes throughout

Sex in a Pan

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painting by gustave moreau, french symbolist, 1826-1898

Some “firsts” you remember and others you don’t. It’s difficult to admit, but I can’t remember my first Sex in a Pan.

Many years ago, when I first learned about it, I was told Sex in a Pan was for women only. Men don’t like it. It is something you never do alone, always with others, preferably as an afternoon delight.

Hemingway once said, “Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.” I say, never have Sex in a Pan with anyone you don’t like–at least a little bit. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble?

What’s so special about Sex in a Pan? It’s not the equipment, which is rather ordinary. It’s not the getting ready, which is rather straight forward. It’s not the result, which is surely pleasurable. It is when everything and everyone comes together.

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When we lived in Taiwan, I remember one Sex in a Pan party around my friend Linda’s large dining table. The other guests were Asian women who had no idea what to expect. But, as with our American Thanksgiving dinners, they wanted to learn and share new customs. So they joined in…and loved it.

Sex in a Pan is like secretly swiping your finger across a thickly frosted cake. It’s what lingers in the memory after taste melts away. But Sex in a Pan is not cake. It is a decadent dessert of many layers–for sharing.

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The recipe I have carried around the world is in someone else’s handwriting. That well-worn piece of paper is the key to unlocking where I was and who I was with my first time. It’s sadly lost to memory now.

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who wrote this?

So, by default, Sex in a Pan is mine to offer anyone who loves smooth and creamy with some crunchy, slightly sour with some salty, chocolaty, close your eyes, eat-with-a-spoon, group-kind-of-fun.

At the Taiwan party, inhibitions were safely shed around the table as we talked of taste and texture and guiltless self-indulgence while doing something pleasurable. There was laughter and letting go among a group of friends. And that, in a nutty crust, is what Sex in a Pan is about.

Recently, I updated the recipe Euro-style since we now live in France. The ingredient choices are different. Butter from Normandy embedded with crystals of sea salt, Chantilly whipped crème [from a can] instead of Cool Whip, dark chocolate shaved into curls instead of milk chocolate.

We were four women around the table–two Americans, one French and one German. The other three had little forewarning except that I needed some help to write a story.

It doesn’t really matter who or how many you gather for Sex in a Pan. Once you invite people in, they are mostly curious, ready to dabble in the unconventionally offbeat, perhaps with a touch of “double sens”, [French for “double entendre” which is strangely not the expression in France]. The simple truth about Sex in a Pan is that what’s in the pan is simply a channel for what happens around it.

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sex in a pan parisian style

In double-sens-speak, I learned that “sensuously seductive” is suggestively “croustillante” in French or “eine heisse Affäre” in German. We romanticized taste by describing the salty [yes to French butter!] and crunchy [those pecans!]. Layers of chocolate, sweetened cheese, and fluffy crème mingled in the supple underbelly. Tiny pellets of chocolate atop hid unexpected softness below. Voilà! Quelle langue!

We sipped Champagne and dipped into the communal dish. Late afternoon gave way to evening. And other liaisons…

When you host a Sex in a Pan party, try to keep the memory alive by having it again…and, then again.

SEX IN A PAN

Ingredients:

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  • 1 C. flour
  • ½ C. butter–best quality salted butter you can find
  • ¾ C. chopped pecans
  • 8 oz. cream cheese [let get to room temperature]
  • 1 C. icing sugar
  • 1 large pkg. instant chocolate pudding [6 ½ C. size]
  • 1 large pkg. instant vanilla pudding [6 ½ C. size]
  • 3 C. cold milk
  • 1 large container Cool Whip [or a good whipped cream]
  • 1 large dark chocolate bar

Preparation:

  1. Mix flour, butter and pecans and press into bottom of 8 1/2 x 11 inch [22 x 28 cm] pan. Bake for 20 minutes, 350 degrees F. [180 C.].
  2. Mix cream cheese and powdered sugar and spread on top of cooled crust.
  3. Spread ½ of Cool Whip or whipped cream over cream cheese layer.
  4. Mix together instant chocolate and vanilla pudding with COLD milk and beat by hand with a whisk until it starts to thicken.
  5. Spread over top of whipped cream.
  6. Spread remaining Cool Whip or whipped cream over pudding.
  7. Shave, grate and chop the chocolate bar. Sprinkle all over the top.
  8. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
  9. Serves 12-15 from one pan, depending on appetites. Cut recipe in half as needed.

Serving:

Pass out spoons, one to a person. Place Sex in a Pan in the middle of the table. In the spirit of communal adventure everyone dips in and eats spoonful by spoonful from the pan. Scoop all the way to the bottom with each bite.

So far, I’ve only known one man, a brother-in-law, who said he enjoyed Sex in a Pan. He was able to rise above the gooier, communal aspects others have no taste for. However, let it be known that Frank has a peculiarly strong, undiscriminating  bias for anything chocolate.

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