A Leg of Lamb, Trussed and Tied

There are few things that are as satisfying as holding a large piece of meat in your hands, brushing your fingers over the thick layers of fat and marbleized cartilage, feeling the cold flesh give way as you prod and pull, shaping the hunk this way and that. It is primal and animalistic—it reconnects you to some deep, instinctual part of the soul that sees and feels meat and knows that hunger will soon be sated; that you have proven, with that piece of meat between your fingers, that you can survive and nourish and care for yourself.

It is good to be reminded of this from time to time. And, as someone said to me recently, you have to do what works for you.

For some, I imagine, it would be other things. For me, it’s the food that I prepare and consume—the way in which it reminds me of the primordial instincts in us all—how it takes me out of my head and puts me in the realm of fur and earth and soil and sand.

It’s a very different realm from the one that I inhabit when writing. But this is why food and writing are so interesting when placed in proximity to one another. They call up a series of satisfying opposites: lofty and grounded, ethereal and substantial; they transport, but they also keep us firmly planted on the ground, in that place where our primal urges—hunger and thirst, passion and desire—are allowed to reign.

I like it very much there.

*

This past weekend, I made a leg of lamb with my roommate. I rubbed course salt and pepper into the flesh; I drizzled olive oil and I pressed the oils of rosemary sprigs into the thick layer of fat; I made incisions all over the surface and pushed crushed garlic cloves into the meat. We roasted it slowly, and then halfway through, slathered it with a mustard rub containing thyme, Dijon, olive oil, and more rosemary. We let it sit in its own juices as it roasted. We tented it with foil when it was done.

Plum Cake, Sandy Shores, and Dinner with Friends

There are moments that require photography, and then there are moments that don’t.

Photographs—however beautiful—never capture, never replace, never stand-in for the lived moment. They make something new where there was previously nothing. We live through them in many ways, but they don’t account—they simply can’t account—for the tangible, the very physical and visceral, experience of living.

This was how it was for the plum cake and me. We found ourselves on the distant shores of the Point Reyes coastline in Northern California, nestled in warm arms, feeling the breeze of the ocean on our skin, tasting the sweet, salty air on our lips. That was ceremony enough.

I could have photographed that day, but I didn’t need to. It etched itself into my mind in a deeper way—and for me, bound to food as I am, it will always carry the taste of warm plums and brown sugar, the bite of lemon zest, and the moistness of a sour cream cake.

I did eventually photograph the cake—a different one (the second of the weekend)—when I took it the very next day to dinner with friends. (You can find those images below.) But the cake didn’t require it; it didn’t ask for it. So I listened, on that first day, and recorded something else—in a non-photographic way—instead.

When I think of the cake, and when I think of those sand dunes, I find some parallels between them: the way that the dunes rise and fall, nestling things, hidden, secretively, out of view, is very similar to the way in which this cake conceals its pockets of warm, almost-melted plum. Your fork will seek them out—they taste like compote; they are slightly tart, with only their natural sweetness to carry them; they melt and mingle with the crispness of the brown sugar and the moistness of the cake’s tender crumb.

As good as all of this is on the first day, when the cake is still warm, wrapped snugly in parchment, it is even better the next morning, with fresh memories and warm laughter still singing in your veins. I recommend it both ways.

And then, again still, on a sleepy Sunday evening, with a full weekend at your back, it is also wonderful shared with friends.

We didn’t really need a photograph of that evening either, so delicious the experience was—to be gathered around an old wooden table, drunk on wine, pasta, and a sweet dessert—but I took one anyway. For you, mostly.

Happy plum season.

Plum Cake (adapted from Food52)

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (plus more for pan)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon lemon zest
1/2 cup unsalted butter (plus more for pan)
2/3 cup sugar
2 large eggs (room temperature)
3/4 cup sour cream (room temperature)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons light brown sugar, firmly packed
6-7 red plums (or Flavor King pluots)


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9 x 2 inch round cake pan. Lay down a piece of parchment that will cover the bottom of the pan and that will reach up 1-2 inches on two sides over the rim of the pan (this will make the cake very easy to remove and serve). Butter the parchment, then dust the pan with flour; tap out excess. 

Stir together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt with a light touch. 

In a separate bowl, cream the butter and the sugar using a wooden spoon (this is my technique), or an electric mixer, until pale in color. Mix in the eggs one by one, until well incorporated. Add to this the sour cream, vanilla extract, and lemon zest, and stir to combine. 

Add the flour mixture, stirring until just combined (do not over-mix or the batter will become tough at this stage). 

Pour half of the batter into the prepared pan and smooth out evenly. Sprinkle the batter with 1 tablespoon of brown sugar. Quarter 4-5 of the plums. Arrange the plum quarters in a circle over the batter, with one quarter in the center. The plums should have approximately 1/2-3/4 inches of space between them (don't worry about over plum-ing the cake). 

Dollop the rest of the batter over the plums, and spread it out to make an even layer. Cut the remaining plums into eights, and arrange the slices in a circle, with two slices overlapping in the center of the cake (about 1 inch of space between slices works well on the top of the cake). Sprinkle the top of the cake with the remaining brown sugar. 

Bake for 50-55 minutes, or until golden and a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean (avoiding the fruit). 

Let the cake cool on a rack, in the pan, for 20 minutes. Lift the parchment on both sides to remove the cake from the pan. 

I like to serve the cake on its baking parchment. You may serve it warm, and then eat it again the next day for breakfast. 

Wrap the cake in parchment to store.

On Friends, Marriage, and Warm Nights

Last I was here I was reminiscing about gazpacho soup and forging my way toward an homage to my sister. Now, as I knew it would, the weather has turned, and it is cold and foggy, with no thoughts of cold soup to return to. We are heading into a true San Francisco summer. I left the house this morning in a plaid wool coat and I thought, even, about pulling on my old leather gloves. The resistance that one feels in these moments—but it's July, my mind cries out to itself—is tempered only by the shivers and visible breaths that one sees in the early morning light. By noon or so, the fog may burn off and if we're lucky we will have a couple hours of sunshine—if we're lucky. 

I've been gone for a couple of weeks and during part of it I was at the wedding of an old college friend. It was lovely. Gathered together in an old farmhouse in the Berkshires were my oldest friends and I—we spent long nights on blankets outside, playing the guitar, telling stories, laughing as I haven't laughed in years. My friends said that it seemed to them that I was back—back from a long slumber, the depressive kind in which, without even knowing it, one marches through life in a sort of haze, forgetting how to laugh in that doubled-over sort of way, forgetting how to savor life's enjoyments: jokes, meals, the sort of banter and sweet teasing that one does, and perhaps can only do, with ones very closest of friends. I miss them so much already. If we could all have moved right into that farmhouse, I think we would have. But we boarded planes and got into cars and went to bus stations at the end of it, and we parted ways with happy minds and clenched throats, saying to ourselves and one another, until the next time.

So now, as I return to my normal life and as I return to this little blog, I want to dedicate this cake, that one up there in the photograph, to that lovely group of women (and of course to that very special friend-in-law too, who manages to ride the waves of girl talk with grace and humor and pitch-perfect sarcasm). Each of you is as dear to me as my own blood family, and I hope you know it. I wish we could be eating this cake together, on that back porch, between belly laughs and inappropriate jokes.

The cake is a good one. It's majestic and regal, but also simple and unfussy—can you tell by now that that's my favorite combination of things in a dessert? It calls out with the essence of summer, which, though far off by now in our San Francisco chill, is still with me in my heart. It's the kind of thing you want to eat out of doors, with a large, boisterous group, with some sips of a lemonade in between, or a glass of chilled champagne; it wants you to be happy, this cake—just try to make it, just try to gulp down spoonfuls of whipped cream and mountainous blackberries, and just try, when you do, to tell this thing that you are sad. The cake mocks you. The cake stares you down and says: be cheerful, damn it, it's summertime. 

I hope you all enjoy it too. I hope that, wherever you are, and in whatever throws of life and circumstance, in whatever season, that you can find some bit of summertime in your soul. Lap it up. Like all good things, it's fleeting but beautiful.

AND, a most heartfelt congratulations to Amanda and Gery—the loveliest of couples, to whom I wish an infinite and boundless array of happy moments, laughter, and love. You are both so beautiful and your love and support for one another gives hope to us all. May your marriage be full of warm summer nights and cake to make you smile.

Orange Yogurt Cake with Blackberries and Cream

(Serves a boisterous group of the greatest of friends)

This cake is adapted from many sources. I first found the inspiration for it here (a good place to find inspiration, by the way), in the form of a link to this cake. This was the first seed of the idea—something light and airy with berries and cream sandwiched between. I happened to have three 1/2 pints of blackberries in my fridge (let’s call this inspiration number 2). I then went on a quest for the right sort of cake that would serve as the layers, into which I would arrange those blackberries and dollop thick cream. I checked with Julia, and I googled around a bit, and ended back at Orangette, reading with glee and relief this amazingly easy recipe for a French Yogurt Cake with Lemon (inspiration number 3). This I adapted by replacing the lemon with orange (the fourth, and mostly final, inspiration). You can discover the rest of what took place below. Happy baking, friends.

For the cake:

1/2 cup plain yogurt

1 cup granulated sugar

3 eggs

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

2 teaspoons grated orange zest

1/2 cup canola oil

Pinch of salt

Orange syrup for between layers:

Juice of one medium to large orange (sorry, I didn't measure)

1/8 cup powdered sugar

For the filling and icing:

1 pint heavy cream

2 tablespoons sugar

2 1/2 pints blackberries washed and thoroughly dried

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-inch round cake pan and set aside.

In a large bowl combine the yogurt, sugar, and eggs until thoroughly mixed. Add the flour, baking powder, orange zest, and a pinch of salt, and stir to combine. Add the oil and stir until the batter comes together and is smooth and silky.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 45-55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean (the original recipe calls for 30-35 minutes, but I found my cake took closer to 55 minutes; I would begin testing it at 40 and watch it closely from there).

Cool the cake in the pan for 20-30 minutes and then turn out onto a baking rack and allow it to cool completely. 

Once the cake has cooled, you may prepare the layers: First, trim the top of the cake so that each layer will lay flat. What was once the top, will become the bottom of the cake. Next, with a large serrated knife, make several score marks all around the edge halfway up the cake, to mark where you will need to cut it in half (this acts as your guide). With your knife, and following your marks, cut the cake in half into two even layers. Set each layer on waxed paper with the cut side facing up. 

In a small bowl, mix together the orange juice and powdered sugar to form a thin syrup. Place the bottom layer on the plate or serving dish that you wish to serve the cake on. 

Brush the orange syrup onto the cut side of each layer, or spoon over. Just moisten the cake slightly with this, you don't want to soak it (you will have leftover syrup).

In a medium bowl, whip the cream with the sugar until you have a stiff whipped cream. 

Onto the bottom layer, spread a layer of the whipped cream, staying within an inch of the outer rim of the cake all around. Arrange a layer of blackberries on top of the cream (they should be close together, but not touching). Dollop heavy cream on top of the blackberries. 

Place the other cake layer on top of this (cut side down) and press it gently to secure it. Add a generous amount of whipped cream to the center of the cake and spread it over the surface, again keeping the cream within 1/2 to 1 inch from the outer edge of the cake. Mound some blackberries on top of the whipped cream, in the center of the cake, and garnish with orange zest. 

Consume immediately. Any leftovers will need to be refrigerated—and the cake even gets better the second day.

Me and the girls, yucking it up.

The beautiful bride. Sadly I don't have any photos of the bride and groom
together, but he was dashing, I assure you.

Hot and Cold

When I was young, it was one of the things that I most looked forward to. Slurping the bottom of the bowl with the ice cubes clanging against my spoon, their frozen bodies making the last drops of the thick, tomato-y broth watery and refreshing and ice cold. The salty croutons were always the first to go; next the garnish. We sipped and licked and downed spoonfuls of this refreshing, summer treat. We drained the last drops from the pitcher of the blender and bemoaned when there was finally, at last, after two bowls full at least, no more. We scraped up the vegetable scraps and we put our dishes in the sink and we all, I think, each of us in our own way, left the table with a feeling of satisfaction and refreshment.

These were the warm nights on which my mother made us gazpacho soup. I looked forward to them for weeks sometimes. I would request it again and again, waiting at long last to hear the whirl of the blender, to see the just-washed tomatoes and cucumbers and scallions and green peppers lining the table, to wait for that first crunch of crouton against the smooth silk of the cold soup, to feel that bite of fresh pepper crash between my teeth, to taste the lick of the olive oil, and to hear the crush of the ice cube beneath my spoon.

It’s recipes like this that make cooking worthwhile—they are inherently ceremonial; they inherently transport. Tonight, alone in my kitchen, without the buzz of mosquitos from a NY summer, or the swelter of our humid Washington Heights apartment, or the hum of cars below my window, I made it again, for the first time this year. I think I will be playing this one on repeat until the fog rolls in thickly for the later summer months and we settle into that particular type of coldness that descends here, in San Francisco, all the way through August.

I was alone tonight, and as I made this I missed my family. Perhaps it had to do with having just finished Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir, in which family, in its many pitfalls and myriad joys, features prominently. In the final pages, she sits down to eat with her surrogate family (the in-laws) and hopes that she might, despite her divorce from their son, still be welcome at the table. She finds that she is—though things are different of course, after the wear of many years and the tumult and break of many promises.

I can’t somehow picture my sister at the gazpacho table—not completely. And I suppose it is her that I miss the most. We always joked that she was the eater and I the cook—this was a good arrangement for us in many ways. She used to bribe me with food promises, incite me with pantry items that I couldn’t reach (because I was the littler) in exchange for holding secrets, persuading my parents of something that she absolutely needed, or promising not to tell on her for whatever little insignificant thing she might have done wrong on that particular day.

I always abided.

It is uncharacteristic to think of eating something cold and feeling something warm, but that was how it was for me tonight. I ate this alone. I lit a candle. I tried not to feel so far away, and, in truth, I didn’t. We were all in there really, fighting for the last crouton, slurping the last drops of our near-frozen tomato-y soup, waiting for the heat to break, and spending perhaps a little bit longer than usual at the family table.

Gazpacho Soup with Croutons

Serves 4 (approximately), increase the recipe to account for seconds or thirds (you will need them)

4 large heirloom tomatoes (Brandywine is my favorite)

3 medium cucumbers

1 green bell pepper

6 scallions, dark green tops removed

A handful of Italian parsley

Salt and pepper

Half a rustic loaf of bread (I like Acme's Sweet Batard or Pain au Levain)

Olive oil

A small disclaimer: This recipe, since it lives in my mind, is always an approximation, and it always varies with the produce that one can find in the moment. The beauty of this is that it is very hard to ruin; you can make it in endless variations and still be satisfied with the result. The one main thing that I strongly suggest is that you use tomatoes that are very red (to achieve that vibrant color in the final soup) and that are as tomato-y as you can find. Local, organic, heirloom varieties tend to be the best ones out there, and the closest to the kinds of tomatoes you ate when you were a kid, with no mealy, white, sorry-excuse-for-a-tomato inside in sight. 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. 

Wash and lay out all of your produce. Peel 2 of the cucumbers in such a way as to leave half of the skin on (I always make stripes, having watched my mother do this a hundred times), and cut them in quarters. Trim 4 of the scallions of the dark green tops, leaving all of the light green and white parts intact. 

Directly over a blender (so as to not lose any juice), quarter and drop in your tomatoes. Add the cucumbers and the scallions. Add half of a green bell pepper (a little piece of jalapeno is also great here, without the seeds or the vein). Pulse for about 30 seconds, or until everything is incorporated—it does not have to be completely smooth, a bit of texture is nice. Add the handful of parsley and season with salt and pepper. Pulse again. Add a drizzle of olive oil and pulse one more time. 

Taste and adjust the vegetable proportions and seasoning according to your preference—sometimes at this stage I will add more scallion, or more pepper, or even more tomato if I find the soup is not red enough; so much of this depends on the quality of the produce that it is nearly impossible to predict what you will want more of, so just taste as you go. 

When you are satisfied with your soup, place it in the refrigerator (leaving it in the pitcher of the blender) to chill while you make the croutons and prepare the garnish. 

Line a baking sheet with parchment or foil. Cut the bread into thick 1-2 inch cubes. Lay the bread on the parchment and drizzle heartily with 3-4 tablespoons of olive oil—each cube should be glistening and coated. Sprinkle liberally with Kosher salt and pepper, and toss until thoroughly coated. Bake in the preheated oven for 10-15 minutes, turning frequently, until the croutons are golden brown on all sides. 

While the croutons bake, prepare the garnish. Chop a cucumber, 2-3 scallions, the rest of the green pepper, and some more parsley roughly and set it out on a board or a plate for the table. I usually leave each vegetable separate but in close proximity so that you can choose exactly what you would like more of. 

Moments before the croutons are ready to come out of the oven, retrieve the soup from the fridge and pulse it again. Set out your bowls; add 1-2 ice cubes in each. Ladle the gazpacho soup over the ice. To each bowl of soup, add a bit of garnish on top, and finish with a handful of piping-hot croutons. 

Eat immediately.  

Something’s Happened

There must be a term for it—for the sense of total euphoria that is also accompanied by sheer and utter disbelief and shock. I blink and it is still there. I sleep a full eight hours (bravo me!), and when I wake up it is still lingering around, clinging to the bed sheets, draping itself wildly around the curtains, puncturing even, the early morning light. I can’t shake it.

It’s what most young, burgeoning bloggers must feel when they discover that their tiny, secret, under-the-cover-of-a-great-big-internet-rock blog has just been posted to the Bon Appétit website. Bon Appétit, people! The single most amazing food magazine in the nation. I am still shaking my head in disbelief. I am also, and this one may be even harder to comprehend on an emotional level (so oblique the feeling can be, so occasionally far off): HAPPY. It takes a lot to get me there sometimes, but here we are.

You can find the momentous occasion itself here. We (that is, you, dear readers, and me) are image eight in the slideshow. We are beaming, can’t you tell?

It’s been almost impossible ever since to try to come up with what to make next. Oh my god, the soundtrack in my head plays, what will I ever make again? I’ve wrestled through a few ideas. I’ve called my mom about them—rattling off a list of spiraling, food-related thoughts (she is very supportive). I sit down with stacks of books and magazines and pour over them late into the night. In my dreams I bake galettes that are rubbery and stiff, or I make compotes that are gelatinous and murky. I’ve been in a bind. One that, I can only imagine, has been brought on by the celebratory joy and revelatory anguish of being noticed.

But it’s more than that, too. It’s that—no matter how many cookbooks I look through, or magazines I flip through, or food blogs I read—ultimately, the appetite always wins: one’s choice of what to make or eat can’t come from a carefully designed program of which meals will be popular, or what everyone else will feel like consuming in any particular moment, or how this specific dish will photograph, or how this entry will look next to that one. The choice of what to eat is dictated by some other thing—longing and nostalgia, weather and mood, memory and dreams colliding with seasonality, what’s available at the grocery store, which shops you will pass on your way home, who you may have spoken to on that particular day.

The appetite is elusive and intangible—what drives it is some mysterious combination of unseen factors, constantly changing and circling around that ultimate goal: to feed one’s hunger.

We do this in many ways, I think. Food is one of the least detrimental and perhaps also the one with the most potential for unfettered, uncomplicated joy. 

So I went through that list of prospective galettes and tarts and pies and cookies and shortbreads and brioche rolls and jams and chocolates, and then, when it was 76 degrees in San Francisco (a heat wave!), I made watermelon instead. Watermelon that was dusted with chiles and salt. Watermelon that you could slurp up in enthusiasm; whose juices would drip down your chin; whose spicy bite and sweet, cold crispness would glide, in ever-so-refreshing a manner, down your throat. Watermelon that would make the inside of your cheeks cold, and the tips of your fingers pink and soaked, and the picnic blanket a stained mess, and all of those other good summery things that make us feel, if only momentarily, like we are young again.

I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind.

In the end, this is not a recipe: it’s a sort of incitement for pleasure. It’s something that will take you no time at all. It’s something that you’ll be able to do just by briefly looking at these photographs, by just barely skimming these words. But let’s eat it and be happy.

We have a lot to celebrate.

Watermelon with chili salt (adapted from Bon Appétit)

Watermelon slices

4 teaspoons kosher salt

2 teaspoons chili powder

2-3 limes

Slice a chilled watermelon. In a small bowl or salt dish, mix together the salt and chili powder, adjusting to taste. Arrange the slices on a platter, sprinkle with the chili salt, and then generous squeeze a lime directly over top. Consume immediately, when cold and spicy and dripping with lime.

David Tanis, in Heart of the Artichoke, suggests dipping a lime in a chili powder mixture and squeezing this over a platter of jicama, avocado, and orange. I tried the chili/lime technique both ways—by sprinkling the chili salt and then squeezing the lime juice over top, and also by dipping a halved lime in the mixture and then squeezing out the juice. I think I prefer the first method—but this, really, is a matter of taste. Just employ the ritual that will optimize your satisfaction—all the better if you are basking in the sun while you do it.

Rhubarb + Custard = Springtime Dessert Pleasure

Dear Friends,

Thank you for the outpouring of support that I received from you all this week—turns out, much to my surprise, that I have readers. Readers. A stray few that turned into a stray few more, that turned into an outpouring of emails and support and page views when I went “public” this week (me and facebook—albeit on very different scales).

Thank you.

For my part, I’ll try not to be daunted by the fact that this is no longer a secret pursuit, and I will trek on, starting right now with custard and rhubarb and a tillandsia in the background (don’t eat the tillandsia).

I thought I would continue on my last-gasp-of-spring theme and dig up a rhubarb recipe. I wasn’t sure what at first—crumble or coffee cake? compote or pie? And then it struck me—could one make a rhubarb clafoutis? Something warm and custardy and oozing of fruit, scented of lemon, and crinkly and curled in all sorts of delicious ways on top? Yes. Apparently, one can. I googled the phrase “rhubarb clafoutis” and came up with a fair few options. They were all roughly the same, give or take a few small additions or subtractions here or there; some with cinnamon, a few with citrus, all with that roasted rhubarb base and a decadent layer of yellow custard on top.

I’ve always wanted to make a clafoutis. Somehow daunted by what seemed too lovely to be very manageable, I’ve learned now that, in fact, it is one of the more simple desserts that one could possibly make. I’ve also learned that without using the traditional black cherries as your fruit, the dish is properly called a flaugnarde—the roots of which derive from words meaning “soft” or “downy.”

The dish is indeed soft, as custards often are, but especially so when eaten warm out of the oven. In this state, it is also fragrant and pillowy and oozing—all things that should be strived for when it comes to dessert consumption.

Thick slices of rhubarb are roasted in cinnamon and sugar in a tart or custard dish, and then, once softened and brought down to room temperature, a mixture of eggs, milk, flour, vanilla, sugar, and lemon zest is poured directly over top of this once sputtering, bright pink fruit. Into the oven it goes once more and within the hour you will be eating a warm, springtime custard. Perfect for evenings with a slight chill in the air; perfect for a midday picnic; perfect for breakfast the next day, even when it has chilled and firmed and has become, suddenly, sliceable—perfect, really, for anytime at all. 

Roasted Rhubarb Clafoutis (more accurately referred to as Roasted Rhubarb Flaugnarde), adapted from theKitchn

2 cups rhubarb, sliced to a thickness of 1/2 inch

1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon lemon zest

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

3 eggs

1 cup whole milk

1/2 cup flour

A pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Slice the rhubarb and place it directly into your custard or tart dish; toss it with the cinnamon and 2 tablespoons of the sugar. Let this macerate for approximately 10 minutes, or until the juices of the rhubarb have begun to yield.

Roast the rhubarb for 20 minutes or until it is bubbling and soft when pierced with a fork.

Remove from the oven and let it cool until it is just warm and no longer hot and steaming.

While the rhubarb is cooling, whisk together the eggs, vanilla, and sugar; whisk in the milk, and then the flour, lemon zest, and a pinch of salt. Whisk the batter until the flour lumps have dissolved, but be a bit gently with it so that the batter doesn't become tough.

Pour this mixture over the rhubarb and bake for 35-40 minutes. The clafoutis should be set but still somewhat soft in the center. It will have risen in shocking and uneven ways—don't worry, it will settle down as it cools.

Let the clafoutis rest for 5-10 minutes, and serve.

Afterword

I can’t really write about rhubarb, or consume it, or smell it, or see it in a store even, without thinking about the rhubarb plants that line a creek in the woods of upstate New York behind the house where my mother grew up. Prehistoric looking specimens, they are thick and tall with large, arching, and poisonous, leaves. We never see those plants anymore, but apparently they have been growing prolifically for at least eighty years or more. My mother dug some up at one point and planted them in her own garden, where they now grow, referred to as “grandpa’s rhubarb.” These plants accompany, further off, in a separate field, “grandpa’s apple tree” and “grandpa’s lilacs.” From the stories of this grandpa, whom I never knew, I learned to identify edible honeysuckle, elderberries, and black caps; we learned to suck the tips of the honeysuckle in the woods until they released their bright pearls of liquid; we learned how to find the wild spring violets and orchids and the red cardinal flowers that sprung up, inexplicably, in the streams. We learned about a raccoon named Brudel that he called and fed by hand, as a sort of dog-like pet. We learned about elderberry wine, and beaver dams, and the virtues of the frothy top of a mug of beer, among many other bits of lore and wisdom. Food is ancient and its reach is immeasurable. It is also fleeting and transitory. We consume it and it is gone. But the stories persist and the memories, embedded as they are in the aromas of a childhood kitchen, remain. 

To Begin and to End

What you do in between is really up to you. I offer you today only the beginning and the ending of something. But a delicious beginning and ending it shall be, I promise. I’ve recovered from all recent whirlwinds, found myself on stable ground again, bought a guitar (a relief—living without one was like a cruel form of torture or sensory deprivation), and I am beginning to cook again. (Did anyone else feel like the recent astrological activity made everything and everyone crazy?) I’m also beginning to realize that spring is quickly slipping through my fingers and that it is time, high time, to seize hold of its finest before the deluge of summer squashes and corn and tomatoes begin vying for attention. It’s already starting—last night at the Headlands Center for the Arts I ate my first cherry of the season, and my first plum, all swirled and rosy in a bit of cardamom-scented honey-yogurt. But we’ll save that for another time.

What I have for you today concerns asparagus. And it concerns a way of eating asparagus that was previously unknown to me. Most likely you are all fluent in this method. Probably you’ve been doing this since you could walk. But to me, it’s been a revelation. That method is raw, that is: DO NOT COOK THE ASPARAGUS. It seems wrong at first—you think back to all of the asperges au vinaigre you have consumed, or the grilled spears with parmesan that you buy pre-made at your local specialty food shop, or the steamed kind that you slide a poached egg over, and you feel in some sort of a deep, intrinsic way, that this just simply can not be. But of course it is. David Tanis said so—and when, I ask you, is he ever wrong?

The recipe is not even a recipe: I didn’t measure a single thing while I prepared it. But that’s honestly my favorite way to cook. Baking, of course, is another story all together, and as we learned here and here, I tend to be soothed, in those moments, by the careful and precise need for measurements and weights, ounces and teaspoons, leveling off and carefully folding, and all of those other little details that come together to make the baked thing what it is—in all of its delicate complexity, coming down, essentially, to the touch and the hand of the baker. Cooking is similarly defined by touch—by individual nuance—but in a way that tends to be more forgiving I think. And you can often adjust as you go.  

The difficult thing about this recipe is a practical, skill-based one. It has to do with the shaving of the asparagus. Tanis recommends using a sharp knife or vegetable peeler, or a mandoline. My guess, after sweating through the process and mildly cursing the dull blade of my vegetable peeler, is that the mandoline would be your best bet. But I don’t like to be dissuaded by a lack of fancy tools and neither should you. The vegetable peeler works, it’s just harder than you think it will be, and it took me a little practice to get the method down. I worked toward my body rather than away from it, which seemed to be easier, and I also tried to apply a firm and even pressure. The great thing here is that if you mess up, it really doesn’t matter, you just need to have achieved, in the end, some relatively thin strips of the vegetable, to be tossed in that magical combination of lemon and olive oil and salt.

What you will have as you progress through this “recipe” is a layering of thinly shaved asparagus; a few leaves of arugula—just enough to catch and fill all of the spaces between the thin, long spears; a generous squeeze of a lemon; and a drizzle of slippery olive oil—all bedecked with salt and pepper and thin shavings of parmigiano reggiano. This salad is an ideal springtime beginning for a meal of any size or scope. It could even, truth be told, make a meal all on its own. The asparagus, when raw, is crisp and fresh and tastes like the purest essence of asparagus that you’ve never tried. It also stands up sturdily to the acid of the lemon, making this salad something that could be prepared (with the exception of the arugula leaves) a day or so in advance.

It is truly my new favorite thing; and above all, my new favorite way to do asparagus.

Now, I take you to the end of the meal. Fast forward through time a bit—you’ve started with that delicious salad, you’ve received rave reviews all throughout: raw asparagus—they will cry—what a revelation! You’ve served some bit of fish with dill and capers, or a pistachio-crusted bird of some variety, or some nice, tender, well-marbleized piece of beef. Your guests are happy and full and sighing and letting the warm, springtime sun graze their bare shoulders. The glasses are being emptied. The beginnings of an evening light are starting to descend. You—calm and collected, effortless and relaxed—take out a bowl of gleaming, juicy strawberries, and set it next to a dish of just-whipped cream; cream that has been, in all manner of ethereal beauty, infused with chamomile blossoms.