Poached

I like the idea of poaching. When a person or cookbook mentions poached fruit, I chuckle inwardly, envisioning myself with a rifle in the grocery store, taking out the pears and figs in someone else's cart. Really, I think Roald Dahl first introduced me to the idea of poaching in Danny the Champion of the World, my absolute favorite book when I read it in 4th grade. Danny didn't use a rifle, of course. The clever boy soaked raisins until plump, cut them, stuffed them with sedatives, sewed them up and then fed them to his nieghbor's pheasants. He hid, watching them fall from the trees, then stuffed them in a sack. I forget if he actually killed them or set them free somewhere else. Part of me hopes he killed them then simmered the plucked, trussed creatures in a wine reduction. Poaching on two fronts.

To poach something is basically just to cook it in liquid near its boiling point. Of course, to poach is also to trespass and plunder. I had no idea until just now, but it also means to sink into soft or wet earth when walking, to become soggy or full of holes when walking, or, in racket sports, to return a shot near the net that was intended for one's partner in the back court.

When done right in the kitchen, oh the glory. Eggs do not achieve a more tender state nor pears a more succulent texture.

I was cleaning out my fridge in preparation for a trip to New York. Stepping back to survey the damage, I tried to think of what concoction could employ my leftover, lay-about produce. Watching half a dozen forgotten Asian pears roll around my crisper, eyeing the almost-full bottle of wine, I decided that some spiced red-wine-poached pears were in order. I poured the bottle of wine into a pot along with leftover white wine syrup from the last time I poached pears, a small handful of sugar, a cinnamon stick, star anise, a few corns each of pepper and all spice and the last of the ginger from my fridge, peeled and simply sliced out of laziness. When it started to boil, I added my peeled, cored pears and simmered uncovered until tender. The tip of a knife should easily pierce the flesh, but cook according to your preference. I thought they were a bit too firm last time I made them, so cooked them until a little less resistant this time around, about 30 minutes.

When done, I removed the prettiest pears to sterilized jars and saved the uglier, just-starting-to-fall apart ones in a bowl (intended for almost-immediate consumption). I upped the heat in impatience and cooked down the wine until seriously reduced then poured the hot, thickened stuff into the jars to cover the pears. Cooking down the liquid is the most time consuming part, so some cooks (like the late James Beard) prefer to reduce the liquid to a syrup before adding pears. If canning, seal the jars with clean rings and new lids then turn upside down for at least two minutes. Out of laziness, again, I decided to skip a second sterilization and just store the jars in my fridge while on vacation.

Next I whipped up some heavy cream in a cold metal bowl (I love my small high-rimmed Rosle), opting for a whisk over my oft-used handheld beater so I could feel the cream thicken and come together. Just before it started to form peaks, I added confectioner's sugar and the scraped seeds from a vanilla bean, whipped some more, then added soft, beat cream cheese. Mmmm....

It wasn't quite thick enough to form quenelles (too much cream, not enough cheese), but the little football shapes make a great presentation when you can form them. The white cream is especially gorgeous drizzled with the garnet-red syrup. The spiced pears are a really tasty holiday treat and a great way to extend your enjoyment of December's produce. Spooning mine up, anticipating my trip to New York, I looked forward to eating more upon my return, completing the delicious cycle.

Breakfast Club

My brother flew up on Sunday, leaving the entire week surrounding Thanksgiving to loiter around Mama's house and even become quite acquainted with the 255 bus route to Seattle. I really wanted him and Wifey to stay at my apartment for a night, so we all met up at Pike Place Market on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The meeting venue was a terrible idea, but not mine. Seattlelites and tourists swarmed the market, soaking up precious sunshine vitamins, filling up time on a non-work day with family approved activities. Trying to walk through the interior stalls made me feel like a herding animal. Oof! And then we all got separated, so I missed the best part when Wifey was chased by a man with a mean-looking monkfish and shrieked so loud the whole market could hear. It was Wifey's first trip to Seattle, so the market trip was basically obligatory, but the produce vendors were lost among the overwhelming crowds and I wished we'd saved the tourist trip for another day. I was happy to head back to my apartment and watch the 2004 version of Helter Skelter (inferior to the 1976 version, just for the record).

In the morning, after I did some writing and Todd finished his prayers, we visited Top Pot for caffeine and cake, letting Wifey slept in. We dunked with fervor, favoring the blueberry bullseye over the cinnamon-sugar doughnut, lingering at our rickety table surrounded by books. Hunger tided over, we ventured to the grocery store to procure ingredients for a big American breakfast. Back in my kitchen, just large enough for the two of us to cook together, we leisurely prepared for the day's feast, lunch really for everyone but Wifey.

I set up two stations and we quickly fell into a pattern. Todd chopped a yellow onion as I scrubbed my little German Butterball potatoes. He chopped herbs as I flipped the quartered potatoes in hot oil, gently willing them to develop a reddish brown crust on each side. Todd cut up bananas and apples, coated them in plain yogurt, blackberry honey and cinnamon, and served them with apple-cinnamon granola on the side.

"How many eggs, Luce?" he asked as he fingered the large duck eggs in my fridge. I had bought them at the Ballard market the day he arrived, just before the homecoming lunch at Bastille. It's not so much a homecoming, I guess, as a visit, though I like to pretend that Seattle is my brother's home in part, even if only because I live here.

"Four or five," I said, peeking over to see how large they were. "Four," I confirmed, eyeing the eggs he hefted in each palm. We debated over the best bowl, and I assured him that the high sides of my small metal Rosle bowl would prove sufficient. The second egg had two yellow-orange yolks, each fully formed and then stuck together, leaving very little room for whites. The third egg was a twinsy, too! reminding me of an MFK Fisher quote. I declared it a good omen and was reminded of an MFK Fisher quote. "One of the most private things in the world," she said, "is an an egg before it is broken." Another favorite of mine is "first we eat, then we do everything else."

I removed the potatoes to the oven to warm, sprinkled them with plenty of salt and rosemary and wiped down the skillet in preparation for Todd's hand-whisked eggs. He went for lightness over richness and added a touch of water. I would have added heavy cream. He reserved salt for the end, saying it would affect the very structure of the animal cells and result in a toughly-textured omelet. I learn so much when he's around!

Having been declared the family omelet maker at the age of 10, I swirled the eggs around the buttered pan, adding a very generous amount of goat cheese and herbs when the eggs were almost cooked, then flipped the omelet in half and told Todd to summon Wifey. Todd removed sizzling turkey bacon from another skillet and we plated our all-American breakfast feast.

"They're like meat chips!" Wifey declared of the bacon, never having had it in any form before. I love the words that come out of her mouth, beautiful bits of humor and freshness. Their wedding was only the second time I met her and I have to admit that it was really hard to watch my brother marry a stranger. I'm so thankful for the opportunity to get to know her and to watch how she and Todd interact. She's family now, and I'm looking forward to more shared holidays and meals. More goat cheese, more monkfish, more meat chips.

Thanks to Todd

I always look forward to Thanksgiving, to filling up on food and family, but this year I anticipated its arrival with more eagerness than ever. My brother was visiting, heightening the occasion to new levels of affection and culinary competence. His presence is always a solace, an aid to my anxiety even when he purposefully annoys me, but I crave his comfort more than ever lately. After all the changes in our respective lives, his stability cures my near-constant aching. He's my always brother, our names spoken in succession when we were young as if we were not two but one. 

We met at Bastille in Ballard, where I had swarmed the farmers market with half of Seattle to procure fresh produce for the upcoming feast. There I waited, sipping on sparkling rose for lack of pen and paper, and waited, waited for the moment when he would walk in, blond hair, red beard, black eyebrows and perfectly my brother from head to toe, and grab me in a just-right sized hug. 

The waiting and anticipation, I think, extends his too-short stay. And the way I miss him now so much, after he is gone, is itself a lingering of his presence.

When Thursday arrived, the sun creeping through thick-slatted blinds in my mother's sewing room, Todd and Mama and I assembled ourselves slowly. The three of us, the core and heart of my family, sat at the kitchen table, a hub around which the rest of the house awoke and revolved out of sight, as they read Black Friday coupons and I the comics and obituaries, digging into a Costco pack of croissants. Todd cut out and handed me an ad for an Easy Bake Oven, always the thoughtful older brother. I listened to him and my mother discuss the price of Sonicare toothbrushes with complete earnestness. Tentatively fed, Mama and I ventured out for the mythical "last quick trip" to the grocery store as Todd and his new wife stayed behind to prepare for the day. Upon returning, we walked the dog through the wetlands near Mama's home. 

In the early afternoon we finally settled into our three separate stations in the kitchen, my mother armed with recipes, my brother with passion and I with my new knife skills, ready to together create Thanksgiving for a dozen people. I played sous chef, chopping vegetables for my mother's dressing, peeling potatoes for Todd's roasted garlic mashed potatoes and finally rolling out dough for my own impromptu pear-apple-cranberry pie and julienning celery root, parsnips and golden beets for my side of slaw. 

We spun around each other like three whirlwinds, each focused on managing our own projects but lending help as needed, my brother and I lost in my mother's maze of a kitchen. Hours flew by in minutes as we measured and sweated and stirred, my brother concocting a chicken heart dish and a cranberry relish, my mother simmering stock for the gravy, roasting one turkey as my step father deep fried another, and I loved them and pined over the dishes we stored on the cold porch, keeping my pumpkin cheesecake company. 

Guests arrived, walked into the kitchen, poured themselves wine and then quickly backed away. Later, of course with the feast laid out and the turkey carved, we couldn't convince the kids or parents to end their games. Todd's chicken hearts stole the show, at least on my plate. Our soon-to-be-step-sister-in-law looked on horrified as Todd and I popped the whole hearts into our mouths and his wife cut them daintily to ogle the anatomy. Halving one like a perfect textbook diagram, she pierced it with her fork and shoved it in Nancy's direction saying "Look, it's really a heart!" Nancy cringed in complete horror. These are the moments I treasure. 

In the Thanksgiving-themed focus of food and family, I have to remember that the latter is always changing. My step-sister and her two children recently moved from California and are living at Mama's house, my step-brother is recently engaged, my brother recently remarried, and I'm recently broken up. Bugs' parents and brother had joined our clan for the past two Thanksgivings, and I don't want to say that their absence this year left a gaping hole or anything, but they're certainly missed on some level and the whole affair felt different. There was a certainly a lower wine consumption, largely in part to Todd's and his wife's religiously-rooted abstinence. 

The grandkids went to bed around the time that Lacy and The D arrived for dessert, bearing pumpkin and cinnamon gelato. Mama and I drank port and we all laughed over lost games, and I ate seconds of both my cheesecake and pie. I'd take seconds on all of it if I could. Seconds on the cooking and clinking our classes in thanks, seconds on the hello hugs and good-by hugs, on Todd's chicken hearts and card games and the late bus ride home with tupperware.