Autumn and Apple Sauce

I stood on a familiar street corner the other day, listening to a song I hadn't heard in a long time and waiting for my turn to walk in a different direction. Suddenly overcome with a feeling of optimism and clarity, I knew, in a very definite way I hadn't been aware of before, that I had been given a chance to start over. Really, I had seized an opportunity and taken a chance and now I was back at the beginning of a path I began long ago, armed with new independence and an altered perspective. Yes, yes, Joyce coined the term "epiphany" so I could say this all in one sentence, but I guess that's not my style. I guess you'll have to put up with my ramblings.

It was a wonderful moment, a wonderful walk, and reminded me of my love for old things made new. Like canning and jarring fruit. I feel like it's one of those skills that gets recycled through society every couple generations so people can remember how to survive revolution, societal fracture or total apocalypse. This is my third year making and storing apple sauce, and I love creating it differently each year. Arriving in the same farmer's market each Autumn, I select apples to fill my crock pot with the mood of the season. It lets me contain in a pretty glass jar a fragile and distinct point in time.

The first year, I added a little vanilla extract and fresh pepper and went heavy on the garam masala, creating an interesting but over-adulterated taste. I'm not sure what that says about my state of being in 2007, but I was definitely learning the process. Last year, I wanted a clean, slightly tart apple flavor, so I pared back the spices to a sole cinnamon stick and added some extra lemon juice. I kept the lemon juice and single cinnamon stick this year, but added extra sugar, ground cinnamon and ground ginger. The result? Addictively sweet, like something out of a grandmother's kitchen. It tastes and feels quite a lot like the gooey interior of an apple pie.

That is, except for the occasional string of peel. I like to do a partial peel; it leaves more of the natural nutrients intact and imparts a vibrant red color. I feel similarly about chicken skin and apple peel, in fact. I love them both in small savory amounts, but too much can distract from a dish or, worse, taint the texture of a meal in an unappetizing manner. Next time, I would like to "savor" the apple's skin a little less and employ my peeler a little more. One always seeks perfection in the next batch. 

As usual, I started the journey with a trip to the Capitol Hill farmers market. Lyall Farms had a great deal: 10 lbs. of fruit for $12. I loaded the scale with 6 lbs. of apples, enough for about a batch and a half of apple sauce, and then topped off my order with some hard Asian pears (perfect for poaching) and several small sweet potatoes. From the apple baskets I took equal amounts of Jonagold, a large tart tasting apple with an almost pear-like texture, and the small but juicy Braeburn. From another vendor I picked up a few crisp Golden Delicious to round out my blend with their mild sweetness.

Leaving the farmers' market, my canvas bags brimmed with fruit and the last of the season's salad fixings. I was excited to return next week for the gorgeous carrots (there were more than half a dozen varieties, all different shapes and colors), parsnips and potatoes for a root vegetable soup, and some fennel to serve with fish.

I washed just over 4 lbs. apples (as much as will fit in my crock pot), peeled off the majority of the skin, cored them, rubbed them with a halved lemon (not entirely necessary), and sliced them up thin. To the crock pot I added just over 1/2 cup of apple cider, the juice of half a lemon and a cinnamon stick. Four or five hours later, I returned home to a perfumed apartment. The rich fragrance of apples radiated out from my kitchen and down the hall, making my building warmer and more merry, or so I hope. I added sugar, ground cinnamon, ground ginger, and tasted. I decided that more sugar and cinnamon were necessary and added more bit by bit until I felt the concentration of sweetness and spice was just right.

When canning, you can reuse glass jars and metal rings, but you must use new metal lids. All are immersed in a simmering pot of water for ten minutes. Then I work one jar at time, briefly removing my materials to a clean towel, filling the jar with piping hot apple sauce so there is no about an inch of air at the top, and sealing immediately. Wipe up any drips with a paper towel or clean cloth; a clean lip ensures a good seal. When all the jars are filled, I place them in a steam basket set over boiling water for the second sterilization recommended by food safety experts. The basket makes it much easier to remove the hot, heavy jars. Some sources recommend turning the jar upside for at least two minutes after they are removed from the heat. Then they must simply be left in peace. Leave them on the counter and don't touch them, just listen for the satisfying popping sounds as the seals get sucked in. It is the sound of a successful kitchen.

I can honestly say I've been putting forth an incredible effort to break in my new kitchen. I love the idea of how much it's been used before me. The pull-out cutting boards, solid wood drawers and painted-over counters have so obviously been used and loved, been home and hearth to a factory of flavors. I love being a part of the changing tide of tenants to employ this oven, put the outdated ice box to some kind of use (I shoved a wine rack inside) spill spices on the floor, and scatter the table with dishes.

For the most part, at least the home and the people part, life right now feels as fresh as Fall's just-picked apples. Of course, I'm still readying for winter.

Pie in the Sky

When I invited Minty and Trevor, a newly-wed couple from Walla Walla, over for dinner, I knew to expect extravagance. Whether I prepare for it or not, the kitchen seems to come alive with the delight of delicacies whenever we entertain each other. They are more excited about food and wine than perhaps any else I know. Though each can be appreciated on its own, food and wine are practically inseparable in Minty and Trevor's approach to life. 

This philosophy isn't articulated so much as emanated. Their pleasure is simply apparent in the way they eat. Though married, meal and bottle provide a counterpoint one another, creating not just a meal but a a complex experience. The names of wine blends and the remembrances of recipes are never just notes or name-dropping, but the photographs through which we capture an evening spent together. I love exploring and discussing the sensations of cuisine with the two of them, and some of my most memorable meals over the past year have been shared with this wonderful couple. I was rich with anticipation as another dinner date approached.

I mentioned extravagance earlier, but I have to admit I chose about the least extravagant subject for study. I made pizza. We did however find a way to add as much class as can fit on a crust: truffle oil. Drizzled in the thinnest stream, a steady spiral of opulence, it brought out the earthiness of mushrooms, the gamey pungency of the prosciutto, the sweetness of the tomato sauce and the saltiness of the cheese. I think I'll name it The Anointed Pie and recreate it the next time I get a hankering for the cheesy cuisine. We made two pies and I must admit that this, the second, kicked the first one's ass. 

Minty and Trevor arrived at my new apartment with their darling former roommate Kris, who had made cheesecake cookies for the occasion. Trevor bore a bottle of wine in each hand: Yellowhawk Cellar's 2005 Sangiovese from Walla Wallas and Nipozzan's 2005 Riserva Chianti Rufina, also at least 80% Sangiovese by legal requirement. I ushered them into the kitchen, the location of the evening's festivities, and from there the evening stretched out in a leisurely series of topping discussions, cooking experiments and wine tasting. 

Shopping for ingredients at Trader Joe's a few days previously, I had been staring at the cheese section for a while, clearly entranced, when an employee asked me if I needed help. Using him as a sounding board for my indecision, I asked for his mozzarella recommendations. For pizza, he approved of the whole-fat chunk I held in my hand, but said he preferred a fresh mozzarella log, sliced in rounds and suspended in water.  I bought both. The fresh mozzarella graced the first pizza, along with a slightly spicy homemade tomato sauce, the mushroom medley, roasted garlic and slivered fresh basil. I followed the Joy of Cooking's pizza dough recipe, which produces a deliciously chewy crust. I was only disappointed that it didn't brown as well in my new oven as it has in the past. 

When I checked on the pizza after 12 minutes, a ghastly pool of liquid was forming in the center! Cooking the mushrooms had apparently prepped them to release liquid and the wetness of the fresh mozzarella only made the problem worse. I mopped it up with some paper towels and popped the pizza stone back in the oven for a few minutes, a successful salvage. We agreed that pie #1 was tasty, but the weighted-down center required fork and knife for eating and we each had only one piece and then held our appetites in check while the second pizza cooked.

The second time around, I baked the olive-oil-brushed crust for a few minutes before adding sauce and toppings, a step that produced a sturdier pie. Though I love generous portions of tomato sauce, I spread my layer a little thinner than usual, then covered it with generous handfuls of the shredded whole-fat mozzarella. Next I added uncooked slices of portobello and crimini mushrooms, a sprinkling of pine nuts, thinly sliced prosciutto and, atop it all, a snowy grating of parmesan. The cheese melty, the meat crisp, the mushrooms dry and just-beginning to brown, I pulled it from the oven about 15 minutes later, added slivered fresh basil and ran a thin slow stream of truffle oil around the the circumference of the pizza, spiraling inward toward the center. 

Yes, you can slice up heaven with a pizza cutter. 

While on the first tasting I didn't exactly love the Yellow Hawk, it blew me away when paired with our Anointed Pie. We tasted the two wines back and forth, agreeing the Italian paired better with the garlicky pizza and the Washington wine with the truffled one. 

Satiated, the four of us sat at my little kitchen table, transformed from its usual window-side quietude into a suddenly uproarious cove for company, and we opened the third bottle of wine. We caught up on med school applications, law school accomplishments, sibling weddings and career-paths, restaurant reservations and my newest hobby, burlesque. They were coming back to Capitol Hill the following night to watch my burlesque recital, the crowning performance of a 6-week dance series and the opening act in a night of boylesque strip tease. I was girlish and giddy, to say the very least. 

If gastronomy and lust seem to be steering my direction in life, can I just say I'm in gastrolust? It's all energy, fueled and expended, over and over again in infinitely endless menus and dances. I've been glad to try some new hobbies lately, make some new friends, experiment with new toppings so to say, and glad to fall back on the friends familiar enough to be family. My cozy new apartment is proving itself well-suited for friends and food. Nothing else seems more essential in my life right now, and I'm so excited for the shared meals and stages yet to come.

The Market, The Move, The Moment

My final free Sunday in my old apartment I woke up to rain against windows and a cat content to watch from the sill, her ears alertly perked, drawn eyes peaceful, the perfect being. I stayed in my pajamas for hours and lazily alternated between daydreaming and scrawling pure blasphemy in my journal. Reading back over it, one either has to laugh or take it quite seriously. There are no other options, perhaps ever. 

Though mildly disappointed when the rain stopped, I took the opportunity to venture to the sparsely-attended farmers market, the ground wet and the tents wind-whipped, the vendors crossing out old prices and issuing "rainy day deals." I returned home, and I think this was the last day it still felt like home, with some delicious donut peaches and white nectarines, a perky salad mix and a fragrant tomato. All beautiful, but they amounted to much less than my usual bounty. I wanted a big hearty salad but wasn't sure how it would come together. 

Though always a somewhat improvisational cook, I've been taking the experimentation to new levels since Bugs left the dinner table. I’ve been making some seriously sloppy salads, creating crazy ingredient combinations in the least-pretty of presentations, and I’ve been absolutely loving it. After caramelizing a batch of onions that Sunday, I decided to make use of the frond on the bottom of my pan and thought "Why not make a roux-inspired dressing?" So I upped the heat and poured in a glug of whatever wine was open on the counter, something called The Boot I think, whisked in a quick flour-butter paste, a touch of sugar, salt, pimeton de la vera, a splash of balsamic vinegar, and took a taste. Weird, crazy, but good. Rooting around in the fridge, I found some goat cheese, perfect for forking crumbles over my mish-mash salad, but why not stir a little into my saucy concoction for some added creamy goodness, and by that I mean fat? The sauce took on a milk chocolatey texture as I rapidly stirred in the goat cheese with a wooden spoon. After it cooled a bit, I used my hands to toss the mixed greens with the gooey mixture. The salad received thick slices of ripe red tomato, a topping of caramelized onions and, of course, more goat cheese. It was gloriously messy, almost resembling the Wednesday taco salads served at the deli by my work. Parting with any previous expectations of presentation, I savored the taste of crisp greens, juicy tomato and my strange but decadent dressing. 

It was just the fuel for the newspaper-crinkling, box-filling, bending and lifting, cleaning, and general destruction that is moving. Since I've had both apartments for the month of September, I've been simultaneously destructing and creating, employing opposite processes in separate locations, both intimate enclosed spaces, just 12 blocks apart. I've bought a few new things, but I'm mostly working with old materials, trying to build a new home with the ashes of another. 

I had a wooden arm and hacked it off with an axe. Now I carefully whittle away the jagged edges into a new, hopefully useful, shape. My new home is an extension of myself, like a prosthesis I found and fastened on. In many ways it's a weird amalgamation of every place I've lived before it. The sticky kitchen cabinets are as welcoming as a California beach house, the floors as familiar as a barefooted dance party. 

Cooking for myself is so unlike cooking for someone else. In large part, the new freedom I feel in the kitchen comes from the new but very basic premise that I only cook when I’m both hungry and in a mood to cook. Dinner time used to be defined by the clock. It used to be defined as the time when Bugs' keys unlocked the front door and the cat proffered up her skinny belly for a rub down and my timer was simultaneously blaring and I was burning myself on my cast iron pan. He would approach the kitchen tentatively, looking for a kiss, which I would give him reluctantly and then rush to plate the meal while hot and he would open the wine he brought home from work. 8 on weeknights and Saturdays, 7 on Sundays. That was dinner time. It meant a routine, an interaction of players, a shared space and the satisfaction of feeding someone else.

 

I'm in another place entirely now. And perfectly happy to be digging around in the fridge at 8:20, whereas before I would have been stressed to serve dinner so late, feverishly tossing together ingredients while he sat hungrily on the couch. Maybe my own hunger is much easier to tame than my imagination of someone else's growling stomach, but feeding myself recently become both more satisfying and more relaxing. 

After looking in my sparse fridge and becoming dance-inducing joyous at the sight of a lemon, I decided to cook up some potatoes (Desiree and Maris Piper from Olsen Farms), haricot vert, an egg, and throw them around in a bowl with a mustardy-vinegrette, lots of parsley, a can of tuna, and some finely diced onions. I normally would have used shallots, but didn’t want to journey to the store, was hungry and also pretty excited to simply throw together my farmers market finds and the few random ingredients that made their way from my old home to the new one.

 

I don’t know if it had anything to do with the transition from a gas to an electric stovetop, but my first egg in the new kitchen was wonderfully undercooked instead of the usual ones done just beyond perfection. I was going for something soft boiled, orange yolk moist but firm, a not-yet-crumbling texture. My whites were set, but my yolk was the consistency of a poached egg, much more jiggly than I was expecting and held in place by a thin but strong membrane.

I cradled it in my hands, making it shimmy and shake then watching it still itself. The texture was delicate but the color was so fucking brilliant, as if I held the smallest of suns in my palms. I reveled in it and then I squished it. I let the thick sticky yellow mess run all over my hands and melt into the salad bowl, all over my cooked and mustardy potatoes, my lemony blanched little green beans. I wiped as much as I could into the meal bowl and then licked my fingers. I licked the webs between my fingers. I licked my open palms, tongue spread to absorb as much as possible. Then I licked my lips.

 

It was a good egg.