Elevenses

As a term it is a mouthful, and as a practice ... it's a mouthful, too. But just a nibble of a mouthful. 

Elevenses is a break Brits enjoy at 11 a.m., time to pour a cup of tea, nibble on a biscuit and catch one's breath during a busy morning. 

I often find myself wanting a snack at 11 a.m., especially if I haven't had much breakfast. And if I'm walking after a few hours of writing, this is the perfect time to stoke up for the expedition to come. 

Perfect for this repast is a handful of the animal crackers I impulsively bought last week. They have little taste but a satisfying crunch, and they certainly won't interfere with lunch a couple hours later. 

So here's to elevenses, a most civilized practice. 

Hyperlocal

Eating local conjures up images of farmers' markets and $12 quarts of strawberries. But for the last week or two, we've been eating hyperlocal. 

Our chief suppliers are the basil growing in a pot on the deck, which just yielded enough leaves for a delicious pesto sauce — and mostly the next-door neighbors, with their well-tended garden of beans, squash, cucumbers and tomatoes. 

The beans have been lightly boiled, salted and buttered. (I usually steam vegetables, but these thrive with a more old-school treatment.) 

The cucumbers have been sliced thin and served in a peppercorn ranch marinade (this dish courtesy of yet another neighbor) or simmered in broth then whipped with yogurt and dill into a cold soup.

The squash have been mixed with onions and breadcrumbs and turned into a casserole. And the tomatoes ... well, they're yet to come. 

No Rise, No Fooling

I've already heard about a couple of great April Fools pranks today. The one I pulled was accidental and happened a day early, when the Easter cake I baked and served turned out to be a sodden lump.

I just relived the process and realized my mistake: no baking powder... no fooling!

Some of the men in the family seemed to like the cake in its unrisen state, especially one of my sons-in-law, who took a few slices home, bless his heart. But others wisely stayed away. 

The cake still sits on the counter ... but the garbage can beckons. 

Happy April Fools Day — or something like that! 

(A photo of the cake from the first time I made it, when I remembered the baking powder.) 

Ir As Compras*

A week ago we were just returning from Portugal. Since then I've been to three local grocery stores, an unusually high number — but necessary given there will be a crowd here on Sunday.

With every shop I visit there is one tugging at my memory. It's Pingo Doce, the Portuguese supermercado chain that was so much fun to visit, it was almost not like grocery shopping at all. 

The first one we found was less than 10 minutes walk from our apartment in Funchal. There we bought milk, eggs, bread and vegetables. Another one, just slightly farther away, had delicious tangerines as well as prepared foods. 

On our second-to-last day in Madeira, we found the largest Pingo of all, in downtown Funchal. It was not unlike a Wegman's in size and scope. I picked up Portuguese Easter treats for the kiddos there.

And finally, we discovered that the chain extended to (probably began in) Lisbon. We never visited the flagship store there, but did dip into a smaller market in Cais do Sodre. As with the others there were self-assured locals doing their weekly shop, confused tourists searching for toothpaste, and harried clerks trying to deal with it all. Life itself, in other words. 

(*"To go shopping" in Portuguese. Above, a Pingo shopper in Funchal, just back from a hike.)

Pastry of Champions

The bags are unpacked, the laundry is done, and the souvenirs are stowed away, waiting for their recipients. All except one: the final pastel de nata, the custard tart Portugal is famous for and which I bought a six-pack of in the airport. That one is for breakfast. 

Pastéis de nata weren't the only pastries I purchased at Humberto Delgado Airport. I also sprang for a travesseiro, which was labeled "traditional Portuguese pastry" but which I learn means pillow and is the signature dessert of Sintra, the fairytale town outside Lisbon. 

Maybe I had just had my fill of pasteis de nata by the time I bit into this delicacy the day before yesterday, but in many ways I enjoyed it more: the flakiness of the crusty sweet, its delicate flavor. As you can see in the photo, I couldn't wait to sample it. And now... I can't wait to taste one again.

The Day After

The day after the feast: Leftovers fill the fridge. Two turkeys vie for space and baggies of extras are jammed into every other nook and cranny. The coolers still house sodas and beer, and bottles of unopened wine line up like soldiers in a drill.

There's a load of laundry churning away — placemats and tea towels mainly, having forgone cloth napkins for paper this year — but the china and silver are washed and stored for the next big occasion.

Outside, the wind is blowing, the pumpkins are still intact. But inside, all is calm. The dust is no longer flying. Twenty-nine people have come and gone ... and we survived. 

Last Meal

On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year's crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That's a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn't hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I'm feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce ... but I usually don't feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Short Order

I'm thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

"Cooked in Sight. Must be Right" read the sign on the wall. I'd have to agree. 

Farewell, Leftovers

For some, today might be TGIF. For others, only 22 more shopping days till Christmas. For me, it's the last day to eat Thanksgiving leftovers. Yesterday I eked one final turkey sandwich out of the bird, the day before that I ate the last cup of stuffing and final piece of pumpkin pie. 

Today it's down to the molded cranberry salad, which has been whittled from a large serving bowl to one a fraction of its size.

Before I'm drummed out of town on reckless eating charges, let me say that I've written a few food safety articles and know the drill. I keep hot foods hot and cold foods cold. I avoid cross-contamination at all costs, treating raw chicken prep areas as if they were hazmat zones. 

But I also like to get as much mileage as I can from any big meal I cook -- and last Thursday's was a doozy.  

(Apparently, I don't take many food pictures, either.)

Hardly Nothing

When a day is filled with as much cooking as yesterday was, the next day must be filled with, uh, pretty much nothing.

So how does one go about nothing, anyway? I've never been good at it. 

Walking, reading, more eating — hardly nothing, but sometimes they can feel like it when they're going well. 

Cranberries

This morning I'm considering the cranberry, the perfect color of it, its tartness and completeness ... and the way it slides beneath the knife when you try to slice and dice it. 

I'm considering the many berries I have to slice and dice ... and potential ways around that. Food processor to the rescue!

It's not even Thanksgiving and I'm already looking for ways to avoid cooking. This doesn't bode well!

Turkey Time

The other night I had a funny anxiety dream. I was strolling through a store on Thanksgiving afternoon, casually browsing, picking up treats for the holiday meal, when I suddenly realized that I had not put the turkey in the oven. Not only that, but I had failed to bake the pumpkin pies the night before. 

As I frantically tried to figure out how to feed 20 people with no turkey or pie ... I woke up. 

Ah yes, I thought groggily, a Thanksgiving anxiety dream.  When I came to full consciousness the next morning, I remembered my middle-of-the-night panic with a smile — but a jolt, too.

Yes, I was given a reprieve. But the big day is coming up. I hope I'm prepared!

(As close as I can come to a turkey photo: a turkey teapot photo!) 

Iced Tea!

As the mercury begin to settle back into more seasonal temperatures, I'll celebrate the record-breaking warmth of the last  few days with a photo of my favorite beverage, iced tea.

Here it is in a hero shot from yesterday, when it slaked the thirst brought on by 80-degree weather. 

So as my laundry crisped outside and I attempted to write a paper instead of swinging in the hammock (which is what I wanted to do), my beverage of choice sweated and cooled and looked as fetching as a glass of iced tea can look. 

You'll have to excuse the green shoots that seem to cascade from the side of the side of the glass. That's not extra mint, but the fronds of a spider plant peeping out on either side. 

Sláinte! 

Perfect Peaches

It's as if the peaches had been practicing all season to look this rosy and smooth-skinned, this thoroughly delicious.  "Last big picking," they were billed, giving those of us who'd come to haunt this particular booth at the Wednesday farmers market ample warning: don't expect this fruit again until next July. 

I felt the same tug in my heart I'm getting when I notice turning leaves or lowered light. 

But who can complain when the tilt of the sun produces peaches like these? 

(The astute observer will spot an interloper in this photo. I threw in a lemon to keep the peaches company.)

Portugal's Pastry

I've mentioned them before, the pasteis de nata, the national pastry of Portugal. After finishing the box of six purchased in the Lisbon airport, I began to dream of the dense, flaky pastry, the creamy custard filling. 

The dreams led to research, a recipe and a video tutorial. The process would take four hours with no guarantee of success. It involved multiple foldings of dough and applications of softened unsalted butter. I tried to imagine myself doing it and couldn't quite conjure the picture.

But surely in a major metropolitan area, there should be a bakery that sells pasteis de nata. So I began searching for such a place. I found one in a faraway corner of the city, then another right in Reston. I met friends there Friday to sample the wares. Not bad for a stateside rip-off. 

Then yesterday, a neighbor who visited Portugal recently herself dropped off a packet of six pastries. She found them, of all places, in a Lidl store, a discount grocer that apparently has a bakery! Who knew? 

I haven't yet tasted the delicacies, but they sure look like the real thing!

The Salad Green Blues

I don't usually read the food section of the newspaper because after decades of slinging hash I enjoy spending less time in the kitchen. But yesterday, I found myself pulled in by a piece that trashed, of all things, lettuce!

The author, Tamar Haspel, was not subtle: "Lettuce is a vehicle to bring refrigerated water from farm to table," she began, explaining that the crop is 96 percent water. Then she launched into a discussion of why eating salad was bad for the planet (it consumes too many resources in exchange for too few calories and nutrients) and bad for us (it provides a halo effect for all the less healthy stuff we mix in with it — croutons, fried chicken strips — and is more likely to make us sick, since it can be contaminated with food-borne pathogens and we eat it raw). It's not that we shouldn't eat salad, she concludes, but that we should realize it's a luxury to do so. 

As a person who builds many meals around salads (albeit forgoing iceberg lettuce, the most watery of salad greens), and who has sought them in vain in countries where food isn't as abundant, I have to say that her piece was an eye-opener. I won't be giving up my baby romaines and arugula anytime soon ... but I'll try to include even more beans, nuts and other nutritious add-ons when I eat them.

Over Easy

Too often I'm distracted. I wait too long to flip them over. But this morning the timing was right and the eggs were perfect: just runny enough to coat the whites.

Over easy has a nice, free-and-easy sound. It says flapjacks in the morning, a pot of tea brewing, the whole day ahead. 

Never mind that most mornings aren't like that. So the words promise—but only occasionally do they deliver. 

Melded

Yesterday I chopped onions and celery and carrots. I peeled potatoes and sliced them into quarters, then eighths. I unearthed a bay leaf from the spice cabinet and found some parsley from the fridge.

The potatoes were snowy white, and the large carrots made ducat-like rounds, fell from the knife with a crack and a burst of sweetness. The puny celery (is there a shortage this year?) needed little skinning. The onions were less pungent than some, so my eyes didn't water.

The kitchen filled with the aromas of simmering beef and marrow bones, as I added canned tomatoes and the sliced vegetables to the broth. The mixture simmered, and with each stir, the vegetables softened, adding their juices to the broth. The individual ingredients began to give way, to meld, to become one.

It took most of the afternoon, but by dinner time there was a passable vegetable soup to sip. It was delicious, but it will be much better tomorrow. And even better the next day.

'Tis the Season

The door is wreathed, the gifts are wrapped, the cards are mailed. But there is one more sign that the holidays have truly begun: I'm having cookies for breakfast.

It was a matter of necessity. I needed to remove at least two from the cookie tin in order to fit them in. 

But the fact is that all dietary decorum has broken down. 

'Tis the season...

Wednesday Market

I remembered just in time yesterday, remembered that it was Wednesday and the farmer's market was happening in my church parking lot. The church doesn't sponsor the market, just offers it a place to be. But having it there gives it a welcome familiarity.

As the summer has deepened, the produce offerings have expanded — and so has the carnival aspect of the event. Yesterday the parking lot was so full that I thought for a moment a service must be going on. But it wasn't a service, just a lot of vegetable-lovers — and more. 

This market includes bakery booths and a barbecue place, organic meats and micro-greens. A steel drum player gives it a Caribbean beat. As I squeezed tomatoes and peaches, I spotted a fleet of cyclists moving effortlessly down the road. For a moment it felt like summer would never end.