Back to earth

I don't know what's wrong with me. For the past three days, I've been a positive mess. On Thursday it started with weepiness, followed by the feeling of having been hit by a truck-ness on Friday. And today, finally, I found myself standing at the edge of a full-blown panic attack. 

Possible explanations include: a) exhaustion over entertaining "guests" (my mom and sister hardly qualify as far as I'm concerned, but still...) for the past three weeks, b) saying goodbye to the people I love over and over again (mom and sister, again), and c) standing in cold, wet, too tight jeans on a tower overlooking water rides that I had no intention of getting on (just my sister's fault this time). 

But my money's on option d) I feel lost. Lost in a way that no map in the world could help. And I can't blame anyone but myself for that.

You see, I don't have a plan. Normally, it's the plans in this world, the routine of everyday life, that makes people feel stifled, downtrodden even. But not me. No siree. It is the free-flowing nature of my days now, the complete lack of a plan - even one I don't stick to - that, when I really think about it, makes me feel like I'm suffocating. 

The small, rational part of my brain, burrowed deep in my mind behind the stuff more than one person has kindly referred to as my "active imagination," I know that once school starts in two weeks, I will have so many plans, so much on my agenda, that I'll be yearning for these carefree days filled with lounging and wandering and reading. But for the time being, as I realized this morning, the next TWO YEARS seem completely, irrevocably empty. 

Gah! Aren't overactive imaginations supposed to take care of made-up problems like this? Shouldn't I be able to conjure a fun idea of what the next two years of my life will be like? Ha, one would think. But instead, my mind keeps jumping ahead, devising little routines and schemes for my post-J-school life. And two years can't help but feel like an incredibly looong time. 

When the freak-out set in, I knew I had to get out, to make myself busy somehow. To distract myself with the things I love most. I grabbed a book, some cash and headed to the Berkeley Farmer's Market. 

Considering this is my fourth Saturday living just a short walk from the market, I have no excuse for not having visited before. And after this morning's stroll, I'm sure I won't let a month pass before visiting again. 

There was so much that I wanted, but, knowing even my own seemingly limitless appetite's limitations, I promised myself to buy only one thing, and it had to be one thing that I really, really wanted. Something that would make all my worries disappear, even for just a few moments of epicurean pleasure. 

When I saw the morels, looking all spongy and dirty in their little baskets, I knew I had to have them. I kept a straight face as I paid for them, but my eager sniff as I took the little brown bag bulging with little goodies so betrayed my excitement that I may as well have been standing in the middle of Center Street, jumping up and down and clapping my hands. I'd never had morel mushrooms before, but I'd heard a lot about them; in my mind, they were practically magic, exactly what I needed.

Despite the hedonistic flurry of images depicting sordid trysts between my morels and a sizzling pan of butter, I didn't rush back to my kitchen. I placed the little brown bag of hidden treasure into my tote, and let them work their witchery over me. 

For hours, I sat reading and sipping iced coffee and reading more and finally finishing said book, sometimes sneaking a peek into my bag, drooping lazily in a bed of cool grass, to make sure my morels were still there. For hours more still, I left them sitting on my kitchen counter as I wrote mindlessly and chatted on the phone. I left them waiting, and waiting a little more. And then...

My morels were gone in a flash of silence interrupted only by sporadic sighs of satisfaction. I may even have stomped my foot on the ground, but I was home alone so it's hard to know for sure. What I do know is their dark, woodsy flavor, coaxed out by a heavy dose of Lurpak, brought me back to earth. Nary a sign of panic to be found tonight. 

That's high praise for a scrubby little fungus, I know. But sometimes all a girl needs for a whole lot of magic is a little imagination. 

*** 

Morels, simply

For the spell they cast, these fellas are far from "simple." But they are absolutely scrumptious with just a bit of salt and butter - what could be easier?

1/4 pound fresh morels

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Salt, to taste

Use a small brush to dust off the mushrooms. Cut them in half and brush out the insides. (Give them a quick rinse if necessary, but only if absolutely necessary.)

Melt the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the mushrooms, stirring occasionally as they cook. When they begin to release some of their juices, reduce the heat to medium and continue to cook until the mushrooms reabsorb the water they released. 

Add salt to taste, and serve over toast of your choice. (Let me recommend an English muffin: the nooks and crannies sop up all the buttery juices, making sure nothing is lost without the eater's having to resort to licking the plate. Though if the mood strikes, by all means...)

Lemon Cucumber

Welcome to Weird Food Wednesday! 

It's not Wednesday, so I suppose it's a bit odd to introduce what I hope will become a weekly Wednesdays-only post about some weird foodie find or other (in an attempt to make myself write more and try new things) but I swear I have a perfectly good reason. Three reasons, actually. Yesterday (a real Wednesday), I was at an amusement park letting the thrill rides bang coherent use of the English language out of my head. I technically posted a weird find last Wednesday, so this isn't even the introduction. And umm, well, I didn't think of this until just now and weird finds just works better with Wednesdays. (I evidently haven't recovered from the thrill rides. I promise not to say the W-word again.)

So what counts as a weird find? With me, just about anything and everything is fair game to be classified as "weird," considering that I ate a HoHo, a common children's treat, for the first time on Monday. I promise it wasn't just any HoHo - the bakery annex of the Napa winery we visited called it the "Adult HoHo" and it took me a fork, knife and TWO sittings to polish off.

But I'm not here to talk about HoHos. This week's weird find is... drum roll please... the lemon cucumber. My sister Sandy and I found it at the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market on Tuesday and truth be told, it is a fascinating little specimen, bizarre in look but totally familiar in flavor. It's about the size and approximate color of a lemon. The skin looks like a melon's and feels like an apple's - and that is exactly how you're supposed to eat it, like an apple. 

But the taste is a delicate twist on the common cuke: fresh, clean and mild with a hint of sweetness. The natural packaging just makes it the perfect hand-to-mouth snack. Sprinkle a little salt or maybe even a little sugar on the juicy flesh, or bite right in au natural. 

But be forewarned: it may induce a shimmy that Sandy dubbed "the lemon cucumber dance."

The extra perfect morning, and a "whiriligiggle" fest

I love mornings in Berkeley. This may be a little presumptuous considering I've only been in the area 12 days, but really, mornings are simply blissful here. Even in the middle of the summer, they're gray and chilly and crisp and perfect for cuddling up in a pillowy bed. I have yet to wake up frozen from air conditioning cranked up too high, or sweaty from one of those misleadingly "cool" nights on the East Coast, where no matter the temperature, the humidity is just killer. 

No, in Berkeley you can sleep in shorts and pull on socks and a sweatshirt when you finally wake up and make your way to the couch for a loungy breakfast over Saved by the Bell reruns. (Did I mention I'm single, out of work and waiting for fall classes to start?)

But on this particular perfect Berkeley morning, I'm not cuddling with my pillows and I'm not even watching SBTB. This morning I couldn't sleep. I can't even sit still. This morning, my sister, Sandy, is coming to visit. And I am positively bursting with excitement.  

Oh, and did I mention I've been baking? Yes, baking. Because gray, chilly mornings are the perfect respite for the wannabe baker who retires her oven in summer's depressing heat. And the chocolate-pistachio buns I've made seem to be bursting with excitement over Sandy's arrival, too. Or maybe it's just the three packets of rapid rise yeast. 

To call my perfect morning project chocolate-pistachio "buns" doesn't really do them justice. They're actually called "whirligigs" and come from Nigella Lawson's How to be a Domestic Goddess via The Wednesday Chef Luisa Weiss. (Luisa replaced the pistachio with almonds, but I've re-replaced the bun filling with Nigella's original pistachio, at Sandy's request.)

I have to say that these buns came to find themselves on my very fluid "bake this" list because of their name. I mean, whirligig! Just thinking it makes me giggle and saying the word outloud... well, it really just pushes me over the edge, giggle-wise. Or should I say, whirligiggle-wise. I crack myself up. 

But, seriously, watching them burst forth in the oven when so many people are still enjoying their beds (or heading to work; it is Thursday after all) and now watching them practically pushing their way off the baking sheet even as they cool, is positively inspiring. It almost makes me want to spin around in circles or go to the gym or do something else equally silly and un-morninglike. 

But mostly it's the knowledge that beyond the impression of explosive power await pockets filled with sugar and butter and pistachios and chocolate that makes me want to burn my fingers tugging a corner whirligig away from the pack, curling up on the couch until the sun cuts through the gray chill and the time comes to pick up my sister.

Oh my god. Extra perfect Berkeley morning. 

***

Chocolate-Pistachio Whirligig Buns

Originally from Nigella Lawson's How to Be a Domestic Goddess, adapted by The Wednesday Chef Luisa Weiss

I kept the chocolate-pistachio filling called for in the original recipe, but used Luisa's adapted cooking directions. Makes 20-30 buns.

Dough

5 to 5 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/3 cup superfine sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

3 packets instant yeast (6 3/4 teaspoons)

7 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 2/3 cup milk

2 large eggs

Vegetable oil

Filling

8 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1 cup plus 1 tablespoon superfine sugar

3/4 cup pistachios (I used roasted, unsalted)

1 cup semisweet chocolate chips

1 large egg, beaten

To prepare the dough, combine 5 cups of flour, sugar, salt and yeast. In a small saucepan, combine butter and milk and heat to lukewarm. Beat the eggs lightly, then whisk them into the milk mixture. Stir the liquid ingredients into the dry ones.

Using a mixer with a dough hook, or by hand, knead the dough until smooth and springy, adding more flour if necessary. Form into a ball and place in a clean, oiled bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise in a warm place until double in size, about 30 minutes. 

Punch down dough. Line a 13 x 10-inch baking pan with parchment paper. Roll out dough to a rectangle about 20 to 10 inches. 

For the filling, mix together the butter and sugar to a paste. Spread the paste over the large rectangle of dough. Sprinkle pistachios evenly over the dough, then top with chocolate chips. Starting from the longest side, carefully roll up the dough so it looks like a long sausage. Cut dough into 20 slices, about 3/4 inch thick, and arrange with cut side up in the pan. 

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Brush buns with beaten egg and let them sit in a warm place until puffed up and snugly fitting the pan, about 15-20 minutes. Bake until buns have risen and are golden-brown, about 25 to 30 minutes. Remove from baking pan to cool on a rack. Serve warm. 

A new face at the dinner table

So last week, at my now beloved Ferry Building Farmer's Market, I happened upon a little something that I'd heard a lot about, but had never actually seen/touched/tasted/etc. I found them at a tiny corner stall, little yellow blooms in plastic containers pushed out of the way, all the attention going to the enormous strawberries to their side. But I noticed them. Oh boy, did I notice them. And for the past week, I've been eating them. 

Zucchini blossoms are so fun and weird. I was thrilled to take them home and felt very in-the-know when I took them out of my shopping bag. Then, I was scared. What was I supposed to do with them? I picked one up, turned it around by the stem. It was a flower. I was about to eat a flower. Oh my. I popped it in my mouth. Yup. In case I had any doubts, it indeed tasted like flower. 

I can't say it was bad, and I also can't say I really tasted it. The inside of my mouth was caught up in a bizarre struggle, that strange battle that ensues when one tastes something out of the ordinary for the first time: Brain says to Mouth, "Swish it around and explore the flavor," only to have Mouth try to force the new organism past the tongue and straight down the gullet. 

Once the blossoms were cooked, however, Mouth was terribly pleased. My go-to cooking method has been to sautee them with a little bit of spray oil, sprinkle them with salt and eat them while they're still hot. They're like floral french fries that way, and the first night I just gobbled them up. I can only hope to see them served as street food one day... 

I've eaten the sauteed blossoms in a scramble of eggs and Parmesan cheese, and tangled with nutty whole wheat pasta and Parmesan cheese (I really like Parmesan cheese). Still, I like them best without much fuss, hot and at once crispy and tender, straight from hand to mouth.

The sweetest summer treat

All summer, I've been craving cherries. One could say it all started with bon appetit's June issue, whose cover featured a slice of what could presumably be this pie. 

But, while bon appetit didn't hurt, cherry cravings have marked my summers since childhood, as if the fruit, like edible good luck rubies, are somehow mythical balls without which the season can't start. 

Or, umm, maybe I just really like cherries. Not just any cherries, mind you. These cherries:

The French call them griottes, for Iranians it's albaloo torsh.  In Farsi, albaloo means cherry and torsh means sour; one of my cousin asked my mom if albaloo, by definition, isn't also torsh, implying that a cherry is a cherry is a cherry. He just got her classic "look," which implied, ahem, that he didn't know what he was talking about. Anyone whose tasted albaloo torsh will understand exactly what my mom meant. 

Sour cherries are smaller than sweet cherries, their skin more taut, and, as the name clearly suggests, the flesh is more sour. But it's more than that. The flavor combines sweet and sour, flicking across the taste buds to create a sensation of freshness that just sings of summer. Granted, I've gone plenty of summers without sour cherries; they're just not that easy to come by back in New Jersey, and when we did they were terribly expensive. Consider them the morel mushrooms of summer's fruit bounty. 

So imagine our excitement when my mom and I came across them on our first ever visit to Berkeley Bowl. They came from Washington state, and were packed into a large container, more than my mom and I imagined we could finish in the day and a half before she left, and definitely more than I could finish on my own before they went bad. We talked it over: whatever we didn't finish could be transformed into preserves, or pie, or ice cream; nothing would be wasted. Instead of sugar plums, my mind was packed with dancing sour cherries, full of potential and promise. 

That afternoon, we sampled them. And everyday since, I "sampled" a little more, and a little more. Today, I "sampled" the last of the pack, with no jam or other sweet in sight. 

But anyone whose ever tasted sour cherries knows that eating them fresh is the sweetest summer treat.