radical muffins at the ER

the doctor said I over-taxed my system. Just worked a few late nights/early mornings plus anxiety and a travel sprint. That late night, gin sodden, drag queen bingo fundraiser with my friends who i stayed with in DC did not help, i am sure.

the drag queens did like my boobs and trailer trash aesthetic though. And the arepas were amazing.

despite having health insurance— for which I thank my lucky Sagittarian stars (a nod now to the surprising U.S. Supreme Court decision to up-hold the constitutionality of Obamacare)— I have not established a regular provider in New York City. I had a great doctor in DC; adored her – this old JD turned MD with long dreads. NYC feels daunting to find such smart, non-judgmental care; there are so many doctors that there are so proportionately many bad ones. Feels like a needle in a haystack, with a long que at that. Plus I am skittish about the medical system at best. So I fall back to my wayward working class Midwestern ways and rely on the ER and critical care units.

i was at the ER from just after 6 am until noon. I don’t mind the waiting; like i don’t mind long stretches of travel, being between places. Even the pain i was in was a weird sort of meditation. When they sent me from the waiting room to a semi-curtained off bed in the care center with double halls, i sat cross-legged on it, shoes off, first leaning forward with my elbows tucked in my ankles, my head in my hands over my green bag bulging with magazines i did not read. Then i would sit up, straightening my spine and rocking side to side, gently tilting my neck, which, as it turns out, was horribly inflamed. A throat infection, but – forgive a bit of disgusting detail here – the infection was forming an abscess that there was initial concern would need to be drained with a needle. The early morning shift doctor, an Indian man with thick wavy hair, optimistically added that it might recede with medication and not need puncturing. The second shift doctor, after 8 am, would check after the shot of steroids.

he walked briskly to the next bed, loudly addressing the elderly man who had put god-knows-what in his ear and now was having troubles with it. He also got a mostly gentle lecture about reserving ambulance rides for people needing actually urgent care, with a run down on heart attacks and bleed outs. i considered the needle potentially for y mouth and cried quietly, but generated a lot of snot, wiping it on the sleeve of my sweater. Eventually caught a nurse to ask for Kleenex. Rocked and blew my nose. Texted my sister-femme-sister who immediately rang, offering to come; i was content to have her on text and felt better.

a burnt out skinny black man wanders by and asked to use my phone; some young men in scrubs swiftly led him to the central main desk phone. I did not have time to say a word. Earlier, a man had been trying to call a friend there with a doctor repeatedly mis-dialing the number. A power struggle: asking what kind of Doctors can be here who cannot even dial a number, the man refusing to let them stitch him up until he had his one call; like a police station. I couldn’t see. I wondered how badly he was bleeding.

listen to the gravely cry of the old woman across from me:

Nurse! Doctor! You need to come here. I am in a lot of pain. I am in a lot of pain here. Do they think I am joking?

every three minutes, the coarse refrain of her pain. Nurses fresh to shift stop in to talk with her then check with the main desk, where staffers repeatedly report she has already had her medication and would be going back to the nursing home soon. A crisp little Asian nurse patiently explains this to her over and over, trying to coax her to wait for the meds to kick in.

the second shift medical assistant for my bed number came on, an African man, who was confused by but relenting on my refusal to put on a hospital gown. I was in yoga pants and a skirt, a t-shirt and a sweater; and I was freezing. He offered me food I just couldn’t eat.

dutifully peed in a cup to prove I had no pregnancy to harm with a shot of steroids and whatever pain meds were coming soon.

the second shift doctor came on – a solid stepping dyke looking woman with salt and pepper hair in navy scrubs. I liked her face and kind direct pragmatism. She was going through the standard questions, and I was explaining, catching her up on what the prior doc said, but I guess being weird- because she laughed. Then said, “Oh, I am sorry for laughing, but you are being really cute!” Her eyes crinkled.

i was glad to make her laugh; tough gig, working the ER.

cultured my throat (the least fun you’ll have with me). Said, “You must be in a lot of pain. I know you cannot see it, but I can see it, and you must be in a lot of pain.” I fell asleep. Sweated through all my clothes.

the pain has subsided to a mere soreness when I swallow, and I am so so so grateful. Meds and home care in place, I am among my plants now. Made strawberry Jell-O that solidified creepily, delightfully in the fridge: strawberry layer with a layer of peach Cool Whip suspension.

As much a part of my childhood as ERs.

P.S.  Decided radical muffins cannot live on cake alone. Will keep cake posts numbered but need to share some other things.

winter farmshare yields carrot cake

according to recent text messages, this is the best carrot cake EVER!!!

the sweet up-shot of a zillion carrots from the winter farm share.

presuming carrot cake a quintessential American dessert, I went to Joy for the measurements. Out of respect for its crumbling, moldered pages, the 1953 edition doesn’t do kitchen duty so the kitchen’s 1997 edition provided the basic infrastructure. As expected, carrot cake, page 935. Adopted as below; brilliant.

snuggled into bed with the booky stink of the old copy to see how the recipe changed over time. It ain’t in there. Scoured the index, staring blankly at places where it should fit…carrot, cake; cake, carrot… It wasn’t hiding out near the gingerbread where it lives in 1997, and the gingerbread lived in breads not cake and without the quaint introduction as the baked good with the oldest traceable roots with the exception of bread. Wouldn’t carrot cake be a logical runner up? Pineapple cake—perhaps leading to the crushed pineapple in the late innovation of carrot cake—was the closest thing. Seems Granny Rom didn’t put shredded veggies in dessert.

and I don’t put canned crushed pineapple in anything. So, happily abandoning that convention, peel an apple, slice it into quarters, and drop them into a small saucepan with 4 tablespoons of butter, the zest of one lemon and half an orange, and about an inch of fresh ginger peeled and minced. Cook covered over low heat, stirring once in awhile, until, essentially, you have a very fragrant apple mush.

heat your oven to 350° and butter and flour a 9” round cake pan.

sift together: 1 ¾ cup of cake flour with 1 ½ teaspoons of baking soda and a teaspoon of baking powder with cloves, cinnamon, salt and freshly grated nutmeg.  I am afraid the latter measurements are of the “as you like” variety.

in a large measuring bowl, whisk together ½ cup of sunflower oil, 3 eggs (at room temperature), and one cup of sugar. We went in for plain white sugar which left room for the intricate spicing to shine through. Stir in the cooled apples.

stir in the dry goods along with 1 cup each of walnuts and dried cranberries as well as 2 cups of shredded carrots. Admittedly, the peeling & shredding of so many roots out me off making carrot cake before. The sole available tool had been a finger threatening flimsy box grater. But the newly gifted mandolin shredded them so fine and so fast we had more than originally called for lickety-split. Thus—even more carroty carrot cake.

pour the lot into your cake pan and bake for about half an hour or until set in the center. Leave for 10 minutes before turning out of the pan to a rack for cooling then a plate for icing.

by the work of our hands

according to my mother, who shredded these carrots and made the spangled pocket in the photo, carrot cake’s ultimate role is as perfect accompaniment for cream cheese frosting. The key to which, apparently, is very cold cream cheese. Cream together an 8 oz block of cold cream cheese with 4 tablespoons of softened butter and 2 – 2 ½ cups of powdered sugar.

once iced, the whole cake will need to refrigerated as well as slices as they linger, if the linger. Happy if they do, this is the sort of cake that gets better when its been around a bit.

winter bizarre @ Third Root Community Health Center

Sweets and tart aprons for your pleasure and pleasing available live and in-person this Sunday evening.

Third Root Community Health Center is hosting a Radical Muffin Winter Bizarre! A trunk show of aprons. Joined by hand-knit warm things, eye-pillows to lure you to rest, and other hand-made goodies by artists in the neighborhood. Plus tasty treats for the sampling, and, of course, Third Root gift certificates: good for yoga classes, acupuncture and other services for the weary on your gift list.

New aprons have joined those shown on the Aprons page. Prices range from $25 – $75. You can e-mail me at radicalmuffin @ gmail.com to reserve one of the pieces pictured.

Come to find just the right apron to delight your favorite kitchen witch or become smitten with one yourself.

Sunday, December 19

7:00pm – 9:00pm

Third Root Community Health Center

380 Marlborough Road, Brooklyn, NY     just around the corner from the Q train stop at Cortelyou Road

So join the crowd in Brooklyn Sunday night for a treat. Support local artists and healers then hurry down the chimney…

the feast of lights

from Chicago, Angel, who has lived in Sweden, posted:

It is no surprise you were born on the light-bringer’s day. Happiest of Birthdays. I love you. Mille Besos.

naughty fairies on the mirror of collective creation

even if you lie about your age—in this case, I publicly turned 95—the experience of birthdays via facebook is an almost overwhelming thing.  A dinner party, however, is less so. On the eve of my personal new year, which is also the feast of Saint Lucy, the saint of light (a coincidence my Sicilian Catholic great grandmother rapturously believed blessed), this radical muffin put out big time.

the preacher eater made the grand finale possible. His cousin, the cook from Sun in Bloom, might argue that the Rosemary Remembrance cake was the grandest thing on the buffet, selling it to everyone sidling up to the table and slipping the end bit in foil to go. Her aunt perhaps the white lasagna, with hand pulled noodles and slimly sliced marinated artichokes. Many were enthralled with the “prehistoric, fractal, underwater, alien” romanesca served whole like pine forested mini-mountains. For me, it was, as it always is, the pie.

this particular pie being Ohio Pie or Shaker Pie, a thing from the heartland, my homeland, humble and weird, sweet and tart. Made with whole lemons, sliced paper-thin. The recipe called from old church cookbooks and Joy, irresistible. So I raved and hinted and promised a winter of root veggies au gratin all the while with pie in mind thus the benevolent preacher eater gifted me a mandolin.

oh! this simple machine! I cannot oversell its virtues: swift and easy precision cutting; easy to clean; mad fine julienne potential; small, i.e. easy to store in teeny urban kitchens. The grace of fine design. If you’re most beloved kitchen witch doesn’t have one, find one for their tool box. ‘Tis the season.

offered presents early enough for cooking (the other being a seltzer maker; big party hit), I merrily slid three Meyer lemons down my new plane, shedding translucent sunny circles, pith and all. If you also have a fabulous mandolin then slice them right into a big glass bowl. Poke out the seed bits. Dump a cup of sugar and a bit of salt over the lemons, and let the whole mess sit. Hours. Overnight. In this case, as long as it took to make everything else with wonderful kitchen help from the preacher eater plus our charming guests from Takoma Park.

make pastry for a covered pie. Roll it out for your pan accordingly. Pat the bottom into place in your pan; cover its surface directly with something, like parchment paper. Roll out the top and likewise wrap it. Stash both in the freezer.

bring out four eggs to come to room temperature. Set ½ stick of butter, four tablespoons, in an ovenproof bowl to melt in your oven as it heats to 425˚. When mostly melted, pull it out, stir and let cool a bit.

whisk together the eggs. In a fine stream, pour in the butter, and sprinkle in three tablespoons of flour (a small fistful). Stir the macerated lemons into the egginess, pull out your pie pan, and pour it all in. Smooth out the lemons in the custard, and top.

to ventilate, cut out shapes into the crust with cookie cutters. We used a peace dove for this, with sweeping slices at its wings.

bake for half an hour. Lower to 350˚, and bake for another 20 minutes or so, until the crust is puffed and browned. Bring out to cool on a rack before serving. The custard has to set up, and if you cut into it right away, you’ll have lemon lava mess.

lemon for light

hopefully, the others ate their fill, because, admittedly, I ate the lion’s share the next day, Saint Lucia’s day, heaped in a bowl and drizzled with heavy cream. Eaten in bed under thick covers against the first snow and its accompanying shattering cold. Although not brought by girls with candles in their hair and no charming men sang the Star Boy song, Brooklyn being far from Stockholm, it felt as domestically magical.

kale pasticcio

fantastical cupcakes

the radical muffin kitchen hosted dinner to celebrate our new winter farmshare wherein we decorated these schnazzy cupcakes. Seems the artists were either too enamored with the art or too stuffed from supper to eat them. So although the buttermilk cake is worth a post someday, the recipe everyone has been clamoring for is the make-do casserole served up alongside the root veggie soup.

let’s call it brioche kale pasticcio, shall we? In Italian, literally, “a mess.” Yet in la buona cucina, it is something divine.  In the classic Italian kitchen, veggies and béchamel would snuggle amongst themselves or with some macaroni. This version holds custard not classic white sauce and is dense with rich bread, so emerges a golden savory bread pudding bedecked with greens.

slice and caramelize one medium mild onion in a heavy skillet with butter. Rinse and rip a generous bunch of kale into bite sized pieces and set aside.

butter a large casserole dish, and set your oven to 375°.

slice and cube a heap of day old brioche. We happened to have an acquired loaf lying around; brioche ain’t cheap. Although it is incomparable for soaking and cooking, as in for French toast or this, any dry bread will do. Play with whole grains, baguettes, etc. to create varying textures of wholesomeness. Toss bread cubes in a big bowl.

melt ¾ stick of butter in a small saucepan over low flame. Add a dash of salt, pepper and paprika, and slowly pour in about a cup and a half of whole milk. Bring just to a simmer then turn off the heat. In a bowl aside, whisk together three eggs. Pour the milk/butter in a thin stream into the eggs, merrily whisking all the while.

crumble about a cup of fresh white cheese. We had some marvelous German-styled something from our CSA. Farmer’s cheese, ricotta or feta would also work well. Shred as much hard salty cheese, like parmesan (as was used) or gruyére.

dump most of the custard and half the cheese into the bread crumbs and turn turn turn until all combined. Add in the onions and kale; mix well.  Turn out into the casserole, shake the pan to settle it all together and maybe give a gentle pat. Drizzle with remaining custard (dot with butter if it looks too dry), and cover with the remaining cheese.

bake until the custard is cooked through and the cheese is all melty and browning in spots. About half an hour. We used a pretty deep casserole here so the high temperature did not overcook the delicate custard. Similar recipes often call for baking in a water bath, which hasn’t proven necessary. Of course, if you are a crunchy top junkie then use a broad shallow pan and cook for less time. Keep on eye on it any which way.

sweet transcupcakes from transsexual transylvania

it will be difficult to keep waiting diners at bay, but do let this set ten minutes or so before serving. More mouthwatering than cupcakes, apparently. Certainly, there was none left to photograph.

fryday friday

in the kitchen I am happiest when I am frying.  One reason is that frying takes the whole cooking process and condenses it into a continuously visible, uninterrupted sequence.  It resembles those nature documentaries where the camera shows us tiny buds developing into full blooms, compressing weeks of growth into seconds.  One is never out of touch with the food one is frying, even for a moment, and I find that very satisfying….

fried food must be eaten promptly, and cannot be reheated.  In Naples they have a phrase for saying that one thing follows immediately upon another. It is frienno magnanno, which means, literally, frying and eating. And that is how it should be done.

marcella hazan, more classic cooking (1978)

and that is what we did. although the night ended in a resonant and reverential reading of Marcella, it began with Paula Deen.

turns out, our stunning drag performer darling is also a sick fry cook. The night we met, in the back garden of Ginger’s bar at Brooklyn Pride, we talked Paula Deen and fell into the deep fryer of food love. Fry night has been pending ever since. Come to think of it—Paula’s how I baited the preacher eater too. Seems i owe Ms. Deen some gratitude.

our all you can fry event was an appropriate homage to the reigning queen of the deep fryer as well as a revelation to our visiting vegan friend from Sweden, the founding co-chair of the International High End Perverts Society (also the photographer, gratzi). Oreos, as it turns out, are vegan. And vanilla pancake batter, made with almond milk and egg replacer, fries up real nice.

the drag artist manned the fry pot in an old tourist’s souvenir “California” apron. the Texas fairy orchestrated a pile of golden okra nuggets that filled my great grandmothers punch bowl. reshma sprawled at the table—like Alice big from the Drink Me bottle in our kitchen too tiny for all her graceful limbs—dredging pickles with the enthusiasm only possible from a far-from-home Midwesterner with State Fairs in her heart.

fry me to the moon

This is what we fried:

vegan corn fritters

okra

breaded fresh mozzarella rounds

hallumi cubes tossed in flour & cornmeal

potato fritters with broccoli rabe and spinach

pickles

feta stuffed green olives

marinated artichokes

sprigs of flowering broccoli rabe

whole garlic cloves

morning star faux sausage

pineapple

oreos

mini-snickers bars

ring dings

fudge

in our orgiastic feasting, we surpassed ourselves before managing to fry up our marshmallows, cinnamon roll dough in a tube, and frozen butter slices. You can also fry beer, but we drank all ours.

queer stuff: love, suffering and dancing

i stood in the little cheese etc. shop watching yet another mom wrangle her Sports Utility Stroller through the door, like a camel through the eye of a needle, and public radio repeated…kidnapped, beat, tortured and sodomized. Young men in the Bronx by other young men in the Bronx. Over my eight hours behind the counter through the trickle of customers, that was the refrain of the day. Each hour: kidnapped, beat, tortured and sodomized. They did not say raped; I keep wondering why.

this drawn out headline followed by NY governor candidate Paladino’s speech about “gays brainwashing our children…” corrected with a talk show tour where he clarified that he is no homophobe, he just doesn’t think gays should marry.  There’s a People magazine sprawled on the backseat of the preacher eater’s aunt’s car: cover story, bullying and teen suicide.  Mostly queer kids.

gay men saved my life.

against all the recent news of suffering, I vividly recall:

the fire circle.  after the talent show. drums cradled between knees in a ring in the dark.

standing woodside, pushing my hips off the beat, side to side, minidress sliding up black tights; the ground hard and cold under my thin soled boots, the laces tight. Wide-kneed stomping, he comes around the circle, naked from the waist down, pale cock half flopping, side to side, in a short formal jacket, wild white-faced with peaked sparkling eye make up glittering over his beard, over his big smile. The fire belches up sparks into the black, spraying light on his shiny elbows flapping. I step over the tarp where voyeurs curl up watching; he makes room. Slide into his square clapped out into the air for me, framing my body, we churn something older than us in the air, old like dirt. Snake through the warm pockets, sweating, long sweater sliding off. Turning, stomp hard at each other; asses jiggling. Beyond us, men share flasks of Wild Turkey, smoke out of an apple. Beyond them, a cluster of three slim figures stroke each other. My lover stretches on the blue tarp behind me into the folds of a big bearded man’s toga, glitter falling between them.

years ago, the back dance floor of DJ’s place, after the drag show, falling against the cook from the café where we all seemed to work, freckled, thin in his old jeans and white tee shirt. His arm curving around my hip and waist pulling me close, step to step, hips locked. His lips slid up my neck, “I never met a woman who loves food like you do.” “Talk to me about Garlic,” I hissed and bit his tongue.

i had a horrible eating disorder, lost whole days to it. Queers helped me get over it. All that affection. New scales for sexual desirability. New performances of femininity. All that unapologetic pleasure.

perched on a stool in the burgundy China Doll dress he had picked out for me, I looked up at his perfect cupid’s bow lips as the ice skater lined my eyes. We’d make-out with only lips touching in the parking lot before going into the Red Fox, the after hours gay club with the old high school lab tables. Kissing like the thirsty drinking water, crystalline, simple. He held me when I melted down after taking his boyfriend/my housemate’s ex-lover to the hospital when his mother had a heart attack he blamed himself for. After the little gay mechanic’s dad put his head through a windshield, and the opera singer went back in the closet so his parents would let him stay at home and in touch with his younger brother. After we unlisted our phone number because of the creepy calls. After my girlfriend’s gay sister was dragged to the front of the family church to be exorcised.

perched in the dirt at our campsite, I closed my eyes as the drag queen glued false lashes like pink polka dotted butterfly wings to my lids. Slipped into the circling conversations of foreclosure politics, fabric dying, and perverse non-sequiturs. After the majority of my closest gay men friends sero-converted to HIV-positive, and I remain relieved most live in cities with access to services and community. After the young violinist jumped off the bridge. After all the break-ups, layoffs, depression, and drama. After taking my friend to the emergency room to have a sex toy removed from his ass that, although beginning pleasurably enough, had been up there over 24-hours and another 24-hours at the hospital before surgery.

okay, the last incident was really one of the highlights of my year so far since it all turned out happy hinney. (sorry, bunny, but it was rather exciting…)

there was a Love-In in Times Square on Friday evening in response to the spasm of anti-queer hate crimes. I was in the boug-box, and Loved-In from there. I hope you’ll Love-In from where ever you are.

of cabbages and kings (there were shoes in that bit too)

scape handler

Diogenes advised the young man, “If you lived on cabbage, you would not be obliged to flatter the powerful.”  To this, the courtier replied, “If you flattered the powerful, you would not be obliged to live on cabbage. “

we still had a pound and a half of cabbage after the preacher eater’s adventure in kimchi.  The fermenting project netted us a huge jar of fruity-peppery, gingery pickled cabbage and carrots with plenty to gift to the neighbors, but half a head of Savoy and an entire red cabbage began accruing squatter’s rights in the left crisper drawer.

virtuous, humble and reliable, cabbage earned accolades in ancient Rome and held its own among the French Court of Catherine de Medici.  It plays mythical roles from beau diviner to baby-maker to  faerie land wormhole gateway.  Ubiquity and poor handling put this staple out of favor.  Outside of the obligatory 4^th of July coleslaw and a few dedicated sauerkrauters, we mostly avoid cabbage, rumored to generate stink as it cooks and after you eat it.  Like so many misunderstood foods, these unfortunate experiences are not really the cabbages’ fault, yet the stigma remains.

so she was gasping when she called me from the farm share pick-up, Guess what’s in the share? Cabbage!

we almost swapped that cabbage out.  Our CSA site has a box to trade stuff you might not want: hate broccoli?  take your neighbor’s unloved turnips.  One cook’s trash is after all…

we had a cart like that in grade school in the gym turned lunchroom. I kept my much maligned salami sandwiches to myself but always took a cruise around the table for anything interesting.  It was perpetually teaming with inside-out pb&j sandwiches mangled in transit, bashed up bananas, and overly red apples that you knew were mealy despite stiff and shiny skins.  Disappointing.  Although the CSA swap box held far more promise, the farmer was giving us Napa cabbage, a new variety for our growing collection.  Humbled to fate, perhaps, we decided to confront our cabbage surplus head on.

as soon as our newest cabbage arrived home, we went right for the heart, putting away 3 bunches of outer leaves and pulling the central leaves for instant salad.  We also shredded that lingering red cabbage, mixing half with shredded new beets and olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper—jarred this.

for Instant Gratification CSA Salad, combine a quarter of a red cabbage, shredded, with the innermost pale green leaves of Napa cabbage in a huge glass bowl.  Rinse a handful each of the finest of spinach and beet greens.  Stem the spinach and roll the beet greens up like a cigar, slice them and add to the other greens.  Scrub and slice thin three Japanese radishes—not those leg of lamb sized Daikon, these were round like typical red radishes but pure white and milder—and add to the salad.

then come the scapes, wonderfully loopy and green, like bracelets.  Discard the stringy tips at the bulb end then slice the bulb just below the neck then slice it open lengthwise.  Slice a few inches of the green stem the same way, long, elegant, on the diagonal.  Rinse off a handful of pea pods, pop off the stem end if it is tough (ours were utterly edible).  Slice in half if they are long then lengthwise, right through the peas, split their tiny equators.  The cutaway of the inner landscape is pretty like the scapes.  Heat a small frying pan over a medium flame and pour in a few slugs of olive oil.  Toss in the scapes and the peas, salt and pepper and toss them around over high heat for a few minutes, until the peas are bright green.  Dump right from the pan into the salad bowl and toss.  Squeeze half a lemon over the whole thing, toss some more and serve.  This salad accompanied BBQ tempeh sandwiches to our table.

the next night, several bunches of Napa leaves went into a skillet pie reminiscent of stuffed cabbage rolls but far less work:

break dried spaghetti into 1-inch lengths for about a cup of broken noodles; boil and drain them.  Cook a cup of quinoa for about 15 minutes in 2 cups of boiling stock.  While the grains and pasta cook, chop several scapes (or garlic) and shell some peas.  We had about ¼ cup of peas and saved the pods for miso soup.  Toss garlic and peas with the pasta and grains in a big bowl along with salt and pepper.  The stock we had on hand was deep with mushroom flavor, which I think made this the best sort of comfort food, a dish that draws the eater in to pause then wraps you in thick, familiar flavor, smelling really good.

in a big, cast iron skillet, sauté half an onion, chopped, in a bit of butter and olive oil.  Add ½ a pound of tempeh, chopped, along with salt, pepper, red pepper flakes and paprika, turning and cooking until it begins to brown.  Ladle in about a cup of stock and a few stalks of spicy basil or other herbs then bring to a simmer, steaming the tempeh.  When the stock has evaporated, turn the tempeh in with the grains and stir.  Let this all cool just a bit then crack in an egg, stir.

preheat the oven to 400° and wipe out your heavy skillet.  Melt 3 tablespoons or so of butter and spread a layer of bread cubes (about 3 slices of bread, cubed) along the bottom of the pan.  Season and toast the bread over high for a few minutes, turning to coat all sides in butter.  Smooth out the bread layer and cover with the grain/tempeh and over that layer several rounds of Napa cabbage leaves.  Crumble fresh feta and shred some parmesan cheese over the leaves; dot with butter and sprinkle with paprika.  Bake the whole thing for about 20 minutes, until the leaves are soft and cheese is melted.  In a bigger casserole, there could be a few layers and, I imagine, delectable.

summer jewelry

we have some of the remaining cabbage earmarked for miso soup, and surely the last bit of red cabbage will go into our daily lunch salads, or maybe this kale and cabbage slaw.  Getting through all this cabbage was originally about conquering it, but this affair turned out much tastier triumphs.  And we still have kimchi.

** with affection to alice & her creator, who gave me so many things to talk about then eat

tagliatelle with mushroom sauce

a plate of pasta.

loves long simmering in mixed company

don’t you feel good already?  Imagine really toothsome pasta, lavish with but not overwhelmed by a subtle sauce.  It is too early in the season for tomatoes, but not for butter.  Butter, onion and mushrooms.

thus inspired, we ate tagliatelle with mushrooms on the fire escape.  Sitting on the chipped dark green iron, amidst the pots of verdant herbs and lettuces, holding green plates of golden yellow noodle nests with earthy brown mushrooms.  A gluttonous silence fell; the sun set.  We lifted the plates to our chins and twined the pasta on our forks, shamelessly plowing mushrooms into our mouths left gleaming with butter.

fresh, hand cut pasta cannot be hyperbolized.  It wants your time and attention then rewards you lavishly.

to make enough to generously (and, really, is there any other way?) feed two, measure out a heaping cup of flour in a large, heavy bowl—one that will be comfortable for the movements of kneading—and make a hollow in the center, like a volcano.  Most Italian cookbooks seem to have extensive discussions of flour, how it varies in glutinousness and absorbency and flavor.  Interesting and tasty information; worth investigating between the pages.  For now, know that unbleached all-purpose flour works well for pasta.

carefully break 4 cold eggs over your fingers to hold the yolk back, letting the whites fall into a large clean bowl and slipping the yolks into the hollow in the flour.  Those egg whites will keep in the fridge for breakfast, or they whip up lickety-split into meringues for dessert that will slowly bake in a low oven while you’re puttering in the kitchen.  Leave all the eggs to come to room temperature.  Do something else for an hour.

whisk the egg yolks into the flour bit by bit with a fork then stir the lot together with a wooden spoon.  Add a bit more flour or egg white as necessary for the dough to come together.  When your dough is pulling into a ball, flour your hands and kneed it against the walls of the bowl, adding more flour if needed.  Cradle the bowl and press into the dough with the heel of your hand, rolling it along the sides of the bowl.  Turn the dough and repeat.  Work the dough until it becomes elastic and satiny.  Pasta dough is a bit stiff, so kneading for 8 to 10 minutes can be a challenge but have faith.  Supposedly spinach pasta is softer and easier to work, and we plan to try spinach noodles for lasagna this week (stay tuned).  Let your ball of dough rest for an hour.

using as many mushrooms of as many sorts as you have, pick the stems off and wipe their caps gently clean with a cloth.  Slice the caps and set aside.  We had a generous 2 cups cremini and maitake.  Peel and quarter a small onion, slice it fine.  Heat a heavy skillet over high heat, and once it is hot turn the heat down.  Add a chunk of butter and puddle of olive oil, heat and add the onions.  When the onions begin to sizzle and soften add the mushrooms.  Stir and toss and cook over high heat for 5 minutes or so.  Sprinkle with salt and fresh pepper.  Turn the heat down and cook slowly, stirring occasionally, for an hour.  This takes some care to carry off without scorching, so add more butter as you go and maybe a swig of white wine.  The surprisingly long cook time is a revelation in flavor, and a tip from Marcella Hazan’s Master Class in Marcella Says…

dramatic mushrooms

the untamed, bosky quality that draws you to [mushrooms’] flavor emerges with very long, slow cooking after they have completely shed their vegetal waters….  Cook mushrooms slowly in olive oil for at least an hour, longer if you are making a large amount, until they are gelatinously soft.  Hover over the pan, and when your nose picks up a scent reminiscent of a dark, leaf strewn forest floor, the mushrooms are done.

she also recommends butter-based sauces for fresh pastas, whose texture is glossed over by oil.  The loving handling of the dough, tugged and pulled, gently roughens the surface, which swells luxuriantly with a coating of hot butter.

returning to your pasta, separate the ball into two or three parts, whatever is manageable for your work space.  Lightly flour a clean counter or tabletop.  Flatten the dough into a disk then roll it out, moving from the center to the edge, turning the disk a quarter turn every few passes.  When it is as wide as works, lengthen the sheet by rolling towards and away from you without turning the dough.  As you work, stretch the dough on the rolling pin or, in my case, empty juice jar.  Starting at the end farthest from you, roll the edge over the pin towards you and hold down the sheet resting on the counter and gently pull, rolling the pin towards you.  Work the dough on the pin by moving your hands away from each other from the center out towards the edges, tugging the dough along.  Let the sheet fall over the side of your work surface and hang.  The dough can be worked so thin you can read newsprint through it.  If the dough seems too fragile then thicker pasta is still delicious.  Let this sheet rest while you roll out the next sheet.

to cut noodles, dust a rested sheet of dough with flour and roll it into a loose log about 3 inches wide.  With a sharp knife, slice across the roll to make ribbons in whatever noodle width suites you.  Ours were slightly wider than traditional tagliatelle which is slightly wider than fettuccine.  Unroll the slices and spread your noodles out on dry cloths to dry.

bring a big pot of water to boil; salt it generously.  Gently hand your noodles into the rolling water.  Stir them a few times and cook for about 6 minutes, until al dente.  Try one, you’ll know.  Drain and toss with butter, salt and fresh pepper.  Serve immediately in shallow bowls or plates topped by the mushrooms.

brooklyn (and this blog!) needs her libraries

cheeky, perhaps, but we call the Cortelyou Library “the Prison for Books” because of the way the brick building squats on its corner lot, formidable with slits for windows, a sealed off book drop and the stabbing metal beams of public art in a bundle before the door.  Inside, the middle-aged women at the desks look harried by the kids from the half dozen nearby schools and dulled by the bad lights.  The long tables and hard chairs do not encourage a leisurely stay; the immediately available selection of adult reading is so-so.

despite its uninviting façade, the Cortelyou Library is a workhorse in our community and the unsung hero of this little blog.  You can order books from not only the Brooklyn system but also libraries across the country through Interlibrary Loan.  The books arrive like magic for pick-up and reading in the blissful comfort of your own quarters or that crusty, comfy corner café, Vox Pop, or further afield in the sunlight of Prospect Park’s Long Meadow.  That’s infinite volumes at your beck and call.  For free.

for the Radical Muffin, that has meant half a dozen books on container gardening, all of Marcella Hazan’s books published after More Classic Italian Cooking, a fresh batch of baking manifestos, and Delizia! The Epic History of the Italians and Their Food. Those are the titles in hand for May alone.  Believe me when I say you wouldn’t get half of the delectable information in this blog without the library.  And the Brooklyn Public Library is in jeopardy.

Brooklyn Public Library (BPL) faces a $20.6 million cut in city funding.  As a result of this cut: 16 branch libraries would close, weekend hours would be severely limited, essential materials and important services would be drastically cut, and hundreds of staff members would be laid off.  Library staff and supporters have been hustling this month especially to raise private donations and publically challenge the cuts.  You can help.

right now, visit the Brooklyn Public Library website to send a message to City Council and make a donation:
http://www.brooklynpubliclibrary.org/

then the second weekend in June, come participate in the 24-hour We Will Not Be Shushed Read-In: “Together we can save our libraries and keep our library staff behind the desk where they belong.”

readers and library workers from all three tri-library systems, with the full endorsement of Brooklyn Public Library and Queens Library administration, are gathering on the steps of the BPL Central Library at Grand Army Plaza to rally and read for 24-hours from Saturday, June 12 at 5pm until Sunday at 5pm, with Sunday morning devoted to children’s stories.  The organizers are looking for readers over the 24-hour period, and need supporters to come out and help out at the event.

i’ll be there with snacks, based on recipes from cookbooks greedily gathered through the library system.   Maybe we could raise enough money for all the branches to be as inviting as the main hub.