Retreat to the kitchen

Starting to write a dissertation is no straightforward thing. You can be lost for weeks and not know it. And the advice you tend to get, while sometimes painfully obvious, is still hard to follow. I've been feeling shrunken, scared, and incapable lately. I've been wondering whether in fact I really belong here. And though I've been told that this phase of grad school is like this for lots of people, trying to push through it all, to actually believe in myself, has been hard. Sometimes, it's just been easier to retreat to the kitchen.

Still, I haven't allowed myself to take on anything too consuming. Spending time on something extravagant--a layer cake, another batch of preserves--would at this point, I think, just leave me guilt-stricken. So, I've stuck mostly to simple things, things to help keep me humming through the day, like this sunny delicata-squash hummus.

Though I spend most mornings at my desk--typing, cursing, thumbing through books--I usually find myself desperately hungry a couple of hours after breakfast, no matter what I eat. So, almost inevitably, I drop what I'm doing, tear through the cupboards, and find a bag of something salty and satisfying to mindlessly crunch my way through. I am never at my best when hungry.

Having a jar of delicata hummus around has helped. Its mellow, nutty sweetness, which gives way to a lingering serrano-kissed heat, is worth slowing down for, worth savouring. So it at least makes for more mindful snacking. I often spread it just as it is on crackers or toasted baguette. But it takes well to being gussied up too. A dab of Greek yogurt tames its heat and adds welcome acidity. A drizzle of maple syrup brings out the delicata's sweetness. Pomegranate and sesame seeds add some nice pop. And though I haven't tried this yet, I get the feeling that something smoky would really make this hummus sing. Smoked sea salt? Crumbled bacon and chives? I don't know, but I can't wait to try.

This recipe, by the way comes from Modern Farmer, a new-ish quarterly magazine that I've enjoyed paging through recently. It isn't exactly a food magazine in the expected sense (the hummus recipe is the only recipe in this issue), but unsurprisingly, it touches on issues we should all take some interest in (food waste, breeding heat-resistant strains of lettuce).

Delicata Hummus

Adapted from Karen Lebovitz in Modern Farmer, Fall 2013

2 pounds delicata squash (or of another variety of your choosing)

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

2 heads garlic, separated into cloves and peeled (about 1/2 cup of cloves)

2 or 3 serrano peppers, sliced in half, stems and seeds removed

1/4 cup tahini

3 tablespoons lemon juice

GARNISHES

Greek yogurt, maple syrup, pomegranate seeds, and toasted sesame seeds

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Cut the squash in half and remove the seeds and string. Rub the flesh with 2 tablespoons of olive oil and 2 generous pinches of salt. Place the squash cut side down on a half-sheet and bake until very soft, about 1 hour.

While the squash is baking, place the garlic, serranos, and remaining olive oil in a small saucepan over low heat. Poach the garlic and peppers in the oil until completely soft, 30-40 minutes. The garlic should be very lightly browned.

Scoop out the flesh from the roasted squash and place in a food processor. Add the poaching oil, garlic, serranos, tahini, and lemon juice. Puree until smooth, about 1 minute. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

The texture of the hummus will vary with the squash. Add up to 1/2 cup of water and blend until the desired consistency is reached. Refrigerate at least 3 hours or up to a week. The hummus also keeps well frozen in an airtight container.

Makes 5-6 cups.

Aglow with summer

Last year, I let rhubarb season pass me clear on by. I had deadlines to meet and couldn't allow myself even to daydream about matters pink and bright. It would have been too much. One thing would have led to another. Daydreams to a bus that would take me across town. That bus to the festive sprawl of Green City Market and row upon row of pearly pink stalks. A serious armload of such stalks to an afternoon in the kitchen, chopping them up and letting them cook down in sugar. And if you ask me, there few better ways to spend an afternoon. But deadlines are deadlines. So I pushed those thoughts out of my head and let the season pass.

This year, I was determined to have things turn out differently. This season would have to make up for the last. I would get my hands on some rhubarb early and make the most of it. So, last weekend, as a start, I scooped up some rhubarb from the market and made myself a few jars of rosy-hued jam.

Now, making jam is one of those things I don't have much experience with. I've made jelly here and there in small quantities, but none has been an unqualified success. Like the apple jelly I made last October--I let it cook for way too long. After it set, it was pretty well unworkable, like trying to spoon and spread an oversized gummy bear on toast. So, yes, preserving fruit--or at least fruit juices--has not really been my thing. But lately, for some reason, the idea is something I've been drawn to. I think that it has something to do with tangibility. So much of what we make in the kitchen disappears so quickly. That's just how it is--an afternoon's effort spent in a few mouthfuls. But a batch of jam is something you can hang on to for a good long while. And it marks some particular moment in your year. I, anyway, find comfort in the idea that I could wake up on a dark morning in January and find a row of jars in the kitchen still aglow with summer. There would be something really special about prying open one of those jars on a morning like that and thinking back to the day I'd ladled in the fruit and sealed it up.

But I'd be surprised if this particular batch lasted until January. For one, it's a very small batch--just a little over a pint's worth. But more to the point, the jam is very good--bright, fruity, and aromatic. It'll be hard not to go through it all pretty quickly. I'm hoping, though, that this batch is only the first of many I'll make this year.

Rhubarb-Vanilla Jam
Adapted from Brandi Henderson's I made that!

Note: Though my jam-making experience is limited, I've found that it's one of those cooking processes where it pays to be very attentive--not enough stirring and you might scorch your fruit or let it overcook. You could also make use of a candy or instant-read thermometer in cooking the jam (the set point is supposed to be 220 degrees F), but I've found the wrinkle test to be a more reliable indicator. About the lemon. The lemon in this recipe is important for two reasons. First, the juice adds the acidity needed to make the jam shelf-stable. Second, both the juice and rind add pectin, which will help your jam set.

24 oz rhubarb, trimmed
17.25 oz granulated sugar
Half a vanilla bean
1 lemon, preferably organic

Slice the rhubarb into pieces about 1/8 of an inch thick. For particularly thick stalks, halve them lengthwise before slicing.

Pour the sugar into a large bowl. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise, scrape out the seeds, and add them to the sugar. Using your fingers, break up the clumps of seed and distribute throughout the sugar. Add in the rhubarb and the vanilla pod. Juice the lemon and add to the rhubarb. Cut the rind and flesh into quarters, remove any seeds, and then add the quarters to the bowl. Stir well. Cover and refrigerate for at least an hour (but up to overnight) to allow the fruit to release its juices.

Sterilize two half-pint jars and their bands and lids, either by heating them in a 200 degree F oven or in boiling water for 10 minutes. Put a small plate in the freezer. 

Transfer the rhubarb to a large, heavy-bottomed pot. Bring to a lively simmer over medium-high heat. Continue to cook, stirring frequently, until the fruit is thickened and hisses loudly in the pot as you stir, about 20-25 minutes. Check to see if the jam will set. Spoon a small amount on the cold plate from the freezer. Return the plate to the freezer for 1 minute. Try pushing the jam with your finger. If the surface wrinkles, the jam is ready. If not, continue cooking for a few more minutes and repeat the test. Remove the jam from heat and ladle into the sterilized jars, leaving a 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the jars' rims clean and put on their lids and bands. 

Process in a boiling-water bath for 10 minutes (count 10 minutes from when the water returns to a boil). Remove the jars from the water and let cool. Check to see if a proper seal has formed by removing each jar's band and holding the jar by its lid. The lid should hold firm. If it doesn't, store the jar in the fridge and eat its contents promptly.

Makes about 1 pint.

You'll be in luck

I think I'll always be a city girl. But sometimes, I do dream of living somewhere with room enough for a backyard full of swishing collards and an old lemon tree heavy with more fruit than I'd know what to do with. Maybe I'd even have a few chickens.

Right now, though, I'm happy enough to pretend. And last weekend, that wasn't too difficult to pull off. Just down the street, the last of the season's Meyer lemons were going for sixty-five cents a pound, so, naturally, I carted as many home as I could manage. And then I had more lemons than I knew what to do with.

I considered making my favourite lemon curd--my standby when Meyer lemons are in season--but I was afraid that with so many lemons that much curd would spoil before Octavian and I could possibly eat it all, as much as we love the stuff. So I decided to take things in an entirely different direction and preserve the lemons.

Preserved lemons are lemons that have been packed in a jar with salt and their own juices and left out to soften for a few days or weeks (depending on the specifics of the process). After that, with all that salt and acid, the lemons will keep in their jar refrigerated for about a year. So when you're longing for sunny, mouth-puckering citrus in high summer, you'll be in luck.

I was introduced to preserved lemons for the first time at Prune in New York City. They came diced--bright, tart little gems--studding a creamy, ricotta-slathered tartine. It was one of those simple but incredible lunches--nothing fancy, just beautiful ingredients thoughtfully put to use. I've been thinking about preserved lemons and summer-vegetable tartines ever since.

You should think of these lemons as a savoury seasoning that will lend salty, lemony-bright notes to your dishes. So far in my kitchen, they've made their way into a lunch of marinated sardines and buttered bread. And I'm thinking that they'll do wonders in parchment-roasted asparagus or stirred into quinoa or rubbed into a chicken awaiting the oven...and maybe even in a cocktail or two. An abundance of lemons, all through the summer! For now, at least, I'm good without a lemon tree.

Moroccan-Style Preserved Lemons
Adapted from Paula Wolfert via Epicurious

Note: the number of lemons you need will really depend on their size. The Meyers I had were rather smallish, so I needed 22 in all to fill up my jar and cover the lemons with juice.

6-8 organic Meyer lemons + 5-15 additional Meyer lemons for their juice
150 g / 2/3 cup fine sea salt or kosher salt
2 tablespoons olive oil

Blanch the lemons in boiling water for 5 minutes, then drain. This step hastens the softening of the lemons. When cool enough to handle, cut each lemon into 8 wedges, discarding seeds. Toss the lemons with salt in a bowl, then pack the lemons, along with their salt, tightly into a clean 1-quart jar.

Squeeze enough juice from the additional lemons to cover the salted lemons. The lemons may float a little, but this is okay--you should just turn the jar upside down and let it rest that way occasionally while the lemons are curing. Seal the jar and let the lemons stand at room temperature, shaking gently or turning once a day, for 5 days.

Add the oil to the jar and refrigerate. The lemons will keep chilled for up to a year. To use, remove flesh and discard. No need to rinse the lemons.