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Category: Sustenance

This and That, Garden and Kitchen

April is almost coming to a close and I have been living in this house 11 months. A year ago at the end of April I owned this house, but I hadn't moved in yet. Work was being done, and I was here daily. I already felt like this was home, and yet there was so much I still hadn't discovered, that I still didn't see.

I am still in love with my house. It just feels like home. I smile when I turn into my driveway. I loved the house and the garden and even the empty lawn and the wooded slope in the backyard, so full of potential, before I moved in, but it feels like I am still discovering the joys of my own house. I don't remember the red azaleas from last year even though I was here everyday, even though this house felt more like my home than my old house did, even though the yard was filled with trucks and the workmen and I still lived elsewhere. But then, I was packing up the old house, getting ready to move. Perhaps I was a tad distracted.

I do remember the tiarella near the front door, I admired them all summer, but I don't remember them blooming. That was probably lost in packing, and moving, and making choices. Above is a photo I posted to instagram the other day. These lovely little foam flowers make me smile every time I walk through my front door. In fact I am just happy being home. It seems absurd that such a small little patch of earth can hold so much promise and joy and happiness. Moises meets me at the door, Tikka dances around in circles, I curl up in a chair with a book or music or work in my kitchen. Even the fact that another drawer has broken on the old refrigerator doesn't dent my joy.

When I returned home from Nebraska last week, I was stunned to turn the corner to the garage and see the large pink Azaleas. I had photographed them before, they had started to bloom before I left, but I returned to a mass of bright vivid pink. My heart swells with laughter every time I turn that corner, every moment I am confronted with such a mass of pink. Who knew that a pink azalea could mean so much?

I need to start a garden journal before I forget, forget what I saw, forget what I planted, forget my dreams. I had one in Hyde Park. I may not have brought it with me. I guess I thought that part of my life was over and I abandoned it. Or perhaps it will still turn up somewhere. Perhaps I was too quick to think my life was over in those days. Perhaps now I feel like it is just beginning. Not such a bad thing, to begin again, and again and again.

Do I feel so much more settled in my skin, so much more like myself because I found a place I can just be myself? Or did I find the right place because I was already beginning to reawaken to who I was, who I am, hopefully who I can be? These are all chicken or egg questions and there is no correct answer, but my first spring in my home has been a joy, and I have been happy to sit and watch the birds, to dig in the dirt, to read a book, to simply come home — home — and feel that deep sense of contentment, that sense of this is where I belong. What is next?

Oh, and I've been cooking too. Well I cook when I am happy, even for myself. Since I was under the weather this past week, it has mostly been for myself. This is kai yat say or stuffed egg crepes from Leela Punyaratabandhu's Simple Thai Food. Leela writes the blog shesimmers, which I've been following off and on for quite a while. The dish is savory but mild and pretty simple. It is pretty much an omelet, only shaped a bit differently. I had it for lunch and made no attempt at creating a traditional Thai meal. I like the square omelette. The ratio of filling to egg seems higher, and there are no ends where you just get overcooked egg without filling, which seems to happen too often in traditional omelets. Or perhaps I am just too picky. Besides the little package is pretty. Perhaps I will experiment with the idea some more.

Anyway, I hope you are having a good week. I went to hear a concert the other night, a piano trio. I had to leave after the first work because I started coughing and couldn't control it, but that first piece was worth the effort. My spirit danced even as my lungs convulsed. I took a nice walk yesterday, and went out to dinner with family. I ironed sheets. Yes, I am the kind of person who finds ironing sheets a joy, perhaps even more of a joy than slipping between freshly ironed sheets that first night,,..

I hope your week is filled with small joys.

April 26, 2018
Of Marathons and Music and Miscellanea

Sunday, the last morning of Big Ears, Tikka and I both slept late, at least as compared to our normal schedule. When we went downstairs the street was already filled with people. We were 20 minutes from the starting bell for the Knoxville Marathon, and the starting gate was right outside our hotel. Tikka was a little excited but she happily walked over to the little garden where she normally took her morning piddle stop and hoped up over the short wall. There were several runners in place, using the wall for their pre-run stretch. Tikka, never shy, jumped between them and took care of business. I apologized, half heartedly, because really I was just laughing at the image of Tikka and the runners all in a line taking care of their various morning necessaries. A little absurdity to start the day.

Then we went back upstairs and I had coffee and breakfast in the bar/restaurant, where I could watch the start of the marathon. As Tikka and I took our morning walk, a little later, we would occasionally cross the marathon route, encountering pockets of runners or bicyclists, and it made for an exciting variation on our downtown morning walk.

And then it was back to the music. My notes on Sunday are a little sketchier as I didn't really write my thoughts down, grateful to simply being there, enjoying the music. Whereas Saturday I had stayed mostly in the southern tier of the concert venues, Sunday I primarily stuck to the northern portion of Gay Street, attending concerts at the Standard and the Mill and Mine.

Anyway, I started the day with the Tyshawn Storey Trio at the Mill and Mine. The Mill and Mine is kind of a good sized, cavernous room, and the group really managed to play with the dynamics of the room well, creating a flowing sense of movement in the space, alternating between power and a sensitive quietude, from the piano and the bass, but also from the drums. The group were really beautifully in tune with each other and the space, and it was a marvelous concert.

Next I wandered over to the Standard, but I took the long way around, rather than over the Bridge, which was a gentler walk. There I heard a young musician named Rostam, whom I knew only because he used to be a part of the band Vampire Weekend. The concert was fun and infectious, making me smile and want to sing and dance.

Then it was back over the bridge to Suuns. I was walking very slowly, and I stopped to take this photo along the way. And somehow I just realized I didn't even try to take photos of musicians on Sunday, and that is also fine. I still enjoyed the music and I enjoyed Suuns, but it was loud, and perhaps not as fascinating as the previous two concerts, or I was just beginning to feel antsy. I thought that if I left early I could perhaps slowly make my way south to the Bijou for Abigail Washburn and Wu Fei, so I very slowly made my way up the hill.

But by the time I got to Chivo, a taqueria just over the top of the hill, I was wondering if I would indeed be able to make it to the Bijou, so I stopped and had lunch. I enjoyed my tacos, and thought about what I could do next. I figured my best option was to head back toward the Standard and catch Julie Byrne, which I enjoyed, before leaving early and heading back to the Mill and Mine for Kieran Hedban and Mats Gustafsson. Although I loved that concert, I also realized that I was no longer comfortable and was fast approaching my limit, so I ubered back to my hotel for a rest.

The break was good, and afterward, perhaps just because I had finally figured out what was going on, walking became much easier. I could walk and stand all I wanted, although sitting would became problematic, not at all unusual for a disc-related scenario. I went to the Tennessee Theater to hear Nief Norf perform Steve Reich's 'Quartet', which was short, but also electrifying, and for which I stood. Then I actually had time to stop at Nama for some sushi before heading up and over the hill to hear the Craig Taborn Quartet for a fabulous concert that seemed to blend and push genres, mixing electronica and jazz and classical ideas into something that seemed perfectly itself and a perfect way to end a fabulous weekend. I made my back to my hotel and collapsed in contentment.

Last week was intentionally quiet and low-key, and as a result my back has continued to improve. I am by now pretty close to back to normal. I did walk, and I also did a little gardening on Wednesday. My goal was simply to get something in the planters out front as I am on the Dogwood Trail and although the beds and yard were all clean, the planters were still empty. I picked up some ferns for the planters by the front door. They are probably too large, but the selection in the nurseries was still slim, and once they start to grow they may have to move elsewhere. But they look pretty from the street now, and I have a good spot to put them later in the season so I am content.

I also managed to find some plants for the smaller planters. I don't quite know how these will work out yet, but it is a good attempt, soft grayed-greens to offset the rosemary in the round planters, and a variety of coleus plants in the tower, mixing upright and prostrate varieties. At least the front looks intentional. While I was at the nursery I also found some grasses and plants I had been hoping to put in a bed that I cleaned out last fall, a small bed filled with weeds, or more exactly, perennials that were too large for the space, and obscured the shrubs and Japanese maple that were there, and which I wanted to save. My own theory is that a weed is just a perennial in the wrong spot, (and vice versa). It felt good to have my hands in the dirt, to spend a couple of hours in the garden, and to be upright and pain-free afterward. Hopefully I've got things in the right spots, my ideas are good, and the garden will thrive. I always feel it is a guessing game, but one worth pursuing, and this reminds me that I need to start a garden journal. I had one in Hyde Park, where I had drawings and diagrams and planting information, and I could see the evolution of the yard, what worked and what failed.

I can't help myself. I have another project.

April 3, 2018
Big Ears: Setbacks and Triumphs

So I am wandering a bit in this post, about Big Ears and not. Please have patience. I'm not asking for anything but patience.

After I exhausted myself on Friday, the rest of Big Ears seemed something like a blur. That even though I intentionally planned a rather light day on Saturday, and lucky for me I did. I started off with a performance by trumpet virtuoso Peter Evans, which was certainly mind-bending. I can't really say that I would classify what I heard as music, but he pushed the trumpet to produce effects and waves of sound, tone, and tempo that I certainly never imagined; there were times where the sound was loud and crashing, a tornado in the room, and there were other periods of soft, gentle, melodies, a gentleness I had never really imagined from a trumpet. So although I personally didn't hear music, I was fascinated, and I could easily imagine music being written to incorporate what I was hearing, I could imagine the sounds I heard as part of greater works. I would say that the concert was difficult but also exciting.

Then I had a short break and a dilemma. At 2PM there were three concerts I was interested in: Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn, Jon Gibson, and Rushes Ensemble, with Cyro Baptista also performing again at 2:30. I had already decided not to go to Bela Fleck, not because I wouldn't love it, but because I had heard Fleck and Washburn perform together before, and felt I should push myself to explore something new. Given that reasoning, I also opted out of Baptista, even though I had been entranced by his concert the day before. Torn between Gibson and Rushes, I opted for Rushes Ensemble, only because of the bassoons. It may not have been the best choice, but I am a woman who loves the bassoon, a woman who will, and did, go out of her way for bassoon music. The work being performed, a piece written for 7 bassoons, was very interesting, with rotating waves of sound. It most certainly was not Telemann or Mozart, but I did not expect that it would be, and it was beautiful nonetheless. Or at least the first half hour was beautiful; then I got bored. Perhaps I just got hungry, and I realized that I had a walk of several blocks before I could eat. I probably should have eaten between concerts. I had had an hour. But I played with Tikka instead, thinking I could wait until after the bassoon concert. I had forgotten that, although I had a decent breakfast of hard boiled eggs and hot smoked salmon on salad, I had not eaten much the day before — a felafel salad plate and a small bucket of popcorn even though I had gone to concerts all day long, walked 13 miles, and my smart watch told me I had burned 800 calories more than my usual. Not smart. So I left and had a leisurely lunch, and spent some time with Tikka.

If my 2 PM concert was not my favorite, the next concert I attended, the 5 PM performance by Jason Moran and Milford Graves was one of the high points of a weekend that, in retrospect seems filled with high points. The music was fabulous, and incredibly inspiring. I felt as if the music flowed in such a way that it encapsulated the breath and pulse of the room, audience and musicians as one, drawing us in and transforming us, at times slow and centered, at others rising up. Amazing.

The next concert on my agenda was billed as Roscoe Mitchell Trios at the Bijou, performing Bells for the South Side, among other works, and although there were more than three musicians on the stage, they did in fact play in trios. The music was very different from what I had heard Roscoe Mitchell playing the day before. That music had been warm and full of heart. This was fascinating, minimalist, and far more purely intellectual. I enjoyed it, and my brain was hopping along all sparkly and intrigued, but I wanted something more, so I didn't stay, opting instead to wander back to the cathedral to hear Johnny Gandelsman playing Bach. Gandelsman is technically very proficient and he played the Bach well, but he also brought a warmth and a humanity to the music. The performance was incredibly heart-warming, and intellectually thrilling as well. Sometimes the Bach solo violin pieces become a showcase for technical virtuosity and the soul of the music is lost; not in this case. I sat entranced.

By the time that concert ended, it was pouring and I was tired and hungry. I had hoped to eat at Kaizen, hoped it was late enough that I would luck into a table because I had forgotten to make a reservation. Alas a few people arrived just ahead of me and snagged the last table and last seat at the bar. I didn't want to wait so I walked over to Emilia where they managed to work me in and I was very happy. I settled in for a good meal and a glass of wine, a symphony of food and drink, along with some people watching and reflecting. The evening ended with a lovely dessert, not on the menu, of a small bit of rich and satisfying vegan dark chocolate mousse, with Amaro soaked citrus and luxardo cherries. It reminded me of music, of Roscoe Mitchell's minimalist compositions, but it was far more satisfying.

I noted that Big Ears was turning out to be both better than I had expected and yet also more frustrating. My frustrations however stemmed more from my own patience, or lack of it, with myself. Perhaps my expectations had been too high: My first big ears, I still couldn't stand long, even though it was nearly a year after my back surgery. But this year I stayed downtown so I could go to more concerts. I walked 8-11 miles a day the weekend in Paris and again in New York in February with no ill effects. I routinely walk between 6 and 7 miles a day. I thought Big Ears would be a piece of cake.

Unfortunately things were not proving to be that easy. One of the reasons I stayed for the entire Medeski, Martin and Wood concert Friday night was that I was having a lot of pain walking. I had mentioned that I was having leg and hip pain in previous blog posts over the previous two weeks, and that I had concerns about being able to handle the amount of walking required, as my movement had been severely curtailed. In fact I had just worked my way up to 4 miles a day before Big Ears started, and that only by taking many short walks. By Friday night, my right leg was dragging and I was in considerable pain but I was going to be damned if I missed that concert. I arrived, got a bourbon and the aforementioned popcorn and settled in. I didn't plan to stay for the entire concert, but I was entranced enough that I did. Two hours later I was comfortable enough but able to walk back to my hotel room, but further concert-going was out of the question.

Even so I was up half the night with leg pain. And the pain was worse on Saturday. I was beginning to realize what should have been apparent all along, that this wasn't a leg injury but back pain, sciatic pain. The sciatic nerve was so inflamed that other muscles were being inflamed as well. I've experienced this before, but it had been a long time. The back surgery I had 4 years ago was for a disk at L4. That was causing pain and numbness in my left leg, and in my back, but I had experienced intermittent sciatic problems for 30 years in my right leg, at times so severe I could barely function or walk. That particular pains stems from some changes at L5-S1, but they are not changes that would or could be improved by surgery. I'd have one or two "spells" a year and then move on. I wondered why it had stopped, but apparently it never did. The L4 disk, which had been bad, had just overpowered the other, and it took me long enough to recover, to stop perhaps being overly cautious, for small accidents to happen. A simple unexpected step Into a dip, a small twist, and there I was again.

Before you jump all over me, I am not looking for sympathy. I intended to take it easier on Saturday and I did. I intended to walk only 5 miles or so, but it ended up being over 8. But I also know that the only way to overcome back pain is to keep moving. Once I realized what was going on, I knew I needed to move as much as I could, stop when I needed to, but also not let myself freeze in place. Sunday was hard. And I missed some concerts because I couldn't walk to them. I got to one end of Gay street and stayed there. I could walk and stand but getting up a hill would do me in. Once I couldn't walk any more I went back to my hotel and rested. At that point I was fine as long as I was standing and walking; walking slowly perhaps, but still walking. Sitting was a problem, but that could be addressed in time, so I went out again.

I heard and did more than at any prior Big Ears. I had fun. I also pushed myself, perhaps more than I should have, but I wouldn't do anything differently, and I would have hated to have missed the festival. I'm not inclined to let a little inconvenience get in the way of music and fun. I also had fun. I spoke to more people I didn't know than I have at any previous Big Ears Weekend. I got out of my head and into the social aspect of the place. Once I knew what the problem was I could actually manage better. And yet, despite pushing myself, or because of it, I am actually better now and am functioning well with only minor nerve issues.

Aside from learning that I was simply more comfortable in my skin than I had been for a while, I learned a couple of other things about myself. I had forgotten what it was like to be so wrapped up in something I love that everything else becomes unimportant, and I had also forgotten that, once I get wrapped up in something I love, I need to remember to take time for self-care, like food perhaps. I also reconnected with another one of my gifts, one I had forgotten, namely stick-to-itiveness or stamina. I'll never be the fastest, or the strongest or the smartest, but damn-it I've got stamina. When I played tennis, my success at doubles was not because I had great shots, although I did have a strong backhand, but because, if you couldn't knock me out with a killer serve or super shot, I could wear you out. The longer the match the stronger I got, the more sheer determination would kick in. I thought nothing of a 3 hour plus match. I would wear the opponent down, and the more tired everyone got, including myself, the more focused I became. I'm still that way. That came in handy this past weekend. There is a point in any journey, through pain, fear, discomfort, anything really, where you either say "I quit" or you push on. I can push on, and once you push on, the rest of it becomes secondary, well until it doesn't, but that is another story.

Most of my back was fused when I was 16 years old. Before that I wore a brace for five years. I was always determined that I could do anything anyone else did, if I wanted, and my parents encouraged that attitude. I have no regrets. I've had a fabulous life thet would have been very different had I not had that surgery, if I would even be here at all. And I still have a fabulous life ahead of me. I have only two disks that are not fused, and they are both well on the way to self-fusing themselves. The simple truth is that I will probably have intermittent periods of difficulty for most of my life, a simple mis-step with a little twist can cause weeks of pain, but it is not the end of the world. And the only thing that helps is moving, specifically walking. If I can only walk 100 feet now, I need to walk 110 feet the next time, and so forth until I can do more. So here is the thing: I don't want setbacks to hamper my life more than they need to. But I also no longer want to pretend like they don't happen. Life is what it is, things always happen, and I am who I am, good and bad, all rolled into one.

Would I rather have been pain-free for Big Ears? Of course. Do I regret anything? No. The fun outweighed the discomfort, and working through it probably did me more good that staying home ever would have. I heard things I might never have heard otherwise. I spoke to people I would otherwise never have met. In fact, the difficulties may have focused my attention more; I took nothing for granted. I had a blast. And now that is all out of the way, I can tell you about the fun stuff on Sunday at another time.

Next year will be even better. It probably won't be perfect, but if you are looking for perfection you are just looking for an excuse to fail.

March 30, 2018
A Nerd in the Kitchen

I've been cooking again this year. There was a period where I stopped; well there was a period where a lot of things stopped. But I am cooking, and cooking for others, although not yet entertaining. Because I have been cooking for others though, I have also been cooking for myself, and rediscovering my joy at playing in the kitchen, entertaining will come as I pull out of my self-imposed sabbatical.

It was time to make some chicken stock, and remembering my frustration over finding chickens fo stock last Thanksgiving, my frustration over the "thinness" of the stock I made, and my general interest in the quality and sustainability of food, I decided to experiment.

For this experiment I made two small batches of stock in dueling slow cookers. The ingredients in each slow cooker were identical: Chicken, chicken feet, carrots, celery, onion, parsley, bay leaves, peppercorns, salt, nutmeg, white wine and water. I was careful that the weights and quantities were identical as well. The only difference was in the actual chickens. In the first slow cooker (left above) I used a 3 1/2 pound heritage breed pastured chicken, and in the slow cooker on the right above I used a 3 1/2 pound organic but commercially raised chicken.

I also made a third batch of stock, this one in the oven. It was not really a direct comparison, stock for stock, but a kind of benchmark comparison. I've made chicken stock in the slow cooker for a long time, but in the last year or two I've also started making an oven stock, originally inspired by Aki Kamozawa and H Alexander Talbot at the blog Ideas In Food. Like their stock, mine includes cabbage and sliced ginger, but it has evolved over time, inspired by classic French stocks and Barbara Tropp. I use this stock on its own, but also inspired by Kamozawa and Talbot, I have experimented with using it as a foundation for other stocks, making a double stock (chicken and beef) and a triple stock (chicken, beef, and pork) that has become my basic ramen broth.

When the stocks were done, I made a simple comparison in terms of how the stocks looked, and tasted. The stock on the far right is the oven broth. As you can see it is darker than the others, this is because the chicken and vegetables roast partially in a 350º F oven before I turn the oven down to 200º F. The roasting adds flavor and the cabbage rounds out the flavor and adds sweetness. This is a good rich stock, full of intense flavor and that rich mouthfeel from gelatinized cartilage. It is a wonderful stock for sauces and some soups, but it is too rich and intense for some delicate soups. I need to thin it with water. It is probably not as rich however as a classic French brown chicken stock, a future opportunity for comparison.

Hence the other stocks. I've made slow cooker stock for a long time. Quanities in the slow cooker are smaller than in a stock pot, but so is the time requirement; it is easier to walk away from a slow cooker than a simmering 16 or 20 quart stockpot. But the question was not ease but flavor. Was there enough of a discernible difference in the quality and flavor of the stock to warrant the extra expense of buying the best quality chicken you can find?

The answer was a resounding yes. In the photo above the stock made from the heritage chicken is darker than the middle stock, the one made from the conventional organic chicken. That is partially misleading, as there was more particulate matter in that stock. After a second straining the color was lighter, but still slightly richer looking than the middle stock, light enough to use in a lightly colored soup, cauliflower, for example, without seriously altering the color.

In terms of flavor however the difference was quite noticeable. The pastured bird produced a stock that had a rich mouthfeel, not thick, not as rich as the oven stock, but still with a sense of pleasant substance on the tongue. The flavor was well rounded, noticably chicken broth but with a subtle but well rounded flavor profile. This broth was so good I wanted to drink a cup of it, and it would be fabulous in a delicate clear broth, and subtle enough to use in other dishes, to enhance without overpowering other flavors.

The organic chicken broth did not fair so well. Yes, it was identifiable as chicken stock, but really only barely so, and the presence of the vegetable flavors were also more noticeable as separate notes, even though the same proportion of vegetable to chicken had been used in both broths. It tasted weak. It is probably fine for use in a soup, but, having tasted the other broth, I had no interest in drinking this as bouillon. Although it was a good broth, better than purchased broth, the broth from the pastured chicken was so clearly superior that I would think that anything prepared with it would be improved.

All the stocks were packaged in several sizes of containers: quart bags, 2T, 1/3 cup and 1/2 cup cubes. I may compare a simple vegetable soup with the two basic chicken broths, but it probably doesn't really matter. It seems that the answer is already clear, and quality matters, at least if you are a person like me, a seeker of flavor, a person who prefers less but better, or if you are simply a nerd in the kitchen.

I still think any homemade stock is superior to what you can buy in the store, and economical, more so if you save chicken bones and carcasses and trimmings from good quality vegetables, and if you have a slow cooker, where you can toss it in and forget it while you go to work or to sleep. I still think quality matters, even in basic foundational blocks like stock, perhaps even more so, since flavor is a process of layering. But quality, like everything in life is a matter of choices and compromise. I usually buy pastured chicken, heritage pastured chicken when I can get it, so using this for my stocks is not a problem, using a mix of bones, wings, feet and an occasional chicken. This experiment confirmed my suspicion that it is not worth buying something of lesser quality than my usual standard, just because it is cheap, or I can't get what I want. Better to change the menu, change the plan, change my expectations, wait. Our real lives are the things we do every moment of every day, every choice we make, in what we do, what we eat, what we say. Why take that for granted?

February 22, 2018
Weekend in NY

I'm a little scattered this morning, and the post I was planning on posting this morning, that I had started writing and then abandoned is just that, abandoned. I took photos in a rush, which is always a mistake, and now I am unhappy with myself because I must go back to the source and take new photos.

I'm not too unhappy however, because I am having a wonderful time in New York City. I flew in Saturday, and went to the Ballet that evening. Walking up the stairs to the balcony lobby in he David Koch theater and seeing that space filled with colorful balloons, creating a buoyant wonderland of color floating through the room, was a magical moment in and of itself. The installation is by Jihan Zencirli and I felt like a child playing with bubbles as we walked around it, as did many others apparently, wonder on their faces, people pulling their friends over and snapping selfies with balloons during intermissions. Young, and old alike smiling, momentary glimpses of childish glee on the most carefully composed of faces. And yes, the ballet was stunning as well, an all Balanchine program, beautifully performed. I haven't been to the ballet, to a really good ballet in years, and I don't have the words for it, except to say that magic happened all around.

Sunday it rained, quite heavily at times, but we were out in the morning, exploring, wandering, Trying to stay dry, not always successfully. We had thought we would go someplace and be promptly indoors, but it didn't quite work out that way. By 1PM, tired, hungry, and also a bit wet, we decided to retire to the hotel, where we could while away the hours with a drink and a nibble.

We had tickets again that evening, again at Lincoln Center, but this time at Alice Tully Hall, a part of the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center's series. Somehow, out of pure dumb luck, I think we may have gotten some of the best seats in the house. We were up in the balcony, so not close, but the sound was marvelous. We could hear every note, separately and also as a part of the whole, combining, and blending, merging into the conversation of the music. The music was just that, a conversation between the performers, exactly what chamber music should be, something I had not been aware I had really been missing (I had not gotten tickets to one small venue in Knoxville this year, a decision that might have been a mistake). Best of all, in the final piece, the Dvorak quintet #2 in G major, for two violins, viola, cello, and double bass, they performed the original scoring, with five movements, and it was just stunning. The two slow movements add a balance and a depth to the piece that is not as evident in the four-movement version. The soft notes of the double bass, played by Edgar Meyer, in the second movement were breath-taking, as in fact was the entire, stunning, performance.

The rain was finally lifting so we decided to walk. We stopped at the same restaurant we had eaten in the night before, Remi, just a couple of blocks from our hotel, but this time we were seated by the window, looking into he courtyard/pedestrian walkway. I was entranced by the view of the courtyard and the play of light through the window, the reflections, and shadows. I'm not sure I captured it here, but I hope you get a little bit of the feel of the place.

We walked back to the hotel through a series of pedestrian walkways, stopping to take some photos, then stopping for a grand mariner in lieu of dessert at the hotel bar. I was entranced once again by the really rather mundane view out the window, the play of light and color, shadow and shape of the lights and the buildings, Applebees and all. Greater America and New York combined, high and low and everything in between, melting together.

February 13, 2018
Small Adventures

Mom and I did go off to old Plano. Neither of us had been there in years, a decade or more, perhaps? It is now called the Plano Arts District and I admittedly saw more construction than arts, but remain happy that a few of the old buildings have remained. It is a tiny district, only a few blocks sandwiched between old the old and the new.

One part of the Texas mythology has always been about the possibility of starting over, of remaking oneself, but there is also a danger of plastering over the past, of tearing it down and rebuilding, or relegating it to the forgotten. We all suffer from this tendency, from the grandiosity of human ambition, desire, intent.

But wait, that is not where I am going with this post. I am happy that there is a small bit of the old center of Plano remaining, even as it is, in a small bubble surrounded by offices and condos, at least serviced by a metro stop. Admittedly I didn't go looking for history. I wanted to go to Dude Sweet Chocolate, which, in a twist that made me laugh, was closed. We wandered in some charming gift shops, one with a charming display of construction-paper boxes, which would be a perfect home wrapper for a special gift, another with beautiful rustic antique furniture.

We ate at Urban Rio, which we liked. I liked the urban/rustic blending in the decor and the staff were cheerful and helpful. We started with guacamole, as Mom as is our wont. We are both people who could make a lunch simply of guacamole. The assumption was that we would move on to tacos and/or an enchilada plate, but alas no. We ended both ended up with shrimp-stuffed broiled avocados. Wonderful but a bit of an excess of avocado, even for proclaimed avocado lovers.

I took a picture of our main course as well, but decided that I could't make it look like anything but a hot mess even though the plate was artfully arranged. The avocados were topped with a delicious cloud of fried golden fried onion threads, which were delicious (and gluten-free!) and I was too busy diving into that mess to bother with trying to set up a more attractive picture. In some ways, for me at least, and the way I think, the time spent messing with the photo is time spent missing the experience, leaving a bubble of memory, like the bubble of old Plano. But I know this is not true for everyone. There are talented photographers, people for whom the act of documenting enhances the experience, and their art enhances observation and memory for all of us. But I am not in that league.

My last night in the Dallas area we went south. Plano-Garland-Richardson are north of the city and mom rarely ventures far afield. El Ranchito has been a favorite of my youngest brother's as long as I can remember, perhaps as long as he has been living and working in the Dallas area.

It has been well over 20 years since Nick first brought us here, and it must have been more or less a decade since my last visit. The space of course has expanded and changed over time, but it is also still obviously the same space, with wonderful food that reminds me of the first time I visited. There is still that mix of Mexican and Tex-Mex regional specialties. Mom had a traditional plate, but I longed for food I rarely see and almost ordered the cabrito. Goat meat is available in Tennessee and so, perhaps is cabrito, very young goat roasted whole. I haven't looked. Last night I had the mollejas, I believe the first dish I ever ordered at El Ranchito, and perhaps the same dish I had at my last visit, just as good now as it was then.

If it sounds like I have been eating my way across Dallas, your assumption may be correct. I am stuffed. It is a good thing, perhaps, that I don't like to eat before flying.

January 30, 2018
Monday: Kitchen Day

Monday was pantry day and I spent most of the day puttering in the kitchen. I needed to refresh a few simple staples: namely a personal care item, and some mayonnaise but neither of those is a big deal. Mayonnaise takes 3 minutes and is better than anything I can buy. The hard part is remembering to take the egg and lemon out of the fridge in advance so that they can come up to room temperature, and then remembering to use them before they go bad. A timer helps.

But I felt like doing something more. I also thought that while I was there, I might as well make a day of it, and play around a little bit. A couple of spice blends were running low, and there were some things I had been meaning to make or try. I had started some Szechuan Peppercorn Oil on Sunday because I knew it needed to steep overnight, but I realized that I had enough Szechuan Pepper left over to make a salt blend as well, so I started toasting some Szechuan Peppercorns with kosher salt while I got out eggs for both breakfast and the mayo. While I cooked breakfast I laid out my plan of attack.

While onions and spinach sautéed I melted the coconut oil and got the deodorant out of the way and put aside where it could cool. I toasted the Szechuan peppercorns and salt until the salt was just turning a creamy golden white, but not yet gold, before grinding it to a fine powder with the peppercorns. I also strained the Szechuan peppercorn oil to remove the aromatics and bottled it for storage. By that time breakfast was about ready, and I drizzled a little bit of the Szechuan oil over my eggs which had been scrambled with onion and turkey breast.

Next up were spices.

I toasted the whole spices for Five-Spice Powder. If you are observant, you will note that there are actually six spices in the skillet. Yes, it is true, my five spice blend contains six spices.

Once the spices are toasty and lightly browned and the house is filled with a fragrant sweet/spicy aroma, I pulled the pan off the heat to allow the spices cool a bit before pulverizing them into a fine powder. The star anise browns better if you break it into its points before toasting in the skillet.

Next up was curry powder. This was the first batch of curry powder I have made any since I moved into this house. I don't tend to use a pre-mixed blend when I am cooking Indian style food, except for my own garam masala blend. But I missed curry powder when I was making deviled eggs over the holidays, and since I sometimes enjoy it with my eggs in the morning, with vegetables, or a mayonnaise dressing it was time. The process is the same as for five-spice. Toast the spices, then blend. Here the toasted spices are in the spice grinder ready to go. Turmeric is hidden underneath to give the blend that familiar curry color and round out the flavor.

After whipping up the mayonnaise, it was time for lunch. I had seen some interesting purple sweet potato noodles in the oriental market when I was there on Sunday, and I decided to try them out for lunch. While a pot of water came to a boil, I shredded half of a largish baby bok choy and a radish.

The noodles only had to cook for 1 minute and came out of the water fascinatingly gelatinous and slippery and somewhat translucent. The color seemed slightly mottled, although that could have just been the light through the translucent noodles; I couldn't capture it in a photo. The color, and the speckled translucence reminded me of squid skin on the translucent white bodies. Not such a bad thing. I tossed the noodles with a teaspoon of my Szechuan peppercorn oil to keep them from congealing into a gelatinous mass.

Although the original intention was to make a noodle dish, it was quickly apparent that there was more bok choy than noodle, and a salad was created by tossing the warm noodles with the bok choy, allowing the greens to soften and wilt slightly while I quickly crisped up a little duck confit that was sitting in the fridge. The resulting salad was a pleasing mix of texture and flavor. But although I enjoyed this lunch, I'm not quite sure what to do with the entire package of noodles. It says it makes 12 (small) servings, but the noodles function better as an accent texture than as a noodle base. Perhaps they will absorb flavor from a base, but then I might lose the color. They were certainly good in the salad, and would probably be good in a broth as well and they might fry nicely. Both bean threads and yam noodles tend to be lovely when fried, not that I tend to fry anything at all regularly. How long will these fresh noodles keep in the fridge? They are already pretty dry, can they be air-dried to prolong storage? Can they be frozen? Considering that the entire package cost $1.38, it is all a cheap enough experiment.

In the afternoon I made some Chinese style fermented black bean sauce. This is a staple of Chinese cooking and difficult to find in a gluten-free version. Mostly it consists of beans and aromatics, but there is a little soy sauce in the mix, the reason it is not gluten-free. Since I've been making my own, I think I may like it better than anything I've bought, but it could just be that I don't remember what the stuff in jars tastes like. The photo above shows the bean sauce at about the mid-point of the process. Everything has been sautéed together and next I will puree about half of this mixture with some oil and then stir it back into the mixture and let it cook a little more before cooling it down and storing it. I made a large batch, about six cups, because I also need it for making hoisin. Gluten free Hoisin is available, but I find most of terrible, all sugar and salt and little character.

The final project was to make a batch of Serrano-Lemongrass Vinegar, from Barbara Tropp's China Moon Cookbook. In fact, the two infusions, the Szechuan Peppercorn Oil and the Lemongrass Vinegar, bookended my kitchen experiments and both techniques came from Tropp. I had actually been inspired to make the Szechuan Peppercorn Oil by an article in Milk Street Magazine, but I found the Milk Street version to be uninspiring. I remembered loving the version I had made in my 30's and 40's and so had decided to give it a try, wondering if my memory was accurate, or if my tastes had simply changed. Memory served me well, and the new, Tropp-Inspired batch of Szechuan Peppercorn Oil was nuanced and complex, inspiring me to try the vinegar.

While the vinegar cooled and steeped, I was overcome with a mad urge to experiment with making some mushroom soy sauce. I always loved mushroom soy when I was young, but I have never found a gluten-free version. I have no idea how it will turn out, and apparently it will be a few weeks before the results are in, but there is a pint of (hopefully) future mushroom soy, sitting in the back of a cool closet waiting for the magic to happen.

A simple supper of roasted chicken breast, carrots, and bok choy ended my day. I sautéed the bok choy in the chicken drippings and then tossed them briefly with the Lemongrass-Serrano Vinegar. It was light and brightly refreshing, a perfect way to end a day in the kitchen. That chicken breast is really tiny. Two bone-in breasts from that chicken weighed 7.5 ounces. Although only one is shown in the photo, I'll admit I went back and at the other one as well. I figure that means I ate 5 ounces of chicken. Yes I weighed the bones afterwards. I am indeed that much of a nerd.

January 16, 2018
Practicing What I Preach

Somehow I have had poultry on the brain the last few months. We talked about chicken in Scotland, and the differences between regulations in the UK and the United States. Then I read Big Chicken on Lisa's recommendation. I've long believed in attempting to eat local, sustainably and humanely raised meat and poultry as much as possible, but I have not always been very strict about it. Many times convenience wins, although in those instances I at least aim to go organic.

When I returned from Paris I needed to make chicken stock but the farmer I usually buy chickens from, and who also supplies me both with chicken feet and wonderfully flavorful older stewing hens, had no chicken available. Stock is a general pantry necessity in my house, and I almost always have some in the freezer, but I was out right then, and Thanksgiving was coming. I like to start my turkey gravy with a base of chicken stock. I did make stock, using the cheapest chicken I could find in the grocery store. That is the way I did it when I was young, waiting for sales, and snapping up cheap chicken for stock. But I was young and naive then. The experiment was a lesson in how the quality of the ingredients affect the quality of the final product. My stock making technique and skill has evolved over time, but that particular batch was functional but far from the best stock I have ever made. although it was still superior to stock in a box.

The resulting turkey stock might have been the best I have ever made however, although. Whether it was the turkeys, or the fact that I've changed my technique somewhat since the previous Thanksgiving, I'm not completely certain. I got two smallish turkeys, one a local heritage breed pastured turkey and the other a wild turkey. I didn't take pictures of them but perhaps I should have. I named them Abe and Mary. Abe, the wild turkey was long and tall, lean, muscular and gangly. Mary was small and rounded, much like a smaller version of the turkeys we find in the grocery store every year, but without the breast enhancements. The trimmings and bones of Abe and Mary made the best turkey stock I have ever made. And both of them were perfectly delicious to eat as well. None of us could discern a difference in taste between the birds.

I didn't roast the birds. I couldn't have fit both of them in my oven anyway. The breasts were removed and cooked sous vide to the perfect temperature. The legs were braised slowly in red wine. The breast meat at the end of the platter near the bottom of the photo is Mary's, the back is Abe's. (sorry I wasn't really thinking about blogging on Thanksgiving, I'm just happy to have any picture.) You can barely discern any difference other than that Abe's breasts were flatter and wider than Mary's. They both tasted tender and juicy and delicious. In the same way, Abe's legs are long and Mary's drumsticks are plump with a dainty ankle. The brown bits on the platter of breast meat are slices of turkey skin that was roasted until it was crisp and crackly like bacon. I really couldn't taste much difference between the two, so I'm not convinced I'd pay extra for a wild turkey, unless it ends up that it was Abe's bones that made that stock so wonderful. I would pay for a heritage and pastured turkey, as the flavor was excellent however as the flavor was superior to the standard market fare.

But there was still no chicken and I needed to expand my poultry horizons. I needed a couple of alternate suppliers so I started doing some research, and now I have a list of a few places to try, although my favorite local farm will probably remain first on my list when chickens are available.

As happens, I needed to make stock again. This time I procured chickens elsewhere. They came gutted, but otherwise fully intact. Now, of course I know that chicken doesn't grow in styrofoam packets, and I've been part of a team that butchered a lamb. But I've never had a whole chicken on my cutting board before, and I hate to admit that I started off being a little bit squeamish. I got over it. Goodness knows that if our ancestors, even only a few generations ago, were going to eat a chicken they were faced with the whole bird, and they had to pluck it as well. And I do believe that we should be aware of what we eat, and its role in the ecosystem, and all that stuff that sounds good when you are talking and seems much more daunting when you are a privileged white American faced with a chicken on your cutting board.

So I managed. I learned that it is very easy to snap a chicken's neck right where it meets the back. I'm not sure I really wanted to know that, but now I do. I learned to pull out the esophagus and other funky bits. Don't worry, I took a picture but I'm not going to show it to you. I separated out the feet and heads for use in stock, collected the offal separate bags, and had a pile of nice whole chickens to use for regular cooking, looking just as nice as if I'd picked them up at the store.

I made stock yesterday. I've used chicken feet in stock before; they enhance the collagen level in the stock and give it body and flavor. I went to the Chinese market, where I learned I can buy chicken feet, and necks, and even heads, duck heads too, if I want, for future stocks, and I purchased a small package of necks to enhance this batch of stock, even if they are not organic. The resulting stock is excellent, even without a stewing hen.

I know most of my friends don't make stock and I understand. It takes time, but I love the process. That doesn't mean that I wouldn't rather just go to the store and pick up chicken breasts, an occasional steak, and some hamburger. But I honestly don't believe that is very healthy for our world or for us, much less sustainable. Our ancestors ate a wider variety of meats and a wider variety of parts of the animal than we do. We've grown very isolated from our world, from the animals and the earth that feeds us, from death and the way death is a necessary part of life. We need diversity to nourish our bodies, the earth needs diversity to survive. Different plants, different animals, fill different niche's in the ecosystem, a system of which we are a part.

In my own way of looking at things, this is part of my hope to simplify. I don't mean make things easier necessarily, but to be conscientious in my choices and my actions. A chicken, a whole chicken will give me several meals, its carcass combined with the feet and head will give me nourishing broth and soup, and the livers and gizzard and heart have essential nutrients that we don't easily get elsewhere (the gizzards and heart can go in stock). Even eating other proteins, I'd like to try to be more conscientious in my choices. I am a single person, so true nose-to-tail living would be difficult, and I'm not likely to buy a whole hog. But I can seek out variety and diversity. We will see how that goes. And yes, I know the the Chinese, and probably others, eat the chicken feet, but I'm not there yet, and if you come to my house for dinner, I promise not to feed you chicken feet either.

January 11, 2018
What Is Your Favorite Holiday Music?

"Holiday" music came out this week. But which Holiday?

Tuesday evening I went to see The Meshuga Nutcracker, a film of the Channukah Musical. It was cute and funny, in parts, and in others a bit strained. I think it would have worked brilliantly as an actual musical on stage, but needed some help being translated to film. It was a little bit too "Look here we are making a film and pretending it is a play" to really work. Or maybe they really were just filming the play, and there was something I didn't get. I enjoyed it, but it could have been fabulous.

It wasn't well attended, and that could just be a Tennessee thing, although I'd like to think it was also because the actual ballet, Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Ballet, was being performed downtown, although I am probably fooling myself it I believe that was all that was involved. I would have liked to have done both, but even I knew that was never going to work.

I came out of the movie theater with the latke song roiling about in my head, and I knew I needed to make a batch of latkes, although it could wait as it was late and I had already eaten. When I was young and naive, and probably a bit arrogant as well, I couldn't imagine that anyone would need a recipe for latkes. That was before I ever had a bad latke, or potato pancake, as my non-Jewish family and friends referred to them, or before I realized the way the term "traditional" is loaded: Tradition is whatever your grandmother made, and someone else's grandma is always wrong. Now I am old enough to know that tradition is really a mixed bag, as is the idea of authenticity.

Yesterday, however, I made latkes. I also listened to holiday music. I started the day with a new CD I had purchased this year, Veni Domine by the Sistine Chapel Choir. I purchased it because it said music for Advent and Christmas in the title, and I like Advent, and Advent music. It is not Christmas yet, after all, and Christmas lasts for 12 days. I am too much a child of the Anglican Tradition, a child whose mind remains entranced by the 12th night parade in Madrid and waiting for the wise men to come and fill my shoes with gifts. The Veni Domine CD was also a bit of a change for me, simply due to its more general nature as an assortment of songs and carols. I do listen to choral music: I listen to Handel's Messiah every year on Christmas Day, and usually also listen to Berlioz's L'Enfance du Christ at least once during the season, but George was the one who could listen to choirs singing carols for hours on end.

By the time evening rolled around and I was actually making latkes, I was no longer listening to carols. It seemed time for celebrating another holiday, and, even though Channukah is already over, I listened to Itzhak Perlman's collection, Holiday Tradition, a compilation of traditional Israeli and Eastern European music. I can't actually say that I've listened to this as a Holiday album all that much, Jewish Holidays, yes, and Channukah is a Jewish Holiday, but it was not one George particularly observed. A lot of the music is seasonally appropriate however, and it is relaxing and joyous music.

I made my latkes with a combination of shredded and finely grated potatoes, and I don't use flour, but the potato starch that accumulates in the bottom of the bowl after soaking the grated potatoes, a trick I learned from George's Aunt Hilda. And I served my latkes with pork chops, definitely not kosher, and roasted mushrooms, including some lovely black chanterelles. I didn't eat half of that food. But the leftovers went into a lovely hash, some of which I had this morning for breakfast.

I can't say that I only listen to classical music at Christmas, or that I don't like Christmas carols either, although I get tired of hearing them everywhere I go, especially now that many places start playing them before Thanksgiving. Nor can I say that my holiday music choices are particularly profound. I've listened to my favorite Christmas album, A Charlie Brown Christmas, several times already and it always makes me smile and feel generous and happy and filled with joy. Charlie Brown is part of my lifetime Christmas lexicon.

In these photo montages are my favorite Christmas season albums. I have more of a collection than I realized, and now I've added two more, the new Veni Domine album, plus the Itzhak Perlman album I've had a while, but which I never particularly associated with the December holidays. I don't use digital playlists yet, mostly because I haven't acquired speakers for my iPad or computer, or set up a way to connect them to my stereo system, something I need to look into next year.

My question to you is this: What is your favorite Holiday music? Do you listen to albums? If so do you have favorites? Do you listen to playlists? If so what are your favorite things to listen to this time of year? Do you listen to holiday music at all? Or do you come home, happy to get away from the world of "Jingle Bells" at every turn, and retreat into silence or play something else entirely?

December 21, 2017
Eating, Drinking, and (Some) Sleeping in Scotland

First meal at home after traveling: local lamb chops and sugar snap peas (not local).

I went to Scotland as part of a group organized by Nancy Erickson. I had been on Nancy's first Italy tour, 20 years ago, and now on her first(?) Scotland Tour. The focus was a mix of fashion and history, with tours of historic sites, knitting and weaving mills, and outlets. Nancy is a warm and wonderful guide, my friend Liana is warm and funny and a great roommate, and I had a good time. It was my first trip to Scotland, my first trip out of the country since George died, and my first trip out of the country since I learning of my own dietary restrictions.

Perhaps it is because I am thinking about food, being home and once again engaged in shopping and cooking and all that, perhaps it is just because food was a minor concern, but it seems like a good enough place to start. Above, Liana and I are sharing complimentary gin and tonics in the lobby of the G&V Royal Mile Hotel our first afternoon in Edinburgh.

First, the Hotels:

We stayed at the G&V Royal Mile in Edinburgh. The location was convenient, both to the Royal mile, but it was also a short walk from Grassmarket, an area with many small shops and nice options for dining on those evenings we were on our own. The hotel is fairly contemporary. I liked our room and although the bed was a little hard for me, the pillows were divinely soft and fluffy. Espresso, tea, water and milk were provided at no charge in the room, and were generously replaced daily, and on request. Our first room was large and roomy with space to sit and chat, and the second (after going up to Inverness and returning) was smaller but still charming. In our first room the A/C worked beautifully and we could adjust the temperature to suit us. In the second room, it was always hot. Once, in the middle of the night, Liana turned the temperature down to 16°C and a cool breeze briefly circulated, only for the room to quickly return to stifling heat. The next night, the room was in the upper 70s (F) but the thermostat was still set to 16 and I turned it lower, to no avail. But this was a small problem and I otherwise loved the hotel, which had a lovely hot and cold breakfast options and always made me smile with its charming, Timorous Beasties, décor in the restaurant.

In Inverness we stayed at the Best Western Inverness Palace, which was a charming old hotel and conveniently located, within walking distance of restaurants and shopping. Our room was lovely, with a view over the river, (seen below) and windows that opened wide, which was good as there was no A/C and the room would otherwise have been stuffy. The staff were very helpful and kind, but there was no coffee before 8, and then you had to buy it at the Starbucks station in the bar. Or I preferred to buy it as the coffee in the dining room was awful, and the rest of the food was adequate but uninspiring. The scotch selection in the bar was excellent however, and the prices were very good, at least as compared to what we found in Edinburgh. Oh yes, I learned that I do, indeed, like Scotch Whiskey.

Eating and Drinking:

Our trip wasn't really about food, which sounds odd considering that I am almost always interested in food, although at the same time I am aware that I can be difficult, and do not expect people to go to great lengths to accommodate me. I knew I would eat, and for that I would be happy. The group meals were mostly good and an effort was made to seek out interesting local venues, which is not easy when you are organizing a group of 13 women.

For the most part every place we went in Scotland was very accommodating to gluten-free options, even small pubs, more so than in the United States, gluten-free bread was always available, and most places would bring me my own little bowls of olive oil for dippng. Even more interesting to me, was how many places had dedicated fryers for chips, so that chips were also often gluten-free, something that rarely happens on this side of the pond. I ate more chips in Scotland than I have in the past five years, and I lost weight. Go tell.

The best meal of the trip was one Liana and I had at a small place called The Grain Store, a short walk from our hotel on Victoria Street. We dubbed the meal "the birds of Scotland" because Liana had partridge and wood pigeon and I had the grouse, shown above, which came with nettle berries and Tuscan Kale. There was nothing on the menu that was strictly both gluten-free and dairy-free, but the chef was very willing to work with me, and the food was excellent. When I am in Edinburgh again, I will return.

My second and third favorite restaurants are tied in my memory. We ate at Scran and Scallie our first night. It was a group meal and I was tired. I remember that I had the best gluten-free bread that I ate in Scotland at that meal, and that the rest of my meal was excellent as well, but I don't remember anything else. I would go back. The other place was a little spot Liana and I went to twice, called Howie's. It was casual and excellent. The first night I had mussels, the second time a steak, and it was an excellent steak, far better than the one I had at a much fancier restaurant which was one of our group meals. Our second night at Howie's, Liana and I had just returned from Inverness, where we started tasting whiskys. We had a couple of whisky flights and shared, the photo is Liana's.

As for all the other meals, they were good. I ate well. Most people are accommodating. I wish I could have had haggis and black pudding, but the oats are a problem. I don't know if the problem is with cross contamination, which is often a problem here with oats unless they are labeled gluten-free, or if labeling in Great Britain is stricter than in the US. I know that oats have a protein that, although not gluten, does imitate gluten to some extent and many people have trouble with oats. I used to not, but haven't had oats in years, and may in fact have a problem now. I'm not one to focus my energies on what I can't do, or have; there are plenty of other options in the world.

In fact, Scotland has made me think about food again here, some of that due to regulations about food quality which are far stricter than those in the US and partly just due to the experience of trying new things of learning new perspectives on old ideas. Travel is great for that. I ate a lot of carrot soup. It seemed to be the standard dairy-free option in many spots: carrot-ginger, carrot-coriander, curried carrot. The best carrot soup I had was at the little café at the Highland Folk Museum. Truthfully, I never thought about carrot soup before, now I think it is something worth exploring. And desserts. I encountered some fascinating desserts. Although my companions got all kinds of wonderful rich and gooey things, I think I got the best options of all.

October 14, 2017