Saveur, a five year anniversary, and a new kitchen

Just over two years ago I received an email from Steven Stern, a food writer, who asked if I was interested in being featured in an article for Saveur magazine. The proposed story would take a behind-the-scenes look at how I use my kitchen to prepare the foods that I post here on Playing With Fire and Water.

Over the past two decades, Saveur has inspired and fueled a passion for world cultures through the lens of food, consistently delivering quality content without relying on trends. In this shifting landscape of cuisine in a rapidly shrinking world, it has been a source of stability and perspective.

Of course I was interested!

But there was a major obstacle. At the time, my kitchen looked like this:

As luck would have it, my kitchen was in the process of remodeling and it would take months to be presentable. I explained to Steven and he assured me that the story would wait.

Then I worried about his expectations— was he hoping to find a kitchen, a laboratory, or a hybrid?

Although the new kitchen's footprint had doubled in space, there was still no room (or budget) for a chamber vacuum, CVap, rotary evaporator, or any other laboratory-cum-kitchen equipment. My cooking had always relied upon a few basic appliances that could be found in any serious cook's kitchen and, for the time being, would continue that way. I hoped that was not going to be a deal breaker.

Steven Stern's reply was affirmation that we were on the exact same page and that he was the right person for the story:

" I love that there's this online world of people sharing information and ideas, and it totally cuts across the usual boundaries of amateur and professional. And what's so appealing about your blog is that while you're working at this very high level of craft, everything you do seems approachable and personal and idiosyncratic. It really broadens the idea of "home cooking." So, yes, I think the idea that you're not working in some sterile lab with liquid nitrogen tanks and a centrifuge is precisely what we want to stress."

Predictably, the remodel ran behind schedule, but Steven was patient and finally came to my home in early summer. We passed a lovely afternoon chatting about food. I cooked for him, eager to introduce him to some of the fermented foods that I was working on. His questions, backed by genuine curiosity, felt like getting acquainted with a new friend, never like an interview.

Months later, I received a message from Penny De Los Santos informing me that she was coming to photograph my kitchen. It felt like I won the lottery and was acutely aware on the morning that she arrived of how fortunate I was for the opportunity to observe her at work and to pick her brain. She is as sweet and real as she is talented.

The story was written, the photographs taken, the waiting began. Right from the start I understood that the article, because it had no seasonality, could be published at any time. Or not at all. Even if it never saw the light of day, I was beyond grateful for the opportunity to have met two immensely talented people whose work I admired.

In November of 2012, word came from Saveur that they had decided to feature Playing with Fire and Water in their Saveur 100 issue with a blurb from Steven's story. I was delighted that its release would coincide with the 5 year anniversary of this blog and honored by the recognition of the love and work that went into it.

If I have any regrets, it's that I never got to read Steven's full story, or see more of Penny's images, and that you, dear readers, never got to see my new kitchen. Just like this blog, I put a lot of thought and love and work into it and it deserves recognition, too. I'd like to share it here— not to show it off (OK, maybe a little of that)— but with hopes that it will inspire you in organizing your own workspace.

To introduce you to my new kitchen, it would be fitting to begin with a backstory and images of the old kitchen, but that seemed redundant since those were already published in a previous post that you can read/view here.

Design: giving form

When I cook casual meals at home for my family, food is often served directly from the stove or oven, and everyone helps themselves. For formal meals, or when I'm being paid (or paying) for food, I spend more time on presentation, making it as significant as the flavor. In design terms that translates to form equals function.

My years of working as a private chef and caterer have placed me in countless kitchens, both residential and commercial, that have exposed me to the full spectrum of form vs function. On one end are the picture-perfect home kitchens where, upon closer inspection, functionality took a back seat to aesthetics. At the other end are the commercial kitchens, optimally organized for performance, but in the cold light of day appear sterile and soulless. Both of these situations have redeeming features, the challenge in designing my new kitchen was finding the sweet spot where these two elements intersect.

One example of form equals function is the sink faucets that were chosen both for their look (modern profile/vintage patina) and commercial features (pull down head with one-touch spray/stream control, and single temperature lever). I liked them so much that I bought two— one for the main sink, and one for the island sink that is indispensable for foodhandling tasks such as washing hands, produce, and filling and draining pots.

Another example is the 'apothecary' that utilizes the wasted space between wall studs by framing it and fitting with shallow shelves that make ingredients accessible. While I love to see collections of things on display, open storage can often look cluttered. Using uniform jars and labels makes them look cohesive and tidy.

Aesthetically, the goal was to assimilate my predilection for modern design with the character of my 93-year-old house. To achieve this, I relied on contrasting shades, textures, and surfaces, juxtaposing contemporary with vintage. A lot of contrast can become jarring to the eye— to soften the effect, the color palette was limited to warm earthtones, and pattern to the granite countertop. I couldn't be happier with how it turned out.

Organization: making it function

The first thing I do when working a private kitchen is to clear the countertops and organize the space to function like a restaurant by defining stations for prep/mis en place, cooking, plating, and cleanup. Ideally, the first three are staged within reach of each other and the cleanup area is segregated to hold the dirty dishes and clutter that can't be dealt with while the clock is ticking.

Using this model as the starting point for the new kitchen's floor plan, I placed the main sink and dishwasher at one end of the room, and located a second sink on the island for food handling. In the cleanup area, it made sense to store dishes, glassware, and flatware near the dishwasher and dry goods near the refrigerator.

With the cleanup area situated at one end of the kitchen, and the dining area at the other, there was no question that all of the food preparation would take place in the center of the room. For this, I designed a nine foot long island with a stove and sink, and separated them with a span of counter workspace. I spent a considerable amount of time on the cabinet layout so that all of the necessary tools and equipment would be stored where they were most needed. The island storage provides cutting boards and knives for prepping, and utensils and pans for cooking, all within arm's reach.

I find it hard to function or think around clutter— it disrupts organization and focus. Eliminating countertop clutter, particularly on the island, was mandatory. But, then, where to put the small appliances and paraphernalia that are needed when prepping?

I gave them an accessible home in a cabinet, located directly behind the island, where the appliances are always plugged in and ready to use, then quickly tuck away behind a folding door. To accommodate the inevitable spills and splatters, I finished the inside surfaces with four coats of polyurethane for easy cleanup. (Note: all of the paints, stains and finishes used were water-based. Generally, they are more expensive and harder to work with because they dry so quickly, but the payoff was less fumes and toxic emissions).

The wall unit also houses a trio of baking drawers, situated beneath the mixer, that make baking a breeze. The middle drawer was designed for two flip-top containers (each holds a five pound bag of flour or sugar) whose lids snap shut when the drawer closes. Having everything at hand, I can whip up a batch of pancake or muffin batter in the time it takes to brew coffee.

Next to the appliance cabinet is the skinniest spice rack (I've) ever seen and one of the design features that delights me the most. It was meant to be dead space that enclosed a support beam, but at the last minute I re-imagined its potential and changed the faceboard to a door and fitted it with shelves. It's only 5" wide and half as deep, but it stands floor to ceiling and holds 28 jars of spice!

Designing a wall cabinet to be flush with the refrigerator gave the appliance a built-in look that made it less prominent in the room and made the storage more accessible. Divided vertical storage is the most efficient use of space for storing flat and shallow wares such as cutting boards, sheet pans, platters, and racks.

Construction: making it a reality

Long before the design and layout were finalized, I began looking for the most important element that would become the kitchen's backbone of both form and function— the cabinetry. After years of searching and indecision, our cabinets found us when our good friends Phil and Roxanne generously offered a set that they ordered for their own kitchen and then decided to go with another finish. They were perfect, really— well constructed with clean simple lines— but they were only enough to fit the cleanup area. The remaining cabinets (the island, refrigerator and wall units, and bookcases) had to be custom made to match and fit. For these we relied on another good friend, Ron Pronovost, master cabinet maker, whose impeccable craftsmanship we knew would bring them to life. In fact, the entire kitchen was built with help from a circle of friends and acquaintances with the specialized skills that extended beyond our own.

When we were ready to proceed, the demolition began. Curiously, this was the only stage that my sons wanted to be a part of. Over the course of a few days, we removed the old cabinets and windows, stripped the plaster walls and ceiling to bare studs, and took down a wall that divided the kitchen from the dining room. It was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

With the kitchen gutted, my husband and I ran electrical wires, installed new windows and ductwork for the exhaust. We sub-contracted the aforementioned friends and acquaintances to make electrical connections, run plumbing, put up sheetrock, and refinish the wood floors. After the cabinets were installed, I spent weeks painstakingly staining and painting them, putting up the tile backsplash and light fixtures, and stripping, refinishing, and installing the original millwork. It was truly a labor of love.

I'm often asked if there is anything that I would have done differently. It is then that I consider the things that I wished I had more space for: a larger refrigerator, a CVap oven, and always, always more storage. But those desires pass quickly when I think of the life-changing efficiency and profound pleasure that it has brought to the thing I love most— cooking.

elderflower

I once found elder growing on our property. I came upon the single straggy specimen while clearing a patch of the hillside to plant fruit trees. It was struggling in the dense overgrowth and I had hoped that its new situation of light and air would help it along. But the following summer, and the one after, when our lives filled with other priorities, the wild reclaimed the orchard and swallowed up the elder.

After that, I considered cultivating elder on a more hospitable part of the yard— there are many ornamental hybrids with unique characteristics for the home gardener and elder enthusiast. For now, I'm happy to harvest flowers and berries from the naturalized specimens that grow abundantly along the roadsides of Northwestern Connecticut.

For most of the year, elder's dark green foliage blends in with the understory and is hard to spot. But there's a two to three week window, just after the last of the June strawberry harvest and just as the first blueberries ripen in July, when elder bursts into bloom, and elderflowers become like beacons to bees and foragers alike. That's when I stop to pick flowers from the dozens of mature trees that I pass on my daily travels, leaving enough behind to return for ripe berries in late September.

Elderflowers have a musky honey aroma that is both fruity and floral. Picked early in the morning (when most flowers have a heightened scent), they smell to me of muscat grapes. That may be why I like my elderflower cocktail with moscato wine instead of champagne, and certainly what inspired this bavaroise, served with St Germaine-glazed blueberries and honeycomb candy.

elderflower ambrosia

Ambrosia often refers to an orange and coconut concotion, but can also be used to describe something that is particularly delicious and nectar-like— a fitting description for this dessert.

elderflower moscato bavaroise

250g moscato
60g sugar
2 egg yolks
40g St Germaine
60g creme fraiche
1 sheet gelatin, softened in cold water
200g heavy cream, chilled and whipped to soft peaks

Cook the moscato and sugar to 100C/212F. Whisk together the yolks, St Germaine, and creme fraiche. Slowly drizzle the hot syrup into the yolk mixture while whisking, then transfer to saucepan and cook over medium low heat until bubbly and thickened. Remove from heat and whisk in the drained gelatin until dissolved. Cool to room temperature, then fold in the whipped cream. Pour mixture onto a parchment lined sheetpan and spread to an even thickness of 2.5cm/1". Chill for 2-3 hours, until set.

elderflower white chocolate shards

100g white chocolate, melted
2.5g freshly picked elderflower blossoms, plus more for garnish

Spread the white chocolate on parchment or silicone in a thin, even layer. When it has cooled, but not yet solidified, sprinkle blossoms over top of chocolate, pressing lightly to adhere. Chill until chocolate can be peeled from parchment and broken into shards. To preserve the color/integrity of the blossoms: do not freeze or assemble more than 30 minutes in advance of service.

St Germaine glazed blueberries

65g St Germaine
25g unsalted butter
150g blueberries

Bring the St Germaine to a simmer and whisk in the butter. When the mixture returns to a simmer, add the blueberries. Toss well to coat berries and continue cooking over gentle heat for a minute or two, just until they are warmed through. Keep warm until ready to serve.

honeycomb candy (see recipe here), broken into shards

To serve: Using a long, offset spatula, and a single motion, cut and scoop up a 2.5cm/1" wide slice of the bavaroise. Drop onto a serving plate, right of center. Embed upright shards of the elderflower white chocolate alternately with the honeycomb candy. Sprinkle the blueberries to the left and over the top of the bavaroise, then drizzle some of the glaze over the top of berries. Garnish with a sprinkle of fresh elderflower blossoms.

pickled shad roe

The turning of the seasons brings a new palette of flavors that are never more ephemeral than in spring. For a few short weeks I gorge on newborn onions, particularly those of the sweet Vidalia variety. Grilled, roasted, braised— I can't seem to get enough of them before they're gone.

The season for shad roe is equally fleeting and depends on where you live. Like salmon, shad are anadramous fish that live in salt water, but ascend rivers and streams to breed when the waters warm. Along the east coast, they begin running in January in Florida, and continue through to June in Canada. In Connecticut, where the American shad (Alosa sapidissima) is the state fish*, the month-long season is nearly over.

And shad roe's perishability is more evanescent than its season. I only buy it when I know that I can cook and serve it the same day. Yet, I couldn't walk away from the remaining pair of sacs in the fish case and when I asked the fish monger to wrap those as well, I knew I would be enjoying them days later.

*Want to know your state's fish? Here you go.

pickled shad roe

1-2 shad roe sacs
1Liter/1.05 qt cold water
85g/3 oz kosher salt
56g/2 oz brown sugar
3.5g/½ tsp. pink curing salt (optional, but will give the roe a rosy color)
1 bay leaf
10 black peppercorns
3.5g/1 tsp mustard seeds
3.5g/1 tsp whole coriander seeds
1g/½ tsp dried thyme
rendered bacon fat

Place roe sac(s) in a non-reactive container and chill. Bring water, salt, sugar and sodium nitrate to boil in a stainless steel saucepan. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely. Pour cooled brine over roe. Add remaining ingredients, cover and pickle in the refrigerator for 3 days. Remove roe from brine, discard brine and rinse container. Return roe to container and cover with fresh cold water. Chill for 12 hours.
Remove roe from water and pat dry with paper towels. Place roe sac(s) in sous vide bag. Add 28g/1 oz rendered bacon fat per sac. Vacuum and seal bag. Cook at 64C/147.2F for 40 minutes. Remove roe from bag and pat dry with paper towels. Chill before serving.

pickled shad roe ✢ braised/grilled spring onion
coriander mustard sauce

autumnberry

I equate the back half of my property to the side of a mountain. I'm probably being overly dramatic but it does feel that way when I climb it. When I brought my father up there, he said it would make a fine vineyard. He was right— it had good drainage and a southwestern exposure, but I had different kinds of fruit in mind: cherries, pears, apples, plums… I wanted to plant a mountain orchard.

The second spring after we moved in, my husband and I cleared an area on the lower rise. We took down a few mature trees, numerous saplings, and a ton of unidentified shrubs that dominated the understory. They were attractive as far as wild shrubs go— long arching branches, silvery leaves, and insignificant yellow flowers that perfumed the mountain with their sweet scent. I would have hesitated to cut them down, but honestly, they were everywhere.

That spring, I planted six semi-dwarf fruit trees with the intentions of planting six more the following year. It was too far from the house to bring in water, but I managed to get a large tub up to gather rainwater for dry spells. That first year, I checked on the trees frequently, though there was little to do except to adjust their supports and weed around their base. By midsummer, the stumps of the shrubs that had been cut to the ground were sending out multiple shoots that began to encroach on the trees. It seemed that the more severely they were cut, the more vigorous they became. They were tenacious— I gave them that— but so was I. That first year I was confident that I had them under control [insert Nature's mocking laugh].

It was August of the following year when I finally made my way back up to the orchard. Plans to plant more trees were thwarted; other things took priority. In the wild overgrowth that ensued in my neglect, I had to look hard to find the fruit trees. Half of them were dead and the remaining three didn't look so good. I suppose that I should have felt defeated, but I had more invested in the orchard than the hours of labor and cost of the trees— I was chasing a dream of my own private Eden; trying to fulfill a plan that would bring me closer to the land and further from the grid. Stubbornly, I resolved to reclaim the orchard and waged a quiet, but violent war with pruning saw and shears.

I went back to work full-time the following year. In the restaurant biz, that means 14-16 hour days, leaving little free time for gardening. I didn't make it back to the orchard until late in the season, then I wished I hadn't. It's never easy to admit defeat. Or to let go of dreams.

I let a few years pass before I ventured back up the mountain. With the fruit trees dead, there didn't seem much point— until last month, when I found a reason to return.

You see, I finally identified the tenacious shrubs. It turns out that my nemesis and the squasher of my mountain orchard dream is the Autumn Olive (Elaeagnus umbellata)— a close relative of Russian Olive, a native of Asia (Aki-gumi) and cultivated by the Europeans who introduced it to North America. Originally intended as an ornamental, its tolerance of a wide range of environmental conditions and nitrogen-fixing root nodules that allows it to thrive in poor soil and drought, made it attractive to public works horticulturists, who planted it along highways to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. They didn't account for its highly viable seed, spread by birds, and its tendency to overcrowd native species, landing it squarely on the federal invasive species list. Here, in the Northeast, Autumn Olive is classified as an invasive exotic gone feral. I can certainly vouch for that.

It does, however, have a saving grace— it produces edible fruit.

In late fall, the green drupes begin to blush. Their color deepens and darkens with the onset of cold. When green, they are tannic and unpalatable— much like raw green olives. As they ripen, the tannins give way to tartness and eventually sweetness, which doesn't occur until they are threatened by frost. When fully ripe, as they are now, they straddle a balance of sweet and tart, with a flavor that is reminiscent of pomegranates, currants and cranberries.

The fruit has captured the attention of the USDA, who gave it a new name, Autumnberry, and opened an Autumnberry research lab in hopes of promoting their rich nutritional value. The berries contain high levels of vitamin A, C, and E, as well as flavonoids and carotenoids, but it is their particularly high levels of the antioxidant lycopene that makes them unique. With 30-70 mg of lycopene per 100 g of fruit, it surpasses (by up to 17 times) the levels found in raw tomato.

And so, after identifying the plant and learning of its edible fruit, I watched and waited. At least once a week, I climbed the mountain to check on their progress and taste for the developing sweetness. Last week, on a cold, windy day following a light frost, they were ready. I picked a few quarts, forcing myself to stop when my bare fingers became too cold and stiff to continue. It felt completely surreal and unnatural to be harvesting fruit in November— but aren't the sweetest things in life the ones that take you by surprise and not the ones you plan for? And even though Autumnberry robbed me of my dreams of cherries, pears, apples, and plums, I forgive them because— in an entirely unexpected way— I have my mountain orchard after all.

aged gouda
autumnberry cheese
comice pear
pumpkinseed oil

let freedom ring

Branford, Ct. June 27,2009

asparagus rose

prosciutto asparagus olive oil lemon rose

I once worked for a chef with an exacting standard for detail. His mirepoix were perfectly uniform 1/4" dice and his mise en place were works of art, craft, and geometry. Besides his knives, which he wielded with the precision of a surgeon, his favorite tool was a ruler.

I learned a lot about OCD from him.

He must have seen some of those same tendencies in me because I was given some of the fussier tasks that he normally did himself. When he wasn't there to walk me through it, he would leave detailed notes– complete with drawings– of components or new dishes that he wanted me to work on. Eventually, as I became more familiar with his aesthetic, and he with mine, I was just given a list of dishes and left to interpret them.

On one of those lists was a dish that I fixated on: Fresh pea risotto with prosciutto rose. I immediately saw the dish in my head; a pale green mound of risotto topped with a loosely coiled ribbon of prosciutto. I couldn't figure out how prosciutto rose even fit into his style so I proceeded with my vision.

When I showed him the dish, he glowered at it. He insisted he had specified prosciutto lardons. I showed him the list and he conceeded that it had been his mistake but he never did explain how someone confuses lardons with roses.

In the end, he liked the dish as I had made it. My reward for pleasing him was to make 150 more just like it.

asparagus risotto

robiola bosina

prosciutto rose

deep-fried rose petals

asparagus salt

A recent job took place on a privately-owned modern villa here in Northwestern Connecticut. Hidden behind 8'-high stone walls was the most extraordinary vegetable garden that brought to mind the gardens of Monticello, Versailles, and Villa Borghese.

Highly ornamental, yet fully functional, it featured symmetrical parterres edged with clipped boxwood in elaborately knotted patterns; the pockets planted with herbs and vegetables. Red and green lettuces were planted in alternating blocks to form edible checkerboards. Iron trellage towers supported beans and tomatoes. Antique terra cotta cloches protected tender seedlings. Gurgling fountains, imposing sculptures– there was so much to admire and draw inspiration from that I quickly went into sensory overload.

In that formal setting, herbs and vegetables were treated and displayed with a deference that is usually reserved for ornamental plants and flowers. One stunning border featured roses interplanted with asparagus. The slim stalks of asparagus rising out of the ground echoed the thorny stems of the roses tipped with tight green buds. The gardener revealed that there was a beneficial logic to the pairing, but I was too distracted to take note.

I can however tell you about the logic of pairing the flavor of roses with asparagus. They are united by several aroma compounds, most notably alcohols and aldehydes and also some ketones and esters. Among them are:

Valeraldehyde (warm, winey, slightly fruity, and nutty)

Phenylacetaldehyde (earthy-sweet, fruity, floral)

Octanol (fresh orange-rose, slightly herbaceous)

Vinylphenol (vanilla extract)

Nonyl Alcohol (floral-citrus, slightly fatty, bitter)

No matter how much research I do on these compounds, the scientific names always shock me. They serve as a reminder that everything we perceive as wholesome, natural, and organic is, in fact, a complex composition of chemicals.

the meadow

"No voice calls me to order as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel to earth and, moving east to west, second the motion only of the sun…. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold or promise rain. In time, outside of time, the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers."

"Planting the Meadow" by Mary Makofske

Dame's rocket (Hesperis matronalis) is a biennial wildflower that is often confused with phlox. The most obvious distinction is that phlox blooms later in the season and the flowers have five petals whereas Hesperis has only four.

Because of its tendencies to self seed and escape cultivation, it's considered an invasive species in parts of the country where it has crowded out native species. In my state of Connecticut, it is illegal to move, sell, purchase, transplant or distribute Hesperis. And, because I always follow the law [ahem], I resist the temptation to transplant them to a more conspicuous part of the garden. For now, they live on an unmown patch of earth that I call "the meadow", where they happily coexist with sumac, asters, mullein and goldenrod.

Dame's rocket belongs to the Brassicaceae family of plants that include cabbage and mustard.

The flowers throw off a sultry vanilla scent that intensifies as the sun goes down (Hesperis means evening in Greek) and has a two-part flavor that starts as honeyed pears and ends with a mild sting of mustard.

This dish, built on a foundation of peanut butter ganache and peanut brittle-enrobed roasted banana, covered with elderflower and green tea whip displays an intriguing juxtaposition of harmonious flavors.

It looks a bit wild and unkempt. Just like the meadow.

Download recipe: The meadow

tree peonies

I have the good fortune to live near a peony farm. It's no ordinary farm and their peonies are anything but ordinary. In fact, at this time of year when the plants are in full regalia, the gardens are aptly referred to as "Peony Heaven".

Cricket Hill Garden is a world-renowned grower of rare Chinese tree peonies (Paeonia suffruticosa). The owners Kasha and David Furman were among the first to import the plants into the US and have grown hundreds of cultivars over the past twenty years on their seven acre farm. In conversations with David, it's apparent that he is a man completely fulfilled by a career that grew out of his obsession with the Chinese culture and a passion for their national flower. He speaks freely of his travels through China and the political tribulations of gaining permission to import the plants from a country that– at the time– was embarrassed by the sensual nature of the flowers.

Tree peonies do indeed arouse the senses. They unfurl their luminous petals slowly and luxuriously to reveal their flamboyant centers. The flowers are as large as a dinner plate, smell heavenly, and bear fanciful names such as "Purple Butterfly in the Wind" and "Green Dragon Lying on a China Ink Stone". At about 100$ per plant, they are expensive, but as they are known to live hundreds of years, I see them as an investment in the future.

One of my favorite salads involves shaved bulb fennel, fresh herbs, and olives, simply dressed with lemon juice and walnut oil. The addition of silky wisps of salami or a fresh tangy chevre rounds it out to a meal.

The ether anethole is responsible for the sweet (up to 13 times sweeter than sugar) anise flavor of fennel. Many of the tender annual herbs are united by this aromatic: basil, dill, tarragon, chervil, and hyssop all partake in anise love. Anethole is widely used as a flavoring for liquors. Because it is less soluble in water than in ethanol, it will produce a spontaneous microemulsion, a phenomenon known as "ouzo effect" when water is added– turning a clear solution milky white.

A deli slicer makes shaving fennel a breeze. I'm always fascinated by the forms that fall off the slicer. A cross-section of the heart, with its long gangly arms attached, look like alien sea creatures. The end-cuts reveal a succession of delicate petal shapes.

Typically, the shavings go directly into an ice bath to keep them crisp and hydrated. The swelling that occurs when their cells fill with water further distorts the shapes.

I knew what I was hoping for when I submerged a handful of the petal shavings into chilled rhubarb juice, but I wasn't sure that it would happen. A few hours later, I nearly squealed with delight as I lifted the petals and watched them fall onto a plate.

Pale pink. Curled and cupped. All I could see was peonies.

daffodil

There's a place just up the road from me that I make a point to visit at this time of year.

It's the kind of spot that embodies the bucolic scenery of rural New England.

There are pastoral rolling hills…

…moss-patinaed stone walls…

…ancient gnarled trees…

…steep stone steps…

…and a lake with tiny islands.

It's a magical place at any time of year, but for a few weeks in April it becomes an enchanted land of earth, water, stone, and daffodils.

Daffodils have an alluring aroma with sweet notes of honey, citrus, warm spice, and exotic fruit. However, they contain the alkaloids galanthamine and lycorine that render them highly toxic if consumed. Even deer won't touch them.

mango

whipped honey

passionfruit souffle cake

orange blossom ice cream

pandan glass

ginger honey crystals

calendula buds

Download recipe: Daffodil

off-balance

All work and no play throws life off balance. The time that I spend on this blog playground gets the pendulum swinging, but sometimes complete disengagement is the only thing that will restore the equilibrium. A respite by the water with friends reminds me how it feels to float instead of paddle.

Leaving home for a spontaneous weekend is easier now that the children are no longer children. As the nest empties, this blog strangely begins to feel like a third child. Though it makes no demands and is content with whatever attention I can give to it, I recognize the need to nurture in order for it to grow and evolve.

When I left for the weekend, this 7-month-old blog had just passed a milestone: the 100,000th page load. It was a bittersweet occasion. As a parent, I celebrated my children’s first steps as a natural progression and an indication that all is right with the world. On the other hand, I recognized that those tiny feet were moving away from me and my sanctum and towards an uncertain world.

I returned home yesterday to find that my husband and I were not the only ones in need of play. My oldest child was playing with friends in Montreal, my youngest child was playing on a Big Stage for the weekend, and my blog-child went playing in cyberspace. 25,000 hits in 48 hours, it had grown large, pixelated feet and went running rampant, Stumbling it’s way around the world.

Today, things are back to normal.
Everyone has returned home safely.
The weekend is played-out.
Work has resumed.
Balance is restored.