Litererapy Presents: Spinach and Chickpeas

When I close my eyes and try to imagine myself in one single image, it is this: seated, glasses on, book open, world ignored.

In fact, if you could watch my life in time lapse, there I would be -- from early childhood to present day, the clothes and book and backdrop changing, but little else. More than anything, I define myself as A Reader. To call it a pastime is to call breathing a hobby; books are as much a part of me as my own skin, my own thoughts.

In grade school, I remember being completely grateful for the chicken pox, which gifted me with two weeks of undisturbed reading. Who can notice an itch when The Secret Garden is open in front of you, with all its tricky apostrophes and exotic cockney? By junior high I could walk and read at the same time, shuffling blindly into the kitchen, making a cheese sandwich with one hand while holding Charlotte Bronte open in the other, never missing a word, my heart and soul on those dreary moors while my body was in wretchedly pleasant San Diego. In high school, it was my escape -- from parents, from decisions, from boys who weren't noticing me. I sought out dark tour guides to lead me to their secret hiding places: Toni Morrison, Lorrie Moore and my beloved Alice Munro.

All my life, I've stayed up full nights to finish a book, never understanding how some people read to fall asleep. I've sat straight up in bed until dawn, my body still and silent, an entire life spinning ferociously inside my head. I've sobbed and wept grievously, guffawed and snorted out loud like a hyena, my voice sounding misplaced within the quiet room (but drowned out by the world within the pages). When the book is good, and the pages are open, there is no time or place, and the only thing that exists is the life that I am reading.

And all of this can unfortunately wreak havoc on your real, present life.

Halfway through college, I realized that if were to die at that moment, my tombstone would have said: Sara read.

Which is lovely, I suppose. But I'd prefer: Sara lived.

So, I weened myself from my pages, and have maintained a much more respectable rapport with my books. I read often, but only in between living. Books, which were once my main course, are now a condiment. A delicious, deeply-satisfying, finger-licking dipping sauce for my life.

And yet still, the right book can come along and grasp me in its glorious clutches. And when that happens, hypothetical tombstone be damned, I'm not putting it down until I'm done. And when this happens, I will find myself being pulled by my ignored hunger into the kitchen, nose lodged in my book, reaching blindly into the pantry or fridge for whatever can be made without interfering with what's happening inside my pages. And this last week, I hit pay dirt.

Rightly, the idea comes from a fellow reader, Shauna of Gluten-Free Girl. It's the simplest, most effortless, truly satisfying meal -- sauteed spinach and chickpeas with an egg on top -- and it comes together in minutes. It's so good, I actually put down my book for a moment to moan in appreciation.



The egg is optional, but I highly recommend it, be it poached or fried, but make sure the yolk is a little runny. The rich yellow oozes out and forms a gravy for the spinach and chickpeas. I also recommend a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese. But even without these additions, the spinach and chickpeas alone is ALARMINGLY delicious. I ate it three times in a week. And twice, I wasn't even reading.

Some people escape through knitting, or crossword puzzles, or The Bachelor. I read. But now, that doesn't mean sacrificing a chance for a good meal. (No offense to cheese sandwiches.)

(In case you're wondering, the books that still have a hold on my heart, no matter where I am in my real life: Jane Eyre, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and every story written by Alice Munro, who can do in ten pages what few can do in three hundred. I'd love to know what your favorites are, if you feel like sharing.)


Sauteed Spinach and Chickpeas
Adapted from Shauna Ahern of Gluten-Free Girl

1 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic
1 can chickpeas, drained well
1 bag (or about 6 ounces) fresh spinach
Fresh lemon juice
Salt and pepper
1 egg, poached or fried, yolk still runny (optional)
Parmesan cheese to taste (optional)

In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium high heat. Slice garlic and add to oil, saute about 30 seconds, or until you can smell the aroma from the garlic coming off the heat. Add the spinach and stir until leaved are about half way to wilted. Then add well-drained chickpeas, and cook until chickpeas are warmed through and spinach is wilted. Add salt and pepper, and a squeeze of fresh lemon.

(I highly, highly recommend a poached egg and Parmesan cheese, but I suppose this optional step depends on how close you are to finishing that crossword puzzle, the scarf, the Bachelor finale, or whatever book you're reading.)

Buttermilk English Love Muffins

I'd like to take this time to formally introduce you to my husband.

His name is Paul, and we were married four short months ago.



I suppose I haven't devoted a post to him because there's simply too much to say. Where do I begin, and how do I choose? I could write a book on every moment we've shared.

So I will accept the help of some photographs.

He makes me feel like this:




And this:




And generally, makes me laugh harder than is attractive or advised:




He sings bad 70's songs in the morning, belting louder to muffle my protestations. He plays a mean (MEAN) game of Scrabble, and can unclog any sink.

He likes every dog he meets, and they always like him back.

He says odd things to me to keep me on my toes, like quite seriously accusing me of sneezing on purpose. He writes notes that say things like, "I think in contractions, therefore I'm."

He remembers everything and reminds me of the things I forget, like the time we made love on a Sunday morning in Paris after getting engaged, and our apartment was suddenly filled with the voices of angels singing rapturously. It took us a while to realize it was coming from the church next door.

It helps that he's the best story teller ever.

He's an ideal partner for a trip to a museum, a trip to the doctor, a trip around the world. Even the grocery store is more fun with Paul there.

He's the kind of husband who will say to me, "Let's take five days off and go to Italy," and then will actually make it happen.

And he teaches me things. Like how to accept help when I need it. And how to splatter eggs with bacon fat when you fry them, like his dad used to do, and which results in the most magical pink yolks. And, in general, how to live a life full of love, adventure, laughter and spirit. He'll eat anything, try anything, go anywhere, talk to anyone. And now, he's taking me with him.

I am the luckiest woman in the world.

There's only so much I can do in return. I do my very best not to let my bitchy inner nag come out too often, but I know I'm not perfect. I laugh at his jokes when they're funny, and roll my eyes when they're not so he knows that I'm genuine. I try not to talk him out of things that don't make sense to me, because he's not me and I'm not him.

And I try to cook things that he'll like. Paul is a Boston boy and his palate shows it, preferring corned beef hash to my much-beloved California vegetables. (He can't tell you the difference between avocados, artichokes, and asparagus, but he's good enough to know that I love them.)

So here and there I throw the poor guy a bone, and make something a little more his style. The Bacon, Cheddar and Jalapeno Corn Muffins? Those were for Paul. So was the Polenta, Red Beans and Sausage, as well as the Beef Empanadas.

And nothing, nothing makes me happier than when I make something and he tells me that he likes it. He's not much of a fawner, so I remember each of those dishes, the Recipes That Paul Liked. And I had two of those successes this weekend, in the same meal. The first was for an eggs en cocotte dish I made, which I'll have to make again and will share with you soon. The other was for homemade Buttermilk English Muffins, which he told me he liked, twice.

So he really must have liked them.




This recipe is remarkably simple. I had tried it once before with my mom -- but I think our chattering got in the way of our measuring, because they didn't quite turn out right. But this time, they worked, and were immediately added to the Recipes That Paul Liked file, a file that I look forward to filling over the rest of our lives.

Paul puts up with a lot around here. He loses access to his own kitchen quite regularly. He eats vegetables -- sometimes several times a week. He allows me to be distracted and distant when I'm trying to figure out what to write about here. And, unfortunately, he's forced to listen to people tell him (sometimes condescendingly) that it must be nice to be married to such a good cook, when he's every bit the cook I am -- he just doesn't write a blog about it.

So putting a bun in the oven for him is the very least I can do to thank him.




Don't be intimidated by the length of this recipe.* I assure you, the steps are actually quite simple, and I've included a few helpful links so that even if you've never baked bread before in your life, you can make these.




I love the heck out of my 70's song-singing, Scrabble-winning, vegetable-hating husband. Words are never enough. And these muffins, as good as they are, are a silly way to thank him. I suppose all I can do is spend the rest of my life laughing at his jokes, holding his hand, and sneezing on purpose.


ENGLISH MUFFINS
Adapted from Peter Reinhart

(*I am terrified by making anything that requires rising. Bread scares me. So if I can make these, so can you. Take a deep breath, and just follow the instructions.)

2 ¼ unbleached bread flour
½ teaspoon granulated sugar
¾ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ teaspoons instant yeast
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, at room temperature
¾ to 1 cup milk or buttermilk, room temperature
Cornmeal for dusting


Stir together the flour, sugar, salt and yeast in a mixing bowl (or in the bowl of an electric mixer). Stir in (or mix in on low speed with paddle attachment) the butter and ¾ milk until the ingredients form a ball. If there is still loose flour in the bowl, dribble in some of the remaining ¼ cup milk. The dough should be soft and pliable, not stiff.

Sprinkle flour on the counter, transfer the dough to the counter and begin kneading (or mixing on a medium speed with the dough hook for about 8 minutes), sprinkling in more flour if needed to make a tacky, but not sticky, dough. It should pass the windowpane test. Lightly oil a large bowl and transfer the dough to the bowl, rolling it to coat it with oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap.

Ferment (let rise) at room temperature for 60 to 90 minutes, or until the dough doubles in size.

Wipe the counter with a damp cloth and transfer the dough to the counter. Divide the dough into 6 equal pieces. Shape the pieces into boules (see this helpful video).

Line a sheet pan with parchment paper, mist the parchment lightly with spray oil and dust with corn meal. Transfer the balls of dough to the sheet pan, spacing them about 3 inches apart,. Mist them lightly with spray oil, sprinkle them loosely with cornmeal, and cover the pan loosely with plastic wrap or a towel.

Let rise at room temperature for about 60 minutes more, until the pieces nearly double in size and swell both up and out..

Heat a skillet or flat griddle to medium (about 350), also preheat oven to 350 with oven rack on middle shelf.

Brush the pan with vegetable oil or mist with spray oil. Uncover the muffin rounds and gently transfer them to the pan, sliding a metal spatula under them and lifting them to the pan. Fill the pan so that the pieces are at least 1 inch apart, not touching. Cover the pieces still on the sheet pan with plastic wrap. Cook on each side for 5-8 minutes, until they are very dark golden brown. Once the muffins have been cooked on both sides, transfer them to to a sheet pan and place the pan in the oven immediately. (If you can’t fit all the muffins in one pan, you’ll have to do two batches.)

Bake for 5 to 8 minutes to ensure center is baked.

Transfer baked muffins to a cooling rack and cool for at least 30 minutes before fork splitting.*

This is the key to getting good nooks and crannies! With a fork, perforate the muffin all the way around until you can split it open.

Sweet Weekend Blueberry Buttermilk Cake

There are weeks (or months, or years, god help us) when it seems we can't find a single moment to catch our breath. The bills pile up, emails pile up, laundry piles up. Spiders make their homes in the neglected far corners of our bookshelves, our cars go unwashed and pass their oil change mark by double. The paper goes unread, the lounge chair cries out for company and the dog gives you a look like he's counting how many games of fetch you owe him.

But inevitably, a weekend stretch will come along, a long deep sigh of a weekend, with no obligations, no place in particular to be. The washer and dryer buzz along as your husband sorts out the garage. And suddenly you look up and the swirl of last week has settled and life has come back into focus. Your pulse slows to a more reasonable rate, you begin to taste your food, savor each moment of the day, letting time pass over you and under you and through you instead of right by you.

I'm having one of those weekends. We stayed in bed until 10:30, without uttering a single word of what we were planning on doing that day, because Plan has become an evil, ugly word. I sat at the kitchen table and watched as my husband made me perfect eggs, and I licked my fingers in ecstasy after slowly chewing every bite in prolonged bliss. After weeks of Plans, suddenly a late breakfast in my pajamas with my husband at my own kitchen table feels like Indulgence. And as the day passed -- the drizzle outside giving us permission to move slowly -- I looked up at the clock and was surprised to see how kind Time was being to us, generously following our pace, instead of expecting us to keep up with it.

And I'm thinking of all of this, because of a cake. A Blueberry Buttermilk Cake, which is the kind of cake that tastes so good it will force you to slow down and enjoy it. A world of Plans can spin outside your door as you sit at your quiet table with this light, perfect hug of a cake. The top forms a tender, sugary crust with bursts of fresh blueberries, and the crumb is delicate without being unsubstantial, and moist from the generous buttermilk. It's not too sweet, not too dense, not too rich. It is gentle. It coddles you a bit, reminding you how good life is when you stop to appreciate it.



You can have this for breakfast or as dessert; it is a perfect Sunday morning to Sunday evening cake -- and pairs especially well with a certain neglected lounge chair. It also would be perfect for 4th of July, with it's blue pocked top like a patriotic firework.

It's also so easy to make (about ten minutes to assemble) that you can make it on those weekends when time is less kind to you. And maybe that's when you deserve a cake like this the most.




Blueberry Buttermilk Cake
Adapted from Gourmet

The original recipe calls for raspberries, but I was craving those plump blueberries. Any berry will do, however strawberries will likely be too moist for this cake.

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup plus 1 1/2 tablespoons sugar, divided
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 cup fresh raspberries (about 5 oz)

Preheat oven to 400°F with rack in middle. Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

Beat butter and 2/3 cup sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes, then beat in vanilla. Add egg and beat well.

At low speed, mix in flour mixture in 3 batches, alternating with buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour, and mixing until just combined.

Spoon batter into cake pan, smoothing top. Scatter raspberries evenly over top and sprinkle with remaining 1 1/2 Tbsp sugar.

Bake until cake is golden and a wooden pick inserted into center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes. Cool in pan 10 minutes, then turn out onto a rack and cool to warm, 10 to 15 minutes more. Invert onto a plate.

Yields 6 servings, and comfort.

The BFF Reunion Special

There is a special time that every growing girl experiences; it happen right around the time you're reading Judy Blume books by flashlight at summer camp; a little past scraped-up knees but just before you've graduated from training bras. It's when you're starting to have ideas of secrets, without actually having any real secrets of your own yet. It's the time when suddenly you need someone to whisper those potential secrets to, someone to test out new ideas and personalities with, to stifle giggles with long after you're supposed to be asleep. Suddenly, you're in desperate, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die need of a confidante, a soul mate, a gal pal; three little letters that seal a bond of sisterhood that nothing can ever break: you need a BFF.

Your BFF is your partner in hair brush lip syncing. She's the one who will notice you have a crush on a boy before even you do, and will promise not to tell anyone. She's your pinky-swearing, note-writing and -folding, hand-kissing practice partner in crime. She's your Best Friend Forever, which is a solemn and sacred vow between only the most serious of sisters.

I met my future BFF in the first grade. To be honest, I'm not sure what 6-year-olds look for in a friend. I'm not sure if we liked the same color crayon or were just seated next to each other in alphabetical order. But I was the new girl in class, starting a few weeks after everyone else had already made friends and gotten comfortable with the rules of elementary school, and I was terrified. And Marisa stepped forward to be my much-needed friend.

We did what six-year-old friends do: we sang Madonna songs in earnest during recess, imagining our lives as famous pop stars; we swapped lunches and hair bows and shared afternoon snacks. We wore our Brownie outfits together on Tuesdays, and practiced our handstands in the pool after school. There were the ubiquitous sleepovers, of course, which in the early years meant coloring books and Candy Land, but then led to obsessive screenings of Labyrinth and writing our initials in hearts with the initials of cute boys from school, whom we wished looked more like Tom Cruise as seen in Top Gun.

And soon, several years had passed. We were now in the age of summer camp and first real crushes, wondering what cool meant and wondering if we were it. And we were lucky, because we were BFFs, and we didn't have to go it alone.

When I moved to a town 20 miles away, we got the necklaces - you know the one: two halves of a heart that spelled out Best Friends. One of us faithfully wore the Be Fri half, and the other St Ends, vowing to never let time or distance come between us. We wrote letters, back when letters were written on neon colored paper in neon colored pen with hearts over the I's and mailed with a stamp through a thing called the United States Postal Service.

But time and distance eventually did what they usually do. The letters slowed and eventually stopped, and we became distracted by boyfriends and our own high school friends and suddenly we were through with college and first jobs, and beginning our separate and adult lives.

And then, suddenly, thanks to internet searches, 24 years later we are friends again, writing long overdue emails, sending pictures and retracing our steps through our twenties so we can get each other up to speed.

Marisa + Sara - BFF - 1991

Marisa + Sara - BFF - 2009

I spent this past weekend with Marisa, her husband and two sons. She lives in her nana's house not far from where we would sleepover in 1985. She's the same as she always was, which is what I had hoped, except now she's all grown up. And I guess I am too.

It doesn't matter that we missed a few years in the middle -- a slew of ill-fitting boyfriends, fights with our parents, missing turns as we navigating our lives with a half-drawn map. I'm sure our experiences were similar enough, because all experiences are. Life just barrels along and then suddenly you're 30 and sharing a glass of wine with the girl who raised her hand and volunteered to be your helper in the first grade. And you're spilling your guts about life, work, sex, kids, wanting kids, family secrets, the stupid thing you did last week that you never thought you'd tell anyone. And you're laughing. And everything's the same, except that now there is wine, and husbands. And maybe a couple of well-deserved laugh lines.

We spent much of the day in the kitchen, which used to be her nana's kitchen, rifling through her nana's recipe drawer, which contains hundreds of hand written and clipped recipes from decades of home cooking -- things like Beef Stupendous, and Hamburger Casserole, and Apple Crisp. It's a truly amazing drawer, and she's bringing back memories of her grandmother by cooking her recipes, and writing about it here, at Nana's Drawer.

I realized, as I reluctantly drove away, that something had been missing all these years. A part of me had been dormant, unstoked. I'd been missing my BFF, and it sure did feel good to have her back again.

Some friendships are temporary. We lose touch with people and never get around to finding them again. Paths and choices take us in opposite directions until you can't imagine what you ever had in common to begin with. Sometimes there are fights or fall outs or moves to new cities. But the friends we're meant to be with always find their way back to you.

Once a BFF, always a BFF.

Marisa, who is also my soul sister in food, fed us the most spectacular and quintessential California meal -- Caprese Skewers to snack on as we drank margaritas made with fresh squeezed juice from her citrus trees, and Roasted Red Pepper, Basil and Goat Cheese Pasta. And she is nice enough to share them here, with you. Because that's what BFFs do.




Caprese Skewers
Adapted from Marisa McBride

6-8 ounces fresh mozzerella balls, or cut up into 1 " cubes
30 grape or cherry tomatoes, washed
1 bunch fresh basil leaves, rinsed
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
1 pinch of crushed red pepper flakes
salt and pepper, to taste
12 wooden skewers, halved if desired.

Combine olive oil, minced garlic, crushed red pepper flakes, salt and pepper in microwavable bowl. Microwave until just warm, about 15 seconds. Toss mozzerella balls in olive oil mixture and marinate in refrigerator, one hour.

Remove mozzerella balls from fridge. On wooden skewer, alternate tomatoes, basil leaves, and mozzerella. Serve as appetizer or side.


Roasted Red Pepper and Goat Cheese Pasta
Adapted from Marisa McBride

3 Large Red Bell Peppers (1 1⁄2 lbs.)
5 tablespoons olive oil, divided
2 garlic cloves, minced
1⁄2 cup chicken broth
2 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons sugar
3⁄4 tablespoon salt
1⁄4 tablespoon pepper
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper
1⁄4 cup chopped fresh basil
4 cups cooked bow tie pasta
1⁄2 crumbled goat cheese

Preheat broiler

Cut peppers in half lengthwise; place halves skin side up on a foil-lined baking sheet. Flatten with hand. Broil 8 minutes or until blackened.

Remove and place in ziplock bag; seal and let stand 20 minutes. Peel and place in blender.

Heat 2 tablsepoons oil in skillet over medium heat. Add garlic, sauté 1 minute. Remove from heat, let stand 5 minutes.

Add garlic mixture, remaining 1 tablspoon oil, broth & next 5 ingredients in blender with peppers & process until smooth.

Combine bell pepper mixture & basil with pasta, put in serving bowl and sprinkle with goat cheese.

Yields 4 servings.

I am the Niece of Bob Synes

In a small stack of papers and photographs, at the bottom of a box that had been forgotten in a dusty garage, was a piece of scrap paper -- water-stained and corners brittle from age -- with words hastily scribbled in both black and blue ink, suggesting more than one session of writing. MENU, it says. Chicken Soup with Matzo Balls, Brisket, Potato Kugel, Turkey with Mushroom Stuffing. Gefilte Fish, Egg Soup, Asparagus, Pineapple/Strawberries/Kiwis, Cookies. It also contains a grocery list, broken down into categories: Booze, Produce, Meat, Fish, and included the names of the specialty stores where he would obtain the items.

It appears to be a menu for Passover, and judging by the quantities on the grocery list (4 briskets, 12 pounds of fish, 9 pounds asparagus, 30 pounds potatoes), he was going to have guests. Lots of guests.




He scrawled these words on a piece of scrap paper at his kitchen table as he designed a feast for 50 of his friends and family. As he wrote it, he was thinking about his guests, the flavors he would delight them with, the traditions he would both uphold and elevate through imaginative preparation. He was thinking about place settings, and music, and the progression of the courses he would serve. I'm sure he was filled with memories of Passover from his childhood, and trying to recreate them in his new home, on this new coast. He would have considered his sister's feelings on asparagus, his best friend's request for macaroons, his mom's deep need for tradition.

I am certain he did not think, while he was at that table, about me. He never considered the piece of scrap paper in front of him, jottings of a menu and a grocery list, would end up in my hands over twenty years later, and that I would tremble with the excitement of discovering such a rare and important piece of my history.

Bob Synes, was (and is) my hero. He was also my uncle, which is one of the proudest things I can say: I am the niece of Bob Synes.




Bob was an Artist. A Chef. A Poet. A Traveler. He was also a successful Television Producer for over 30 years. He worked with Jackie Gleason and Dinah Shore, was pals with Joan Rivers and Brooke Shields, and gave Greg Kinnear his first break. He had a convertible Mercedes the color of champagne, and I remember he brought me a shirt from Paris with "C'est la vie!" italicized in neon colors, which made me the coolest girl in the 5th grade.

His house in the hills of Los Angeles had walls lined with books, furniture that looked like art, and speakers that poured out the most transcendent classical music (even to my then Debbie Gibson-loving ears).

Bob, at work, 1960's

I remember his kitchen was so unlike our own, with dark woods and heavy knives and the smell of dill and capers (it seems to me much of what he cooked included dill and capers, but memories can be appallingly wrong). He took such care in preparing a meal, tasting each ingredient, using his senses to guide him through each step. When he cooked, he was attentive, specific, but never fussy.

I remember him sitting at the kitchen table, his ever-present apron on, chopping herbs masterfully, describing to me the poetry of the dish he was making. He was much more of a gourmet than anyone I knew at the time, cooking rich sauces and decadent cuts of meat, unafraid of bold flavors and butter. He was at once intense and completely at ease at the stove -- an artist who was both confident, and smart enough to know there was always more to learn.

His passion for art and life translated deliciously into the food that he cooked, and the parties he threw - his table was populated with the most creative and vibrant people I've known, and they knew better than to ever pass up an invitation to pull up a chair at Bob Synes's table.

When he died at 58 of cancer, I was only 12 years old. I often think that if he had lived longer, we'd have been very good friends as adults. I would have invited myself over for dinner as often as possible, eager to glean as much of his wisdom and perspective as I could. I would have asked him about cooking, and which countries I should explore, what music to listen to, which books to read, the movies I should see. He was the person you went to for that information, the person you knew would not only know the best restaurant in town, but probably knew the chef.

Gregg Sheldon, Bob Synes with Wolfgang Puck and Barbara Lazaroff

It wasn't until recently that it occurred to me just how much he influenced me. Without intending to, I've ended up working in the same industry, even working directly next to people who had once worked with him. This wasn't by design, but it is impossible to pass it off as coincidence, given how much I adored him. And there's no denying his love of food influenced me greatly. Watching him as a child, it seemed to me cooking was an expression of soul, and bringing people into your kitchen and cooking for them was the key to a rich and happy life. Bob did many things beautifully, but his heart was in the kitchen.

Last week when my mom opened a long-forgotten box, and discovered a small stack of random scraps of paper, she almost threw them away before realizing that they were recipes and sketches of Bob's. And when she handed them to me, these forgotten jottings -- a sketch of a friend, a map to his house for one of his many parties, the Passover menu, recipes -- my heart did flips in my chest. These scribbled notes are the closest thing I have to being able to ask Bob all the questions I would have asked him. This small collection of recipes are a way to connect to the uncle of my childhood, as an adult. With his notes and comments and instructions, he'll be seated at my kitchen table, describing the poetry of the dish he's making, cooking them again through my hands.

It's just a small stack of notes jotted on scraps of paper. But it's also a way for this brilliant man to live on, each time I make one of his recipes.

And I could end the story here, if I wanted. I could share his original recipe for stuffed zucchini and I could just leave it at that. But I'm not going to.

Because Bob Synes was not my real uncle. I myself am not Jewish; we shared no blood and no legally-sanctioned ties.

He was my Uncle Gregg's life partner. They were a couple like all other long-term couples: they built a life together, made a home, their separate families came together to form a new family, and I was their niece. Bob was my uncle from the time I was born, and I never once felt he wasn't my real and true uncle. Throughout their relationship, Bob and Gregg went through those life things that all couples go through: falling in love, chasing after dreams, facing hardship, joy, illness, prosperity, aging.



One day Bob woke up and he couldn't walk. He was paralyzed, numb from his waist down, and no one could tell him why it had happened. My memories of him cooking are at the kitchen table, not at the counter, because he had to learn to do all of his cooking from his wheelchair.

And his partner was there by his side. And when he was diagnosed with cancer years later, they went through that hell together as well. And as Bob faced death, he had to take every precaution to be sure that his mate would be able to stay in their home; he had to worry about protecting his partner's rights; since they could not marry, they were not protected or recognized as a couple. And so on top of the paralyses and the cancer, Bob had to worry about Gregg being allowed to visit him in the hospital.

All of this is only one small part of my Uncle Bob. Artist. Chef. Poet. Traveller. Producer. Cancer Victim. Homosexual.

My uncles were brave enough to look each other in the eye and say they would stay together no matter what: through success, through paralysis, through Cancer, and beyond death. That's something, isn't it?

Bob Synes was my Uncle. I have no doubts about that. But I can't help but feel that it sure would be nice if the government would acknowledge it.

From the small stack of papers, I now have a dozen or so recipes of Bob's, and I'm half-tempted to frame them, they mean so much to me. There's no way of knowing if some of these recipes were his favorites, or if he'd ever even made them. But a few of them stand out. One is for gingerbread cake, which he'd noted was especially delicious. Another is an original recipe of his, with his own distinct style of explaining the process for making it. I've added to the instructions here, to make it clear, but have kept much of his quirky language intact.




He calls the recipe That Zucchini, and I'm not sure why, other than to guess that the people he fed must have requested the recipe for "that zucchini." And once I tasted it, I could see why. It's perfect food for entertaining -- comforting, intelligent, surprising and memorable. A lot like Bob himself.






THAT ZUCCHINI
Adapted from Bob Synes

Perfect for entertaining, or as a side dish.

4-5 "fairly fat" zucchinis, 7-9 inches long
1 package frozen chopped spinach
3/4 cup golden raisins
1/2 medium to large onion, about 1 cup, finely chopped
4 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 cup slivered almonds
1 1/2 teaspoons dried basil
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, plus 3 tablespoons
1 egg, well-beaten
1/4 cup bread crumbs, Italian style
1 teaspoon paprika
salt and pepper to taste

In a pan, saute finely chopped onion in two tablespoons olive oil until soft (but not brown) over medium heat, about 7 minutes.

Now in a pot, cook frozen spinach according to directions. When it's done, turn off flame and add raisins, cooked onions, almonds, dried basil, and salt and pepper to taste. Cover, and let all that sit together for about half an hour.

Meanwhile, preheat oven to 375.

Cut off and discard the ends of the zucchini. Cut remaining zucchini into 2" pieces, making sure your cuts are straight and parallel, so that the pieces are about the same size and not cockeyed when they stand together (each zucchini should yield 3 or 4 pieces).

With the point of a teaspoon, press into the center of the cut piece and scoop out about 2/3 of the zucchini center, leaving the bottom intact to create "zucchini cups." Frugal souls will save this to cook it. I don't.

If the spinach mixture is moist, drain the whole spinach mess in a colander. But really drain it (using your hands to squeeze it, if need be). When it's good and drained, put the spinach mixture in a bowl, and mix in sour cream, half a cup of the Parmesan cheese. (Should be fairly stiff, but creamy stiff at this point, not too liquid.)

Now add the well-beaten egg. Stir it all madly.

Mound the mixture into the zucchinis, and cover with bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese. Dribble a little olive oil and paprika on each one, and put the zucchinis into a lightly oiled (but lightly!) baking sheet or pan. Bake till the top seems browned and the zucchinis are softening, but not pulpy (you can test with a fork), about 25-30 minutes. Serve hot or cold.

Yields about 12 stuffed zucchini cups.

The Culinerapy Graveyard

Since I began this blog, a little over three months ago, I have learned a lot about myself. I've learned that even on the worst days, sitting down to write to you about the things on my mind and in my kitchen always makes me feel better. I've discovered I can be childishly impatient when it comes to html code and uploading photos and anything technically-related to the site (you should hear the exaggerated sighs and groans that come out of me while that "Uploading..." wheel spins). I've come to realize that the quiet hours spent stirring, chopping and baking are a vital part of my happiness, a way for me to step away from the clatter of life and focus on the simple promise of a mound of flour in front of me.

Something else I've learned is that, try as I might, I just can't fake it. I'll admit, there have been times when I've wanted to lie to you. On occasion, after spending hours researching recipes, shopping for ingredients, prepping, chopping, cooking -- not to mention doing the dishes (my god, the dishes!) -- I've ended up with results that are less than spectacular. And after all that time and effort, and all those good intentions, let me tell you how much I've wished I could lie to you and pass it off as a success. I've considered reworking the recipe for you, and reimagining the results... after all, it's just me here in the kitchen. No one would know if I fudged the results a little. But, fortunately, I've never been able to do it. This humble sliver of land I've staked out on the World Wide Web means an awful lot to me, dear readers, and it matters a great deal to me that I can stand behind every word I write here.

So, I hereby present to you a journey through the Graveyard of Rejected Recipes that never made it onto these pages.

To begin, the very recipe I made tonight: a particularly acute failure, since it is remarkably simple. But this is exactly why I refuse to share it with you, because something this simple better be perfect -- and this one was not. I call this Overpowering Tahini and Garlic Hummus...



And these, which were supposed to be Homemade English Muffins but instead were Not-Quite English Muffins, More Like Dinner Rolls...



This was Practically Inedible Chicken Salad...




And The Thai Coconut Soup That Reduced Me To Tears in the Grocery Store (and even this yellow-tinted picture makes me want to cry)...




Some Slightly Boring Grilled Balsamic Veggies...




And, last, but not least, Tough and Bitter Braised Artichokes...




It hurts a little, to look at those pictures. But the thing about the kitchen is that there's always something in the fridge waiting to surprise you; always a basket of berries or brick of dark chocolate around the corner to help you forget your latest disaster. And, for each of those photos above, there are dozens of meals that went unphotographed that were blissful enough to keep me going back to the kitchen.

Needless to say, I don't have a recipe for you today. But my fridge is full, and my pantry runneth over, which is a promise for something delicious, soon.

Last Chance Roasted Garlic and Butternut Squash Soup

Every year in Southern California, we endure a horrific and debilitating catastrophe of disastrous proportions: slightly lousy weather. For a few odd days in May and June, the skies are an uncharacteristic pale gray, the reliable golden rays unable to break through a layer of haze to our sun-accustomed faces. We call it "May Gray" and "June Gloom": cute and rhyme-y monikers for an otherwise gruesome ordeal.

During these intolerable days of doom, the most docile of California folk find themselves behaving drastically out-of-sorts: yogis mutter curses while in Downward Facing Dog, fights erupt in line on the sacred grounds of Starbucks. And as for me? I commit violent offenses in my very own kitchen, casting aside seasonal strawberries and asparagus in an unscrupulous pursuit of comfort food.

In other words, I make soup. Winter soup.

The truth is, I like these days. They're a Last Chance Excuse to stay in my sweats, stirring up something soul-satisfying to accompany a good book before the relentless perfection of summer besieges us. Knowing that months will pass before the weather will give me permission to be sloth-like, it feels luxurious and merited to enjoy one last day indoors.

Soon, the warm nights will be underscored by the hum of the fan as I sleep under a single cool sheet. There will be late dinners on the patio, the lingering sun eager to stay up late with us like a kid on summer break. The joyous shrieks and splashing from neighbors' pools will echo through our streets; the solo "Marco" followed by the chorus of "Polo." We'll pack watermelon for day-trips to the beach, and marshmallows for overnight camping. Dry winds will bring wildfires, and white ash will fall on our cars like eerie summer snow. I'll turn another year older, a new generation, including my niece, will start kindergarten, and we'll find ourselves grasping onto the last perfect day of summer.

All of this is just ahead of us, on the other side of that haze. Which is why I made this soup while I could.



This recipe is quite simple, which allows you more time to squander your day away in your pajamas. Most of the work is done by the oven, since almost all of the ingredients of this soup are roasted... have I mentioned here my love of roasting vegetables? Roasting makes the flavors of vegetables deeper, more determined and robust. For this particular soup, you roast the squash, tomatoes, garlic and peppers until you can almost taste them wafting through the vent of your oven.

Then it's just a little simmering and some blending, and you have the most decadent and soothing soup.

In a few days, I'll likely have a new recipe for you, probably something fit for an early summer picnic. But for today I'll stay in my pajamas, curl up on the couch, and savor my last bowl of warm soup while I can.





ROASTED GARLIC AND BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP WITH TOMATO SALSA
Adapted from Anne Sheasby


This soup is rich and toasty, and tastes like it is filled with sinful butter and cream, but miraculously is not. I doubted the salsa when I read the recipe; having tasted it, it would be a shame to leave it out. It is an essential part of the soup, and any leftovers you have of it would be delicious in scrambled eggs, or (my favorite) drizzled on a corn tortilla with melted cheese.


2 garlic bulbs, outermost skin removed (the skins around the cloves should remain intact)
5 tablespoons olive oil
A few fresh thyme sprigs
1 large butternut squash, halved and seeded
2 onions, chopped
1 teaspoon ground coriander
5 cups vegetable or chicken stock
3 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano or marjoram
salt and freshly ground pepper

For the salsa:
2 large ripe tomatoes, halved and seeded
1 red bell pepper, halved and seeded
1 jalapeno
2-3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1/4 teaspoon caster (superfine) sugar
Salt to taste
Freshly grated parmigiano reggiano (optional)


Preheat the oven to 425 F. Place the garlic bulbs on a piece of foil and pour over half the olive oil. Add the thyme sprigs, then fold the foil around the garlic bulbs to enclose them completely. Place the foil parcel on a baking sheet with the halved butternut squash. Brush squash with 1 tablespoon olive oil. Add the halved and seeded tomatoes, red pepper and jalapeno to the baking sheet (for the salsa).

Roast the vegetable for 25 minutes, then remove the tomatoes, jalapeno and red pepper. Put red pepper and jalapeno in ziplock bag and seal (this will help release the skins). Reduce the temperature to 375 and cook the squash and garlic for 25 minutes more, or until the squash is tender.

Heat the remaining oil in a large, heavy-based pan and cook the onions and ground coriander gently for about 10 minutes, or until softened.

Skin the pepper and jalapenos (but do not rinse), removing the seeds, stem and ribs from the jalapeno and process in a food processor or blender with the tomatoes and 2 tablespoons olive oil. Stir in the vinegar, sugar and salt to taste. Add the remaining oil if you think the salsa needs it.

Squeeze the roasted garlic out of its papery skin into the onions and scoop the squash out of its skin, adding it to the pan. Add the stock, 1 teaspoon salt and plenty of black pepper. Bring to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes.

Stir in half the oregano or marjoram and cool the soup slightly, then process it in a blender or food processor.

Reheat the soup without allowing it to boil, then taste for seasoning before ladling it into bowls. Top each with a spoonful of salsa and sprinkle over the remaining chopped oregano or marjoram. Sprinkle with freshly grated parmigiano reggiano, and serve immediately.

Yields four small bowls.