Hubris.

The most amazing thing has happened. And even though, for eight and a half months I knew it was inevitable, it was going to happen, nothing could have prepared me for that exact moment when it did. The moment Emerson was born. The moment I became a Mom.

I'm not sure that I'm one of those people who always knew I would be a mom some day, or dreamed my whole life of having a baby. To tell you the truth, it was never something that was all that important to me until it was. And that was not all that long ago. And now there is absolutely nothing that is more important. Not even close.

Though it's been just four short/long/short weeks since Emerson was born, one minute it feels like yesterday and I'm lost without a clue, the next it's like I've been doing this, like I've known her forever. Time has never expanded and contracted at this level for me before. And don't even get me started on the hormonal scatting my body has been performing. I was recently talking casually about the weather or some such thing with Fred as tears streamed down my face for seemingly no reason at all. Pay no attention to any tears you see. Unless, of course, you disregard the wrong tears. The real tears. How dare you be so glib about how I'm feeling – what I'm going through?! I don't understand. Everything's changed!*

I constantly vacillate between “What am I doing?” and “I got this.”

Regardless of the tears, legitimate or absurd, and whatever side of confidence I happen to be on at any given moment, every droplet of me knows I have never loved anything like I love this little person. And every part of me knows that I will do anything and everything I possibly can to keep her safe and happy for as long as I live. That yes, everything's changed.* And that I would not want it any other way.

That alone is enough to put someone through a ricochet of emotions from pure, ethereal bliss to sheer, paralyzing fear. And don't even get me started on the hormones... again.

Fred says I'm like a shark; I must constantly be moving and doing. He's right. Though I have spent countless still and quiet hours just staring at Emerson in awe, disbelief and appreciation, it has been a challenge to be so motionless in all of the exterior elements of my life. Work, friends, chores, errands, cleaning, reading, emailing, crosswording, gardening, phone calling, self-grooming, cooking and writing have all had to be put in the back seat. (I do pat myself on the back for being timely and up to date with thank-you cards. I am a good southern girl, after all.)

I have learned am learning to stop, let go and rely on the kindness of family, friends and neighbors - and have been overwhelmed to the point of tears (of course) by all of the thoughtfulness, selflessness and generosity (and food!) that have poured in for me and my family (family!!). Fred who has continued to do so, so much – has added witnessing his partner in life morph into Sybil meets The Excorsist... and still manages to say I'm beautiful and strong and that he loves me (#keeper).

The other day we decided it was time to do 'something normal.' You know, like cook something new and fun and take pictures of it, normal. I was pretty sure I wanted to play with this extraordinary, ginormous burgundy okra we have growing in our garden. Considering I haven't done much of it, pickling was the obvious choice. On the weekend before the okra pickling was to take place, Paz came over for a practice session. We used squash, cucumber and red onion (also from my garden) to make a bread and butter pickle in addition to a standard dill pickle. They turned out pretty great with a couple of little tweaks I would make the next time – like peel the squash.

With my new pickling confidence, I began to think about the okra and what exactly I wanted to do with it. It occurred to me that I had recently had some pretty memorably delicious pickles prepared by Travis Milton, chef de cuisine at Comfort here in Richmond. Coming from rural Southwestern Virginia with the culture of Appalachian food, Chef Milton is known for preserving and furthering the foodways of his old stomping ground and is heavily involved with the Central Appalachian Food Heritage Project, and the Appalachian Community Table. He was even featured in the most recent issue of Garden & Gun Magazine for his Cast-Iron Green Tomato Pie.

So I emailed him and got his Grandmother's recipe for pickled okra. Booya!

Being back home in Richmond has not only brought me back to my mom and dad, but also the other people that I call family. One of these people who I am so grateful to have back in my life is Mary. Mary is Sam's mom and she is family to me. Her house is one I know very well - one overflowing with wonderful, euphoric memories of youth. Now I can add to that a recent Christmas Eve filled with just everyone, a beautiful ladies lunch (just the two of us), an al fresco early Summer dinner in the yard with friends of Sam near and far and new memories we are adding all the time. Speaking of new memories, Mary is pretty excited about little Emerson, too. Oh, and Mary also has one of my all-time favorite kitchens. 

So Fred, Emerson and I packed up our okra fixings, camera equipment and diaper bag and headed to Mary's house for the afternoon. While I pickled, Fred photographed and Mary happily looked after Emerson (though I did find myself scurrying out of the kitchen to peek in on my baby every so often). In a way, I think Mary, Fred and I all got to do something that felt kind of normal. Comfortable. Happy.

But as a thank you for the use of her kitchen and for looking after Emerson, we left the pickled okra in Mary's fridge. Maybe for her to enjoy – or maybe we'd find it there on the next visit, for us all to snack on together.**

Look at me, I so got this.

*A favorite line from Raising Arizona(among so very many).

**Mary ate the okra the next day and said it was delicious!

Pickled Burgundy Okra

(Recipe by Chef Travis Milton)

“Okra is one of my favorite things to pickle or can, as it's insanely simple. A lot of people try to over complicate it with different ways to get rid of the "snot", I don't bother with any of those methods and it always comes out great. With burgundy okra you will loose some of the color in the pods, but it will color the vinegar nicely.” -Chef Milton

Ingredients
5 Pounds of okra, trimmed at the cap

2 Red cayenne peppers, de-seeded and sliced into thin rings

1 1/2 Tablespoon dried dill

6 Cups of apple cider vinegar

1 Cup chardonnay

1 1/2 Cups water

4 Shallots, thinly sliced

2 Heads of garlic cloves (about 20 cloves) sliced thin

2 Tablespoon yellow mustard seeds

2 Tablespoons yellow mustard (By mustard I mean just straight up yellow mustard. It may sound weird, but its something my great grandmother did.)

3 Tablespoons black peppercorns

Directions

Place okra in a large metal mixing bowl.

Bring all the other ingredients to a boil and pour over okra. Let the okra sit for 45 minutes.

Pack in Mason jars and cover with liquid up to 1 1/2 inches below the lip of the jar.

Process or not at this point.


Printable recipe.

One year ago: Fried Green Tomato Benedict with Smithfield Ham & Pimiento Cheese Hollandaise

Two years ago: Anuradha Rice

Three years ago: Yerp: Part 7 - The End.

Four years ago: Great Balls on Tires

Five years ago: For the love of TOMATOES!

For Those About to Cook, I Salute You.

I've been at this blogging thing for six and a half years now, and it's been good to me. It began as a whim and, yes, my timing was pretty perfect. The whole food blogging thing was becoming... a thing. I didn't know anything about blogging, or even what the word meant exactly. I knew I loved food. I loved to think about it, talk about it, read about it, make it, eat it and share it. My friends couldn't help but notice the interest-turned-obsession and one in particular urged me to start what has become F for Food.

I read many other blogs and have become enmeshed in the blogging community. Many of my closest friends, even now, are fellow food bloggers. There are quite a few different flavors of us: the restaurant bloggers and the recipe bloggers are the two broadest groups. I fall more into the recipe category with the occasional restaurant discussion. Some of us recipe bloggers like to flex creative writing and storytelling with our recipes and some write the straight dope about the recipes, the seasonality, the use of ingredients. Again, I fall more into the creative writing/storytelling camp, with some dialogue about The Food.

For the dishes I share on F for Food, I use some of my very own brainflowers, but I also pool from the world-wide world of recipes; cookbooks, online references and, often, other bloggers. I frequently read a recipe that I find alluring and then riff on it in my kitchen. If it works, I will likely share the results. I often tell the story of how I found the recipe and from whom it originated. I have written consistently about Alice Waters, Marion Cunningham, Suzanne Goin, Melissa Clark and Molly Wizenberg(funny, all women) to name a few - their food, and their influence on my own. Usually in the paragraphs leading up to the actual recipe.

In some instances, Fred and I create a dish from nothing and then research to see who has also created the same dish, or something similar, in the past to use as a recipe model. As it would appear, very little is truly original or not inspired by something that has already been thrust into the world.

Here's what I have not done. I have not properly transformed the instructional parts of the recipes. And more importantly, in the proper instances, I have not placed the attribution under the title of the recipe – resulting in not giving credit where credit is due. For example, when I rambled on about hearing an episode of The Splendid Table where Melissa Clark tells the beautiful memory of her childhood and the pan bagnat (though I included hyperlinks to both The Splendid Table episode and Melissa Clark), I did not type 'adapted from a recipe by Melissa Clark'at the top of the recipe.

First, I would like to apologize for this oversight and, second, let you know that I am in the process of going back through the archives of F for Food to make certain the appropriate due credit is given. I have nothing but respect and admiration for chefs, food lovers and recipe creators of all kinds. My blog began as, and continues to be, a testament to my reverence, love and appreciation of everything about food and those who feel the same way that have come before me, are here now and those who will pave the yellow pound cake road of the future.

So this is Memorial Day weekend. Let's go outside, drink cold adult beverages by a body of water of some kind and eat some sort of thing from a grill – or, in my preganant-self's case, enjoy some cold, refreshing popsicles in my back yard with Fred. Let's all get to it, shall we?

Watermelon-Mint Popsicles with Lime

(This recipe is a Fred + Elliott original)

Makes 10 popsicles

Ingredients

4 cups of watermelon cut into 1-inch cubes, plus 1 cup 1/4-inch cubes (seeds removed)

3 tablespoons chopped mint leaves, tightly packed

Zest & juice of 1 lime

3 tablespoons granulated sugar

Pinch of salt

Directions

Puree 1-inch cubes of watermelon & run through sieve into medium bowl. 

Muddle mint & sugar together, add to watermelon liquid along with lime zest & juice. Stir well. 

Refrigerate mixture for about 30 minutes to allow sugar to melt and let flavors infuse. 

Divide the 1/4-inch watermelon cubes evenly between the 10 sections of the popsicle mold, then using a pitcher with a spout, carefully fill molds, leaving about 1/4-inch of room at the top as the popsicles will expand as they freeze. 

Insert popsicle sticks and freeze away (approximately 3-5 hours, depending on your freezer). If you are using wooden popsicle sticks and your mold does not have a guide, freeze for 1 hour and then insert the sticks.

*FYI - We used this type of popsicle mold.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Chilled Beet Soup with Horseradish Yogurt

Two years ago: Classic Shad Roe with Bacon & Fresh Herbs

Four years ago: Sautéed Baby Artichokes with Olive Oil, Garlic & Lemon

Tick Tock, You Don't Stop.

It's hard to believe that it has come down to a matter of days before we hit the road. So hard to believe, in fact, that it does not seem real. We are living amongst a landscape of boxes, bubble wrap and newspaper. We have had two garage sales, and donated all unsold items to charity. The good bye dinners and lunches fill up most of our non-packing, non-sleeping time. I even ate a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner the other day to try to whittle away at all of the food in the freezer – because you know I just cannot let it go to waste (I'm not even quite sure how a Lean Cuisine made its way into our freezer in the first place). All of these things - the boxes, sales, good bye functions and frozen dinners and it still does not seem real.

Perhaps it won't until we are driving away, with the City of Angels in our rear view mirror. And I'm inclined to believe that that is probably a good thing. Because, really, as excited as we are, as much as we look forward to our future and the promise that it holds, this is big stuff. And it's sad stuff.

Admittedly, as a result of the sea of boxes, bubble wrap, newspapers, garage sales, and good bye functions, we've hardly dined in at all. We did make an olive oil cake and lemon-honey ice cream for a good bye dinner on Monday night, and Fred made a Thai Larb for another good bye the next night (aptly themed 'Thai-onara”). But almost no sitting down at our own table to eat. Except for one evening. There was the one.

It's hard to hide from certain trends, no matter how hard you try (and sometimes you don't want to try). Skinny jeans, moustaches, Tom's, all things artisanal, small batch, $23 cups of coffee (artisanal, of course - small batch and served up by people in skinny jeans and Tom's with moustaches), quinoa, the Kardashians, the royal baby, Hitler hair, suspenders, tattoos, $32 'market driven' cocktails with designer ice cubes and mists of some kind (served up by people with Hitler hair, tattoos and suspenders), bacon, cupcakes, donuts, cronuts, and lest we forget Twerking. I haven't an issue with any of these things. Every time has its trends and phases. Some stick, some morph and some vanish to make room for the next school.

But one of the current trends that is impossible to hide from is this whole vegetable thing. Right now, the cover of every single food related magazine is The Vegetable Issue. Every article is about how vegetables are the new meat. This is Important and Singular and Now. All of the farm to table, market driven, sustainable chatter has led to this critical mass of The Vegetable. Alice Waters is probably folding inside herself.

And this is good. It's great. Vegetables are yummy, healthy and fun. And, unlike cows, chickens, wild boar and the like, we can grow them on our windowsills, rooftops, in our yards or community gardens. And kill, cook and eat them ourselves. What's not to like about that?

One of my favorite veggies happens to be getting an extra spotlight within the vegetable 'movement' right now; the cauliflower. I've written about it before. I love everything about it; the way it looks, the way it cooks, the taste, texture, colors, its versatility, all of it. Soup, puree, in a salad, roasted with farro and topped with an egg, or roasted whole in the oven with some butter, salt and a little garam masala, on a pizza, or even battered and deep fried cauliflower.

The other iteration that you will find on more menus across the country right now than the obligatory service charge for large parties is the cauliflower steak. Literally serving a massive cross-section slab of cauliflower, grilled and treated just like a steak. Just a little salt, pepper and oil. Nothing else to distract from that sweet, nutty, subtle flavor. And maybe even take the parts that didn't get used in the steak and make a puree, with a little butter and milk. Serve that up under the steak to give you the crisped edges of the steak contrasting with the unearthly creaminess of the puree. Instead of nose-to-tail, you've got head-to-stem; instead of whole animal you've gone whole vegetable. And you've got dinner.

Well, you know I always have to gild the lily a bit, so I took this a step further. I also have been desperately trying to empty out the refrigerator, and use up all of the end of season tomatoes in garden. So Fred dug up a beautiful looking recipe from Bon Appétit and, in the one room that has not been packed thus far, the kitchen, we started riffing.

And in a little under an hour, we sat amongst our cardboard box jungle with two beautiful plates heaped with veg, gobbling up the hottest trend. I think Fred was even wearing an ironic t-shirt while we ate.

Cauliflower Medallions with Olive Tapenade & Tomato Purée

4 servings

Ingredients

1  large head of cauliflower, trimmed & outer leaves removed
1/2  cup  pitted kalamata olives, finely chopped
3  tablespoons of tomato paste
3 1/2  tablespoons olive oil, divided, plus more
2  tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley
1  teaspoon lemon juice
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3  garlic cloves
2  medium tomatoes, cored, quartered

Directions

Place cauliflower core side down on a work surface. Using a large knife, slice cauliflower into 1/2" medallions from center of cauliflower (reserve loose florets). Finely chop enough loose florets to measure 1/2 cup. Transfer chopped florets to a small bowl and mix with olives, tomato paste, 1 tablespoon oil, parsley, and lemon juice. Season tapenade with salt and pepper.

Preheat oven to 400°. Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large heavy ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat. Working in batches, cook cauliflower medallions until golden brown, about 2-3 minutes per side, adding oil to pan between batches. Transfer medallions to a large rimmed baking sheet. Reserve skillet. Roast cauliflower until tender, about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, return skillet to medium-high heat and add garlic cloves and tomatoes, one cut side down. Cook until tomatoes are browned; turn tomatoes over and transfer skillet to oven with cauliflower. Roast garlic and tomatoes until tender, about 12 minutes.

Transfer garlic, tomatoes, and 1/2 tablespoon oil to a blender; purée until smooth. Season with salt and pepper. Divide tomato purée among plates. Place a few medallions on each plate; spoon tapenade over. Serve immediately.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Poblano-Sherry Vinegar Mignonette

Two years ago: Buttermilk Pie

Three years ago: Turkey Meatloaf

Four years ago: Pureed Kale & White Bean Soup

Blind Melon

At a market, recently, I stumbled upon a basket of melons with identifying signage that read Sugar Queens. I’m not really a melon fanatic, but I snatched one up quicker than a bell clapper in a goose’s ass. Why? Because it said Sugar Queen. No, I had never heard of this variety of melon, nor did I have a clue what it was or what it would taste like. But the fact that it was called Sugar Queen made me all chirpy. I figured it must be a precious and exultant melon.

I don’t know much about melon selecting. I’ve seen people smell them and shake them, gently and/or hard. And I’ve seen folks hold them up by their ears - as if they had a conch shell and were listening for the ocean. But from this basket of Sugar Queens, I simply selected the one that spoke to me. It was not the largest or smallest or roundest or oblongest. But it felt confident and firm in my one hand and it had a little bit of a blemish on one side of its netted skin. It smelled so sweet, almost candy-like, almost too sweet. She was now my Sugar Queen.

When I got home and began to unload and put all my groceries away (which is one of my all-time favorite things to do) I put Sugar Queen on the counter and briefly wondered what I might do with her. After a day or so I very well could have forgotten about her but Sugar Queen would not let me. Her perfume was so strong and floral that each time I walked by I was reminded that I needed to find a special something or another to do with her. I totally get it. Us, women... we do like our attention. After a few days, and especially these crazy hot ones we’ve been having, I began to get nervous she would become too ripe to do much with, so, just in case, I put her in the refrigerator. There she continued to acost both Fred and myself with her eau de melon each time we opened the refrigerator door. And her scent even lingered in the kitchen for a few moments after closing the door.

It was time for me to figure it out. The only style in which I have eaten melons, historically, is the way my mom served them to me as a girl: a wedge, with the rind attached, scored in bite-sized cubes, with the cut going down to the rind, making it easy to eat with a spoon. It was a breakfast thing or a snack thing. I occasionally eat some honeydew melon with a sprinkle of salt, or cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. I am quite fond of watermelon used in salads with heirloom tomatoes, red onion and feta cheese. But that is pretty much it for me and my melons. After all, it is fruit.

And then I realized - what do I always do when I don’t know where to turn with an ingredient? And, for crying out loud, what have I not made in far, far too long? Soup! Ah, but this one is a challenge. It’s Sugar Queen. 

 

When I googled Sugar Queen, not tons came up. Wikipedia didn’t even have a page for her, for godssake. But I did notice a promising recipe from 2010 from the Seattle Times. An heirloom melon gazpacho. And lo and behold, that heirloom melon called for in the recipe was my Sugar Queen. In total me form, I only glanced at the ingredients to make sure I had everything I needed. I did not, however, actually read through the entire recipe. It’s a terrible habit of mine that bites me in the arse more often than not. Had I read through the recipe I would have noticed that it was very poorly written with steps and ingredients missing in the directions. It even had an added ingredient that was not listed in the ingredients. So what ended up happening was some pretty awesome riffing and improvising. A lot of tasting and adding this and that and some of that over there and a little more of this. At one point I couldn’t figure out why the vinegar was so strong and recalled that white wine was listed in the ingredients but never mentioned in the directions. So I added the white wine and it completely balanced the acid of the vinegar - and without making the soup taste like white wine at all. Science, I tell you.

What I came up with is pretty great. It’s sweet, yes. But it’s nuanced and complex. It’s lovely and also smart. It has notes that dance around on the tip of your tongue that are simple yet unrecognizable. It’s seemingly obvious to describe but right when you try, the words float right out of your consciousness, rendering you into a stumped stutter. It smells really beautiful. Just like us women...

I think this soup is best served as a small portion, perhaps even as an amuse bouche.

 

Heirloom Melon & Tomato Gazpacho

Serves 6

Ingredients

2 cups cubed French baguette, all crusts removed, and cut into small cubes (about 1 baguette), divided
1/4 cup white wine
2 tbsp Champagne or sherry vinegar
4 cups cubed, peeled and seeded melons (preferably heirloom, such as Sugar Queen, butterscotch, Ogen, Ananas)
1 cup chopped, ripe tomatoes
1/4 cup diced shallot
1 tbsp chopped, fresh chives
2 tbsp purple basil
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus extra oil for frying the croutons
3 dried bay leaves, ground to a powder
1 tsp dried sage
1 tsp celery salt
Sea salt & fresh cracked black pepper to taste
Walnut oil to garnish
1/2 cup ice cubes, or as needed

Directions

In a bowl, soak 1 1/2 cups cubed bread in the vinegar.

Meanwhile, using a blender or food processor, purée the melons, tomato, shallot, chives & basil. Add the soaked bread and vinegar to the food processor and purée until completely smooth.

With the motor running, slowly add the wine, one-fourth cup olive oil, then the ground bay leaves. Taste, and adjust the seasoning with sage, celery salt, sea salt & pepper.

If the soup is overly thick, add a few ice cubes and purée until the desired consistency is achieved. Taste and adjust seasoning with salt and vinegar.

Transfer the soup to a nonreactive metal bowl and chill before serving. This makes about 4 cups soup.

While the soup is chilling, fry the garnish. Pan-fry the remaining cubes of bread in a hot skillet with a little olive oil until evenly toasted and golden brown. Season to taste with a light sprinkling of salt and.

Serve the soup, garnished with a few croutons and a drizzle of walnut oil.

Printable recipe. 

One year ago: Beer Braised BBQ Pork Butt
Three years ago: Charred Hanover Tomato Soup with Lump Crab