114网址导航You have free access to this contentCorporate Menu | Mellow MushroomI think I surprised no one more than myself when, in college, I majored in medieval art history. As in, seriously majored. I studied Latin. Dove into Romanesque corbels. Spent one long summer encased in the University of Washington's oldest, most-un-air-conditioned building, 7 hours a day, 5 days a week, attempting to osmose a full year of German in seven very short, very hot weeks. I wrote 30-page term papers detailing the onset and evolution of sumptuary laws in England and across the content between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries. 
My spell-check doesn't even admit sumptuary is a word. (Trust me. . And boy, by now, do I know how to spell it.) I was in deep.
I was serious, and I loved it, and I never got over the surprise of that. Because on the surface, medieval art held exactly zero appeal, at least to me. Stiff courtiers and stilted angels and endless blue-robed Marys? I'll pass. Gaudy colors, shock-value violence, biblical stories, ad nauseum? No, thanks. My own aesthetic was far more Arts and Crafts: think William M think Liberty of L think Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Give me
over gooey Madonnas, any day. 
On a tea cup, anyway.
As a course of study, however, I fell for medieval art after my first elective, and fell hard. What I came to see, what I came to appreciate, was the dizzying creativity that flourished within the extreme confines of the era's art. Circumscribed by the church, girded by monarchs, the middle ages produced an extroardinary catalog of diverse, subversive, exuberant images, dancing around (and beyond, and all over, and underneath) every edge of acceptable.
Choir stalls, supported by sculpted outcasts. Profane images, under church pews. Church ceilings, held up by , peopled by figures few pontiffs would condone. Pious books of hours, each page illuminated at its heart with holy, at its edges with raucous. Lintels, littered with fantastic beasts. Jostling humanity, just below Jesus. Thinly veiled pagan images, in, on and around churches, everywhere.  were just the beginning. 
It was, I think, a negotiation between past and present, sacred and profane, the teeming masses and the ecclesiastic powers that were, worked out in stone and ink and glass. A truce, of sorts, between the common man and the clerics, in tense, tentative, glorious terms.
(Or so I enthused before , long ago. At the time, based on their unrelenting questions and absolutely unyielding expressions, I felt fairly sure they found me a hot air balloon, full of stuff and nonsense. Then again, they rang me back, said I'd won. So there's that.)  
Oh, gosh, sorry. My inner un-Ph.D. is showing. Right-O. What I loved, still love, were the all the excellent ways medievals found to wring soaring creativity from tremendous confines. How they invented endlessly, mercilessly, exquisitely, all within the church's steep limits. Re-branding old images, resurrecting ancient customs, retrofitting pre-Christian ideas for church-y times. They took limits as prompts. Rules as freedom. Constraint as endless inspiration. Made me wonder what they would have made of peg people. 
Probably, most peg people blog tour posts don't begin with discourses on medieval iconography. Okay, none of them do. Did. (See below.) Conformist was never my strong suit.
HOWever, there is this: as we've spent the past months leafing through 's utterly fantastic , I kept coming back to those medieval journeymen, those sculptors and illuminators who saw within the narrowest of confines, the wide-open of inifinty. Bloom's right up there with the best of them.
In this, her second book, a dashing follow-up to her  (both, staples in our library), Margaret once again takes up that humble, anonymous wooden peg, as first principle and brilliant prompt. Making with kids is always a good time, and the possibilities (hello, Pinterest!) are endless. This is wonderful. This is dreadful. Drowning amidst all the options is dead-easy.
What I so love about Margaret's work is the way she takes this one small starting point, the inches-high, inexpensive, happy-in-your-hands wooden peg, and transforms it, endlessly. Who knew that basic peg + head bump could be a swashbuckling pirate, a mermaid, an angel, a red (!) felt-y octopus (!!). Probably a gargoyle, too. And these are just the beginning. 
With felt, paint, pegs, and little else, save a giddy excess of creativity, Margaret lays out all manner of peg projects, simple to sophisticated, united by charming. On a recent wintry afternoon, we spent hours (HOURS!) absorbed in the task of bringing a dozen small pegs to life. Some followed Margaret's foolproof instructions to a T. Others took her ideas as jumping off points. Still others had nothing at all to do with the brilliant projects she so clearly outlined.
And indeed, these were some of my favorite. And, I suspect, she'd entirely approve. Thing is, once you get started with those pegs, a person can't help but see potential. My middle, for example, began by
then d then wound up making a full series of sprites: earth, fire, wind, and (not pictured) air. You won't find these anywhere in the book. Which is sort of the point. Inspiration starts here. Sometimes, limits are grand, bumpers within which to do your best work.
If you've been around here any time at all, you'll know I don't usually do blog tours. Don't usually, as in, don't ever. Rules are made to be broken. For Margaret, I make an exception, because this book, like her last, is dear to our hearts. We're not alone. For many more wonderful takes on her latest, do check out the other tour stops: 
February 2nd :: February 3rd :: February 4th :: February 5th :: February 7th :: February 9th :: February 10th :: February 11th :: February 12th :: February 13th :: February 17th :: 
And, because making peg people makes me unreasonably hungry, let's talk mushrooms. Basic button mushrooms. Three-ingredient (including salt) mushrooms. Mushrooms for when it is deepest mid-winter, and fresh produce is far off, and seasonal is a siren song. Golden mushrooms, we call them. Delicious works, too. 
These are my Nana's mushrooms, the ones she made nearly every time I passed a day at her house. He her stove, her budget, non- her mushrooms, transcendent. She's been gone since my olde he's halfway to fifteen. Still, I can see her stirring a skillet of these mushrooms, slowly, patiently, as if we shared a plate for lunch, this very afternoon. 
She began, always, with what we'll call a knob of butter, well more than a sliver, well under a cube. I use 4 Tablespoons per pound of mushrooms. Trust me on this. Therein lies the gold.
While the butter melts, slowly, slowly, the mushrooms are rinsed, trimmed, and sliced. This is, incidentally, an excellent job for children of four or more. Mushrooms are one of the simplest and most satisfying of vegetables to slice, soft, yielding, small. A table knife will do the job, though a sharp paring knife is well learned, here. However it happens, the sliced mushrooms are tipped into the skillet of now-molten butter, salted, tossed, and—crucial, this—allowed to give up all their juices. In my Nana's kitchen, this required monastic patience, something like sixty-five years. Maybe it was more like thirty minutes. Anyway, way too long. 
She would steadfastly stir, now and again, as high heat and time worked their magic, encouraging the water-laden funghi to, over time, release their liquid, and then, over more time still (sixty-six?), concentrate and consume what was lost, until not a speck of liquid remained, and the now-dry, condensed, intense mushrooms would sizzle and fry in the latent butter, going golden and caramelized and intensely savory and a little bit crisp, here and there, at the edges. If we'd had the word umami, back then, we would have used it. In all caps. As it was, we had bell bottoms and leg warmers and feathered hair and all manner of eighties atrocities, and none of it mattered, because we had golden mushrooms.
These are lovely slipped into omelettes, toppled over chicken, heaped high on buttered toast, tossed with pasta, or simply brightened with . In practice, though, we eat them most often as I did with my Nana, straight-up, by the forkful. And frankly, this is my most favorite way.
And while button mushrooms are available year-round, I only ever make these in the dark, cold months. I've talked before about , of the comfort I derive from a spare pantry and stark choices. To be sure, any stark in these modern times is somewhat artificial, fairly contrived. Thank goodness. A year-round produce, a miracle. I'm as grateful that we're not truly reduced to sauerkraut and souring salt pork, as I am for the occasional Florida berry. Still, there's that nudge, that everywhere-reminder that these are lean times, all limits, no bounty.   
There is, I think, real value in plying one's constraints, making the simple, exquisite. Stone blocks. Book margins. Wooden pegs. Button mushrooms. Real pleasure in working within limits  
Golden Mushroomsfrom Nana
Common button and cremini mushrooms both work well here. And while I've no doubt chanterelles and their ilk would shine in this preparation, I' this is all about the basic made glorious, with a little butter, attention and time. Also, please note that I nearly always double this to 2#, as a) mushrooms shrink tenfold, and b) there are never enough. 
1# button mushrooms4 Tbs. butter1/2 tsp. salt + more to taste
Give mushrooms a quick rinse, brushing or rubbing away dirt. Trim ends, then cut mushrooms, cap + stem, into 1/4& slices.
Melt butter in your widest skillet, ideally one with a lid. (My 12& skillet has no lid, but my stock pot lid does the job nicely. The lid, in other words, need only span the gap, not match, like shoes and purse.) Add sliced mushrooms to melted butter, sprinkle 1/2 tsp. salt over, and stir mushrooms to thoroughly coat. With heat on high, cover skillet, and let mushrooms release their liquid, stirring occasionally, 5-7 minutes, depending on mushrooms, skillet size, and lid situation. (If you've no lid, this simply takes a bit longer.)
Once mushrooms are awful-looking and sloppy and all aswim, remove lid, and let the reduction begin. Allow liquid to evaporate, stirring occasionally, until pan is dry, 5-7 minutes. When all liquid is gone, continue to cook, stirring attentively, every 30 seconds or so, adjusting heat to perhaps a hottish medium to keep mushrooms browning but not burning, until the slices are sizzling and caramelized and golden on nearly all sides, roughly 2-3 minutes after the last drop of liquid has left the pan. Taste, adjust for salt, and inhale directly.
And just like that, here we are, again.
in bloom, and littering the lawn, relieved by my littles of their single drop of sweet.  'Make ice cream' made this week's To Do list.  Slippers, so new , have come back home, loved, worn, a little smaller.
We're trying out new hair do's to beat the heat.  Re-considering tank tops.  Sporting bare feet.  Long pants and sleeves have been all but forgotten.  The thermometer passed ninety at least thrice, this week.  Socks?  What socks?  Check back in September.
Sprinklers have been run through.  Swim suits broken in.  Sidewalk chalk de-classified from the garage archives.  Lemons and simple syrup are sitting at the ready, awaiting the right combo of kids, time and thirst. 
The morning Rise and shine! has been all but abandoned, replaced by Just try and, you know, sparkle a little.  Perhaps because I've become a staunch doormat, regarding bedtime.  It appears that I'm hopeless around late light and cool nights.  Ten is the new eight.  Breakfast, bananas on the go.
The tomatoes are in, the cucumbers, also, and an indeterminate number of miniscule basil starts.  They are the size of a baby's teardrop, tinier even, and I can't imagine they'll yield a thing.  Still, it's Ohio.  Sub-tropical, to my temperate self.  We may be talking big batch pesto, come August.
The annual spring school bean has been planted, , and for the first time.  I'm not sure why I was so surprised, seeing Zo?'s name on the stick.  I guess because it was in her own 3-year-old handwriting.  As was her &Hi& on the end-of-year teacher biscuits.  Didn't see that one coming, somehow.  Feel free to take your foot off the accelerator, Madame Time.
There are flowers galore, outside and in.  The peonies have bludgeoned us with their one-two punch, that knock-down scent, those drag-out looks.  The sunflower is adding inches each day.  We're barreling toward garden 2.0, May's blooms behind, July's lush dead ahead. 
Entire days have been spent in the yard, sweeping, watering, digging, watering, pruning, watering, planting, watering.  My nails have not been clean in seven days.  Weeds go AWOL, overnight.  It is a losing battle.  I'm fighting it, anyway.  And loving pretty much every minute.
Primary colors have returned to our life.  The year's first local strawberries.  Picnic blankets on the grass.  The fall-out of a five-minute shower and an unsupervised preschooler.  An unsupervised preschooler with impeccable party-throwing skills.     
Millenium Park in Chicago.  Jackson Pollock in Chicago.  Alexander Calder in Chicago.  Everything in Chicago.  The weather may have been mid-sixties and overcast (perfect), but the city seemed irrepressibly colorful, anyway.  Even the boats on flannel-like Lake Michigan couldn't hide their jolly.  (Nor could we, after pulling off a whirlwind Memorial Day road trip to the Windy City.  Columbus is nothing if not accessible.) 
Thrift stores have been culled of great fifty-cent classics.  Library reading programs are being anticipated.  The cupboards have been stocked with fresh clay and new paint pots, extra perler beads and endless big ideas.  Many of them won't be implemented, maybe most.  (That's okay.  Others, as yet unimagined, will.)  But, at the moment, knot-tying tops the list, along with projects from
and .  And, if we're lucky, , and .
Also, two words: .  Oh my.
Zo?'s been footloose a full week, already.  The boys are down to counting on one hand. 
Must be summer. 
We are so ready.
I had planned to bring you a favorite stir-fry, a jumble of tender chicken, cashews, and bright asparagus.  We ate it last week.  We eat it often.  I crave it, much of the rest of the time. 
But even though it is quick and dead-simple, it involves some twelve or sixteen ingredients.  And between these late nights, and these weeds, and that party, I just can't be bothered pulling it together here.  And, I figured, maybe neither could you.  So as I stared down into my sink the other night, asparagus on the left, bok choy on the right, I suddenly swung my vote over the divide.  Because baby bok and shiitakes require just five ingredients, and then only if you count salt, sugar and oil.  (Barring staples, you need all of two.)  Also, because it makes my knees weak.
There's an alchemy to this dish that I don't understand, though I don't let that stop me, and I suggest you don't, either.  I stir-fry veg often, sometimes mixed, sometimes solo, and nearly always, there are aromatics or sauces involved.  Some minced ginger, some slivered garlic, a splash of sesame oil, an .  All of the above.  At least something.
There is none of that, here, only heat, salt, sugar, magic, plus the deeply complementary pairing of veg.  The shiitakes bring an exquisite meatiness, savory and toothsome and faintly smoky.  The bok choy—the small variety, baby or Shanghai, depending on your vendor—goes bright, crisp and sweet in its brief dance with heat.  They're quickly cooked separately, in stages, in the same pan, the mushrooms seared, the bok just steamed, then brought back together to mingle and meld. 
Meanwhile, discreet pinches of salt and (yes) sugar are added, and suddenly seem all the seasoning a person might ever need.  I forget how a flick of sugar brings sparkle, not sweetness, can make the greens taste more green.  I'm reminded of the power of plain salt, well deployed, the way it plumps up and rounds out an edible.
Add a caramelized edge from a small spoon of oil, and a slender thread of char from screaming high heat (, skillet breath, if you won't), and you've a straightforward side of beguiling grace.  Not bad for a dish that takes all of ten minutes, from a list of ingredients that fit on one hand.    
Dry Stir-Fried Baby Bok + Shiitakesadapted from Serves four as a side, or one hungry Molly
Dried shiitakes (buy whole, if you can) are available at well-stocked groceries, as well as any Asian market.  I've also used fresh, here, and they are differently, equally delicious.  Just skip Step 1.  Please note: allow 20-30 minutes soaking time, if using dried shiitakes.
Baby bok choy is available at many farmer's markets, well-stocked groceries, and any Asian grocery, where it is dependably inexpensive and impeccably fresh, year-round.  I also spied it last week at, of all places, Costco.  I prefer to wash bok choy by soaking it, as it tends to be gritty.  For the same reason, although whole heads are beautiful in magazines, I always halve mine, to ensure the bases are clean.  The original recipe called for 2 tablespoons of water to steam the bok.  I find the residual, post-soaking water in the leaves to be sufficient.  If any additional liquid is needed, add a small splash of the mushroom soaking water. 
Finally, unlike most stir-fries, I find this one can be doubled.  The following recipe is for one batch.  I must make two, if I intend to share.
6 large dried shiitake mushrooms OR 6 fresh shiitakes1 tbsp. vegetable oil1/2 pound baby bok choy (Shanghai bok choy), under 6&1/4 tsp. sugar1/2 tsp. salt
Prepare Dried Shiitakes:  Place shiitakes in medium, wide bowl.  Boil 1 cup water, then pour over dried mushrooms.  Stir, then place plate on top, to keep mushrooms submerged.  Let soak 20-30 minutes, until plump.  Remove mushrooms with slotted spoon, squeeze to remove liquid, and remove stems.  Slice shiitakes 1/4& thick.
Prepare Bok Choy:  Soak bok choy in a large bowl of cold water, 5-10 minutes, swirling several times to remove dirt and grit.  Slice 1/4& from base, then slice lengthwise, in half, rinsing any that still need additional grit removed. 
Stir-fry:  Heat a large wok or heavy skillet over high heat until it begins to smoke.  Add oil and swirl, around bottom and sides.  Add squeezed mushrooms and cook, stirring constantly, until aromatic and browning on cut surfaces, about 2 minutes.  Remove mushrooms to a plate, and set aside.  Do not rinse wok. 
Return wok to high heat, until it smokes.  Add rinsed, halved bok choy, with water still clinging to leaves.  Cook, without stirring, until water evaporates, about 1 minute.
Add sugar and salt, and toss vigorously, until bok choy is bright green, and dark bits are beginning to wilt, about 1 minute more.  (In the unlikely event that anything begins to brown or burn, add a small splash of mushroom soaking water, stock, or plain water.)  
Return mushrooms to wok, toss to combine, and cook briefly to meld flavors, about 30 seconds.  Taste for seasoning—despite the lack of aromatics, the flavor should be deeply savory—and add more sugar/salt to taste, if needed.  Toss and cook briefly, then remove to a platter.  Serve hot or at room temperature.   
 We are awash in flowers, though you wouldn't know it to page down.  I am rather fond of them, too, the bashful violets and the marimekko tulips and everywhere, white pear petals, like so much spring snow.  
Maybe next week.  At this moment, I'm feasting on green.  And yellow, and old rust, and last fall's lingering brown.
I'm not sure if it's their color or form, but I've been glued to buds and branches like some daily horticultural Mad Men.  The plot lines.  The character development.  The drama.  Unbelievable. 
In the Northwest, spring is a ramping up, an amplification of that always-there green.  Oaks and maples add bass notes to the evergreens' year-round melody, the bulbs add color, the fruit trees flower.  It is there, and obvious, and completely glorious, but it is not stark, the way it is here. 
Here, spring startles.  Subtle need not apply.  After months of , the simple fact of color is a little astonishing.  Maybe I'm still an amateur when it comes to this deciduous tree routine, but it strikes me as terribly Wizard of Oz.  There you are, all down with Auntie Em in grayscale, then the tornado drops Dorothy and BOOM!  Queue the technicolor.  Ohio may not have Munchkins or , but she can saturate a landscape like nobody's business.
For all that, there's a gracefulness to it, an orderly re-entry, easy on the eyes.  It , the odd leaf, the early daffodils, .  Pacing, you know.  But by April, spring outgrows its awkward-gawky stage, and hits this rather elegant stride. 
Everywhere, to-all-appearances dead trees are resurrecting, right on schedule.  This morning's plump bump is this evening's leaflet, wrinkled and articulate as a newborn.  Branches hang a hair lower each day, with the weight of a thousand twee flicks of green.  They are almost too precious to stand, until I tune back to the Reality Channel and see them as they are, endless gaping, hungry little maws.  A little daunting, really.  And mighty impressive.  CO2 into sugar?  Stranger than fiction.  
The ferns are beginning their weeks-long yawn, that journey from curlicue to most excellent mock sword.  There are hostas still in their corsets, and pre-peonies, and the last wizened crab-apples, finally relieved of duty. 
The Japanese Butterbur's invaded the lawn.  Again.  It needs to be pulled, but I so admire its chutzpah, its whopping bud, its parasol leaf.  I can barely thin my radishes.  How can I pluck this gentle giant?  
(What's this?  I've just learned .  Any pointers?)
And all of it, seemingly lit from within.  Now, I know there's no internal LED thing going on here.  And that rain seriously pumps up the shimmer.  And that new shoots always glow a little.  I would, too, under the circumstances.  Still, I think there's a peculiar magic to this fleeting cast of illuminated high spring hues.  (I also know
had little use for greenery-yallery leaning folks like myself.  Whatever.  I always did prefer Whistler by a mile.)
But look quick.  It won't last.  Summer comes on fast. 
By June, all this vivid will be ho-hum, color the norm, contrast a memory.  But right now, there's this moment, a.k.a. April, when the landscape is handsomely tailored, distinct. 
Stones are punctuation marks still, not hidden hazards, all overgrown.  There are seam allowances yet between this plant and that.  There's brown ground to be seen, old growth, crisp remains, patches of dirt that make everything pop.  Spring is a spare, clean organized statement to summer's lush, flooded run-on baroque.  I have never been spare, or clean, or organized.  But I have always admired this about spring.  
I think it's the juxtaposition that gets me, this coming and going, in the crosshairs.  It's the rubbing up against of what's next and what was.  The shock of chartreuse against dark chocolate earth.  The insistence of growth against composting leaves.  Raking last week, I came across a bluebell sporting an old oak leaf belt round its middle.  The wildflower had grown right on up through the leaf, piercing clean through and carrying it skyward.  The sheer force of that stem seemed so symbolic, so poignant.  Very changing-of-the-guards.  Very cycle-of-life.  
Metaphysics always improve my mood when I'm still getting after last year's messes.   
Much as a shaved fennel salad improves my outlook when I'm still waiting on this year's food.  The seeds are in the ground.  The markets will start soon.  The chives, bless their hearts, are flourishing.  When we ate this salad, late last week, it sat next to  and , topped with smoked mackerel and chives.  Our chives.  Won't be long.
But for now, most fixings are still , which suits this particular salad just fine.  I think of it as a three-season salad, the two main ingredients available year-round.  By all means, buy local fennel, when you can get it, but the plump California bulbs are decent year-round.  The mushrooms are the ordinary, cultivated sort, their firm flesh a help for papery slices.  In October, it tastes exactly of fall, thanks to the earthy, autumnal mushrooms.  In January, the fennel stands in for sad leaves, winter whites for the salad bowl.  And in April, right now, it's the lemon that sings, its bright sunny squinch somehow tasting of spring.  (In Summer?  Forget it.  It's tomato season, people!  But we're getting ahead of ourselves, here.)
I'm not positioning it quite right, am I?  Decent.  Ordinary.  Forget it.  Oh dear.  Let's try again: we served it at .  Also: I rarely eat less than three servings.  I'd polish it off, all by my lonesome, but I'm always angling for leftovers.  So that, too: it's awfully tasty the following day.  If you can manage to keep it around.
What it is, is nothing more than paper-thin fennel, plus paper-thin mushrooms, plus paper-thin parmesan.  You layer these three, in roughly equal proportions, dousing each layer liberally with fresh lemon juice and olive oil.  Lots of both.  And then a bit more.  Also, salt and pepper.  Be generous.  The end.
If this all sounds a little loosey-goosey for your taste, I've added some numbers and details, below.  I like a recipe, also.  But I feel I should tell you I just made it up.  I was introduced to this salad years ago by Alice Waters, whom I caught demonstrating it on PBS.  She was shaving away on a mandoline, staring straight into the camera, thrilling over this unlikely combination in big, blowsy terms.  I feared for her fingers, but I took her advice to slice thinly, season lavishly, and treat the parmesan as a fellow vegetable.  (I may have made that last part up.  But I'm sticking with it: be lavish with the parmesan.)  And to know this salad's a balancing act, with tastebuds, not measuring cups, as your guide.  
If you're accustomed to a leafy sort of salad, know this speaks in a different tongue.  There's no lettuce here, though there's ample crunch, thanks to the anise-sweet crisp of the fennel.  The mushrooms go almost meaty, by contrast, earthy foil for the fennel, tender sponge for the dressing.  The parmesan makes me smile, just remembering.  Umami wollop.  Saline twang.  Over, under, around, and through.  
It's the anointing, though, that pulls it all together, the dressing of the layers in lemon and oil.  The mushrooms are thirsty, and the fennel so thin, that they both marinate a bit, swapping atoms, and secrets.  They all get a little drunk on each other, which, considering the players, is the best possible outcome.     
My only caveat?  It looks dreadfully anemic, even if it tastes anything but.  Keep a fennel frond, and scissor it over before serving.  Barring that, a few wisps of lemon zest.  Please.  Just scatter some green or yellow overall to pinch its proverbial cheeks.  Thank you, kindly.    
Shaved Fennel + Mushroom Salad with Parmesan + Lemoninspired by Alice WatersServes 4
When I serve this salad depends on my mood, menu and schedule.  Eaten immediately, each ingredient retains its own texture, which is lovely.  If left to sit a few hours, everything relaxes a bit, also lovely.  Refrigerated overnight, everything will soften and settle, and while I wouldn't serve it to company, I grab it instantly for lunch.   My &mandoline& of choice for thin-slicing is the , a Japanese model that is affordable, compact, and to my feel, safer than many larger, French-style mandolines.  A sharp chef's knife makes an admirable substitute. 
One really does need a small hunk of Parmesan, here.  You won't use it all, but you will get the long, meaty curls that makes this salad sing.  Grated or shredded won't deliver the same results.   
1 large or 2 small fennel bulbs, a few fronds reserved12 large button or cremini mushroomsmedium hunk of parmigiano reggiano1 large, juicy lemon, halvedextra-virgin olive oilkosher salt and freshly ground pepper
Prepare mushrooms and fennel:  Wipe mushrooms clean, and trim stems of bottom layer.  Slice stems from fennel, where the stems meet the bulb, reserving a few fronds for garnish.  If outer layer of fennel looks a bit tatty, peel away exterior with a zipper.  If outer layer looks geriatric (withered, browning), discard.
Prepare salad:  Using a mandoline, Benriner, or sharp chef's knife, slice fennel and mushrooms as thin as you can manage.  (When using the Benriner, I stop slicing three-quarters of the way through the vegetables, in defense of my fingers.  Donate remainders to pizza, soup, stock or snacking.) 
Using a sharp vegetable peeler (a Y-peeler if you've got one, any standard peeler if you don't), peel three dozen or so long curls of parmigiano reggiano.   Do not fret over crumbling. 
Assemble salad:  Scatter one-third of shaved fennel on your platter, then top with one-third of shaved mushrooms and one-third of parmigiano.  Squeeze ample lemon juice over all , scatter with two generous pinches of kosher salt (approx. 1/4 tsp.), several grinds of fresh pepper, and a good drizzle of olive oil (one generous Tablespoon).  Repeat two more times, until all fennel and mushrooms are gone.  Top with a few additional shavings of parm, a final squeeze of lemon and drizzle of oil, and a smattering of chopped, reserved fennel fronds. 
Eat immediately, or let sit, refrigerated or at room temperature, a few hours. 
Did you hear?  My mom's in town!  She got here last Monday, we get to keep her 'til next Monday, and we're all pretty much as excited as can be.
It's no small thing, hurtling yourself across the country (am I the only one who thinks of modern travel this way?)  Although it probably pales next to settling into our home, trying to catch a moment's peace while keeping pace with little lives.  Mamo being here means so, so much to all of us.     It means Henry gets an eternally patient poem-reading buddy.  Zo? gets her very first little purse (it's pink and it's satin and it has with roses!).  And Max gets to make Mamo her very own .  I'm pretty sure he'd all but abandoned all hope.
It also means I get first-person , and the best-ever antiquing comrade-in-arms,
and a fellow soul whose heart skips several beats over the mere notion of .  Not to mention stolen moments to capture the last of our first blue iris and the first of our royal purple iris and our one-and-only white iris.  We're so tickled we could burst.
So, we'll be stepping out of this space for a while.  We have
to see!  We'll be back after our adventuring, ten days, give or take. 
Until then, I wanted to leave you with a nice bowl of soup.  Chicken soup, specifically, though maybe not your grandmother's (or mine).  My ancestors are resolutely Northern European, but when it comes to chicken soup, I break all blood ties.  Sick or well, up or down, what I crave most is this one, Tom kha gai if you know it, Thai chicken-coconut if you don't.  It's meaty with mushrooms and softly-poached chicken, and creamy from a broth based on coconut milk, but it's the riot of flavors that floor me every time.  Sweet, sour, salty, swank, every bite's an adventure, different and grand and totally heady.  It tastes like a diamond, sparkling and bright, always shifting on the tongue like a well-cut solitaire.  The ingredient list might look a little fussy, but check the notes for easy sources and substitutions.  Once the hunting's behind you (and it's not hard, not at all), the whole thing comes together in twenty minutes, easy.  Which is pretty important, when the company's this fine. 
Thai Chicken Coconut Soup (Tom kha gai)adapted from Nancie McDermott, Quick and Easy ThaiFish sauce, kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass and galangal are available in Seattle at Central Markets, Uwajimaya's, and most Asian grocery stores.  Fresh ginger substitutes admirably for the galangal, and a bit of extra lime juice for the lime leaves, if you can't find either (I often can't, here in Ohio).  If you do find lime leaves, buy extra: they freeze beautifully.The final soup will have inedibles floating about — lemongrass, lime leaves, galangal or ginger.  I usually pull these out as I serve it, though you could always warn a grown-up audience to eat around them.  2 Tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice, + more to taste2 Tablespoons fish sauce2 scallions, thinly sliced on the diagonal2 Tablespoons cilantro, coarsely chopped, + more to taste6 kaffir lime leaves, torn1 1/2 cups unsweetened coconut milk1 1/2 cups chicken broth1 tsp. sugar10-12 quarter-sized slices fresh ginger or galangal2 stalks fresh lemongrass3/4 pound boneless chicken (breast or thigh), sliced into bite-sized pieces1 cup mushrooms, stems removed, thinly sliced (cremini, shiitake, buttons, or enoki, sliced from their base and left whole)In a small bowl, combine fish sauce, lime juice, sugar, and scallions, if using.  Place by the stove, along with the chopped cilantro.  Prepare lemongrass by slicing off root end, peeling off outer layer if browning or dried, and slicing each stalk into several 2& pieces, up to the point where the stalk becomes a fairly dark green (I usually use the lower two-thirds of the stalk).  Bash pieces slightly with back of knife or small can, to release flavor.  In a medium saucepan, combine coconut milk and chicken broth over medium-high heat.  Bring to a gentle boil, then stir in galangal (or ginger), lemongrass, and lime leaves.  Add the chicken and mushrooms, return to a gentle boil, and simmer gently until chicken is cooked through, about 10 minutes.Remove from heat, pour in fish sauce/lime juice mixture, and stir well to combine.  Top with chopped cilantro, and taste for flavors.  You are after a bright balance of sour, salty and sweet.  If any of these is too muted, add a dash of each flavor to bring into balance (fish sauce for salt, sugar for sweet, lime juice for salt.)  Slurp in the presence of good friends and family. 
Humor me one more birthday? 
in a month, I know.  But two's a big one, no?  After all, it's not every day you double your age, overnight.  And with all that walking and
behind you, you can focus on the really juicy bits, like ditching the high chair and skipping naps and broadcasting the occasional (no-not-monkey-jammies-POKA-dot-jammies-the-bluuuuue-ones-peas!) opinion.  Besides, I'd like to do right by that smile.
Honestly, I could begin and end right there, left corner to right.  She really is all that, just spunk, twinkle and boo!  A party with pigtails, a diplomat from planet Happy.  All you need to know, really. 
What's missing, though, is all I didn't know, all she taught me, teaches me, patient and slow.  I mean, I knew it all, obviously, with two boys under my belt.  Plenty of parenting technique may elude me.  (Most of it, maybe.)  ((Okay, some days, all of it.))  But personality-wise?  I'd seen it all, night and day.  I was ready, prepared, completely naive. 
I did not, for example, know little girls.  I didn't know &What flavor cake?& could be answered &Pink!&  Didn't know how she'd take so to , tuck them under her arm and walk them around, murmuring &Mmmm... I wuuuv you... ummm... nice hug.&  Didn't know she'd switch up not two minutes later, barreling at me with blocks and an over-sized war cry.  &Missile!  Uh-TACK!!  Shoot!  Pshew Pshew Pshew!&  (Still that grin, though.  Sort of undermines the whole ferocity angle.)  Didn't know she'd lay claim to
besides, because, goodness gracious, why ever not?
I never knew washing hair could be simple.  Or quiet.  Or quick.  Or — stop me now — all of the above.  I'd no idea a toddler could whisper, or nod, or say &yes& and &shooz me!& to people and chairs.  Or add, automatically, &please& after everything.  I' it's &peas&.  That &L& is so tricky.  But everything, that part's no stretch at all.  I never dreamt that a toddler's two favorite words might be &Right there!&.  Tied with &Like that!&  That anyone might be more particular than me.  Oh dear. 
I didn't know someone One could count all the way to three.  Genius!, I thought.  Survival, I realized.  Forget a room of her own.  A third kid's got to know what evenly divided looks like, if she wants to land a wedge of cookie, all her own.  I had no idea a girl so small could call dibs on seats, so fast.  &Grocery store&, I muttered yesterday, planning tomorrow.  &In the BACK!& I heard, from two rooms over.  Seems a certain someone likes the big bottom basket, the one where big brother sits.  Or sat.  Now he walks.  
I never knew twelve tons of gumption could squoosh into thirty three inches.  Don't remember writing Gung-Ho on the Birth Certificate's Middle Name line.  But &Zo? do it& is the refrain of our days, right now, with &By self& and &See mama!& thrown in for good measure.  I was a little startled this week when &I can't!& cropped up.   Until I realized, in Zo?, it means only, &I'm having trouble.  I'm stuck, and I have no intention of stopping.  So HELP ME NOW, peas, since I don't speak 'give up'.&
I didn't know, frankly, how she'd manage, with everything.  Wondered whether this youngest might be overwhelmed or ignored (eep!).  Worried, in other words, needlesly.  True, silence is pretty much unheard of, consistency a fabled land somewhere due South of Atlantis.  Routines, regular naps, they really don't happen.  But belonging?  It's rampant.  And Count me in!'s always ever been her only reply.  Part of is all of her understanding of the world.  Part of Pokemon, part of puzzles, part of cabin-fever busting pillow mosh pits.  (Ages 8-and-up, 500-pieces, danger-to-life-and-limb, your point being?)  P not hers, but like she's going to be left out.  Part of school, back in August, on that very first day back.  I delivered the boys to their classes and came home to this.  Found her coat, found her shoes, a backpack and sunhat.  Made it perfectly clear she'd be going, too.  Never mind the nightgown underneath it all.  Or the birthday just a few (dozen) months shy of the cut-off. 
I didn't think she'd one-up me in the responsibility department so soon.  I've heard of young kids going on twelve or twenty-one, even, but she, I swear, is two going on forty two.  Ate raisins with a fork, before she could walk.  Gets her own bowls, and cups, and extras for the boys, also.  She so called me on it when I kicked that toy car under the island, the other day.  Later, I thought.  (Ka-wack!)  &Put away!&, she declared, and did.  (Insert blush here.)  You can see what a clean castle she keeps. 
 I certainly didn't think homemade pizza would become part of our line-up.  For years, I ranked DIY pizza right up there with, oh, homemade toilet paper.  As in, why on earth ever bother?  After all, decent, inexpensive versions are widely available.  The pizza, they'll even deliver.  And every last one of my attempts this past decade yielded something like old Sears catalog crossed with Cedar bark (the pizza, I I've yet to try the t.p.).  Charcoal black on the edges, pasty white in the middle, I'd perfected a pie that was both burnt and raw.  Magical, really.
So magical, in fact, I vanished it from our kitchen for ages.  But this year, prompted by a plucky new sous-chef and Ohio's odd habit of cutting round pies into square pieces, we gave pizza another go.  And I'm so very glad, as we're finally, I think, getting the hang of it.  Understand: we're not turning out world class exemplars, wood-fired wonders that inspire accolades and cult followings.  But I don't really want an imported inferno in my kitchen, or for that matter, a following. 
What I wanted, what we've finally figured, is how to easily, reliably, turn out very nice pies, with crispy thin crusts and gold bubbling tops and whatever bits and bobs suit people's fancy.  Which, in the end, is the second best part of a DIY pie.  (The first being, obviously, the company).  We can please Little Miss Mushroom and Mr. Pepperoni Only and me, and my love of a sort-of-white pizza, sharp with three cheeses and fragrant with Rosemary and worth every last ounce of flour on the floor.  I'll save details for the recipe notes, below, but suffice it to say, if you ask me now, homemade pizza's child's play.  
Pizza: Part I — Tools and Tips
Let's do this in two parts: playbook and recipe.  Because more important than any ingredient is HEAT.  And, after that, a calm cook.  These 5 P's — big tools, little tips — finally turned homemade pizza into something I looked forward to making and took pleasure in eating.  This is just what works for us.  I'd love to hear what works for you.  (P.S.: Just picked up my February , and lo and behold!, found this same advice on page 94.  Guess we're on the right track, then.)
:: Pizza stone:  These heavy stone circles hold and transfer heat beautifully, cooking that raw dough almost on contact.  EIght minutes takes a pizza from start to finish on ours.  I'm not big on gadgets, but I wouldn't attempt pizza without a stone.  (Again, anyway.  I have, many times, and am so over peeling baked-on dough off of sheet pans.)  We like .  It's an investment, for sure, though not much more than two pies, delivered.   
:: Preheat:  Stone and oven both, at 500°, a full hour.  No joke.  Your basic home oven (and mine is just that) can take on pretty awesome powers if you give it time to get up to temperature.  Remember to put a rack on the bottom position, and your stone in while the oven's cold (to prevent cracking), and you're well on your way to brilliant crisp crust. 
:: Patience:  With the dough.  Springy dough drove me mad for years.  I'd roll it out, sproing!, back it would go.  I'd roll again, schwoop!, and up it would curl.  I even, one day, reading the directions, which said to let the dough rest a spell before rolling.  Worked beautifully.  After rising (homemade) or removing from fridge (storebought) and dividing into serving size balls, give that dough 20 minutes to relax, and you'll follow suit when it comes time to roll. 
:: Parchment:  Cornmeal's lovely in cornbread, nasty under pizza.  Instead, I slide my rolled crust onto a square of parchment to keep it from sticking to the stone (you need something).  The parchment comes out of the oven black as midnight, but don't worry: it doesn't flame, and the pizza slides off beautifully.  Without that raw, gritty crunch.   
:: Peel:  Just a wide, flat metal paddle on a long wooden handle, a peel seemed so specialized I resisted it for years.  Silly me.  I love my peel with a passion, because it allows me to get all those fragile, floppy raw pies into that blistering oven without incident, every time.  And, better, to get them back out without incinerating my arm hair.  (The only thing worse than dropping a raw pizza upside down on a 500° oven floor is bumping your arm up against a 500° element.  Trust me, on both counts.)  You could , but my advice is to pick one up for $3 at your local goodwill, where there's almost always a thicket. 
:: Paste:  Avert your eyes if you're at all orthodox, because this is pure heresy.  Pizza sauce is so simple, just simmered-down tomatoes, seasoned the way you like.  But between the dough and the toppings and those ten floury fingers, I always pull it too early, and end up with sad little watery spots.  So one night I cracked a can of tomato paste, instead, and I've never looked back.  Completely inauthentic, I know, but it fits my bill: a rich, intense smear of tomatoey twang, ready to rumble. 
Pizza: Part II — Red, White and Blue PizzaAdapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything
Years ago, I stayed with good family friends in New Jersey (Hey ho, Bobbi and David!) while interviewing for a Cloisters internship.  I didn't get the internship (note: New York buses may
best take a cab), but I did taste my one and only official White Pizza, which more than made up for it.  My version's not at all traditional, what with the tomato paste and blue cheese, but I love it dearly.  
To top 1 medium or 2 personal white pizzas:
2 Tbs. tomato paste (I like Muir Glenn), or sauce of your choosing3 ounces parmesan or pecorino romano, freshly grated3 ounces mozzarella, freshly grated2 ounces blue cheese, freshly crumbled2 Tbs fresh rosemary, finely choppedOlive oil, for drizzling
Combine all three cheeses and rosemary in a bowl. Pizza Dough:Yields 1 large, 2 medium, or 4-6 personal size pizzas
I'm not one to staunchly advocate DIY the fresh store bought variety can be lovely.  It is dead simple to make at home, though, and for me often easier than getting out the door.  My standby is Mark Bittman's, which I love for the splash of oil in the dough (essential, I think, for good stretch and body).  That said, I'm eager to try .  I always double the recipe, below, and stash half in the freezer for next time (freezes beautifully). 
1 tsp instant or rapid-rise yeast3 cups all-purpose or bread flour, plus more for dusting2 tsp. kosher salt1 - 1 1/4 cups water2 Tbs. + 1 tsp. olive oil
Combine half of flour, salt, yeast, 2 Tbs. oil, and 1 cup water in stand mixer.  With paddle attachment, blend 60 seconds.  With machine on slow, add remaining flour gradually, until dough becomes a sticky ball that pulls away from the sides.
Turn dough out onto floured work surface and knead by hand a few seconds to form a smooth, round ball.  Grease a large bowl with remaining oil, and place dough ball inside.  Cover with a clean cloth or plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm spot, until dough doubles in size, 1-2 hours.  Dough can also be refrigerated for a slow rise, 6-8 hours (great for making in the morning or evening before).
To roll dough and assemble pizza: Move rack to bottom position, put pizza stone on it (cold), and turn oven on to&#°.  Preheat oven and stone for 1 hour. 
When dough has risen, knead lightly, roll into ball, then divide into equal pieces in the size you desire (4-6 for individual pizzas).  Roll each piece into a round ball, place on a floured surface, and cover with a cloth.  Let rest 20 minutes, while you grate cheese and assemble toppings.  Have parchment ready.
After dough has rested, roll one ball on a lightly floured board to desired size.  I like mine cracker thin and roll it within an inch of it's life.&#& will give you a standard, thin-medium crust.  Move rolled dough to parchment, and parchment to peel.  Top pizza dough (on peel) with a smear of tomato paste, a thick (not heaping) carpet of the rosemary-cheese mixture, or your toppings of choice.  Drizzle olive oil on exposed edges, and slide pizza onto stone with a flick of the peel.  Pizza will be done in 6-8 minutes, when crust is golden and cheese is bubbling.  Slide peel under pizza, lift up and out, and let cool just a moment.  Enjoy with your favorite kitchen help, age unimportant.
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