"Buckwheat" by Carl Sandburg + Cold Soba Salad

In the kitchen there are secret pleasures, like the scent of the garbage disposal after you sneak in the peel of a lemon, or chopping chives in complete silence, or drinking homemade almond milk straight from the bottle while the refrigerator door is still open. 

Of course when the house is quiet it's easier to notice these details. To move slowly from the chopping block to the stove to the freezer, being careful not to step on the dog splayed out on your kitchen rug. When I'm alone in the kitchen, and especially when I'm alone for dinner (a somewhat rare occurrence), my senses seem to heighten. 

Andrew was finishing a big work project in early October, which kept him late most nights. His office even ordered dinner for the team, so I was cooking for one and would sort of ho hum around the house, going through a list of meals in my head and letting my gut decide what to make for dinner.

One evening, it was a cold noodle salad.

I have a certain affinity for soba noodles, and when my enthusiasm gets out of control it's usually met with a passive aggressive remark such as "soba noodles again?" or "why do you like soba noodles so much?", so I've started leaving more days in between. But being alone I could slurp soba noodles to my heart's content (!), without any judgement. 

This being a cold salad, I took steps earlier in the day to prepare. Boiling the noodles and shrimp before leaving for work, chopping cucumbers when I came home for lunch, and even whisking the dressing the night before (overachiever!) so that by the time I came home and shoved Emma around the block for a "walk," dinner was waiting. 

Buckwheat is something of a staple in my pantry. Soba noodles are always tucked in a nook, and I adore buckwheat flour in pancakes, so when I happened upon this lovely little poem by Carl Sandburg, it made me consider the plant itself, the "honey-white buckwheat" grown in fields before being ground to a fine, gray powder.

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Buckwheat

by Carl Sandburg

There was a late autumn cricket,
And two smoldering mountain sunsets
Under the valley roads of her eyes.

There was a late autumn cricket,
A hangover of summer song,
Scraping a tune
Of the late night clocks of summer,
In the late winter night fireglow,
This in a circle of black velvet at her neck.

In pansy eyes a flash, a thin rim of white light, a beach bonfire
ten miles across dunes, a speck of a fool star in night's half
circle of velvet.

In the corner of the left arm a dimple, a mole, a forget-me-not,
and it fluttered a hummingbird wing, a blur in the honey-red
clover, in the honey-white buckwheat. 

From Smoke & Steel

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It's a love poem, both for the season and the speaker's beloved. Full of personal details, the poem still invites you in like a rush of wind. When I close my eyes I stand on the dunes not far from my house, the remnants of a beach bonfire smoking below. And it being autumn there is a chill, but also an overwhelming, expansive beauty, captured so eloquently on the page.

And we must say a little something about how the poem ends on the word buckwheat. The honey-white buckwheat plant, the source point. Our ceramic cups dive deep into flour bags and emerge with a decidedly different version of the poem's buckwheat. What a good reminder to spend what little time we have left of the season in absolute awe of the hummingbirds, the moles, and the "smoldering mountain sunsets."

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COLD SOBA SALAD WITH SHRIMP

Recipe adapted from Aida Mollenkamp 

I came across this recipe on Twitter of all places. And I say that with a dash of surprise because of the limited amount of time I spend there these days. It was good fortune to see the link when I did, because it made for a very satisfying meal, and one I look forward to making again. (I also love her trick of poaching the shrimp in the same pot while the noodles are cooking!)

A few minor recipe tweaks ensued, mostly due to the fact that I forgot to bring home snow peas and the green onions I thought were fresh were beyond saving by the time I opened the crisper. Luckily, this is a recipe well suited to light adaptations. 

For the noodles:
8 ounces dried soba noodles
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 pound (about 24) shrimp, shelled and deveined
2 big handfuls of spinach
6 ounces snow peas, cut on bias into 1-inch pieces
2 Persian cucumbers, trimmed, halved lengthwise, and thinly sliced
1 bunch of chives, finely chopped
2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds or chia seeds (pictured)

For the dressing:
1/4 cup seasoned rice vinegar
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest
2 tablespoon low-sodium soy sauce
2 to 3 teaspoons honey
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
2 inch piece ginger, peeled and grated
3 tablespoons canola oil

Bring a large pot of water to a boil over high heat. Fill a bowl halfway with ice water and set aside. (It's tempting to skip this step, but it will make a difference and really help the noodles cool down.)

When the water is boiling, add the noodles and cook for about 3 minutes, then add the salt and shrimp and continue cooking until the shrimp are pink and firm, about 3 minutes more. Put the spinach in the bottom of a colander, then drain the shrimp and noodles over the top. The heat will help wilt the spinach. 

Place everything in the ice water and cool completely, at least 20 minutes.

To make the dressing, add everything except the oil  in a food processor. Process until smooth, then drizzle in the oils. Drain the noodles, shrimp, and spinach (pick out any remaining ice if you need to), and add the cucumber and chives. Pour on the dressing and toss to coat. Garnish with the sesame or chia seeds and serve. 

Literary City Guide | Rabat, Morocco

Morocco is one of those dreamy destinations food bloggers have been flocking too recently. Ashley went a couple of years ago, and Megan just returned from her honeymoon (I was living vicariously through her Instagram feed.) It's definitely on my list of places to visit one day, so when Sophie Duncan emailed about putting together a guide for Rabat, I was practically giddy to feature such an exotic destination.

Living in Rabat on a Fulbright grant to research traditional Moroccan foods, Sophie is an ideal tour guide. In this town about an hour from Casablanca, you'll find a tiny bookstore filled with French paperback novels, literary care that doubles as a women's cooperative, and the best restaurant for Sengalese couscous.

So brew yourself a cup of tea and come visit Rabat! 

Preludes and Pasta

Our sense of smell can be transporting.

Years unfold.

We tumble back to childhood. 

On the second day of fall, I was making soup. It was still a pot of ingredients—celery, onion, crushed tomatoes—when I walked outside with Emma where the air had started to feel different. September is often our warmest month in Los Angeles, and even though the temperatures hadn't dropped significantly, the sun was shifting. 

By dusk or just before, a crispness emerged. Not cold or brisk, just a whisper of the cooler days to come, when the sun lets us down gently that soon it will set at the unfortunate hour of 5 pm. 

Out of the blue that afternoon I'd suddenly craved spaghetti and meatballs. It's a quintessential fall dish, and for this Italian, something of a comfort food. Who am I kidding. It's the comfort food. But I had no spaghetti and no pork and no beef. I wasn't prepared for this fierce a craving, so I went on making another Italian comfort food, the minestrone I've been making for the past couple of years with chard and plump white beans. Sometimes squash or sweet potato. 

There I was outside, letting my dog sniff the grass and search for pinecones, sorting through the long week, hungry for pasta. When she pulled me back inside (and she has this habit of pulling down the hall only on the way back, like she can't wait to get home) I started smelling something familiar, perfumes of the Italian restaurant I grew up eating at, and very specifically of their minestrone. It was composed of a thin broth with translucent onions and soft carrots gathering at the bottom of the bowl that I used to dip saltine crackers into and tentatively take small sips of from a silver spoon. 

When we arrived at our door, I realized I had been smelling my soup the entire time. Not a neighbor's dinner as I had assumed, but the one I'd put on the stove and poured homemade beef stock over and slipped a Parmesan rind into before slipping outside. I somehow managed to comfort myself that night, in the simplest yet profound way. 

But I still needed the meatballs and two days later, the kitchen filled once again with the scent of tomatoes and garlic and parsley and meat simmering away in a sauce laced with butter and onion. 

And it happened that I read T.S. Eliot's preludes that morning, as delivered from The Poetry Foundation to my inbox. I couldn't deny the timing, and the fierce connection I felt to the poem with its "smell of stems in passageways" and "burnt-out ends of smoky days." If there were ever a perfect meal (and poem) to usher in the new season, I believe I have found it.

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I

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

-T.S. Eliot, from Preludes

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Spaghetti and Meatballs

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's recipe. (Serves 6)

A few notes.

• Definitely chill the meatballs. They'll be slightly damp beforehand and will need the chilly air to firm up before forming.
• I doubled the recipe, making approximately 22 golfball-sized meatballs, offering plenty to freeze for later.
• I followed her sauce recipe, too, a version I make often, but added a Parmesan rind to the sauce as well. If you have one on hand, slip it in for added depth of flavor.

For the sauce
2 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes
4 ounces unsalted butter (1/2 stick)
1 onion, peeled and halved through root end
3/4 teaspoon salt
Parmesan rind (optional) 

For the meatballs
1 cup fresh breadcrumbs
1/3 cup whole milk
8 ounces grass fed ground beef
8 ounces ground pork
1 cup finely ground Parmesan (plus more for serving)
1/3 cup finely chopped Italian parsley
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper
2 plump garlic cloves, grated
2 eggs
1 pound spaghetti

To make the sauce, combine the tomatoes, butter, onion, salt, Parmesan rind (if using), and 1 cup water in a heavy stockpot. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. Season with more salt and freshly ground pepper if needed. 

While the sauce bubbles away, start on the meatballs. Combine the breadcrumbs and milk in a small bowl; stir until well combined. Let stand 10 minutes.

Dump the beef and pork into a large bowl. Add the Parmesan, parsley, salt, pepper, and garlic. Whisk the eggs, then pour into the bowl. Use your hands to squeeze milk from the breadcrumbs, then add them to the bowl. This is when the real work starts. Dig your hands into the bowl and quickly and gently mix until all ingredients are evenly combined. Chill for at least 15 minutes. 

Turn the sauce onto low heat. While it warms up, roll clumps of meat into golf ball-sized balls and arrange them in a single layer in the pot. Cover and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the meatballs are cooked through. Use a slotted spoon to transfer them to a bowl. 

Cook spaghetti in a large pot of salted water until al dente, about 7-8 minutes. Drain, reserving a bit of the cooking liquid. Add spaghetti to the sauce, along with a bit of the reserved water, and stir to coat. Divide pasta among plates and top each serving with meatballs and a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese.