"The Corn Baby" by Mark Wunderlich + Cornbread Pancakes With Strawberry Chia Seed Jam From Pretty Simple Cooking

Every book has two stories. There's the book itself—the physical thing you hold featuring a table of contents, recipe headnotes, stories, and instructions. But this book, a cookbook, is not just made up of the title, subtitle, and description on the back cover. Those are the fancy parts and finished pieces, and the the culmination of a dream.

I'm always interested in the second story, the one that might never be told publicly, and it's often a tale of transformation—what the author learns along the way, or what transpires in her life or circumstances that change her in the course of writing the book. (Because as we all know, books are not made in days or weeks, but in months and years.) 

Books are teachers for both those who read them and those who write them. And books are personal. As my friends and fellow bloggers have continued to publish books over the years, I'm astonished each and every time as I flip through the pages at how them it is. It shouldn't come as much of a surprise, really, since each perspective is unique and we've grown to recognize blog voices for so long, but I just love sinking deep into their words and appreciating what went into making a heavy, sturdy, life-enriching book.

So, here's an example of a book with two stories.

Story #1: Pretty Simple Cooking is here! It's the beautiful new cookbook from husband and wife duo Sonja and Alex Overhiser, creators of the A Couple Cooks blog and podcast. There are enticing photos for every dish, plus tons of veggie-forward recipes. I've been meal planning from it for weeks, and the youngest member of our family is already a big fan of the strawberry chia jam (recipe below!) and vegan corn chowder. 

Story #2: The other side of this book is how its creation served as a healer. Alex and Sonja have been open about their adoption process, and as it turns out, their baby was born the same month their manuscript was due. Writing the book helped them cope with the stress of waiting and hoping, and I remember when Sonja texted me that there was a baby and she was in the room when he was born, I immediately started crying and sending her happy tear emojis, I also told her weeks later on the phone that this was how it was always supposed to happen. That they could turn in this book and immediately turn their attention to spending time with their new baby.

So with that, here's another baby. A corn baby!

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The Corn Baby

by Mark Wunderlich

They brought it. It was brought
from the field, the last sheaf, the last bundle

the latest and most final armful. Up up
over the head, hold it, hold it high, it held

the gazer’s gaze, it held hope, did hold it.
Through the stubble of September, on shoulders

aloft, hardly anything, it weighed, like a sparrow,
it was said, something winged, hollow, though

pulsing, freed from the field
where it flailed in wind, where it waited, wanted

to be found and bound with cord. It had
limbs, it had legs. And hands. It had fingers.

Fingers and a face peering from the stalks,
shuttered in the grain, closed, though just a kernel

a shut corm. They brought him and autumn
rushed in, tossed its cape of starlings,

tattered the frost-spackled field.

—From Poetry (March 2009)

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In these lines we meet corn personified—a yellow baby of kernels, all bundled up in a warm green husk. "It held hope," is my favorite line for how grounding it is, and I can so clearly see the morning light and this little ear of corn that transforms into a baby with limbs and legs and fingers.  

Reading the poem quickly, then reading it again, made me feel a bit breathless, and I couldn't stop thinking about the baby. THE baby. The baby that arrived while Sonja and Alex were writing this book, and who actually became part of their story. I love the first story, because this cookbook is such a refreshing approach to being in the kitchen and learning to love the process of cooking. But I also love the second story, and everything that transpired to bring both babies into the world.

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Cornbread Pancakes With Strawberry Chia Jam

Headnote is mine: I have a son who loves loves pancakes. I make them almost every weekend, and I'm always looking for new combos to freshen up breakfast. My favorite thing about this version is using masa harina, because I happened to have a bag in the fridge leftover from a short-lived homemade tortilla phase. (I still love making tortillas, but I just haven't reached for my press in a little bit.) This is the perfect way to get extra mileage out of an ingredient. 

1 cup masa harina
1⁄2 cup all-purpose, whole wheat,
or gluten-free flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1⁄2 teaspoon kosher salt
2 large eggs
3 tablespoons neutral oil
(grapeseed or vegetable)
2 tablespoons honey or pure maple syrup
1⁄2 cup plain Greek yogurt
1 cup 2% milk
Maple syrup, for serving (optional)
Strawberry Lime Chia Jam (see below)

Instructions
Preheat the oven to 200°F. In a medium bowl, stir together the masa harina, flour, baking soda, and kosher salt. In another bowl, whisk together the eggs, oil, honey or maple syrup, Greek yogurt, and milk. Pour the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients, then stir gently to combine until the batter comes together and is pourable but slightly lumpy.

Heat a large nonstick griddle or skillet over medium-low heat, then brush with butter or oil. Scoop a scant 1⁄3 cup of batter onto the griddle and repeat to make 4 pancakes. Cook for several minutes until a few of the bubbles that appear on the surface have burst and the bottoms are golden brown, adjusting the heat as necessary. Flip carefully, then cook for another minute or so until golden brown on the other side.

Place the cooked pancakes on a baking sheet in the oven to keep warm. Add a splash of milk to the remaining batter to loosen it. Then repeat for the remaining pancakes, adjusting the heat as necessary since the griddle can become very hot. Serve warm with maple syrup, roasted almond butter, and Strawberry Lime Chia Jam.

Strawberry-Lime Chia Jam

Headnote is mine: I used fresh berries (a benefit of California farmers' markets), and had about 14 oz, so just shy of 1 pound. Since it was a bit less than the recommendation, I reduced the maple syrup to 4 tablespoons. 

2 cups frozen strawberries*
2 tablespoons lime juice
plus zest (1 large lime)
6 tablespoons pure maple syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 tablespoons chia seeds

In a 10-inch skillet, add the strawberries, lime juice, and 2 tablespoons water. Simmer over medium heat for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. About halfway through the simmering time, begin to break down the berries by smashing them with a fork into a chunky but uniform texture. Once the berries are broken down, stir in the maple syrup, vanilla, chia seeds, and lime zest until combined, about 30 seconds. Turn off the heat. Let the skillet sit about 5 to 7 minutes until the chia seeds thicken the jam. Transfer to a 16-ounce canning jar and refrigerate; the texture will set even further when chilled.

Notes
Storage: Stores refrigerated for up to 2 weeks (chia jam is not shelf stable).

*One pound of fresh strawberries can be substituted for frozen, which cuts the simmering time to around half. However, we prefer using frozen berries for jams and saving fresh ones for eating.

Excerpted from A Couple Cooks | Pretty Simple Cooking: 100 Delicious Vegetarian Recipes to Make You Fall in Love with Real Food by Sonja Overhiser and Alex Overhiser. Copyright © 2018. Available from Da Capo Lifelong Books, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

"Lemon Bread" by Judith Waller Carroll + Meyer Lemon and Rosemary Cake

Citrus has always been a gift of winter—colorful, tart, sweet, bursting globes to brighten cold, dark days. I'm partial to Meyer lemons when I can find them because they're more sweet than tart, and beg to be baked with, and while reading a new poetry collection from Judith Waller Carroll, I was transported to the kitchen more than once.  

Many of her poems explore our internal lives and coming to terms with change, like becoming an empty nester, aging, and pausing to remember something so small but meaningful as a daughter's first smile. Read "Lemon Bread" and you'll see what I mean. 

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Lemon Bread

by Judith Waller Carroll

We are straddling the gap
between winter and spring.
Wind through bare branches,
a sky more gray than blue.

Perhaps deliciously happy
is not in my makeup,
the way I opt for savory over sweet,
shun sugar for spice.

Still, there are moments, like now,
watching you in the kitchen
as you squeeze the plump lemons
over the hot, fragrant loaf.

The sun has come out
on the blossoming dogwoods,
the first new leaves
on the hydrangea's stiff stalks.

“Lemon Bread” is reprinted with permission from Judith Waller Carroll’s book What You Saw and Still Remember (Main Street Rag, 2017).

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Isn't so much of life "straddling the gap" between one thing or another? If it's not winter and spring, it's summer and fall. There are life transitions like getting married, sending your kids to college, or moving from one state to the next. I related to much of the sentiment about "deliciously happy" not being my default, always keeping some emotional distance to serve as a guard around my heart. But as the poem describes, there are moments of sheer joy, when you can't help but embrace the "blossoming dogwoods" or "the first new leaves."

Of course, I was glad to read about a blissful moment in the kitchen, lemons being squeezed over a "hot, fragrant loaf." In honor of choosing savory over sweet, I decided on a lemon cake dotted with rosemary. It strikes just the right note to embrace changing seasons and complimentary flavors that might seem opposed at first glance, but like our emotional worlds, always prove they can coexist. 

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Meyer Lemon, Yogurt, and Rosemary Cake

This loaf cake is moistened with yogurt and hits those sweet notes with Meyer lemons and savory notes with woody rosemary. It's perfect for an afternoon treat alongside a cup of tea.

For the cake
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons meyer lemon juice
Zest of 1 meyer lemon
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 cup plain yogurt (not Greek)
3 eggs
1 1/2 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, finely chopped

For the glaze
1 cup powdered sugar
2 to 3 tablespoons meyer lemon juice
Chopped rosemary (optional)

Preheat oven to 350° and line a loaf pan with parchment or mist with cooking spray.

Cream butter and sugar in a stand mixer until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add lemon juice, zest, vanilla and mix until just combined. Add yogurt, then eggs, one at a time, until mixed. Finally, add the dry ingredients—flour, baking soda, salt, and rosemary. Scrape down the bowl if needed, and stir until everything is smooth and well combined. 

Bake 45 to 50 minutes, until golden. Cool in pan for 10 minutes, then invert to remove and cool completely on a rack. 

Make the glaze by sifting powdered sugar into a medium bowl. Whisk in lemon juice, adding more as needed, until thick but pourable. Drizzle over cake and add rosemary sprigs, if using. Let glaze set before slicing.

Poetry In a Pot of Beans

In Jane Hirshfield's poem "Tree," there are two things that can usher in calmness during uncertain times: "this clutter of soup pots and books—" It's one of the poems I was adamant about including in the cookbook, and I paired her words with, among other things, a pot of white beans because sometimes it's the most utterly simple yet magical thing you can cook.

Once they're tender, I like to do as Rachel Roddy suggests in My Kitchen in Rome, which is to combine some whole beans with others that have been reduced to a purée. It results in a not-quite-soup situation that's still thick enough to hold its own but loose enough to gather with a spoon or a swipe of bread. We made it lunch a couple of weeks ago, after coming back from the beach.

The final thing I added was a generous drizzle of olive oil, the kind you might reserve for special occasions—Ok, I drenched them—but I've had a change of heart on the matter, and believe these little indulgences should be every day occurrences as often as possible. 

I'm very enthusiastic about this particular tin because it came to me from northern California last month I only found out about it because it's made by Robin Sloan, who I spoke with on on a panel in Michigan. Naturally, I had Googled him beforehand and asked about this olive oil situation when we met. He and his girlfriend were in the middle of the first harvest, and this bottle is from the very first pressing of these olives, ever. 

In the tasting notes (yes, olive oil can and should come with tasting notes), there are instructions for slurping and mentions of artichoke and how well the oil might pair with roasted vegetables. Then there's the very wise recommendation to use it with abandon. Because it's unfiltered, it's even more likely to spoil sooner, so it's not something to keep in the back shelf for a rainy day, which reminds me of a section in Dani Shapiro's memoir Hourglass, when she recalls a bottle of oil brought back from her honeymoon in France. 

"We waited for a special occasion to open the olive oil. No occasion seemed quite special enough. After all, we had the bottles home with us in our carry-on. You could do this back then. Finally, preparing dinner for friends one evening, we opened one. Of course, it had gone rancid."

The moral of the story, of course, is to use it and enjoy it. Don't wait. Make a pot of beans. Drizzle them with wonderful oil. Eat a plate alone, or with friends, it doesn't matter. In "Ode to Oil" Pablo Neruda writes:

Oil,
hidden and most important
ingredient of the stew,
base for partridges,
celestial key to mayonnaise...

Oil,
with our voice,
our chorus,
with intimate
powerful smoothness
you sing...

It is indeed an "abundant treasure." In recent weeks I've rubbed some into kale leaves, swirled it on soup. And of course, the beans, where so much poetry resides, and where a plate feeds you mightily, body and soul.