A brave taste

I might as well just jump into this: I don't like green peas. Never have. It started, I am sure, during some traumatic meal when I was four, a prolonged affair that ended in a stare-down between my parents and myself, the offending peas growing ever colder as I pushed them around the plate like marbles. I am sure I got up to some caper like spitting them all into my napkin and spiriting it to the kitchen, where I dumped them into the trash can. And I am sure that, as an unpracticed miscreant, I neglected to cover them up, leaving a bemused parent to yank me into the kitchen and demand some sort of reason for why my peas were perched on top of the banana peels and coffee grounds like scattershot on tree bark. I am also sure that I received some sort of punishment for that particular transgression, and I am sure that that punishment involved eating more peas.

I really don't like peas. One night last month on our Grand Irish Family Adventure, Michael's mother ordered fish and chips with a side of "mushy peas" -- chunky green goop, steaming in a metal gravy boat next to her fried cod. Michael force-fed me a taste as my own mother sat next to me, laughing so hard that she could barely eat her meal. I think he might have seen his future: a brown-haired child with a snub nose and round cheeks, zipping her little mouth shut at his efforts to feed her peas. In that future stand-off, I'm not sure whose side I'll be on.

Disregarding the Irish pea incident, I really have tried to come to terms with them as an adult. There are other foods that I avoid, and I've developed decent reasons -- to my mind -- for most of them. Jell-O: the texture and I are not friends. Hot dogs: I read the labels, and no thank you. But peas? I just don't have a good reason, except to say that I do not like them. I feel like I should be put in the corner just for saying that, as if I'd just stamped my feet and kicked the door.

So why, may you ask, am I rambling on about a dislike of peas? Why am I burdening you with this? Why are you still reading?

This is why: I think I've found a way in which peas and I can come to a detente of sorts, and for those of you who already have a friendly relationship with peas, this might even make it better. It is green pea soup, a springtime concoction with roasted garlic, onion and a wave of dill that ties the whole thing together with an unexpected twinkle. I'd been thinking of such a dish over the weekend, wondering how to make do with what was in my kitchen (I'm horribly lazy about going to the grocery store.) We'd reached the end of the good frozen vegetables and were left with a bag of green peppers from our CSA, another of brussels sprouts, and two bags of organic green peas. I buy them to throw into tuna casserole and other warming winter comfort dishes, and I always have more than I'll ever use. 

So, staring at the freezer door, I started thinking -- what could make green peas taste better? Roasted garlic is always a good start, and a little salt and pepper, and what else tastes good? Dill, of course....and so it went. And then Google told me that Nigella Lawson had already made a form of this soup, which was a little disheartening, but I ultimately took it as a good sign, and very good footsteps to follow. The roasted garlic gives the sweet peas a blast of warmth, and the dill helps the whole thing out with a little fresh spring-ness. Sprinkled with pepper and fresh grated Parmesan, it's not certainly not the worst thing in the world, as if anything with fresh grated Parmesan and roasted garlic could be.

I feel like maybe -- just maybe, and give us some time -- peas and I are going to be friends after all.

Green Pea and Roasted Garlic Soup

Adapted from Nigella Lawson and a hundred other variations

This soup is extremely easy and cheap. Just make sure your garlic is fresh and your stock is good. If you can't make your own or get your hands on some good store-bought stock, use water instead. Bad stock makes for bad soup, in my experience.

2 full heads of garlic

12 oz. frozen green peas (I used Cascadian Farms, but Birds Eye or your store brand is just fine)

1 onion, chopped 

a generous glug of olive oil

2 cups chicken or vegetable stock (pork stock might make for an interesting twist as well)

1/2 cup, give or take, of milk (if you're feeling luxurious, cut back the amount and use cream or half-and-half)

1/2 tsp. dill, or to taste

salt and pepper to taste

2 tbsp. fresh grated Parmesan

Chop the top off the heads of garlic, making sure each clove is exposed. Drizzle a little olive oil over both, and wrap in aluminum foil. Roast at 350 degrees in the oven until the cloves are golden and tender but not burned. This can happen more quickly than you think, so keep an eye on them. I'd give them about 25 minutes, and then check on them. Pull out from the oven and let them cool so as to avoid burned fingertips.

Give an onion a medium chop. Saute in olive oil -- enough to cover the bottom of a heavy-bottomed pan or Dutch oven -- over medium heat until softened, but not completely translucent. Add the green peas, still frozen, and the two cups of stock. Bring to a strong simmer, and cook for about 15 minutes, or until the peas are cooked through. Add the garlic and combine completely. 

In a blender, pulse the whole mixture, adding the dill and salt and pepper, until it's finely pureed. Be careful with the salt, because the Parmesan will add some on its own. If the soup is too thick here, start adding the milk until you achieve the texture and consistency you want. Serve in individual bowls, sprinkled with Parmesan and a little pepper. This would go well with a crusty bread, a green salad and a glass of dry white wine.

The girls of 469

I moved to New York five years ago this month. I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed -- I feel like I'm still unpacking my bags, and I only moved up here with one suitcase. But I can see how the five years have washed over my face, leaving little lines near my eyes where there were none before. There was my first year here, feeling my way around a strange, fascinating city from a sanctuary of a room in Brooklyn; there were the second and third, finally used to the jang-bangling of the A train, going home to my very own tiny studio with the crazy neighbor and Pepto-pink bathroom. The fourth was more complicated, full of difficult days that toughened my skin and opened my heart. It's fitting that a fifth-anniversary wedding gift should be a timepiece. I feel as though for the first time in my life, I know that time is ticking away, and the hands on the clock are moving ever faster. 

My first real home here was the front room in a Brooklyn fourth-floor walkup with two other girls. I remember the first time I walked into 469. The apple-red hallway stretched all the way to the back of the house, where the door to the sunny back bedroom was open, and my roommate's clothes were tumbled all over the floor. Next door, I could hear our 2-year-old neighbor running back and forth, dragging something heavy and disinclined to be pulled. In the front room -- my room -- the April afternoon light burst through the two windows facing the blooming street, and the inlaid floors shone with a hundred waxings. The shelf in the bathroom held a cacophony of nail polish and tweezers and ten types of bath salts. The dishwasher hummed in the kitchen.

I thought, my goodness: I am here, where I should be.

The apartment came with several lovely women -- roommates, friends of roommates, or ex-roommates, and who all felt that 469 was, in some way, their home too. They brought with them recipes, laughing on the couch, hours of sitting on the kitchen floor and playing dress-up in the living room, lots of cheap red wine and bad television. We dragged a free couch off the street at 2 a.m.; had dinner parties up on the roof, Manhattan flickering in the distance like a jeweled crown; ate Indian takeout and dribbled it all over the living room floor. We danced at weddings, made guacamole like it was going out of style, and kept each other's counsel. We were a joyful coven of cackling women, happy to be in each other's company.

Four years later, it is much harder to get us all in the same room. School, work, dates, boyfriends, husbands and life pull at us. But good things have happened for the girls of 469; the apartment seems to hold some witchery for those who have sojourned there. And every once in a while, with some Herculian planning and aligning of stars, we do manage to get together. So on Saturday night, with men banished down the street, we convened in my apartment for good food and a movie that never fails to open the waterworks. We drank more cheap red wine, dug into some cheese, and piled into the kitchen to make one of the greatest dishes of all time, all of us together.

If you can figure out what this thing is, you'll know what movie we watched.

Years ago, a man named Bill Neal opened Crook's Corner, a restaurant in Chapel Hill. He was not just any man, and Crook's is not just any restaurant, just as, I believe, Chapel Hill is not just any town. We lost Bill in 1995, but we still have his shrimp and grits. And while those who understand his culinary legacy still shake their heads at his demise, they'll never shake their heads at another plate of shrimp and grits. When I was in college, Crook's was too expensive for my burritos budget, and I didn't care for grits anyway. I didn't realize what I had been missing until a few years ago, when I dragged Michael to Crook's to give him the proper Chapel Hill education, never mind that my own had a few holes in it. I took a deep breath and ordered the shrimp and grits, wondering if I could stomach a whole plate of mushified, pasty grits. But when the steaming platter of perfectly curled shrimp and pale brown gravy landed in front of me, I thought: what in the hell has been wrong with me? 

I cleaned my plate -- I won't say I didn't lick it -- and ever since that meal, I make sure to bring a bag of Crook's grits back to New York with me. It's caused some trouble with the T.S.A. people at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, but no matter. This stuff doesn't just show up at Fairway, you know.

So last night, we made Bill Neal's shrimp and grits. I turned the bacon, Stacey stirred the grits, Laura grated the cheese, Sarah Jane sliced the mushrooms and scallions, and Johanna put out the bowls and kept everyone's glasses filled. It was home. We were home.

Bill Neal's Shrimp and Grits

adapted from the Crook's Corner grits bag

1 pound shrimp, peeled and cleaned

6 slices bacon

2 cups sliced fresh mushrooms

1 cup sliced scallions

1 or 2 large cloves of garlic, depends on your taste

juice of one whole lemon

hot sauce (Tabasco and Texas Pete are good; do steer away from the Sriracha variety)

chopped fresh parsley

salt and pepper

1 recipe of cheese grits (below)

Clean the shrimp, wash them and pat them dry.

Cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy. Drain the bacon on a paper towel, and leave the grease in the pan -- you'll need it.

If there's not enough bacon grease in the skillet to cover it, add a little peanut or canola oil and turn the heat back up to medium. When it's hot again, add the shrimp and stir around. As the shrimp starts to turn pink, add the mushrooms and stir for a few minutes. Add the scallions and garlic, and cook until the whole thing is done, but not overcooked. Season to taste with the lemon juice, hot sauce, parsley and salt and pepper. Spoon it all over the cheese grits (it's easiest to do it in individual bowls), crumble the bacon over it and serve immediately.

(A note for those avoiding meat: we cooked a portion of the shrimp mixture in oil instead of bacon grease, and I can say with confidence that they're good either way. Just depends on your preference.) 

for the grits:

4 cups water

1 cup grits, not quick-cooking

1/2 tsp. salt

4 tbsp. unsalted butter (not margarine. Butter.)

1 cup grated sharp Cheddar cheese

1/2 cup grated Parmesan

1/4 tsp. cayenne, or to taste

a few grates of fresh nutmeg (please avoid the already grated stuff. It tastes like licking the floor.)

Bring the water to a boil. Stir the grits in slowly, and reduce the heat and cook for about 20 minutes, or until the grits are thickened and cooked all the way through. Stir frequently, making sure to get rid of any lumps. Stir in the butter, cheeses and spices, until all are melted into the grits. Keep warm and put aside.

Serves four.

In Which Garlic Saves the Day

Yesterday was a bad day. It was full of dumb problems -- middle class and trite, to be sure, but still problems, and they were still mine. Problems like, What if the French transit system goes on strike the day we're flying to Paris? and, Where did my motivation escape to, and can I join it? and, My pants are too big and right now, I have no money to buy new ones, and so I'll just hold them up with one hand while I walk down the hallway, and what are you looking at, anyway?

They were just that, so insignificant and eminently solvable that I'm embarrassed to share them with you. But the point of this is, I found a panacea for all of them, and it was in a jar in my fridge. To me, that's nothing short of a small miracle.

By the time I got home -- and my house was so dark and cold; we'd left the windows open and the fog had rolled in, grazing everything with a creepy dampness -- I couldn't bring myself to turn the stove on. It was too bad, I thought, because our fridge is bursting with tasty things that just need a little heat and salt. I'm truly grateful to have a full cupboard. But all I wanted was a drink and someone to feed me straight from a plate.

So with a quick survey of our options, we decided to just eat this and that, and maybe a couple of macaroons. I pulled out the leftover spaghetti from our local cheap Italian place and gave it a baleful stare. It wasn't doing anything wrong, per se; but cold noodles with a paltry bit of sauce are a terribly discouraging meal. And then I remembered the jar on the door in the fridge. Suddenly, those noodles looked more like a waiting canvas than a pathetic impromptu dinner.

Last weekend while my horrid chocolate cake was baking, I made garlic confit for the first time. I wasn't sure what I should expect; will the cloves be golden brown or brown brown, and should the oil be tossed or saved? I followed the most basic of instructions, which were to take a few full heads of garlic, peel them, and simmer them into some olive oil. Half an hour later, I saw exactly what I had hoped for -- golden garlic twitching and bubbling away, the cloves enveloped in an oily sweetness that I could almost taste. I drained the cloves out of the oil and threw them in an empty cornichon jar, and put the garlicky oil in the fridge. And then, because my cake was a flat failure, I completely forgot about both.

So last night, I reached into the fridge for some Parmesan, and my exhausted eyes fell upon the confit. Eureka! Instead of leftover spaghetti, I had a Thomas Keller-inspired pasta dish, with a mash of fragrant, gentle confit swimming in the noodles and a drizzle of garlic-infused olive oil over it all. A few grinds of black pepper and a toss of salt, and I had a meal at least worth crossing the street for. It was sunshine on a plate, warm and sweetly savory, and exactly what I didn't know I wanted.

Thus, I am recommending it to you. Not the lamentable noodles that you pull out of the fridge -- be smart, unlike me, and just cook some fresh pasta -- but the garlic confit. As a "building block" for your pantry, I can't overstate its importance and incredible ease. It doesn't even really need a recipe, although I should tell you this: apparently (and if I'm wrong on this, please, someone set me straight) botulism spores can hang out on garlic and, placed in a warm, oily, anaerobic environment, can create a fine mess indeed. So don't let this stuff sit in your fridge too long. It tastes so good, though, that there's probably no danger of that.

Easy garlic confit
adapted from Marian Burros, The New York Times

4 heads of garlic, separated into cloves or peeled
1 generous cup olive oil
ground black pepper as needed

In a very small saucepan (you want the cloves to crowd together and the oil to cover them all) pour the olive oil over the cloves. Simmer at the lowest temperature possible for about an hour, until the cloves are completely golden. Drain the cloves from the oil and store both separately in jars in the fridge. Will keep about a week. Use the oil for quick salad dressings (toss with white wine vinegar, fresh herbs, a shallot and some good Dijon mustard) or stir into freshly cooked beans or vegetables. I dumped a little into some Puy lentils the other night, and they were transcendent.