The rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used

The first time Michael held my hand, it was under the table at the Howard Johnson's in Times Square, a place that now only exists in memory. We were sitting across the table from a friend and one of her various hangers-on, and everyone was sharing ice cream. I couldn't eat; it was early September and sweltering, and the ice cream was so welcome, but this strange man sitting a little closer to me each minute was distracting. I'd invited him out with us, wondering if the drinks and dinners we'd shared over the summer were just friendly or more than that, and what was he up to, anyway, being so teasingly sweet and attentive?

I remember when I called him and asked, he cut me off. "Absolutely," he said. "Right now."

That night, we all wanted ice cream, and so after work we ended up at the Ho-Jo's. I ordered a dish of something and pushed it around as it melted. I kept casting glances at this guy next to me, this generous, funny man in a navy t-shirt with a ratty neck, the kind that has been washed so many times that hope is the only thing holding it together. His summer haircut was growing out on his neck, and his glasses kept slipping down his dignified slope of a nose. (I love his nose.) I didn't know what to think. 

And then, as Jenny was rattling on about something, his hand slowly migrated to mine. It was tentative, and then rushed, as if he had to grab it before it disappeared. And then I felt us float away from the Ho-Jo's and into a midnight space of our own, where the only noise was the rushing of water and a steady thump-thump of hearts, and we plummeted down, down into a fizzy, sparkly pool, where our fingers entwined like roots growing toward each other. 

We wandered out into the warm fall rain and made our way to the steps of the New York Public Library, where, to the amusement of several homeless people and late-night passersby, he kissed me until the sun peeped over the midtown skyscrapers. The lions kept watch over us, and a white limousine sped past us down Fifth Avenue, screaming toward the dawn. 

That was almost five years ago, and we are still growing toward each other. And last Tuesday, on a cold, windy cliff in Ireland, we reaffirmed what we'd known before: that it was still just the two of us, floating together, holding each other in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, welcoming what may come. He asked me to marry him, and I buried my face in his raincoat, holding onto him so tightly as if he would float away if I didn't, and my legs went all jelly beneath me, threatening to tumble me into the verdant moss. And then I started to laugh, great giant gasping laughs that shook both of us, and I squeaked out, "Yeah. YES."

Yes to it all: laughing and melted ice cream, and a shredded navy blue t-shirt, and arguing and sleeping in and sharing the last glass of wine, and passport stamps and quiet mornings and runs in the park, and bank accounts and dogs and old milk and new babies and the newspaper. All with him. Just us.

So. We're getting married. And wouldn't you know, I already have a recipe for a groom's cake.

Red Velvet Cake

adapted from The Lee Bros. Southern Cookbook

I made this cake a couple of weeks ago, when I had absolutely no inkling of what was coming. It's the insect-like thing here, and it was supposed to be an armadillo. Those of you versed in magnolias will know what I'm talking about.

This cake has a hint of citrus thanks to a generous dollop of orange peel, but I think you can leave it out if you want a pure chocolate-y cake. The gray icing, of course, is up to you.

2 and a 1/2 cups sifted, bleached all-purpose flour

1 tsp. salt

2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. baking soda

1/4 cup cocoa powder (not Dutch process)

1 ounce red food coloring (that's a whole bottle. Embrace it.)

1 1/2 tbsp. water

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

2 cups sugar

3 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 cup buttermilk (whole or lowfat, it's up to you; I used buttermilk powder mixed according to the directions, and it turned out fine)

1 tbsp. grated orange zest, about one whole orange

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease and flour two cake pans (round or square, up to you), or line the bottoms with greased wax or parchment paper.

Sift the flour, salt, baking powder and soda together at least twice. You don't want any white lumps in this cake -- it will ruin the aesthetic. Then in a small bowl, whisk the food coloring, cocoa and water until it makes a smooth paste. It will look vile. Don't worry.

Beat the butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add the sugar, 1/4 cup at a time, until completely mixed in, and it has a light texture. Add the eggs, vanilla and orange zest, making sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the red paste and mix thoroughly. 

Add the dry ingredient mixture to the butter/sugar mixture about 1/2 a cup at a time, alternating it with a dollop of buttermilk. You'll want to mix this together with a wooden spoon or spatula, so as to avoid overbeating the cake. Give it about 12 strokes with the spoon until everything is evenly mixed up, and divide the batter into the two cake pans. Bake until a toothpick comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Watch it carefully; you'll want to avoid any tough edges or hint of overbaking. Cool the cakes on a rack.

For the icing:

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened but NOT melted

2 packages of cream cheese, softened (Neufchatel cheese works fine if, for some reason, you're counting calories)

1 lb. sifted 10-x sugar

a little milk or half and half

Beat the butter, cream cheese and sugar together until fully blended and smooth. If you think the icing is too stiff, add a little milk or half and half. Here's where you'll also want to add the food coloring, if you're looking for a gray icing. I don't have a formula for it; all I did was add one drop of each color in the pack until the icing started looking like a stormy sky.

Ice the layers as generously as you see fit. Feeds a bunch -- I'd say a good 12 slices, with a little left over. 

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.

Kid Bento

Bento #4
Originally uploaded by mgtrott

One of the cutest freaking things I've ever seen. The genius behind this is Mena Trott, known to the world as a founder of Six Apart and mother to a cutie-cutiekins.

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.

A fine mess.

Until about 10 minutes ago, this is what my kitchen looked like: 

It takes a little courage to show you this. It's like showing someone the inside of my wallet, or a bit of work that's unpolished, or the arrangement of my sock drawer. My wallet is full of ancient receipts and undecipherable notes about who knows what, I wilt like old lettuce in the face of criticism, and I have socks that have not seen their mates in so long, they've given up hope and have moved on to different colors. What I'm trying to say is, right now, on the cusp of my 30th spring, I am still a mess.

But if you look closely, you'll find a clue about what I've got for you. See those little white flakes stuck to the pan? That's coconut, something I used to abhor. Can you imagine, having such scorn for something that's so sweet and innocent and gentle on the palate? As I realized tonight, it's like avoiding sea spray or soft sheets, or a good bourbon. Given the choice, would you do such a foolish thing?

I won't, not ever again. Especially if it's toasted and eaten with a spoon like a decadent cereal, or -- and I think this is even better -- it arrives in the macaroons that I made tonight. I'll take it either way.

I'd been thinking about what to make for you all week, and I just couldn't make up my mind. On Friday night, we devoured a lovely riff on chana masala that I still want to tell you about, and we followed it with Scott Peacock's gingerbread, which is truly spectacular and needs to be shared as well. On Saturday, I had every intention of baking a chocolate cake for you, and I did, but I took one bite and felt deflated. This is a very, very good chocolate cake that I've baked for birthday parties and celebrations at home, and sometimes just because. But sadly, this weekend's cake was like Longfellow's little girl with the curl in her forehead; on Saturday, it was not just bad. It was horrid.

So today, when I was rummaging through the freezer for something, I found a bag of coconut flakes and bounced on my toes for joy. I'm not sure how it came to be in my freezer, but it presented itself at just the right moment -- which is to say, it saved me from my own desperation. Because of this fortuitous find, I got to bake macaroons. And with one luxurious spoonful of toasted coconut, I let go of a silly, ancient disdain for something that just wants to make me happy.

These macaroons are sort of a cross between the hotly debated, almond-based macaron (minus the filling, of course) and the coconut-heavy macaroon that Americans are used to. If you're looking for a very coconut-y macaroon, these may not be for you. But they have an airy chewiness that I love, and the chocolate certainly doesn't hurt. I'll be taking them into my office tomorrow, where I hope they disappear and, thank goodness, I won't have to be tempted by them anymore.

I hope they make you happy too.

Chocolate-dipped macaroons

adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts

2 heaping cups of coconut flakes, unsweetened

2 egg whites

1/4 tsp. cream of tartar

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup ground almonds (this will take about a medium handful of raw, whole almonds)

1/2 tsp. vanilla

a pinch of salt

Heat your oven to 325 degrees. Toast the coconut and almonds for about 8 minutes, until their aromas are released and the coconut is faintly golden. Be sure to stir the coconut frequently to avoid burning it. Let the coconut and almonds cool, and grind the almonds in a food processor or spice grinder until fine. Don't eat all the toasted coconut right off the pan.

Beat the two egg whites and cream of tartar until they hold stiff peaks. Add the sugar, salt and vanilla, and beat until the mixture holds stiff peaks again; at this point, the batter should have a satiny sheen. Fold in the ground almonds and coconut until fully mixed. Don't worry if the batter doesn't quite stick together; it'll be fine in the oven. Spoon dollops about a teaspoon-sized each onto a baking pan lined with parchment paper or a Silpat, making sure they're about an inch apart. Bake for around 10 minutes, until the tops are golden. Cool on a wire rack.

For the ganache: 

5 oz. semi-sweet or unsweetened chocolate, chopped finely

1/2 cup heavy cream

In a double boiler over medium heat, whisk the chocolate and heavy cream together until the chocolate is completely melted into the cream, and the mixture is smooth and even. Take special care not to scorch the chocolate, because you'll have to start all over again if that happens.

After the macaroons cool, dip each one into the bowl of ganache and cool down again on a rack or parchment paper. If the ganache starts to harden in the bowl, put it back over the heat and whisk until it's liquid-like again.

Makes about two dozen. 

Seeing red

These are Scarlet Runner beans.

Aren't they pretty? They remind me of Michelle Obama's dress from Election Night, the red and black Narciso Rodriguez confection that caused such an unholy ruckus. All things considered, I might rather have the bean than the dress. After all, I can afford a Scarlet Runner. A whole bag of them, actually. Which is exactly what I bought on Sunday.

I took myself on a field trip to Kalustyan's, which is the kind of store that makes me realize again and again what Candyland could be like. But instead of lollipops and molten chocolate, Kalustyan's has walls of spices and beans, and a hundred different chutneys and forty kinds of rice and nuts and dried fruit, and boxes of fresh baklava and other honeyed treats. Being there made me think of the first time I had Turkish Delight, having wondered what it was ever since I read about the temptation of Edmund Pevensie. I was in Istanbul once and bought a little box from a shop in the shadow of the Blue Mosque, thinking it was the proper thing to do; we'd been drinking Turkish coffee, and we'd already eaten loads of kebab and bought a rug at the Grand Bazaar, so of course I needed to find out about Turkish Delight. I was also finding out about this guy who said sure, he'd go to Turkey with me, even though it had never really occurred to him -- this man who still held my hand after a week of searching through Istanbul and each other, discovering corners where new tales and old secrets lurked.

I took one bite of the gummy, sticky Turkish Delight and threw it out. But I kept the man.

Anyway, I'd been searching for a place in New York for Scarlet Runners and other heirloom beans, and Kalustyan's is it. I love ordering from Steve Sando, but I wanted to find a source in my hometown before having some shipped from the other side of the country. I can't tell you if these beans are truly heirloom -- I have a sneaking suspicion that they're not -- but they're good. So good, in fact, that I couldn't even wait to cook them, and threw them in a bowl of water to soak as soon as I got home.

So on Monday night, we had Scarlet Runner beans with garam masala and onion over sauteed cabbage, and it was so tasty that I wanted to tell you about it. I realize I'm advising you to cook beans and cabbage; it sounds like something served to rotten children in a Roald Dahl book, not far from a few potatoes and onions bobbing in a weak broth, being slurped up by little boys with hollow eyes and peaked faces. But believe me, these are not just any beans. When soaked, the Scarlet Runner swells up to the size of a date, and its flesh is so rich that it could almost be called meat. You soak and simmer the beans until done and then cook them up with some warm spices and onion, and heap them over sweet, tender cabbage with a little coriander seed for zest. It's a good meal for curling up on the couch and listening to the wind howl outside.

Scarlet Runner beans with garam masala

You can use this recipe as a guide, but play with the spices until you find a combination that you like. That's the gift of beans, I think -- their healthy flexibility.

1 cup Scarlet Runners

1 onion

2 cloves garlic

2 tsp. garam masala, at least

1 tsp. turmeric

1 tsp. paprika

1 tsp. cumin

1/2 tsp. salt

black pepper

olive or grapeseed oil

Soak the beans overnight in cold water. Drain and put into a pot with enough water to cover them amply (give them about an inch extra; they'll need it), and bring to a boil. Cover and let them sit on a strong simmer for about an hour and 10 minutes, or until they're tender all the way through.

Towards the end of cooking the beans, chop up an onion (a medium chop is fine) and mince up the garlic. Stir over medium to high heat in a good dollop of oil, until the onion's edges are nicely browned and the kitchen smells good. Lower the heat to a low medium and add the spices, and let them mingle in the oil for a few minutes. Drain the beans, keeping about two cups of the cooking liquid, and mix them into the onions and spices. Add about a cup of the cooking liquid and let the whole mix simmer for about 15 minutes. The liquid will reduce, making a savory sauce. Feel free to add more liquid if you think it's cooking down too much.

For the cabbage:

1/2 head of cabbage (I used plain old cabbage, but I bet a Savoy would be lovely in this)

2 tbsp. rice vinegar

1 tbsp. coriander seeds

olive or grapeseed oil

Over medium heat, warm up about 1 tablespoon of olive or grapeseed oil in a frying pan (you can also add the coriander seeds now, if you want them to have a little extra time to release their flavor). Chop the cabbage into 1/2-inch strips and add to pan. Cook, stirring frequently until the cabbage is tender. Mix in the rice vinegar and coriander seeds.

Heap the beans over the cabbage, and add some of the bean sauce to the bowl. Feeds two, with enough left over for lunch the next day.

To market, to market

(OK, yes, I took this in Italy, not Brooklyn. But isn't it just the loveliest sight?)
Right now, I feel like I’ll do almost anything for a berry. Strawberry, blueberry, raspberry – I don’t care. I long for a loose pint of inky, chubby blackberries, the kind that are so plump and ripe that the skin almost bursts at the touch, and you gleefully stain your lips and fingertips as you pop them into your mouth. I want strawberries on my spinach salads again, and raspberries? Oh my. I think I just made my own mouth water.

It doesn’t help that everywhere, I see signs of spring, and yet it’s still so far away. The wind’s knife edge has dulled just a bit, and my skin’s winterized rawness is slowly fading away. It’s no longer pitch black when I leave work, and the evening sky is turning that spring-y royal purple. And yet.

I want my farmer’s market to come back.

That’s really what this longing is all about. I want berries, of course, but also the crisp chards and tender spring onions, the mottled creamy garlic bulbs, the lacy dandelion greens — all the fresh food that my market brings to me from farmers just a couple of counties away. It doesn’t open up for another two months, but I can’t help already planning what I’ll do on its first day back. I’ll get up early-ish that Sunday – I think 9:30 is perfectly reasonable, as far as spring weekend wakeup calls go – and slowly drink a cup of coffee at the dining table, making out a list on the back of an envelope. The list won’t matter much in the end, but it will be so satisfying to make one, just the same. I’ll think about caramelized Cipollini onions, and the meaty purple potatoes from the first booth, and maybe a quick stop at the Flatbush co-op for a chicken to salt and roast. I’ll flip through a few cookbooks to remind myself of the spring dishes we like; Alice Waters is a good start, of course, but the Lee brothers and I have become awfully good friends lately. And then, there’s always what Edna Lewis has to say. What would she serve for a spring feast?

I’ll tell Michael I’ll be back soon, and reach into the hall closet for a hoodie – because early May mornings still hold the promise of a chill – and a couple of canvas bags. The distance from our building to Cortelyou Road is not short, but the path winds through a neighborhood so full of beautiful homes and yards that I almost have no choice but to walk. I’ll save the bus ride for when I come home with overstuffed bags and sagging shoulders.

When I get to the farmer’s market, I’ll go all the way to the end of the row to the flower man. His booth is my weekend treat; we don’t need flowers the way we need onions or greens, but his bouquets of wildflowers are spring songs wrapped in brown paper. I’ll buy one and take care not to knock it into the strollers that will be crowding the sidewalk. I’ll move on to the pepper-and-tomato stand and pick up some sunny yellow peppers, a couple of jalapenos and a few tomatillos. Maybe I’ll grab some blue corn chips, and we’ll have nachos with cojito cheese, beans and warm roasted tomatillo salsa that night. Or maybe I’ll braise some young spinach and gratin some potatoes from the very last stand, the one with the gorgeous purple cauliflower and fennel bulbs the size of a softball. Or maybe we’ll have the fresh ravioli from the egg people, the pasta so tantalizingly tender that the ricotta spills out into the sauce at the first poke of a fork. I’ll buy it all, just in case.

Or maybe, because it’ll be Sunday night and I just might not feel like cooking – maybe we’ll have peanut butter on sunflower bread from the bakery upstate and a few slices of whatever fruit I find, chased by the bakery’s chocolate-cranberry cookies and a mug of tea. Because after all, we’re just at the beginning of spring’s bounty. And we haven’t even gotten to the berries yet.

Blueberry muffins for the fruit-deficient

I made these earlier this week, when I was thinking of spring and jonesing for some berries one night. And then I remembered the blueberries from our winter CSA, hidden in the back of the freezer. I nearly leapt into the kitchen.

6 tsp. unsalted butter, softened
1 ¼ cups sugar
2 eggs
2 cups flour (I used King Arthur unbleached, but I don’t think it matters)
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
½ cup, plus a couple of tablespoons, of plain yogurt (I used low-fat, but I have nothing against whole milk)
1 pint, give or take, of blueberries, washed and picked free of stems
raw sugar for topping

Using a hand mixer on low to medium speed, beat the butter and sugar together until smooth, and add the eggs one at a time until fully combined. Whisk the flour, baking powder and salt together to get rid of any lumps (I hate sifting, but whisking, I can do all day), and mix into the wet ingredients, about half a cup at a time, until smooth. Mix in the yogurt until the batter is a consistency you like; a thick batter will make for a denser muffin. Feel free to add more yogurt for a looser batter. Fold in the blueberries, taking care to distribute them evenly throughout the batter.

Line a muffin tin (I do this because my boyfriend hates scrubbing muffin tins, but if the person in your house who does the dishes isn’t so persnickety, feel free to just butter them) and butter the top of the pan, so the muffin tops won’t stick. Fill each cup about ¾ of the way full, and sprinkle a little raw sugar on the top, if you’d like a little extra crunch. Bake in a 350-degree oven for about 30 minutes, or until the tops are a mottled golden brown with flecks of blueberry peeping through. Cool them down on a baker’s rack.

I prefer these eaten at the table by the window, smeared with honey.