When I mentioned that things were crazy around here with the kitchen remodel and I was feeding my family in a whole new, super simplified way, I wasn’t kidding. For a month and a half (very nearly two) we went without a kitchen- basics like a sink, stove, oven, you name it. I set up shop in the dining area that looked like this:

The electric skillet also didn’t happen for the first month, so I spent a lot of time cooking our meals in the slow cooker and microwave, and I’d like to think that in a month and then some of practice time I learned a few things; some of these skills are so refined I’m in no rush to return to the old way of doing things. I know that perhaps I ought to be embarrassed by my shameful embrace of the microwave oven- the appliance blamed for the rise of prepackaged convenience food, but I’m not. I kept finding ways to make the food I like to eat with what I had, and that was the microwave, so praises be to that scapegoat appliance. What I am making in that shiny little box is so good, so easy, and so predictably perfect that I just can’t help myself. Friends, I’ve been making brown rice for years, and it has never come out as beautiful from the stove top as it does from the microwave. Yes, it is true: you can make shockingly good brown rice in the microwave, even perfect brown rice quickly and easily in the microwave oven.

While I laugh now at some of the wonkier things I tried cooking in my make-do kitchen, (crockpot bread is not the same as the oven variety and pasta in the microwave can be done, but really isn’t the best) I only talk about rice in the zapper in dulcet and respectful tones. Unless you have a dedicated rice cooker, I challenge you to make a better dish of rice. This is good stuff. And so easy, you might find occasion to make it more often. So now even with a stove top again (hooray), I am still turning to the magic box to crank out easy, perfect grains of brown rice.

Hey, if you are interested in just what I have done with my kitchen, and you haven’ t had your fill of hearing about it here, you can hop over to apartment therapy and catch more of it there. I am blogging through the remodel if you are dying for more excited details and way too much information about the whole shebang. Knock yourself out.

And now that magic rice recipe…

Microwaved Brown Rice

2 cups of brown rice

3 1/2 cups of water

1 teaspoon sea salt

optional: 1 T. oil or butter

Add water, sea salt and oil or butter (if using) to rice in a large microwave-safe bowl. Allow to sit, so rice soak up water for at least 30 minutes (or more) if at all possible. Cover bowl with a microwave-safe lid or plate, and microwave for 17 minutes. And let it go. When the rice is done, check for doneness (microwave wattage could vary cooking time). If ready place a clean dish towel between the plate and the bowl and allow the rice to rest and some of the moisture to absorb for 5 minutes. Remove, fluff with a fork and serve. Ta-da. That was easy, right?

think you’ve seen this pic before- yes you have, clever reader. Get the more concise, and previously mentioned recipe by clicking on the photo.

Cornmeal is a proper beginning for many meals whether simple or complex. The best kind, worth seeking out exclusively and establishing as a pantry staple, is stone-ground cornmeal. This key cereal is sometimes labeled as coarse-ground polenta or grits. Cornmeal can easily be transformed by additions, just as easily as it has been renamed. Its mythic history as maize, underscores its endless possibilities on the plate.  Ancient Americans cultivated, preserved, and prepared this sacred cereal. When giving offerings to welcome newcomers to America their gift of corn was great. While it appeared simple, it was really complex. To the natives who presented it to early settlers, maize was rich with meaning. It was a connection to the land and their people: the ultimate taste of home. It still captures that flavor, not just to those who grew it first, but all those who tuck into a warm and creamy, humble bowl of maize.

Cooked cornmeal porridge is quintessentially comfort food. It was the embodiment of home to the Native Americans who knew it first, it is a foundational food to those who adopted it as their own in Northern Italy, and in the American South it is routine and ritual. Cornmeal mush, spoon bread, polenta, mamliga and grits are all really cooked cornmeal porridge by an assortment of names and slight variation of cooking. While their differences are slight, their effect is universally soothing. And with good reason, cornmeal—even good quality stone-ground cornmeal—is equally soothing to the pocketbook.

Cornmeal is economical; a bargain when a pound of organic coarse-grind cornmeal can be had for two to three dollars, and provide for several satisfying meals before the bag runs out. So naturally the thought of a soul satisfying meal at an everyman price can hardly be unappealing. I know it to be so. Reading MFK Fisher’s recipes for polenta and spoon bread in How to Cook a Wolf triggered my appetite and agreed with my head. I walked to kitchen in search of comfort. Graciously, it was there.

My pantry supply of the staple was ample—I had polenta in my near cooking future. Take a measure of cornmeal, and whisk into a large saucepot filled with four measures of salted water. Stir, heat, cover, and repeat until the slurry sets into a thick, pourable gold. Stir in a pat or so of butter, according to your desire and generosity. Dress with a robust tomato sauce, or to nestle a slowly braised osso bucco if the opportunity presents itself. (I particularly like the pairing of spicy, pan-seared sausages and grapes in a balsamic reduction against a mellow, creamy polenta.) Yet, really a simple dusting of nutty Parmesan or a chunk of pungent Gorganzola is often just enough gilding for the lily. Perfectly cooked polenta is perfection: simple enough, yet simply sublime when cooked properly.  But I headed in another direction.

The supply of milk in my refrigerator was more liberal than my stores of cornmeal, and something had to be done about it. Grits it was. Like its Italian cousin, Southern-style grits are a stove top affair, but typically enriched with milk, rather than water alone. Unlike most polenta recipes that are geared toward savory toppings, sweet things have been welcomed to stir into warm bowls of morning mush. A bit of butter and maple syrup, sorghum or molasses greet morning bowls of comfort as readily as crisp cooked bacon, crumbled cheese and roasted chilies. I hold affection for each of them, but know how readily cornmeal porridge plays background to a variety of flavors outside for the usual fare. On this occasion I ventured outside the usual standards of toppings and technique.

I like to brave the risk of lumps by reversing the order of operation; first toast the cornmeal in a dry saucepot over medium heat, and then when the warm fragrance of the grains begins to fill the air, I slowly pour the milk into the pot while furiously whisking it all together. The risk is rewarded as cornmeal takes on additional flavor depth from the initial toasting. I then finish the process with unusual flourish: I swirl almond butter or meal and freckle the grits. Then garnish with blueberries. Winter is hardly an excuse to pay exorbitant amounts for a carton of blueberries that are in season several thousand miles south of the equator; rummage the freezer. Add the frozen jewels directly or make a quick sauce of them with a bit of lemon and honey. Swirl them in vigorously and turn the contents of your bowl violet or dot gently, as you wish. Finish with a bob of crème fraiche or a splash of sweet cream. Eat immediately.

Yes, you could wait to eat your grits, polenta, spoon bread, mush or whatever name you call your cornmeal porridge by—but if don’t, you won’t be sorry. You can unlock the secret second life of cooked cornmeal. The once pourable, spoon-able creation solidifies as it cools. Slice the cornmeal loaf and serve it in its elegant molded shape. Or crisp cook it in skillet with a bit of oil or butter and what was once a simple solitary texture takes on a second. Cook both sides of the slice in the hot fat, making the exterior irresistibly crunchy and sealing in the creamy goodness of the swollen cornmeal grains inside. Perfection. Top your new work of art as you please. Serve and be soothed, immediately.

“Call me when you need an oven,” my friend Melissa said to me when I announced we had begun gutting our kitchen. She knew me too well. When I am bored I cook. When I am feeling creative I cook. When I am hungry I cook. When I want to do something for someone else, I cook.

Often times this means baking. I like the ritual of baking bread as much as I like eating it. Recipes and techniques are as familiar to me as friends. I keep in close contact and bake often. As much as I hated this shoddy broken-broiler beastly oven, I liked baking in it. I had a hard time letting go of it. Even after we had sawed and hauled away the cabinets that housed it, and left it sitting on a pair of tiles on the concrete slab, (yes, just like the picture) I was still getting my baking fix. I carefully draped that wonderful, terrible oven in plastic sheeting to protect it from the dust storm when my husband created 40 pounds of powder while grinding down the quickset from the old tile; I couldn’t give up on the oven too early. We swept and suctioned up the mess, and the oven was still good for a few more days until the electrician pulled the plug and said it was time to let it go.

But still, I wanted to bake. In the midst of the chaos my house has become, I needed to bake more than ever, but my oven was gone.

In her essay “How to Rise Up Like New Bread” (whose title I have blatantly stolen for my own post today) the late and great food writer MFK Fisher wrote this of of bread baking:

It doesn’t cost much. It is pleasant: one of those almost hypnotic businesses, like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you willed with peace, and the house filled with ones of the world’s sweetest smells. But it takes a lot of time. If you can find that, the rest is easy. And if you cannot rightly find it, make it, for probably there is no chiropractic treatment, no Yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel, that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread.

I nodded my head in solemn agreement as I read. Not only do I get that soul-satisfaction known to habitual bread bakers, I crave it. So in the weeks since I finally let the oven go, I have been devising other ways to bake. Here’s the rundown: the microwave is bad, the electric skillet was no good, the toaster oven is tricky, the grill works, but the crock pot is a winner.  I grin with childlike delight at each slow cooked baking success. The wafting fragrance of baking bread opens a little corner of peace for me in the midst of the bombed out building my kitchen could pass for. I might just make it through, and rise up like new bread.

*          *          *

 ”Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy and save me: Let me lie down like a stone, O God, and rise up like new bread,” Platon prayed, and turning over, he fell asleep at once.”

War and Peace, Tolstoy

I couldn’t wrap my head around Easter this year without baking, plus I had sour milk in the fridge, begging to be reincarnated into something better before Justin made good on his threat to throw the tangy stuff out. Since I firmly believe in not wasting still-useful milk, I commenced dough making. Sour milk, yeast, flour, salt, a kiss of sugar and a heavy- handed addition of spices went into the bowl: I was making hot cross buns. Ancient and ritualistic food is laden with meaning, hot cross buns are no exception. I scooped in cinnamon, cardamon, cloves and nutmeg (with occasional ingredients being currants, raisins, allspice and orange zest) and told my children the story of Jesus’s friends and disciples, the women who prepared his body while it lay in the tomb. The warm fragrance of the cinnamon and spices sweetened the air and the idle flesh of God’s own son.  That same perfume scents the dough of hot cross buns. Although the dough seems dead, it is not, but merely sleeps. I tuck in into the refrigerator overnight; and wait for it to rise, sure as Christ our Lord. It does. I show it to my children. They are accustomed to the bread-making ritual, but see it now with fresh eyes as they watch the bread stand in for the body of Christ as our Easter object lesson.

I have no oven to bake the dough in. A parchment paper-lined slow cooker stands in for the occasion. I bake and the spiced heavenly aroma fills the house for even longer than usual due to the gentle, tedious cooking of the crock pot. I love few things more than the smell of good food cooking at my house. This scent qualifies. And when I start to smell the Maillard Reaction of the crust browning, I swoop in to check the rolls. It is a sweet success. The eight little rounds of dough I had placed in there an hour ago have risen again. I pop them in the toaster oven for a quick toasting of the tops of the bread (because they are only toasty on the undersides).  Then I ice crosses on the top of each bun- the classic sign of Christ and Christian symbol of Easter- but feel like the whole action is purely extraneous. Doesn’t Easter have enough treats already–did I really need to ice the cake? And still, did I really need the traditional cross on top to signify Christ, Easter? The answer was no on both accounts.

No, I didn’t need either one. The bread itself was enough. The making process and the sweet satisfying taste was exactly what I had craved. I’ve said it before and I’ll probably confess it again and again, that bread making is a sacred ritual to me. It is pleasurable, productive and profound. The process grounds me; in those moments my tasks are simple and centered on very basic things. Kneading and shaping the ingredients into a whole; a new thing that does not lie still, but springs up triumphant.

I nestle the rolls into a napkin (all baskets are long since packed away) and set them on the table of our simplest Easter meal to date. As a family we pray over our simple food served on cheap paper plates. I laugh at the irony of our Easter feast. The kids don’t mind, there are hot cross buns to be eaten. Making them this year was more tricky that it has been in the past, yet I was glad I made the effort. I appreciate the reminder; the reason that hot cross buns are the only tradition that adorned our Easter meal this year, they are the thing that means the most to me. The process of baking them satisfied the hunger I have felt in amid the chaos at home right now. I am aching to get everything into its proper place. In the kitchen and in my head, I am craving a good lift to get back in order and pull myself out of the fog I’ve felt lately. This was a good start, a reminder, and a sweet taste of Easter’s greatest gift. It is Christ, the new bread, who rose up, and allows us to rise too.

Pardon the phone picture, heaven only knows where the camera was at that moment.

In the past few days we’ve been demolishing our 1985 kitchen. That means all of the horrid layout, the bumping into the stovetop island, and compensating for the weak stove had to go along with all of the old cabinets, soffits, and cold, hard tile flooring. We still have a LOT to do, but it nice to see light filling the room where previously it was blocked by said obstructions. And the light pouring in means we can see the giant mess of a kitchen ever so much clearer. Friends, we have trashed that place; and we aren’t done yet. The popcorn ceiling is coming down tomorrow or the day after. Goodbye 1985, and hello 2013.

Since we are completely gutting the kitchen, we have had (and will continue to have) lots of choices to make as we replace what we took out. It feels a bit like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one as I’ve picked out and purchased a new sink, dishwasher and range for the remodel. Within the confines of my budget,  I am free to choose out the nicest appliances I’ve ever had. I’m looking forward to cooking with more ease in our soon-to-be kitchen. Unfortunately, that is still a month away, and my current stove, oven and sink all get ripped out in the next few days, and I will be going without for several weeks to come. I’m excited for the new space, but perplexed about the next few weeks will go. No oven, no stove and no sink. To say things will simplify would be putting it lightly. This will feel like camping in our own house. I’ve got to figure out how we are supposed to eat beyond frozen, packaged, and take out food (which honestly have a part in any live-in renovation).

Wall cabinets and soffits down; sink, stove, and their respective cabinets and counters to go in the next day.

Although we are glad to have a decent taco shop around the corner, and will exercise some more regular patronage there in the next month and a half, I don’t have the desire or means to be there are frequently as we need a meal not prepared in our gaping hole of a kitchen. Frankly, we need some simple, simple food. Unthankfully, I got a warm up exercise in December and January. During those two months (when we were also thick in the mess of moving) we went for a few 1-2 week long stretches of variant functionality of our stove top, toaster oven and microwave. It’s surprising how much you can miss one of the those appliances when they aren’t operational.  I missed poached, scrambled and fried eggs. I wanted to boil water for pasta and make a skillet of Thai fried rice laden with cabbage and coconut. It felt like a wait, but I survived and conjured up food despite our failing appliances.  And now that seems like nothing. This one will be much longer and more challanging. Now I get to make food with even less at the same time half of the kitchen is tucked into spaces in my bedroom and in closets and shoved into the dining room with the bathroom filling in for my kitchen sink. (I don’t think I’m making a good sell for massive kitchen renovations, am I?) So much for scrambled eggs, or trying to find the smoked paprika I like dusted on top of them. When I get desperate enough I can always haul out the camp stove- the weather is graciously warming up. I do have the microwave, toaster over and waffle iron- we won’t starve. But the food will be simple and simply prepared.

Personally I’m seeing a hearty amount of salad in the weeks ahead. Salad can be bought already ready to go: cleaned and diced- and you can even add your own dressing to vastly improve the contents of the package. That’s exactly happened with this salad. Frustrated that I couldn’t find my cutting boards in the moving mess and couldn’t cook the broccoli recipe I wanted to without a stove top, I took a stroll through the aisles of Trader Joe’s and conjured up this tasty lunch. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t have to cook or cut anything (not that I could have anyway). And it tasted great. It was the perfect lunch salad and then again at dinner the next night and maybe another lunch that week. I was a fan.

I used a 12 oz. bag of broccoli slaw, but if you have a different size bag, adjust your other ingredients accordingly- or shrink to fit and make this salad small enough for just you. It’s a flexible recipe. Or can you find your knives or a food processor? Lucky. Make your own mix- it’s cheap (use your peeled broccoli stalks) and really fast with a shredding disk on a food processor.

Nutty Broccoli Slaw

1 package broccoli slaw (it’s typically a mix of shredded broccoli with a bit of carrot)

2 handfuls of toasted nuts (I’ve love walnuts here, but almonds are also very nice)

1 handfuls of dried cranberries or golden raisins

1 crisp apple, chopped or shredded

Extra-virgin olive oil

Juice from one orange or a nice citrusy vinegar (I also favor Trader Joe’s for their orange muscat vinegar- it’s $3 and worth seeking out)

Sea salt and fresh ground pepper.

Toss slaw mix with the nuts, dried fruit and apple. Squeeze over some orange juice or add a glug of vinegar with a glug of olive oil. Sprinkle sea salt and pepper. Toss, taste for seasoning and adjust to taste (adjusting ingredients until it suits your taste).

This salad keeps well in the fridge for 2-3 days.

The original post and another one made in the fall were lost somewhere in the internet during my hiatus. I have no explanation, but here is some restitution. I recreation of that post and the recipe and original photos. Enjoy.

Green has been my favorite color for years now. Even my kitchen table before this one was painted a peppery, verdant green. It’s the color that excites and indicates progress. Green lights are for go and the first bright yellow-green leaves spurting on the trees right now lets me know the glories of spring are on their way. Green is renewal, hope, and promise. I can’t help but look at this fresh green adorning the trees now without thinking of the Robert Frost poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay. My children will attest I recite it to them at the start of each green-gold spring.

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

As beautiful as green is to admire, I like it just as well ingested. God’s green earth is gloriously edible. I love the sour crisp of granny smith apples, the sharpness of tomatillos in a green sauce, and the bold earthy depth in a plate of greens. You could say I like the color so much I am internalizing the aesthetic beauty and nutrition alike. Which is good for me, both body and soul.

So it should seem no surprise that I’ve been amping up the soul-satisfaction level in a few dishes by elevating the amount of green matter in them. Grilled cheese sandwiches were not safe in their monochromatic hues; I expanded the color palate and was most pleased with the result. A fast saute of garlicy chard, bound together with a creamy contrast of loud gruyere or sharp cheddar cheese is hardly a bad beginning. Then nestle the pair together in between slices of good crusty bread, and then cooked crisp in a hot oiled skillet; this sandwich beckons to be savored. I confess, this is the sort of meal I make most often for myself. Something simple, nourishing and downright delicious.

My kids are quite familiar with this easy meal. And fond of it. They love the oozy cheesy sandwiches that they can take long stringy bites from. I love that the green goodness is on full display, but presented in way they are more than happy to eat. So happy, that last time Justin was travelling they requested this meal twice in the same weekend. I was more than happy to oblige the happy eaters. Green is good.

Great Grilled Greens and Cheese Sandwiches

6-8 slices of bread (I used this one for the sandwiches in the photo)

3 to 4 oz.  grated gruyere or sharp cheddar cheese

2 bunches of chard (kale is also nice here, but chard makes friends easier with novice green eaters)

1 clove of garlic

olive oil

sea salt and fresh ground pepper

Preheat a large skillet over medium high heat. While your skillet warms, prepare your greens. Remove the stems from the leaves if you wish or chop them fine if you would like to keep them (stems take longer to cook than leaves so do what works best for your timetable.) Cut the leaves into 1 to 2 inch squares, by stacking them and cutting every 1 to 2 inches, and then turning the cutting board and chopping again in the opposite direction.

Pour 1 Tablespoon oil into the skillet and add the clove of garlic. Allow it to brown and soften, cooking it for just a minute or two. Then add the chopped greens and season with 1 teaspoon sea salt and a few grinds of pepper. Saute and taste for seasoning. When the greens are softened and tender (about 5 minutes) remove them from the skillet and set aside. Keep the skillet on the heat for the sandwiches.

Assemble sandwiches: bread, cheese, hearty pile of greens, cheese and bread again. Slosh a bit more olive oil in the skillet then add the sandwiches. Grill, placing a lid over the skillet for part of the time to allow the cheese to melt faster. Feel free to sprinkle a bit of additional cheese on the skillet before adding the sandwich- the crisp cheese outside the bread is delicious and lovely contrast to the creamy oozy interior. Cook until they are deeply golden and lovely on both sides. Cut and serve.