Sunday Brunch: And Now For Something Completely Different....

Since my previous two posts were about butter and eggs---I figured I’d find a way to get these two adorable soul mates together like a happy ending in a romantic comedy. 

Let me start by saying, I am NOT one of those folks connected to my cell phone or iPad.  I’m a busy person and I prefer seeing the beauty of the world all around me-----not experiencing it thru a two-inch screen.

But I’m not immune to the modern conveniences----IF they’re actually convenient. 

Several years ago, a friend urged me to join Facebook.  She promised all sorts of joys and wonders and magic beans----“It’s fun!  You’ll like it!   You NEED to be on Facebook!” 

Not long after, when the giant beanstalk of excitement failed to sprout, I was ready to send Facebook packing the same way I’d cancelled my My Space account within the first 24 hours.  That is, until my old friend (and new Facebook friend) Ann in Minneapolis wrote that she made a panakuchen---and ate the whole thing!

Facebook suddenly had a purpose in my life. 

I went online and begged her for the recipe.

Pana-what, you ask?

During my time in Minneapolis, I came to appreciate many of the warm Scandinavian comfort foods you can still find in grandma kitchens everywhere from Bemidji to St. Paul to Albert Lea.  Minnesota comfort foods are designed for below zero weather.  They stick to your ass and take the chill out of your bones.

And what is more comforting than a warm, fat ass?

Not even Minnesota Wild Rice Soup sticks to your ass like a big, buttery panakuchen.

Oh yeah---there’s half a stick of butter in this baby.

Panakuchen is essentially a German or Scandinavian pancake/crepe. I've seen various spellings, but this is the one Ann used for her recipe, so that's what I'm going with. She said this was her Auntie Anne's recipe and it’s a super easy and delicious surprise for your next Sunday brunch.

Auntie Anne's Panakuchen 

Ingredients: 
2 eggs 
3 shakes of nutmeg 
1/2 cup unbleached flour 
1/2 cup of milk 
1/2 a stick of butter 
* I added 1 tablespoon of sugar to the recipe, just because I felt like it. 

Directions: Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Put half a stick of butter in a glass pie pan. I'm originally from a little further south, so I tend to use salted butter, even in a lot of baked goods---so that's what I used here. Put this in the oven and let it melt and slightly brown. While this is working, beat two eggs with a wire whisk in a small bowl. I used fresh grated nutmeg, and added the equivalent of “three shakes”. I then whisked in the flour, milk and sugar till smooth. By then, the butter had melted and I simply poured the mixture into the pie pan and put it back in the oven on the middle rack. 

Now I just had to wait for 20 minutes.

However, 15 minutes in, I began to smell yummy buttery goodness emanating from my oven and I couldn't resist taking a peek. 

I opened the oven door and saw that beautiful pop-over rise occurring all around the edges of the pie pan! I quickly shut the door for fear my panakuchen would fall and got out my camera. This lady was BEA-U-TI-FUL!!! 

Five minutes later, it was perfectly done and I immediately began breaking it apart and eating it just plain and hot out of the oven.

Halfway thru my ravenous feast, I pulled out the jar of lingonberry jam I'd picked up on my last trip to Ikea and spread bits of jam on each bite. And yes, like Ann, I ate the whole thing!

Ann suggested pretty much any topping from fresh fruit to whipped cream, maple syrup, fruit spreads... It's so delicious and attractive that you could easily just dust it with a little powdered sugar and serve.

After I ate it, I posted my own Status Update, thanking Ann for the delicious panakuchen recipe and posting the picture I'd taken before I began ripping it apart. Happily, Ann was also on Facebook at the time and was thrilled that I'd tried it, "Butter-licious, isn't it?"

Come on…  You know you wanna eat this.  Just do it!  It’s not even December.  Nobody’s going to see your fat ass in public till May. 

How To Butter Your Bread

A friend was surprised today that I keep a stick of butter out at room temperature.

“Won’t it go bad?”

NO!

Well, okay----eventually.  But how long does it take you to eat a stick of butter?  In the winter, I go thru at least a stick a week.  And I only weigh 105 pounds.    

Butter will keep perfectly fine on the counter for a week or two---maybe even longer, tho mine’s always gone by then.  On a hot summer day, sure I’ll stick it back in the fridge so it doesn’t melt all over my kitchen table; but butter loses a certain amount of its flavor and aroma when it’s cooked in a cold state----that’s why many chefs keep a sixth-sized hotel pan of it at room temperature near the sauté station. 

I only keep the salted butter out, so I can’t speak for unsalted.  Salted butter keeps longer---the salt works as a preservative.  And I just prefer a little salt in my butter. 

Unsalted butter goes rancid much quicker and also has a tendency to soak up any refrigerator smells.  I keep a bit of it in my refrigerator, but most of it lives in the freezer.  Super cold butter is also the best for making pie crusts, biscuits, shortbread, etc. 

And I hate to break it to you, but that “spreadable butter” is generally butter mixed with some kind of oil---IF there’s even actual butter in there.

You can leave butter out in any covered container.  In the old days, they would keep it in a crock.  In the U.S., most butter is sold in packages of four sticks (known as “Elgin-style” as the packaging originated in the early 1900s at a dairy in Elgin, Illinois).  Kitchenware makers quickly began designing dishes that would house this unique shape.  If you don’t already have a butter dish, go on eBay and do some window shopping.  My tastes run towards Depression glass, but there’s something on eBay for everyone. 

I seem to remember buying my simple, white ceramic butter dish at Pier One years ago.  And it’s done me right for over a decade---at room temperature! 

So while it’s not exactly the same as telling women in the 70s to get rid of their bras…

Go to your refrigerator!  Remove that stick of butter!  And just leave it on your kitchen table!!!  Just LEAVE it there!

You can thank me as you spread soft butter over your toast in the morning.

The Egg & I

The other day I found myself in the kitchen at work with a young chef fresh out of culinary school.  After he’d already screwed up his first batch of dessert (he forgot the sugar---in a DESSERT!?!?) I went back into the kitchen and stood over him as he attempted (once again) to follow the recipe.  The recipe called for the eggs to be added at the end, “one at a time”. 

He cracked the first one into the bowl, and then he cracked the second… 

“What are you doing?  It says ‘one at a time’?”

“But I’m cracking them one at a time.”

Cue my Oliver Hardy slow-burn.  

“Adding ’one at a time’ means that you MIX THEM IN one at a time.”

And then I began schooling this kid on eggs. 

The reason you add them at the end and one at a time is because you don’t want to over-beat the eggs.  Over-beaten eggs (the yolk in particular) will cause the dessert to be tough.  I picked up the whisk and gave Culinary School Graduate a lesson on how to stir eggs into a batter. 

“You want to get down deep in there and your goal is to do this as FEW times as possible.  You’re not beating the eggs; it’s just a big, deep stir.  You just want everything combined.  After that, just put down your whisk and step away.  See.  Done.  Just walk away.”

He immediately picked up the whisk and began beating the poor, unsuspecting batter.

“What are you doing?!?!  I told you to just walk away!”

“I’m practicing,” he said confidently as he continued to pummel the eggs like a punch-drunk prize fighter.

“It’s DONE!  It’s too late to practice now.  Your Time Is Up,” I said in true dominatrix fashion.

He put down the whisk.

I think I scared him.

Next time I’m going back there with my leather boots and a whip.

There’s a saying that the hundred folds in a chef’s hat indicates the hundred ways a chef knows how to prepare an egg.

But all culinary schools aren't alike.

One of the best books on eggs is a little volume titled “Eggs & Cheese”.   

It was part of the Time-Life series of 28 cookbooks called "The Good Cook"  that came out on a monthly basis between the late 70s to early 80s.  The series was edited by Richard Olney, an early food writer and expert on French cooking.  He was one of the first to talk about seasonal ingredients and wine pairings, counted Alice Waters as a fan, and at one point gave cooking classes in James Beard’s West Village apartment. 

Most of these classic books can be found for sale in your local used bookshop or on Amazon for a penny (plus $3.99 shipping).  They break down ingredients and techniques with simple instructions and clear photos and make you an expert in no time.  

They’re classics and I hope to have the full set soon!

A culinary school education is a great foundation.  But whatever you do in life, if you want to be successful, you have to go beyond what you learned in school.  You have to get out there and learn, learn, learn.  Ask questions.  Read.  Watch.  Listen.  Learn. 

And get better.

So, how many ways do YOU know to cook an egg? 

The House That Farina Built

Back in Minneapolis, I was working as the assistant to the owner of a modeling and talent agency.  Not far from our office was an old building from the 1920s---The Cream of Wheat factory.  When I first drove past the strong fortress of milled wheat with that vintage sign emblazoned across the facade, I squealed like a five year-old.

“Cream of Wheat!  I LOVE Cream of Wheat!!!”

I got the idea into my noggin that we needed an office field trip---to The Cream of Wheat Factory!

Why modeling agents who spent their days pouring over comp cards and dealing with stylists went along with my scheme, I have no idea.  But by the next day, everyone in the office latched onto my enthusiasm for porridge and signed up for the adventure!

I was bursting with enthusiasm to the Cream of Wheat receptionist on the other end of the line. 

“I LOVE Cream of Wheat!  I bring Cream of Wheat to the office in the winter!  I can’t wait to meet you guys and have a bowl of Cream of Wheat with you!!!”

The rest of the exchange with the Fargo-accented lady went a little something like this:

“Oh well, we’re not open to the public, ya know.  It’s a working factory.”

“But that’s what we want to see!  We want to see the Cream of Wheat being made.  I love Cream of Wheat!  I eat it every day!”

“Oh, that’s so nice of ya, dear.  We’re so glad ya like it.  Yah.  You betcha.  But we don’t give tours.  Everyone’s busy workin’, ya know,” she tried to let me down with some Minnesota Nice.

“But…  But I love Cream of Wheat.  I want to go there.”

“Oh that’s so great!  Yah.  But it’s a safety issue.”

 “I’ll wear a hard hat,” I pleaded.

“Oh---I’m sorry, hon.  We’re just not set up for tours.”

“Well…do you at least have a gift shop?  With the history of Cream of Wheat and… maybe we can buy some Cream of Wheat bowls?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.  We don’t.  We’re just a factory.  But maybe I could send you some Cream of Wheat?  How would you like that?”

I was so heartbroken that I felt myself sniffling as I replied to her generous offer of porridge, “No.  That’s okay.  But thank you.  I just really wanted to visit you guys, that’s all.”

I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over that. 

Or the missed opportunity of free Cream of Wheat.

Two years later, Kraft Foods moved production to Missouri and Canada and sold the building at 730 Stinson Boulevard.  It’s now a bunch of expensive condos with high ceilings and now-non-functional pipes running over-head.  I’d call them “slumming rich-people condos” except for the fact that I’m not rich---and I would want to live in the Cream of Wheat Building, too.

 At the closing, there were all sorts of nostalgic, local articles that covered everything from a former factory worker and his thousand-piece Cream of Wheat memorabilia collection to a local African-American actress commenting on the “Uncle Tom” aspect of the black chef on the iconic box.

Because what I've found out over the past few days is that EVERYONE has something to say about Cream of Wheat.

Cream of Wheat is one of those rare nostalgia foods that, turns out, is actually pretty good for you.

All the gluten-free blather aside, it’s milled wheat in hot water.  Pretty simple.  It fills you up, makes you feel warm inside, and it’s full of good carbohydrates, B vitamins, fiber, and you can add just about anything to it (fruit, nuts, spices, sweetener, or milk of choice) to boost its nutritional value.

This week on my way to work (knowing I was about to work a 15 hour-day on a cold November morn) I tossed a package of Instant Cream of Wheat into my bag.  At work there would be ready access to the basics of Cream of Wheat----hot water, milk, and sugar.

As I assembled my porridge that morning, I noticed several co-workers eyeing my breakfast.  

"You're eating Cream of Wheat?"

I spent the next hour barraged with an NPR's broadcast-worth of childhood memories.

The primary discussion that morning was on “lumpiness”. 

I like my Cream of Wheat slightly lumpy.  Apparently, I’m not alone. 

When I was a kid, this was easily achieved.  I’d open the packet, put the hot water in, and stir.  Without doing anything special, a certain lumpiness was achieved that gave the Cream of Wheat a fun texture that was sweet and smooth one bite, umami and al dente the next.

But no matter what I did (or did not do), this batch of Cream of Wheat was as smooth as a baby’s butt.

So I went online for answers.  Just Google “Cream of Wheat lumpy” and you’ll see hundreds of desperate posts from grown-ups with good paying  jobs and mortgages who took the time out of their busy and stress-filled day to go online, create an account on Yahoo, and ask the simple question, “How do I get my Cream of Wheat all lumpy like when I was a kid?”

The answer to this puzzling question boils down to two words.

Um....  

You’re old.

I'm sorry about that, but let’s break it down.

Cream of Wheat came about thru the desperation of a failing small business and the breakfast porridge of one man who made it special for his family. 

During the financial panic of 1893, a small flour mill in Grand Forks, North Dakota was on the brink of failure.  With nothing to lose, the head miller suggested they try to sell some of the stuff that came off the first break in the flour mills (the first break is what eventually produced the highest quality flour).  The head miller, Tom Amidon, often took some of this home and cooked it up as porridge for his family.  If his kids loved it, why wouldn’t the money guys in New York City like it, too?

The desperate business partners agreed to gamble on his gruel.  They shipped a small batch of it along with sacks of flour to their New York brokers. 

The company was so broke that Amidon had to make the packaging by hand---cutting up bits of cardboard to make the boxes and scrounging thru a few old printing plates to find an illustration that would look at least somewhat relevant to the hot breakfast cereal they were trying to sell.

But with Victorian illustrations being pretty heavy on the flowers, corsets, and caged singing birds----the blue collar guys must have been thrilled when they stumbled across an illustration of a smiling Negro wearing a French chef’s hat.  Knowing Victorian illustrations, I’m guessing it was between the cherubic baby with angel wings and the black chef.

The chef won.

Because who wants to eat Stillborn Baby Porridge?

Since the wheat came from the top of the milling they called it Cream of Wheat, put it on a train headed east, and crossed their fingers.

NYC sent a telegram back, “Never mind shipping us any more of your flour, but send us a carload of “Cream of Wheat.”

Stop.

Whenever I quote telegrams, I always like to add the “Stop”.  It just makes it fun.

Eventually, they began enriching the milled wheat with extra vitamins and minerals to make it even more nutritious. 

And the packaging kind of stuck. 

Because once you go black… 

The original Cream of Wheat took about 10 minutes to cook.  In that horse and buggy era, 10 minutes WAS instant.  WAY quicker than spending half an hour over a hot pot of groats.

But once we moved from the telegram to the telephone and got cars and highways and all…people expected breakfast to come a little bit quicker, too.

So the Cream of Wheat people sped up the process by inventing “Instant” Cream of Wheat.  The cooking time went from 10 minutes to 2 ½ minutes.  How?  They just milled it a little bit more.  Smaller grains equals quicker cooking time.  Easy peasy.

Eventually, once it was acquired by Nabisco in 1962, they put it into little individual packages and kids could simply put it into a bowl, pour boiling water over it, and stir.

Kids not being the best cooks, they had a tendency to not measure out enough water or not stir it very well---hence the lumps.

But if video killed the radio star----Internet killed the lumps.

Kids wanted everything NOW! 

“I woke up and within one minute I’m on Facebook chatting with my Spanish pen pal in Guatemala.  Why isn’t my Cream of Wheat ready already?  Waah!”

So the former “Instant” was changed to “Quick Cooking” and they ground up the wheat even more to get it down to a 1-Minute cooking time to get a true “Instant” and smacked that onto the label.

Unfortunately, the new Instant is so finely ground that it just doesn’t lump.  No matter how much you try.  And I’ve tried.  Trust me.  Even if you manage to get a lump or two, it will break up once it hits your tongue.

It’s depressing, really.

But good news----if you like your Cream of Wheat perfectly smooth....

As old as you feel right now, take comfort in the fact that kids today will never know the joy of lumpy Cream of Wheat. 

Unless you are their parent.  And you are willing to sacrifice an extra minute and a half of your morning (or 9 minutes if you’re REALLY Old School) to ensure they know the pure bliss of a bowl of lumpy Cream of Wheat on a cold winter day.

And don’t you want a bowl of Cream of Wheat right now?

Okay---If the Cream of Wheat Factory doesn’t let me in after this post, I may have to get all naked Miley Cyrus on their ass.

What does it take Cream of Wheat People?!?! 

I love you so much.  Why won’t you let me in?  Why?

Hello.

Hello? 

I’m outside your window…

All Right Mr. DeMille, I'm Ready For My Instagram...

Culinary schools (and every Food Network reality show) make a big to-do about how food is “plated”---the restaurant term for how food looks on a plate. 

I’ve seen chefs lose their minds over baby carrots that were sliced just a half-a-fingernail-size too thick.

I’ve also seen customers ooh-and-aah over a plate that looked (as Andy Warhol used to say of Edie Sedgwick) “Beeee-u-ti-ful!”

Okay.  I mean---I “get it”. 

I get that it helps if food looks appetizing and appealing.  Americans aren’t the most adventurous of eaters so you’ve got to give them something shiny. 

But I’ve never been dazzled by three slivers of paper-thin parsnips and some foam. 

Frankly, the whole foam trend makes me a little ill.  I don’t care what the flavor is, it just looks like a dog spit up on my plate.

But I’ve seen foodies and Yelpers go bananas over this stuff.

Cell phones pop out for some tableside glamour shots and are immediately tweeted out to their followers---the majority of whom are too busy with their own fabulous lives to care about an Instagram photo of a filet of John Dory and some purée.   

But just then, chefs poke their over-worked and brain-addled heads thru the kitchen door with the kind of twitch that can only come from stress and too much cheap kitchen wine.  They suddenly turn into Eric Roberts in Star 80 watching their whore being photographed poorly in the nude by Hugh Hefner and go into an epileptic fit because the food runner accidentally presented the plate with the protein at 3 o’clock instead of the classical 6 o’clock position.

“Goddamnit!  What fucking idiot puts the chicken on the right?  What the fuck?  I can’t work with this shit!!!!!!”

And then he storms out and uses it as an excuse to go outside for a smoke break.

But yesterday I had one of THE most delicious things I’ve ever eaten that looked like crap on a plate.  Our Dominican dishwasher explained that it’s called “Pasteles en hoja” and is a traditional Dominican holiday dish.

Plantains and ground meat and spices wrapped in banana leaves?  I grabbed a tasting spoon and dove right in!

The amount of love that goes into a dish like this is astounding.  Something only a retired grandmother could make.

It contains some hard-to-find ingredients like plantains, malangas, auyama, banana leaves, and West Indian spices. 

Luckily I live in a Dominican neighborhood where I can find ALL these ingredients.  I WILL make this!  Because it totally rocks.

And luckily I have a little something called faith.

Because for once, I’m not going to blame my lousy cell phone camera----this dish looked pretty nasty. 

But I ate it.

And my faith was rewarded.

However, PLEASE don’t tell your chef friends about this dish.  They’ll only spend hours trying to figure out a way to fuck it all up.

God Didn't Make Little Green Pickles---You Did: Pickling 101

After a chef friend read my first post, he commented, “Why didn’t you share any recipes?  All that Polish cooking you mentioned.....”

The problem is that I write recipes the way I give directions to my Mom’s house:

“Just make a right at the corner where the purple flowers bloom in the spring.”

Never mind that I threw that ice skating party in January…

In short, I’m not good at writing recipes.  I first became fascinated with cooking while watching my Polish grandmother just tossing things by the handful into giant stock pots.  I don’t ever remember seeing a measuring cup or dainty little spoons.

Measurements were for pussies.  At most, you’d get unmemorable phrases like, “a handful”, “a sprinkle” or “a big bunch”.

Maybe it was Grandma’s way of throwing me into the deep end of the pool.  Either I’d pick it up----or I’d drown. 

Luckily, I saw it as a challenge. 

After making my First Holy Communion, I decided to play “church” and whipped up a batch of “communion hosts” by cutting the crusts off some white bread and just smooshing them together into a circular shape. 

I was told by Grandma, in no uncertain terms, that I’d wasted her bread and committed a sacrilege.

Sacrilegious at seven.

And then she sprinkled some holy water on me.    

So I’ll do my best here.       

This is the time of year when all sorts of wonderful, fresh produce hits the market; and one of the most intimidating items you may see is the humble pickling cucumber.

DO NOT BE AFRAID OF THE CUCUMBER!

It’s really just a small cucumber.  That’s all.  But for many, it’s the equivalent of Tom Ewell allowing Marilyn Monroe to come down to his air conditioned apartment in The Seven Year Itch---once you get the bombshell in your house, what do you do with her?

Partly it’s confusion.  Pickling is different from canning.  The two can be combined, of course----but you CAN pickle things without fear of becoming Hippie Helen with a cupboard full of homemade jam or giving your family a case of salmonella. 

It’s called “refrigerator pickling”.  They’ll keep a week or two in your fridge----but they’ll likely be gone WAY before that.

And it’s easy.

So let’s get started!

First of all, no one likes a limp, soggy pickle.  Insert your own joke here.  To keep them crisp, rinse them off and then stick them in an ice bath for about an hour.  I’ve heard four hours is better, but I’m impatient.  One hour works just dandy for me.

While that’s working, get your brine on, baby.  A brine is really nothing more than vinegar, water, salt, and sugar.  You can add spices and things in, too.  It’s up to you and the sort of pickles you want to make.

With the four cucumbers I got in my farm share, I decided to make bread and butter pickles.   Bread and butter pickles are a bit sweeter than the kosher dills we put on hamburgers.

PS---what makes a pickle “kosher”?  Garlic.  That’s it.  All kosher pickles have garlic.  Easy peasy.

Second---brine.  Rice wine vinegar is less sour than white wine or cider vinegar so it’s perfect for the bread and butter guys.  And I had it handy so that’s what I used.  Ratio:  1:1 ratio of vinegar and water----with maybe a bit more vinegar added in, if you like.  Whatever your measurements, you want about half that in sugar and an eighth of that in salt.

Example:

1 cup water

1 cup vinegar (+ some if you like)

1/2 cup sugar

1/8 cup Kosher salt

Make as much brine as you need to cover your pickles.  And bear in mind, ALL of this can be altered to taste. 

Put this all in a pot.  Slice up a bit of onion.  Toss that in with some pickling spices (mustard seed, peppercorns, dill seed, coriander, celery seed, and a bit of crushed bay leaf are what I used).  Then a pinch of turmeric. 

Bring all this to a boil.

For this batch, I cut my cucumbers into wedges, but slices work just as well. 

Pack your cucumbers into a canning jar (or any old heat-proof/tempered jar---maybe an old jelly jar) fairly tight.  Some will advise that you boil the jar and lid in water for ten minutes.  If you’re going to eat the pickles in a few days, you can probably skip this step.  But it doesn’t hurt and keeps them fresher longer.

In any case, pour the hot mixture over the pickles.  Close the lid.  Put it in your refrigerator.

That’s it!

In a few hours, they’ll start to taste like pickles.  Even better if left overnight. 

You can pickle any vegetable like this---everything from okra to cauliflower. 

And before anyone snipes about how the pickles in the photo don't look like they're packed tightly together...

I ate half of them already.  Satisfied?

And that’s how you get to my Mom’s house.

If you’re still nervous, there are PLENTY of cooking sites that will give you a better low-down.  I’m just trying to get you to play with your veggies.

So take this advice and go pick up Marilyn Monroe and make beautiful pickles together!  

You can thank me in the morning.

Love's Labor's Lost: or How I Came To Hate My Farm Share

There’s a certain type of person who joins a local farm share program. 

Close your eyes for a moment and imagine a spotless, antique-y, sunshine-filled kitchen.  It’s a stunning dichotomy of a room with a top-of-the-line refrigerator, a root cellar, and Alice Waters sipping tea at the marble-top pastry station.  As you look out the kitchen window, you see fresh herbs growing feral-like in rustic catalog-model pots.  It’s so beautiful in fact, that Ina Garten suddenly shows up with three gay friends and is throwing a casual luncheonette with a pâté and some rustic bread.  You didn’t invite her.  She just showed up with a bottle of white burgundy and the buyers from Bloomingdale's.

But your farm share came today.  So without a care in the world, you quickly whip up a vegetable terrine and a Rousseau-approved pastoral salad.  You toss back your hair as you laugh at something that was apparently funny and the world is perfect and beautiful and yours. 

All yours.

And isn’t it just stunning and lovely and beautiful, crazy happiness.

Well…I wanted that. 

So I signed up for a farm share.

The Corbin Hill Farm Project’s mission is to bring fresh, locally-grown produce to Inner-city areas not otherwise served.  With a focus on Harlem, Washington Heights, and The Bronx---their program even allows members to use their food stamps to participate. 

But the program is meant for EVERYONE!  Rich, poor, white, black, Latino---everyone!  It looked so good, in fact, that I made sure to skim the fine print; worrying that to get my vegetables, I’d be required to listen to a sermon about Jesus or look at a timeshare in Branson, Missouri. 

Happily, there was no fine print.  So I quickly typed in my credit card info and for $21.50 each week, I would get a supply of fresh fruits and vegetables AND a dozen farm fresh eggs.

What could be nicer?

That first week I showed up at the pick-up station on 116^th St. in Harlem with my basket.

Yes.  I brought a basket.

I picked out my fruits and vegetables, put them in my basket, and practically skipped thru Harlem in my floral dress with my basket full of goodies like Laura Freaking Ingalls.

By the end of the first week, I’d managed to nibble my way thru pretty much everything---with some extra cabbage left-over.  

But I’m Polish.  My people are good with cabbage.  If I could just get some beets, I’d throw together a borscht.

And lo and behold!---the next week there were beets.  Enough to make a small pot of borscht. 

Well…and a lot of other stuff.  There were a lot of vegetables in there.  So I got busy.

But it just kept coming. 

With eggs. 

Every week, a dozen farm fresh eggs.

One saving grace about eggs is that the ones that are at least a week old are the best for boiling.

And I like egg salad.  I mean, I wouldn’t want to live on it…  But I’ll just pop half a dozen eggs into some boiling water---even tho New York City is experiencing a heat wave and it’s 98 degrees and you could already fry eggs on my coffee table.

But egg salad.  Check.

Next thing you know it was Tuesday again.

MORE cabbage?  For the love of god. 

Okay.  Calm down.  You can turn it into sauerkraut and the fermentation period will buy you some time.

But another giant bouquet of basil?

Oh no.  I have to make pesto. 

NOW!

And MORE eggs?  

I went online and looked up the farm where they raise the chickens just to be SURE they weren't giving them hormones to keep making all those damn eggs.

What are those chickens eating?

But okay.  Take a deep breath.  You know how to make quiche.  A nice vegetable quiche.  It would also help you get rid of a lot of those vegetables.

My refrigerator was FULL of vegetables.  I'm a single, 105 pound woman who lives by herself.  I can only eat so much.  But at least I can freeze a quiche.

But to make quiche tomorrow, that means I have to make a pâte brisée---TONIGHT!

So just around midnight, I got out my pastry cutter and fresh butter and the homemade lard I rendered....

And suddenly it was Tuesday again...

Pickling cucumbers?  

aaaahahahahahahaaaaa.....

I started losing my mind.  I was waking up at the crack of dawn to make a brine.

My dream kitchen suddenly turned into a windowless room in the basement of a Lutheran church holding an AA meeting.

"Well....it all bottomed out the day I found myself looking in my refrigerator and screaming, 'Quick!  Just eat the goddamn plums to make room for the kale!'"

This is not the kind of person I wanted to be.  This was not my happy place.

So I put my farm share on hold for next week.  I feel bad because they're all so nice there---and now I'm going to have to make up some imaginary vacation or some really important reason I couldn't get vegetables on a Tuesday.  

Or maybe I should just come clean and admit that I just couldn't handle it.  I needed a break from all those vegetables.  

And eggs.  I can't eat any more eggs.

I really do love my farm share.  But, like any relationship, sometimes you need a little break to make the bond even stronger.

So, yes---if any of our friends ask:  We're taking a little break.

But a week from now, I will be an entirely different woman.  The sort who, once again, squeals with glee and delight at the sight of garlic scapes and turnip greens.  

I have one week to get my life in gear.  

And a lot of eggs to eat.