Sunday Breakfast

Breakfast comes in all shapes and sizes. Last Sunday was a particularly wonderful one.

I’d actually considered going out to breakfast, an occasion in itself. Breakfast, in my world, is rarely a stack of pancakes or French toast or even eggs-over-easy delivered to the table, unless I’m on the road for some reason – another rare occurrence. Breakfast is usually a (delicious) bowl of oatmeal (add apples, raisins, fresh ginger and roasted pecans), or a pile of fresh fruit and maybe toast, and always a good cup of coffee. Invariably, at home.

I did have coffee, and I don’t know, probably fruit, last Sunday. By 10:30 or 11, I was ready to hit the Farmer’s Market, one of my very favorite Sunday pastimes: walk to market, visit with friends, enjoy the sunny weather, buy some apples, peruse the greens, debate on whether to spend $5.99 for 8 ounces of Cherry Glen goat cheese (because it’s locally made! And it’s delicious. I wound up going for the buy-3-get-1-free, and splitting the order with a friend).

The twist this Sunday was that I met Clara there, after she’d spent the night at a friend’s house. (For those of you new to the blog, that’s my 16-year-old daughter and one of my most favorite companions.) She was starving, so after much considering of fresh, local veggies and gabbing with friends, I told her I’d take her to breakfast. How generous, I thought. She looked doubtful. It was a beautiful day. I think she wanted to stay outside, and some of the produce we’d gotten really was irresistible.

So we bought a beautiful loaf of asagio bread from the Stone Hearth Bakery stand, sat down at a sunny bench in the middle of the market and opened our market bags. Out came the goat cheese. Cheese on cheesebread – don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. There was also a purple pepper from Wheatland Vegetable Farms, and fresh arugula from my favorite market stand, Twin Springs (my son Tyler worked here last summer PLUS they have fabulous peaches and honey crisp apples). Clara put together these perfect little parcels, with a modest chunk of rustic bread, a nicely portioned smear of goat cheese, a chip of pepper and a bit of arugula. Mine were a little more haphazard, but she was sweet enough to make me one when I started eyeing hers with envy. Then she came up with rolling the pepper and cheese inside a piece of arugula. The girl is a born chef. We washed it down with cider so pure it tasted like drinking whole apples.

This was one of the best breakfasts ever, no table, eggs, pancakes involved.

Optimistic Gardening

In an effort to utilize as much yard space as I could for growing veggies, I created a bed on the northwest side of the house last year and planted a few volunteer tomatoes and some peppers to get it going. My reasoning: the bed, although it doesn’t get a lot of sun until late afternoon, is beside a brick wall, so it gets plenty of absorbed heat from the brick to warm the seedlings and, later, the plants and the fruit I hoped would be tumbling off the vine and into my kitchen.

The peppers (poblanos and bell) produced well – the tomatoes not so much, but I figured it was about them being volunteers, and all.

This year, I decided to be optimistic: I not only purchased tomato seedlings, but planted cantaloupe seeds as well, reasoning that the vines could climb structures I placed along the brick, and when the fruit came along, I’d sling them in old scraps of pantyhose made into miniature hammocks to support the weight of the melons (a trick I used successfully in a previous garden). Both tomatoes and ‘lope plants grew up and out – but didn’t fruit until very late. Finally, in October, I got a handful of small but delicious tomatoes. And one lone melon, still green on the vine.

So optimism pays off. A little.

I can't resist showing off my best crop this year, too: look at that gi-normous carrot!

I Finished My Third Brain and Other Cooking Adventures

Clara has been busy in the kitchen. Funny the things she can create – yes, after 10 p.m. Two nights ago it was three brains – most delicious. This has got to be my favorite school project of all time. I didn’t even get psychology at Vero Beach High School (though I do remember philosophy, and humanities, my favorite classes). Biology is as close as I got, and all I remember is textbook, textbook and more textbook.

Clara, however, gets to create a model of the brain. Out of rice krispie treats. Of course, the rice krispie twist was her idea – the assignment was just to create a model, and other students chose clay, or created mobiles – one, she reported, used cauliflower, which also has a creepy kind of resemblance to an actual brain, but isn’t nearly as tasty as rice krispie treats.

Clara’s brains had to be in triplicate in order to have space to label all the parts properly. I haven’t heard the term amygdala probably since college biology – if I even heard it then – but in the past week I’ve heard it twice, once in the kitchen and once in a roaming conversation about how we try to overcome our brains’ primal fear/fight-or-flight mechanism through careful training and plenty of psychotherapy. I love having a child in high school, it makes me want to devour her textbook and learn all the things I missed or have forgotten when I was her age. They all seem so much more relevant now.

Clara’s brains turned out beautifully. Multi-colored affairs, the rice krispies, carefully molded into brain-like shapes, were smeared with colored frosting to differentiate frontal lobe from cerebellum from hippocampus and more than a dozen other parts. She stuck toothpicks with little paper flags attached into the brains to label each one. Clever girl.

She thinks her teacher approved, once she saw that the labels also revealed brain function – and once she tasted the parietal lobe.

In other, not so successful kitchen projects this week, Clara made a gorgeous looking chocolate lavender cake. I have been wanting to make this cake for a year, and finally got the recipe to try it (thanks Judy). I think it was a favorite at a potluck, but it’s been so long the concept became more significant that the actual cake. Chocolate! Lavender! Two of my favorite things! But guess what? Not so great.

I think we must have overdone the lavender. We used a half cup of lavender syrup (sugar, water and lavender) to soak each of two layers of the cake – maybe if we’d half the amount it would have worked. As it turned out, the cake tasted like my grandmother’s bathroom, with the lavender soap permeating not just my nose, in a good way, but my mouth, in a not-so-good way. I really wanted to like this cake. It was just too much.

Because it looked awesome, with a dark chocolate frosting and a sweet little purple design on top, we let it sit on the stove for three days before I finally relented and tossed it out. Cooking is all about experimenting – so it’s no great loss, just a lesson. Lavender, unless very lightly applied, is best left in toiletries and growing up alongside the steps that lead to my front door.

Unexpected Persian Delights

How does a chance meeting over crabcakes in Baltimore lead to a world-class tour of Persian cuisine in Tyson’s Corner? As a Florida girl from little ol’ Vero Beach (aka Zero Beach) I would venture to say it has something to do with living in the wonderfully diverse Washington area.

Last week I blogged about Kam, a traveler down from Canada, touring the Baltimore-Washington area. After meeting at the fabulously funky Lexington Market, we met again when Kam suggested I join him for Persian food. For more international flavor (already we’re talking about a guy who grew up in Spain, lives in Canada and has traveled the world), we started at a Takoma Park art exhibit featuring two Venezuelan artists, and took in the brilliantly colored ceremonial masks and evocative mixed media prints of the charming David Camero and Luis Scotti. (see it at the TP Community Center through the end of October).

Then we went, GPS in hand, to Tyson’s Corner. Except the GPS was malfunctioning and my mapquest directions brought us to Tyson’s -- but not the restaurant. My role as locally knowledgeable tour-director, already compromised because I knew of no Persian restaurants in the area (Kam heard of this one through a friend), was totally shot. Finally the GPS politely announced, “you have reached your destination.” And there we were – in what looked to me to be a very dark, deserted office park.

The restaurant, Shamshiry, was hiding just around the corner, and we finally took a spot at a small table in the corner. Menus in hand, Kam then noted that his mother used to make such-and-such a dish.

Thus began an entirely unexpected tour of Persian culture. Turns out Kam, who I first thought might be Native American (tall, broad, dark pony tail) is Persian, and didn’t get to Spain until age 9. So much for my international/ethnic radar.

Not only did I have a personal tour guide through a traditional Persian menu (I could say there were lots of kabobs but that brings to mind places like Moby Dick's. This was no Moby Dick's). Kam also shared his story – in a way that said everything about how important his Persian heritage is to him. I now have a picture in my head of his great grandmother, who tended the coals under the samovar and poured scalding hot tea for family and friends – including a four-year-old Kam, who might have preferred orange soda but knew better than to stand against tradition and refuse Tea from Great Grandmother.

I learned about places in Iran where you bring you own cooking pot to have it filled with rice (aromatic basmati, fluffed because it’s been rinsed just before it’s finished cooking, ridding it of its starch). I learned about popping a raw egg into steaming hot rice. I tried tah-dig, the crunchy crust that forms at the bottom of the rice pot, and ghorme sabzi, heavy (and delicious) with parsley, fenugreek and Persian lime – it was not even on the menu, but that’s what you get when you let someone else order for you. I learned that fava beans can be creamy little gems hidden in dill-infused rice dish called baghali polo. We ate enormous piles of rice and chelo kabob and drank two pots of Persian tea and could have lingered for hours – and in fact managed to sit through at least three families coming and going at the table behind me.

The best treat was the paludeh, or faloodeh, unlike anything I’ve ever had. It looks like shredded coconut mounded in a bowl, but it is a frozen dessert of potato starch flavored with rosewater and garnished with, in our case, tart lemon or cherry syrup (I liked lemon best). Kam remembers having it with pomegranate syrup, in a place where pomegranates were so plentiful they cost a couple of dollars a case, instead of the $4-a-fruit price I saw recently at Safeway.

Thank you to Kam, who surprised me not only when he revealed that he is Persian (the musical Persian (aka Farsi) he spoke with the waiter was more than enough proof of this), but who also totally turned the tables on me: Meeting an out-of-towner, I expected to dispense advice on attractions in and around our nation’s capitol, but instead I became a tourist myself, and enjoyed a surprise trip through Persia via Tyson’s Corner. I am humbled by what I did not know, and delighted to learn it.

faloodeh photo by chiffonade
photo of Ginny at art exhibit by Kam

Dancing in the Streets

There is nothing like Takoma Park’s annual street festival for bringing out the “ghosts,” as one friend put it. Every year, I see old friends at this gathering of community folks and regular visitors, wannabe-Takoma-Parkers and other fun-loving characters. Characters, in many cases, being the operative word. There was the guy in mime-like face paint, for instance, who approached me in all his chalk-white glory to comment on my t-shirt (not very mime-like, but I loved the accent). Turns out he’s from Amazonia (the t-shirt he admired refers to the Yanomami tribe, though in this case it was an ultimate Frisbee team from Venezuela). Mime man’s story: he is artist David Camera, and will be showing his work – masks – at the Takoma Park Community Center gallery. The reception is this Friday, 6-9, and I hope to make it.

Countless stories like these are up for grabs at the festival. Another example: here was Jay Summerour, who clued me in to the history of local blues last year, when I wrote about him for Bethesda Magazine. I missed his show this year (under the Gazebo, gotta catch it next time around!!), but I know from hearing him in the past, Jay can wail on the harmonica, is an amazing whistler (yes!) and carries the tradition of the blues forward from people like his grandfather Eddie “Smack” Martin (so hard to resist writing a name like that). Did you know there was a Du Drop Inn in Rockville, and a music hall in Johnson’s Park in Emory Grove? Jay remembers playing ball there while the parents danced inside. He’s also an inspiration to me because he not only nails the blues – he proves it’s just regular folks who make the best music. His day job is driving a Montgomery County School bus.

Some stories are brief: I saw a grey-haired hippy dancing in the street, who jolted my mind back 25 years ago and a crazy Valentine’s Day party at his house – I have a vague memory of a lot of wild red and pink costumes and a zip line through the trees.

And about that dancing: you gotta love a place where strangers dance with one another in the streets, and a man in a wheelchair pumping his arms in the air fits right in with couples swinging and swirling like pros. There was a pair of dance instructors I recognized from our local dance palace, Glen Echo Park, where I last saw them showing us zydeco moves; there were older couples who looked as though they’d been dancing together for decades; there were dancers still finding their rhythm and dancers sitting on the sidelines just rocking to the beat. Thanks to the Nighthawks and Tom Principato for the fabulous music, to David Eisner for organizing the music portion of the event, Roz Grigsby of Main Street Takoma for directing the festival, and to various familiar faces for being there so I could get out there and cut a rug among friends.

Look in the Takoma Park Newsletter for photos, November issue, out the last week of October.

Crab Cakes and Coons in Baltimore

On my way home from the BSO open rehearsal (see previous post), I decided to risk getting hopelessly tangled in Baltimore’s one-way streets and hang a left off Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard to see if I could find Lexington Market. Turns out, it’s not so hard, as there are signs directing out-of-towners like me, and I even found street parking in front of the Ronald McDonald House.

Which is kind of indicative of this neighborhood. It’s a rough mix of funky stores and a hospital and office workers and people who look as though they’re about to ask you for money. I walked three blocks to the market, with its huge sign, “Lexington Market: World Famous Since 1782,” ready for sensory overload.

This market is a warehouse on steroids, full of food stalls hawking everything from sushi to éclairs, and specializing in a few Maryland traditions like soul food, fried chicken and crab cakes. I wandered around a bit, passing over the steam trays of Chinese food, burgers and hotdogs that I could probably find in your average shopping mall, and wound up at Faidely’s Seafood, which felt pretty damn authentic (it was founded in 1886 and is still run by the Faidely family). There was a guy standing at the raw bar slurping oysters and gabbing with his server, and behind them was the hot line, offering three kinds of crabcakes (regular, which meant small; backfin; and clawmeat), fried fish, and a host of sides. I ordered a clawmeat crabcake, pickled beets (yum!) and potato salad (questionable). Then I grabbed a spot standing at a counter, slathered the crabcake with a bit of hot sauce, available in giant squeeze bottles, and chowed down.

This is one good crabcake – and I’ve been eating crabcakes since I was 8. Even better is the friendly atmosphere at this place. Among the locals and out-of-towners mixing easily all around me was Kam, a friendly world traveler from New Brunswick, Canada. He had his camera out, and we agreed the place is a feast of great images, not the least of which are the seasoned faces of the people serving up the food. Character is an understatement.

Faidley’s also sells fresh seafood to take home, and with rockfish at under $10 a pound and bluefish at something like $3.99, I am planning on a return trip. Next to Faidley’s was a place that sold muskrat and raccoon – and yes, I am tempted to try them, too, when they’re in season. There are also fresh chicken and pork stands, produce vendors, and other grocers here.

The last time I visited this market, years ago, I got a paper cup full of fried chicken livers – where else could you possibly buy that? Not sure if they’re still available, but I did see plenty of hog maws and pigs feet, Polish sausage (Polock Johnny’s wins the best name contest here) and enough bakeries to give you a permanent sugar high. The éclair I sampled was disappointing, but I’d give the bakeries another try after asking what’s really fresh and house-made.

While I explored the upper tier of the market, where there are tables and a balcony overlooking the crowds, I also got to hear a great blues band – the market regularly schedules local bands, many of them offering up blues, jazz and R&B. And, today happened to be part of the chocolate festival, so I watched a pretty silly chocolate eating contest involving two women with their hands tied behind their backs, dipping their faces into chocolate cake, pie, and other desserts, trying to eat the most. I do understand the compulsion to eat a lot at Lexington Market, though – I’ll definitely be back.

Happy Interlude

Tearing myself away from the desk (and its related deadlines) I made good on my plans, made weeks ago, to attend an open rehearsal of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra at the Meyerhoff in Baltimore today.
I am so glad I did this.
First of all, walking into this hall gives you that feeling you get when you enter a cathedral, as though the top of your head has opened up to the heavens and the world has just become a bigger and more beautiful place, full of profound possibility. The hall is enormous, with soaringly high ceilings studded with spotlights that illuminate an interior of golden wood and cream-colored balconies that look like adobe outcroppings on high cliffs. This morning it was busy with 90-plus musicians tuning up and practicing their most difficult (or perhaps favorite) passages of Bartok and Tchaikovsky.

Add to that the feeling of privilege, to be let in on the inner workings of a well-respected orchestra and a maestra, Marin Alsop who has made history as the first woman to head a major American orchestra. I like her even better for her commitment to making classical music more accessible to those of us who are not (yet) steeped in its traditions. Perhaps her appeal is why, among the retirees in attendance, there were also plenty of young faces. The event was free, too – major bonus.

Alsop began the rehearsal punctually at 10 a.m., explaining the concert briefly (two pieces – Bartok’s Concerto for Orchestra and Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto – would, at the actual concert, be preceded by the Hungarian and Romanian folk music that influenced Bartok). Then she turned to the orchestra and got to work. It was all very informal, musicians in blue jeans and untucked shirts, but also very professional, everyone focused and sharp. They seemed to enjoy the work, and the mood seemed upbeat, though of course from the audience, even during an open rehearsal, it’s hard to tell.

I am always fascinated by the way a good conductor just takes the entire orchestra in hand, as if its entire sound inhabits her body, while at the same time she shapes it and releases it into the concert hall for everyone to experience with her. And the sound of so many musicians coming together to create one sound is absolute magic to me.

As this was rehearsal, there was a bit of stopping and starting, but for me it served to make the experience more real – and showed Alsop to be a considerate leader, requesting, rather than demanding, alterations in dynamics and sprinkling her comments with “thank you” and “that was beautiful.” She even sounded kind when she remarked lightly, “I respect all of your tempi but I think it’ll be easier if we just go with mine.”

You can hear the BSO at the magnificent Meyerhoff, or, closer to (my) home, at The Music Center at Strathmore, right in Rockville, Maryland. It, too, is a beautiful facility and musicians particularly favor its acoustics. The Strathmore bonus is the great little snack bar/dining area outside the concert hall. (Full disclosure: I write about the arts for Bethesda Magazine, and Strathmore frequently appears in my work. I also write for Strathmore's magazine, Applause.)

Real Clothes

Yes, it is a privilege to wear my pajamas while I work from my home office (best commute on the block, up the stairs and straight ahead). But there’s something about dressing for work that makes me feel more in charge, more inspired and motivated to act like a Real Working Person Out In The World. (other work-at-homers, you know what I mean.) This week, with a handful of appointments on my schedule, I got to strut around the streets of Bethesda in black, heeled boots, wide-legged grey pants and a great black sweater passed up to me by my daughter – I figure, if a 16-year-old deigned to wear it at some point, it’s gotta be stylish enough for Mama (especially since this particular 16-year-old is in the Fashion Club at school). The boost to my usually schlumpy demeanor elevated my mood (see Things My Teens Have Taught Me, #4) and made me want to scour the closet for more awesome outfits, or maybe even endure a day of shopping (stimulus overload!!!) to buy something new. At the very least, I am planning a trip to Value Village, our local thrift shop extraordinaire.

Yes, I have also been influenced by the documentary I just saw about Vogue Magazine – September Issue. What a great little glimpse into not only the world of fashion, but the world of ruthless editors who, dammit, are right despite their Frigidaire approach to slashing great ideas. This particular magazine is a world unto itself – I especially liked one short scene showing Editor Anna Wintour getting into her car (driven by someone else, of course) on a NY City street, where you can see real life all around her – paper cups and other trash blowing around in the gutter, dingy sidewalks and narrow lanes for vintage taxis bumping along beside her limo. The gritty scene underscores the contrast to the pristine world of fashion she’s created in the highrise offices of Vogue.

And even though I would never want to work for her, I do love her sunglasses. Maybe big is better.