Rising ambition

I have had this recipe for 7-grain bread for too many years to count. It was tucked into the wooden recipe box I inherited from my mom – the kind sized for the little “recipe cards” we used to exchange, before the days of Cooking Light and Epicurious.com. You remember them: variations on index cards, with cute pictures in the margins and a little spot that says, “From the Kitchen of. . .” where you fill in your name. I have plain ones, too, with my grandmother’s handwriting (meatloaf, apple cake), the neighbors’ (Scotch shortbread, spiced nuts), and my mother’s (too many to list).

This recipe – on one of the fancy cards -- is in my sister Jean’s hand, so as I gather ingredients I picture her pantry, always stocked full of grains and beans and home-canned fruits and vegetables. I don’t know what her pantry looks like anymore – she lives several states away, and the last time I saw her food shelves was years ago. I know without looking, though, that her shelves are always well stocked, and that is a comfort to me.

I use a breadmaker for the first time on this bread, a breadmaker unearthed after 25 years of storage from my friend’s pile of things-untouched-for-years. I’m sure it has its own memories and people attached to it, but I don’t ask much about that. I am busy adjusting my attitude toward mechanized bread making.

Breadmakers have always felt a little like cheating, which is why, when my mother sent me money years ago to buy one for myself, I bought a juicer instead. Maybe it’s because I still love the feel of silky dough between my fingers, and I don’t mind the 10 minutes of kneading – it is a quiet break in an otherwise hectic life. I love to punch down the pillow of dough after its first rise, losing my fist in its yeasty ambition, knowing it will overcome this small act of aggression and rise all over again.

But I’ve also heard enough converts point out that, if you can make bread in less time, with less effort, it’s more likely you’ll make your own instead of caving in to the $5 loaves at the farmer’s market (which, in fact was the inspiration for this bread making session). So I give the breadmaker a whirl:

Pour all the ingredients into the machine, yeast first, lukewarm water last. Flip a switch, and watch it gyrate into what becomes a blob of living dough. Take a nap on the couch. Four hours later, gently extract an enormous, cylindrical loaf of seven grain bread your sister would be proud of.

Wow, was that ever easy. I am already picking out the next recipe to try.

In Love with the Downbeat

You can do it in a honky tonk with sticky floors and bad acoustics, in a bar called the Rock and Roll Hotel, in an elegant, velvet-draped music hall or in a church meeting room. You can do it in your living room, or in your friend’s shed, or on the front porch or in the back yard. Wherever you are, when the beat is called out – uh-one…two...one-two-three-four -- and someone lays into an infectious groove, I’m hooked.

I’m lucky – I get to hear live music in all of those places. Last week, I heard Mark Wenner, the driving force behind the area’s venerable Nighthawks, along with a slew of blues and roots musicians (the Akousticats) who first made me feel inadequately educated about the origins of some of our most familiar tunes, but more importantly (and lastingly) made me grin ‘til my cheeks hurt, listening to their tight sound and the wail of Wenner’s harmonica (what is it about its piercing music that reaches right into my chest and squeezes my heart?). They hit the “stage” at St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church, home to the Institute of Musical Traditions (IMT) weekly concerts; the audience sat on folding chairs and ate homemade cookies and drank tea, listening to music more evocative of a smoky roadhouse than a church service. They loved it.

I also caught Mark O’Connor and Dorado Schmitt recently at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theatre, an intimate space tucked into the second story that I’d somehow missed in 27 years of living in the D.C. area. The concert, a tribute to the late Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli, was another grin-fest. These musicians were phenomenal: O’Connor on jazz violin, so comfortable in the music it was like a second skin; Schmitt playing gypsy strings so fast it took my breath away; the guitar duo Frank Vignola and Julian Lage like kids, trading licks, giddy with how perfectly it all fit together. At one point the bass players – one from O’Connor’s band, the other from Schmitt’s -- took turns on one instrument, each completing the other’s bar, barely missing a beat.

Then there was D.C.'s Rock N Roll Hotel -- really -- where we got to hear the great and uber-danceable Afrofunk band, Chopteeth, all percussion and brass and deep rhythm, calling out to a crowd that included aging hippies, Peace Corps-looking 20-somethings, and plenty of in-between. The bonus was an upstairs disco complete with lights and music that might have sounded retro to the younger crowd that dominated the dance floor, but sounded like yesterday to me.

These are just three examples of local music venues, but there are plenty more. IMT recently found a second location, so there will be concerts in Takoma Park beginning next month, at Liz Lerman’s Dance Exchange on Maple Avenue. (The first concert is Laura Cortese and Jefferson Hamer -- traditional and modern folk and pop – and since it’s a “concert and jam,” you can bring your own instrument and stay to join the performers if you like). These shows are so affordable -- $10-20 in advance – it’s hard to make an excuse to miss them. A similar organization, Focus Rockville, presents weekly at the Unitarian Church in Rockville.

There are, of course, free street festivals featuring loads of local music when the weather gets warmer. Meanwhile, Takoma Park hosts the annual Folklore Society of Washington Midwinter Festival at the Middle School, Feb. 6, with live music and dance lessons (two of my favorite things in the world).

If you go to hear any live music in the area – and you really should – look for me. I’ll be the one in the middle of the room, wearing a big grin.

Why I Have a Dog

Recently we had one of the most frigid days of the season, the kind of day when I wonder why I left the Florida town where I grew up, the kind of day more conducive to baking bread and making stew than to long walks in the park. But you never know where whimsy – or your dog – will take you.

That’s why I love having a dog. She gets me out of the house when nothing else will, and on days like this icy January morning that can mean unexpected pleasure.

I must admit, one of the keys to enjoying the weather – even when it is icy cold -- is gear. I learned just a couple of years ago what a difference good cold weather clothes can make. Layered up in snow pants and parka, scarf, hat and gloves with two sweaters underneath, I was Warm Enough and once I got walking I was Toasty.

So Nala the dog led me off to Sligo Creek Park, my favorite dog walk when I have the luxury of an hour or so to walk her. There were few other walkers out – though I was impressed to see my die-hard neighbor running (Go, Peter!). Fewer people meant fewer dogs, and fewer yanks on the leash. Even the squirrels seemed scarce.

Actually, we had the park to ourselves – if you don’t count he myriad previous visitors Nala picked up as she sniffed what remained of their scents. The creek was beginning to freeze, so it was still along the banks and had a narrow thread of moving water down its center. Lacy platforms of ice were forming like the brims of hats perched on grey boulders. Branches, bare of leaves, stood dark, etched sharp against the gray sky. The world was all ours – like a gift.

Thanks, Nala.

Biker Boys are Back

Many of you readers know that the boys who biked across the U.S. – my son, Tyler, and two of his buddies – returned to Takoma Park in December. Safely. Despite the final ride up North Capitol Street from Union Station, in the snow, after dark.

We are thrilled to have them home! For those who lost track, or are coming to the blog late, the boys pedaled away from our homes in Takoma Park, went up the east coast, then took the train from Boston to Seattle. From there they made their way south, mostly along the beautiful Coastal Highway, to just south of San Francisco. Then they turned east and pedaled long miles across desert, through Texas, stopped for a big time in Austin around Halloween, went to New Orleans and volunteered ,doing Katrina-related service projects (planting sand fences in the dunes to prevent erosion, for example). Then they went to St. Augustine, their last port of call before they boarded the train for home and Union Station in D.C.

Their return warranted a second group Thanksgiving among their families and more recently (yes, nearly a month after they returned) a gathering to look at photos from their travels. I especially liked the theme of happy/sad: the boys took photos of themselves in various locations, first with sad faces, then happy. The results are pretty hilarious, especially when other people join in the charade. The world is FULL of lovely people not only willing to let three boys camp out in their yards overnight – and some of them even produced big meals for the guys and their outsized appetites, or provided beds indoors -- but these folks were also willing to pose in the happy/sad photos. We have a lot of amused grown-ups gamely masking still-visible grins behind the “sad” faces the boys requested for the photo account.

There was also a theme of falling: as in, falling off the bikes. The rule, we were told, was that the person who had fallen had to stay down until a photo could be snapped. And, we were treated to footage of bloody shins and toes – though we are lucky that there were no major injuries. Mix these quirky pics in with beautiful photos of the Grand Canyon, expanses of rocky cliffs perched over the Pacific, reflective shots of tree-lined roads that give you a visual idea of just how many miles these guys pedaled, idyllic hiker/biker campsites and laundry hanging on a line (thanks, Ty) outside a free hostel in Pietown, NM (population 60, and yes, they have pie) and it was a wonderful show.

Note the hats -- they survived the entire trip! And the pies -- Happy Thanksgiving.

Eating Local or, Why I Love My Neighbors

I love walking down the 27 stairs from my front door and onto Circle Avenue, balancing a bowl of salad or toting a freshly baked focaccia, on my way to a small gathering of friends in the neighborhood. In my world, I get to do this often.

Recently, a dozen or so of us wound up in the “shed,” a vamped up tool shed that’s been transformed with a wood stove, a collection of rustic masks peering out at guests from makeshift paneling on rough-hewn walls, musical instruments gathered from my friends’ world travels, and a funny assortment of dinnerware for the soups and stews we share out there (I especially like drinking red wine from an earthenware cup meant for hot tea). There’s even a dart board, and sometimes an impromptu jam session starts up but mostly we sit around the fire and gab.

At Hannukah, neighbors came together at a cozy house perched on the top of a hill overlooking Elm Avenue, where family mixed with friends, old folks mixed with tots, and Jews, Christians, agnostics and who knows what else would have agreed that building community and sharing an evening of food and friendship can be a holy thing regardless of your religion or lack thereof.

New Year’s Day brought the annual black eyed peas and greens (plus potluck) party a few houses down. I’m not sure those black-eyed peas, purported to bring financial success, have worked on my bank account, but they surely have brought me the good fortune to continue to be part of this rich, moveable feast of friends. Besides, the Hoppin’ John, as these peas and rice are known in the South, is delicious, ladled from an enormous pot (two, actually – your choice, vegetarian or sausage), dashed all over with hot sauce and paired with beer (choose from the cooler on the back porch).

These cold, dark months are perfect for gathering people together and stoking the warmth of friendship and community. In a couple of weeks, our neighborhood – a few suburban blocks of young families, middle aged folks like me and a handful older sages (who really should come out more often!) will hold our annual progressive potluck. We all troupe out into the cold laden with dishes for potluck-style sharing: we land at one home for appetizers, then dig out the hats and scarves to walk a block or so to the main course, and the third location hosts dessert. Even if I can’t remember everyone’s names I love seeing these familiar faces each year, and watching how the children grow from babes in arms to toddlers and then teens.

Here is my new favorite potluck dish. I like it because it’s vegetarian (to accommodate many of my neighbors, friends, and my own preference to limit meat consumption) – and though it is a little time-consuming, I tend to find time to sweep up the kitchen floor, fold the laundry or finish washing the dishes in between stirring the barley. The recipe is based on one from Cooking Light.

Barley Risotto with Eggplant and Tomatoes
One medium eggplant, cut into ½-inch dice
1 pint cherry tomatoes
3 tblspns olive oil, divided
½ teaspn black pepper, divided (or however much you like)
5 cups veggie broth
2 cups water
1-1/2 onions, finely chopped
1 cup uncooked pearl barley
2 teaspns minced garlic
½ cup dry white wine
¼ teaspn salt
½ cup (2 oz) crumbled soft goat cheese (I like locally made Cherry Glen)
¼ cup thinly sliced fresh basil (I use dry in winter)
¼ cup pine nuts, toasted
Combine eggplant, tomatoes, 2 tblspns olive oil and ¼ teaspn pepper in a bowl; toss to coat. Arrange in a single layer on a jelly-roll pan (or cookie sheet) and bake @ 400 for 20 minutes or until tomatoes begin to collapse and eggplant is tender. Set aside.
Combine broth and 2 cups water in a saucepan; bring to a simmer and keep warm.
Heat remaining 1 tblspn oil in a large skillet on medium-high. Saute onion until it begins to brown; stir in barley and garlic and cook another minute. Add wine and cook until liquid almost evaporates, stirring constantly. Add 1 cup of broth mixture to pan, bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Cook five minutes or until most of the liquid has been absorbed. Keep doing this with broth, one cup at a time, until all of it is used up (yep, this takes a while – I allow an hour for this dish from start to finish).
When the risotto has absorbed all the liquid, take it off the heat and add the eggplant mixture, combining gently. Season with remaining pepper, salt to taste, and top with pine nuts, basil and cheese.
Tote this dish down to your neighbors’ – or invite them to your place -- and enjoy.

Tool Time

What is it about house projects that’s so empowering?
And, when they don’t work out so well, so emasculating?
It’s just a dripping faucet, right?
Well, not exactly.
For me, fixing a dripping faucet (which I did, successfully, all by myself, for the first time, two weeks ago, not that I’m bragging but that is one tight fixture) is victory and independence and proving myself to – who? It’s not like anyone is watching, arms crossed, daring me to try, taunting me with the phone – “here, if you can’t manage this yourself, just call a handyman!”

It is notable, and perhaps relevant here, that I think of my dad every time I pick up a tool – partly because whatever tools I have are likely from his old workshop, where they were neatly lined up along a peg board, partly because if I’m proving anything to anyone it would be to him, and partly because I miss him and wish he were still around to teach me about tinkering around the house.

Or maybe not that last bit. Because there was always a lot of cursing and sweating involved in dad’s house projects. He was a perfectionist and, well, house projects and perfectionists make uncomfortable partners. It was hard to help him much, because everything had to be just so. But I did stand by and hand him tools, waiting for what seemed like hours until I could do something useful. Get me that Philips head, he’d say, and I’d pray I’d pick the right screwdriver to hand to him.

So I know the difference between a Phillips head and that other kind of screwdriver. I know that you have to press, hard, as you turn it so you don’t strip the screw. I know how to paint with a roller (make a “W” and then fill it in). I know “righty tighty, lefty loosey.” I own a drill (I love using the drill, RRRRRRRRNnnnnnnnnnnnRRrrrrrrr). But I’m still lacking a lot of the vocabulary of the do-it-yourself tribe.

That didn’t stop me from tackling a hole in basement ceiling this weekend. I’d been delaying this project, alternately telling myself it would be no big deal – it’s a small hole – and dreading the inevitable impasse I would encounter. Would it be not knowing how to cut drywall? Measuring inaccurately? Using the wrong adhesive to fix the stuff to the ceiling? If it’s not perfect the first time, there will be much gnashing of teeth and who needs that? But wait! I don’t have to gnash my teeth. I am not my father. In fact, my own handy-woman mantra is, go ahead, the worst that can happen is it won’t work, and then you’ll just try again, another way. Or get someone to help. And if that happens, I comfort myself by remembering all the things I can do. I may not be an expert at drywall, but I make a hell of an apple pie. For example.

So I started in on the drywall project, reading up on drywall patches (love the internet), gathering all the tools I’d need, removing the cabinet that partially blocked the hole, and evening up the gap so I could cut an tidy rectangle of drywall rather than a more difficult, dog-legged piece (good advice from an online instructional). Then I asked a more experienced friend to take a look to be sure I was on the right track, before figuring out how best to attach the drywall to the ceiling beams.

As it turns out, my friend wound up doing most of the work for me, wielding a tape measure like it was an extension of his hands. He’s a professional carpenter, and while I envy his innate ability to Fix Things, I am mostly just grateful that he stepped in and fit what would have been a day-long project into the space of an hour or less. All that remains is nailing up some trim and painting – both tasks I can easily handle.

I learned: spackle and joint compound are two different things. You need a special spreader thing for joint compound – not a putty knife. You can skip the whole joint compound thing if you use trim instead. And you can use the pruning saw to cut trim, in a pinch. Which I did. This morning.

At one point I brought my 16-year-old daughter down to see the project in progress. This is drywall, I told her. This is a utility knife. Do you know the difference between a Philips head and that other kind of screwdriver?

We'll have to work on this some more, but hopefully she’ll have a bigger vocabulary to use when she begins to tackle her own house projects. She already knows how to bake an apple pie.

Inspirational Pizza

There are people who sit around in bars and coffeeshops, brainstorming far-fetched ideas that seem incredibly brilliant at the time, coming up with inventions or one-of-a-kind enterprises no one else has considered – and then they go home and get ready for their 9 to 5 jobs the next day and forget about their schemes until the napkin they sketched them on resurfaces, crumpled and faded, in the pocket of an overcoat.

Jon Roberts is not one of those people.

He and a friend, Scott Smith, came up with an idea then followed through.

After baking pizza together in the homemade, wood-burning pizza oven in Jon’s back yard, the two decided to build another oven – this one on the back of a pickup truck. Now these two young guys bring brick-oven pizza to the people, firing up the 1,800-pound wood-burning oven at music festivals and farmer’s markets and vineyards, where they are regulars, and at private parties and other events as they come up. The pizzas are organic and use locally-grown ingredients. Last year, Jon sold 1,500 of them at a local music festival in Floyd, Virginia.

The business is called Dogtown Pizza, named for the mountain holler where Jon lives, in the Blue Ridge near Floyd.

If you had told me two years ago that you wanted to build a concrete oven and cart it around to bake pizza – with organic, local ingredients, no less -- I would have rolled my eyes and called you a dreamer. Recently I’ve learned that dreamers can also be do-ers.
Thanks, Jon, for the lesson.

If you’re not in or around Floyd County and Dogtown, dream your own dream and make your own pizza. In the time it takes to order and wait for delivery, I can put together a fabulous pizza with fresh garden chard and garlic – and they ain’t got that on the menu at Domino’s. Not that I’m bragging. I’m just sayin’.

Here’s my recipe, for a quick, barely-has-to-rise dough and toppings. The trick is to set your oven as high as it will go – unless you have a pizza oven your backyard, in which case you’re way ahead of me!

Way Better Than Carryout Pizza
1 tablespoon yeast
1 cup warm water
1 teaspoon sugar or other sweetener
2 tablespoons olive oil
2-1/2 cups unbleached white flour (or mix with whole wheat)
Pizza sauce – homemade or jarred
Toppings – your choice, see below
Mozarella – almost a whole block (16 oz?) shredded (I usually use Sargento) or use fresh
Dissolve yeast in water. Add remaining ingredients. Stir 100 strokes (or knead, if you’re like me and love the meditative quality of working the dough in your hands).
Cover with a warm, damp cloth and let rise five minutes (really!)
Roll the dough out on whatever you’ve got for baking – a pizza stone, if you’re lucky, a cookie pan, if you’re like me. I sprinkle a little oil on the pan to keep the crust from sticking. And I like to begin to flatten the dough with my marble rolling pin, then pick it up and practice spinning it around like the pizza guys I remember from a good pizza place I remember from college. That only takes me so far, though, because I’m not very good at it and because my cookie pan is rectangular, not circular (and you get a circle when you spin the dough), so I use the rolling pin to finish getting the dough nice and flat on the pan.
Slather the dough with pizza sauce, supplemented with extra dried oregano if you like that (I do). Sprinkle grated mozzarella all over – fresh mozzarella is a real treat, just know that it won’t melt to look the way you expect a conventional pizza to look.
Top with your favorites. Mine vary, but include chard or spinach lightly sautéed in olive oil; thinly sliced, raw garlic, tossed with olive oil to soften; fresh basil leaves from the garden; and roasted red pepper slices.
Bake 10 to 13 minutes at 475 or as high as your oven will go.