With February upon us and January behind us, I think I can finally bring you a recipe that is truly a beacon of health, without running the risk of appearing to be a New Year’s resolution cliche.  With grains and greens and beans and citrus, this soup is certainly January fare.  I would know.  I ate the soup for lunch and dinner umpteen times last month.

Of course, as you know, I also ate bowls of stovetop mac and cheese and slabs of lemon cake in January.  So, right, no resolutions here.

But the point is that I can’t wait to keep eating it this month, too.  And all through the winter (if that’s what you call this very mild weather we’re having).  Probably right into spring, while I’m at it.  It’s that good.  It’s got a spicy broth, punched up with lemon; silken strands of kale; chewy farro; and my go-to soup bean, the chickpea.  Or, at least that’s my version.  You can switch up the greens, beans and/or grains, as well as the liquids, and I’d bet you’ll still have a winner on your hands.

I cook the greens and the grains separately.  The farro simmers in a skillet while the greens braise in a big squeeze of lemon juice, under a smattering of chile flakes.  After about 30 minutes, the two come together in a big pot, along with the soup’s remaining ingredients.  There’s something magic about the lemon in this soup, so be sure not to skip that.

Spicy Greens & Grains Soup

Serves 6

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
1 onion, diced
1 cup semi-pearled farro
salt, to taste
freshly-cracked black pepper, to taste
1/4 cup white wine
red pepper flakes
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 bunches Tuscan kale, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 lemons, juiced, divided
1 quart (4 cups) chicken stock
1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed

In a skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil.  Saute onions until translucent.  Add farro and pinch of salt and pepper; stir.  Add wine and stir until evaporated.  Add 2 cups water, cover and simmer for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large, heavy pot, heat remaining tablespoon of oil.  Add pepper flakes and garlic, and cook until fragrant (30 seconds).  Add kale, juice of 1 lemon, and a couple pinches of salt; stir.  Cover the pot and braise until the farro is cooked.  Check on the kale every five minutes or so, and add a little water if the kale appears dry.

Add the cooked farro to the greens, along with the stock, 2 cups water, remaining lemon juice, and chickpeas.  Simmer for 10 minutes or so.  Taste and add salt, if necessary.

Every January, I end up on a citrus tear.  I’m not much for resolutions, and January is far from my favorite month (I grew up in Minnesota, and I live in Chicago, after all), but I do love the sunny spectrum of citrus that shows up at the grocery store this month.  Weekly, I haul home a heaving bag of ruby red grapefruits.  Each morning, I top segments of their tart flesh with yogurt and granola.  A pair of clementines accompany me to work every day; a crate of the little orange guys rarely outlasts the stretch between our weekly grocery trips.  Less frequently, but still dependably, I get hankerings for key lime pies, the urge to make a citrus-hued curd, and an inexplicable desire to squeeze blood oranges until my hands are stained with their brilliantly-colored juice.

And always, there is a lemon cake.

It might be a towering, layered affair, enrobed in billowy frosting.  Or a lemon-swirled cheesecake.  Or a pound cake speckled with poppy seeds.  Or a blueberry-studded bundt.  Or an olive-oil enhanced round, sliced into fat wedges and dolloped with creme fraiche.  This January, though, I was in the mood for something simpler.  Just a lemon cake, plain and simple.  Nothing folded in, no frosting, no unique pairings.

So I opted for an Ina Garten recipe, one that I made a long time ago and one that my mother-in-law makes frequently.  I checked my site for the recipe and was surprised to see that it wasn’t in the archives.  I figured I’d better fix that, and that’s what I aim to do today.  Because this is a recipe that should be in your repertoire, for when you need the perfectly fragrant, light and moist lemon cake—which is  to say, every January.

Lemon Yogurt Cake
Ina Garten

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup plain yogurt
1 1/3 cups sugar, divided
3 eggs
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest (from about 2 lemons)
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup grapeseed oil (or other neutral oil)
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a loaf pan. Line the bottom with parchment paper.  Grease and flour the pan.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt into 1 bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the yogurt, 1 cup sugar, the eggs, lemon zest, and vanilla. Slowly whisk the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. With a rubber spatula, fold the vegetable oil into the batter, making sure it’s all incorporated. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 50 minutes, or until a cake tester placed in the center of the loaf comes out clean.

Meanwhile, cook the 1/3 cup lemon juice and remaining 1/3 cup sugar in a small pan until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is clear. Set aside.

When the cake is done, allow it to cool in the pan for 10 minutes. Carefully place on a baking rack over a sheet pan. While the cake is still warm, pour the lemon-sugar mixture over the cake and allow it to soak in. Cool.

It’s been quiet here, for too long.  Christmas and Hanukkah slipped by without a hello, or a recipe.  The new year rang in without a word.  We’re a ways into January, now, and the site has remained dormant.  Still and silent, like an early winter morning—one that’s been blanketed in a fresh coat of sparkling snow.  The same cannot be said about my real life, the offline one, which had been consumed by work.  I emerged on Sunday after a major deadline, and I’m slowly readjusting to a more normal pace of life.

It’s been nice.

Before Sunday, during the weeks that disappeared in what felt like moments, I was relying heavily on a stable of go-to recipes.  All the while, the new cookbooks I’d received for Christmas and the cooking magazines to which I subscribe piled up.  There was no room for new recipes, so instead we shopped for our regular ingredients, quickly cooked our standby dinners, and ate them up hungrily.  The new recipes would be there in January.

But, I still haven’t gotten to those cookbooks and magazines.  On Sunday, when I finally had the time and energy to cook something new, a thought jumped into my mind, and it wouldn’t budge:  stovetop mac and cheese.  My mind’s eye could see a bowl of curly noodles bathed in a smooth cheese sauce—warm and rich and familiar and comforting.  So, I made it happen.

I think I’m going to like this slower pace.

Happy new year, friends.

Stovetop Mac & Cheese
Everyday Food

Yield: 6 servings

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 cup finely chopped onion
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
Coarse salt
4 cups whole milk
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
3/4 pound small shell pasta or elbow macaroni
4 cups coarsely grated sharp yellow cheddar (3/4 pound)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

In a medium saucepan, melt butter over medium; add onion and cook until softened, about 4 minutes. Add flour and 1/2 teaspoon salt; cook, stirring frequently, until mixture is pale golden, has a slightly nutty aroma, and is the texture of cooked oatmeal, about 5 minutes.

Whisking constantly, pour in 2 cups milk; add 2 more cups milk and cayenne and whisk until smooth. Cook mixture, stirring constantly along bottom of pan, until boiling, 6 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat to low. Simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until sauce thickens and does not feel grainy when a small amount is rubbed between two fingers, about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large pot of boiling salted water, cook pasta until al dente; drain thoroughly and return to pot. Remove sauce from heat and let cool 10 minutes. Quickly whisk in cheese, mustard, and Worcestershire. Pour cheese sauce over pasta and stir to coat.

After a busy couple of months, I was just starting to think that I wouldn’t have much time for holiday baking.  But that’s when the urge to make these biscotti hit.  I was in the mood for a not-too-sweet cookie with crunch, and one of my favorite combinations (almond extract and poppy seeds) leapt to mind.  The dough came together in a flash, and I multi-tasked while the biscotti underwent their double-bake.  In no time, I had a tin full of festive, poppy seed-flecked cookies, redolent of almond.

With the biscotti behind me, I’m feeling less sorry for myself and my lack of time for holiday baking.

In fact, the biscotti have helped me resolve to finding little pockets of time for my baking.  A batch of thumbprints here, and a sheet of brittle there.  No rule against a late-night pan of fudge, right?  I might not have time for afternoons spent rolling truffles through multiple hues of cocoa powder (who was that person, and where did she find the time?), and I’ll leave the tedious spritz pressing and painstaking sugar cookie decorating to my mother (whose patience for such baking tasks did not pass on down to me).  But, by god, there will be some holiday baking in my kitchen.

I’ll leave you with some more holiday inspiration here.  I’m looking forward to a little time off around Christmas, and to a schedule that will slow down (fingers crossed) come 2012.  Merry merry to you all.

I have so much to say, but no where to start.  When I’m at a loss, I usually retreat to the kitchen, so that’s what I’ll do now, and I’ll tell you that today, my kitchen was a hub of productivity.  We’re hosting Thanksgiving this (this?) Thursday (this Thursday?!), and I’m in full-on preparation mode.  Today alone, I dispatched several sticks of butter (pie crusts, resting in the fridge, awaiting their fillings; buttermilk biscuits, frozen hockey pucks at the moment, but flaky rounds, with any luck, come Thanksgiving), mixed together a batch of ice cream (bourbon-vanilla bean, of course), and baked up a thin pan of cornbread, destined for stuffing, after a nice few days of drying out.

Thanksgiving, I own you.

Nothing else seems much in control, though.  I look at my last post, and I absolutely cannot believe that it’s been over a month since we last talked.  For the most part, I’ve got good excuses—family and friends, and travels.  But, the truth is, there’s been a lot of work too, and a fall that slipped away in the blink of an eye.

Out of these busy weeks, a new weeknight staple has emerged—a quinoa salad that features roasted broccoli, the florets sweet and nutty, against a bright, sour dressing that softens beneath the creaminess of feta.  The whole thing is confetti-ed with diced red onion and red pepper flakes. And I cannot get enough.

We’ve been making it over and over.  And we’ll make it again tomorrow night, in fact, while the Thanksgiving preparations continue (turkey pick-up!  dry brine!  cashews!  ice cream churning!).

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Looking for Thanksgiving inspiration? Check out the Thanksgiving recipe index.

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Quinoa with Roasted Broccoli, Arugula & Feta

Yield: 2 main dish servings (or 4 side dish servings)

1 cup quinoa
2 cups water
kosher salt
1 head broccoli
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon grainy mustard, divided
1 lemon, freshly squeezed
2 cups baby arugula
1/4 cup crumbled feta

Preheat oven to 475.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.

Combine quinoa, water, and a big pinch of salt in a pot.  Cover and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat and cook for 20-25 minutes, until the quinoa has absorbed the water.  Remove from heat and set aside (keep covered).

Meanwhile, prepare the broccoli. Cut the florets into bite-sized pieces.  Trim the woody end from the stalks, and, using a vegetable peeler, trim the tough outside layer from the stalks.  Slice the stalks into coins.  Toss the florets and coins in 1 tablespoon oil, a pinch of salt, and a healthy pinch of red pepper flakes.  Roast in the preheated oven for 20-25 minutes, until the broccoli is browned in spots.

In a big bowl, whisk together the grainy mustard and lemon juice.  Whisk in the remaining olive oil.  Add the arugula.  Add the quinoa and broccoli, when they are cooked, and toss to wilt the arugula and coat the salad with dressing.

Top with feta and serve.

I cooked what felt like a million things over the weekend, and I’ll eat almost none of them.  Instead, the dishes are stashed in my parents’ freezer—a stockpile for my mother’s recovery from back surgery, which will be slow and tough for her, but (by god!) she will not be hungry.

On Saturday, I chopped and simmered and stirred all day, making a spectacular mess with which my sister tried to keep up (she’s a saint).  I was on my feet for hours and hours, at my mother’s stove, her counter, her sink, using her knives, her pots and pans, her pantry ingredients.  All the while, she was in bed.

I brought her bites of things as I finished the various dishes, and she ooh-ed and ahh-ed.  She said she loved the smells of garlic and roasting tomatoes and savory soups, which wafted from the main floor kitchen all the way upstairs to her bedroom.

I left on Sunday, and of course it felt too soon.  But I knew a piece of me—a piece of my food—would stay behind, feeding my parents in the coming days.  That helped me, and I hope it’s helping my mom, too.

This stew wasn’t on the roster of soups and salads and such that I made on Saturday, but it would’ve been a perfect addition.  Instead, I think I’ll make if for my mom when she’s well again, when we can sit at the table and eat together.

Beef Stew with Carrots & Mushrooms
Slightly Adapted from Cooking Light

4-6 servings

olive oil
1 pound small cremini mushrooms
2 cups chopped onion
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/3 cup all-purpose flour (about 1 1/2 ounces)
2 pounds lean beef stew meat, cut into bite-sized pieces
3/4 teaspoon salt, divided
1 cup dry red wine
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
28 ounces less-sodium beef broth
1 bay leaf
1 pound small new potatoes (halved if large, kept whole if small)
1 1/2 cups (1-inch) slices carrot (about 12 ounces)
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Fresh thyme sprigs (optional)

After a week’s worth of 70- to 80-degree October days, I’ve finally settled on the perfect solution for this unseasonal weather.

It’s this: Pumpkin Ice Cream.

With bourbon, naturally.

There is something deeply odd about wearing flip flips for a stroll through the crunchy leaves that are quickly lining Bucktown’s sidewalks.  Likewise, I’m having a hard time reaching for my sundresses over my sweaters.  And all I want to eat is the produce that peaked a while ago, leaving brussels and gourds in its wake.

But pumpkin ice cream?  Now that is profoundly right.  It tastes of cinnamon and wears an autumn shade of orange, but it’s cool and it’s clean, making it just right for the past few days.

Pumpkin Ice Cream with Bourbon
Adapted from The Craft of Baking

Yield: About 1 quart

5 large egg yolks
1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
1 1/2 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise, seeds scraped out, bean/seeds reserved
1 teaspoon freshly-grated ginger
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cinnamon stick
1/2 teaspoon freshly-grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 can (15 oz.) pumpkin puree
1/4 cup bourbon

In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until the mixture is pale yellow.

In a large saucepan, whisk together the milk, cream, brown sugar, vanilla bean and seeds, ginger, ground cinnamon and cinnamon stick.  Bring the mixture to a full boil, and then, as soon as it begins to rise up the sides of the pan, remove the pan from the heat.

Pour about 1 cup of the hot milk mixture into the egg yolk mixture in a slow and steady stream and whisk to combine.  Return the egg yolk mixture to the remaining milk mixture.  Whisk in the nutmeg and salt.  Cook over low heat, constantly whisking, until the mixture thickens and coats the back of a wooden spoon.

Pour the thickened mixture through a mesh strainer into a bowl, discarding the cinnamon stick and vanilla bean.  Whisk in the pumpkin puree and bourbon.  Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate 6 hours or overnight.

Churn the custard in an ice cream maker, following the manufacturer’s directions.

Transfer the ice cream to an airtight container, and freeze until firm (about 2 hours).

We visited the Green City Market on Saturday morning, and I was struck by the duplicity of this time of year.  Depending which way you looked, you might’ve found yourself in one season or the other.  To your left, there’s a pile of sweet corn, pale green husks and flaxen silks stacked high—and it speaks of deep summer, of double-booked BBQs, and boat rides, and baseball.  Straight ahead, there’s a table of peppers of every hue—and they speak of late summer, Labor Day, and long, savored days.  But then, to the right, there are crates of apples, small and tart, telling of the autumn to come, multi-colored leaves, and thick sweaters, and mugs of hot cider.

Our feet, in other words, were in two worlds: one lingering in summer, while the other stepped into fall.  In light of this, I’ve been trying to straddle the seasons.  Burgers followed by apple crisp, for instance.  Or a peach pie, preceded by a hearty stew.  But, really, I’m trying not to let summer go, to send it off too soon.  So, while the weather might call for butternuts and brussels, my mind is still dreaming of some perfect summer meals gone by.

In particular, there was a campsite dinner that is forever burned into my memory, just like the brilliant sunset that set the scene:

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Nor can I forget a dinner at my grandparents’ house, made almost entirely of food grown in the backyard garden:

But while this reel of summer’s-meals-past unfurls in my mind’s eye, I know that fall is coming.  So I’m giving it nods, here and there, while still seizing the summer produce in the markets.  To this bread, which stars summer’s zucchini, I added fall’s spices (cinnamon and nutmeg).  It’s helping to ease the transition—to remind us of where we’ve been, but still enticing us to where we’re going.

Whole Wheat-Olive Oil Zucchini Bread
Adapted from Seven Spoons

Yield: 1 loaf

2 cups whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
pinch nutmeg
1/2 cup chopped walnuts, toasted
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 egg
3/4 cup brow  sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups shredded zucchini

Preheat an oven to 350°F. Grease a 9-inch loaf pan. Set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg. Stir in the chopped walnuts. Set aside.

In another bowl, whisk together the olive oil and buttermilk. Add the eggs, sugar and vanilla, and beat until smooth. Stir in the zucchini.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry, stir until combined, taking care not over mix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until a cake tester inserted into the loaf comes out almost clean, which should be around 50 minutes. Cool loaves in their pans on a rack for 20 minutes, then turn the loaf out onto a rack to cool.

The last few days of cooler weather and earlier sunsets have me nostalgic for the summer that’s all but slipped away.  For long nights on the deck.  For meandering walks through the neighborhood.  For fireflies and hoses and ice cream on a Wednesday evening.  There was all of that this summer, and there was a perfect weekend in the northwoods, too.  One I won’t forget soon.

Kevin and I drove from Chicago to the south shore of Lake Superior, to meet my family for a night of camping.  (Note to self: camp with my parents more often.  Their version of rustic is one that I can definitely get behind.)

Then we went into Minnesota, up along the north shore of Lake Superior—the shore I know like the back of my hand.

We spent two nights at my grandparents’ house.  We tried to pick wild blueberries (and failed—we’d missed the season).  We rode the Alpine Slide.  We drank beer brewed in Ashland, Wisconsin and Duluth, Minnesota.  We saw the sunset over Lake Superior, before that same sun glittered across the same lake the next day.

When we left before dawn at the end of the weekend, we saw the sunrise over the lake, too.  For as many times as I’ve seen that lake—that lake that has my heart—I’ve never seen the sun arch up over its waters.  It was spectacular.

We left with that sunrise in our rearview mirror, a tub of just-picked blueberries and raspberries from my grandpa’s garden in the backseat, and the familiar bittersweet feeling of a too-short visit home.  It’s not unlike this end-of-summer feeling.  To stretch that trip out, and I suppose to stretch out the summer too, I baked the blueberries and raspberries into a simple buttermilk cake, ribboned with the berries’ crimson and sapphire juices.

Berry Buttermilk Cake
Adapted Slight from Gourmet

Serves 6 to 8

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 cup fresh berries (about 5 ounces)

The best recipes are born in an instant.  Or, at least that’s how they emerge in my world—in a split second, when hunger and inspiration collide, a product of the exact moment, the day, my mood, the weather, the season.  It’s what happened with this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and this one.  And it’s what happened with this very satisfying, very quick, very of-the-season recipe: bucatini with cherry tomatoes, pancetta and basil.  This one was the result of a grey day—one that followed a brilliant string of blindingly sunny days; a long work day; a few nights of less-than-stellar sleep.  I wanted a warm bowl of something hearty and nourishing, but something that would not waste the precious, waning days of summer.

A basket of tiny tomatoes, red and gold alike, sat on the counter.  A package of bucatini was stashed in the pantry.  A few basil leaves threatened to wilt in the fridge.  And two thick rounds of pancetta were a mere trip to the corner market away—nothing a sweet call to Kevin, a quick bat of my eye lashes, and a promise of pasta! with pancetta! and plenty of parm! couldn’t solve.

While Kevin was procuring the pork, I set a pot of water on to boil, and plucked the stems from the tomatoes.  I reduced a few cloves of garlic into paper-thin slices, minced up the basil, and readied a couple healthy pinches of chili flakes.  The recipe was taking shape in my mind’s eye, just as the water started to boil.  It occurred to me that some acid might be nice, against that richness of the pancetta, so I halved a lemon, too.  I poured myself a glass of white wine, and kept the bottle close by, thinking it would add some depth to the sauce.

Kevin returned just as I slid the pasta into the bubbling water.  In a skillet, I crisped up the pancetta (diced), with a sheen of olive oil to help things along.  Then I added the garlic and chili flakes, and, in a matter of seconds, the dish took on the exact fragrance I’d imagined.  In went the tomatoes, with a sizzle.  As the tomatoes cooked, some slumped and some split, sending their summer-sweet juices into the pan.  A squeeze of lemon and a glug of white wine later, I left the sauce to simmer until the pasta was al dente.

I tossed the whole thing together, slid it onto a plate, and scattered parmesan and basil on top.  Dinner was served, and a recipe was born.