something very new
When we moved back to Chicago from DC in 2005, one of the biggest draws of this town was that it was where many of our friends were living. Kevin had grown up here, we’d both gone to college here, and it wasn’t so far from Minneapolis, where I’d grown up. Unlike Washington, where everything was new and where we were wrapped up in anonymity much of the time, this was a place where you could run into someone you knew at a Cubs game, where you could go to a place that you’d been five (or, in Kevin’s case, ten or fifteen) years ago.
There were a lot of great things about being back in Chicago—but returning to a tight group of college friends was certainly one of the best. There were BBQs and nights of unending Taboo and weddings and chili cook-offs and fantasy football drafts and Fourth of July fireworks and book clubs and girls dinners and street festivals and concerts.
a little part of that
I’m crazy for ramps right now. Absolutely mad. I see them in the grocery store, tucked beneath deep green eaves of chard and kale, and I can’t help but grab a bundle in my fist, lift them triumphantly over my head, and squeal to myself (or is it aloud?): Ramps! About this time, Kevin busies himself in the crucifer bin—suddenly fascinated beyond distraction by a seafoam green head of cabbage. And, although the man does love his slaw, I’m beginning to think that maybe—just maybe—he’s embarrassed of my expression of ramp triumph. But, no matter: my shopping cart is lined with a lush carpet of ramps. Tra-lah-lah.
In truth, what I’m really crazy for is spring, and the ramps are just a little part of that. They’re a middle piece of the jig-saw puzzle. It seems that the perimeter of that puzzle has taken shape (the trees are starting to fringe themselves in chartreuse; the tulips have begun to unfurl), but the rest of the zillion middle pieces seem reluctant to fall into place (creating the real-deal, warmer-than-60-degrees, local-produce-at-the-markets, full-on spring).
far beyond the cucumber
I’m sure there’s some way to spin these radishes—quick pickled in a brine that’s equal parts sweet, sour, spicy and salt—as Passover- or Easter-friendly. Nary a speck of leavened bread! A lovely addition to your seder, tucked up against a piece of gefilte fish! A punchy addition to your otherwise ham-and-scalloped-potatoes laden Easter spread! A pre-Easter lunch bite with a hue to match the eggs hidden around the yard!
still manages
Well, I’m here to report that it worked! The kale-centric goodbye gala for winter that I staged last time I was here really, really worked. Not more than two days after that post, spring arrived—and decidedly so. The winds were suddenly warm and the trees were all-at-once producing buds. As we walked the sidewalks near our apartment last weekend, we stopped to gawk at the fringey-yellow bushes that had burst into bloom and the pert daffodils, tucked up against the houses, that had opened up their bonnets.
Spring’s like that, I think. It arrives every year, yet it still manages to stun you.
in fits and starts
Spring, as it’s wont to do, is proceeding in fits and starts. We shivered through a Cubs game yesterday afternoon, only to find ourselves eating dinner on the deck—sockless! with candles!—that very same night, as the mercury climbed to seventy (!) degrees. Today, it was back to steel gray skies and blustering wind and that tiresome chill. And that, in a nutshell, is how this brief spell between winter and summer typically unfolds for us here in Chicago. We are teased with warm days, tall blue skies, and bright sunshine, only to have the rug pulled out from under us before we can even bust out a single sundress.
So. I’ve decided to throw winter a going away party. I figure that if we properly fête winter—celebrating all that was great about the all-too-long season—it will uproot itself and fade away. Who’s in? Without further ado, here are the things I’ve loved about this winter:
instead, silence
I didn’t mean to be gone so long.
When we came home from a long weekend in Palm Springs, I planned to post here within the week. But, instead, silence. And I don’t really know why. It’s not that I didn’t have anything to say about the weekend. To the contrary, I had plenty to say, but nothing seemed to leap from my mind to the screen.
that’s enough
It’s been one of those weeks. The weeks where you feel like you’re hanging on for dear life, one day hurtling toward the next, and then the next. Suddenly, it’s nearly Friday and you’ve barely caught your breath since Monday. Barely stopped to think. Barely said boo to your husband.
But so much of it has been good—the kind of good that’s completely out of the ordinary, in the best ways—so you can’t complain. Your sister-in-law got engaged. (!!!) Your sister came to town. (!!!) The sun has been out all week. (!!!) It’s been light out well before 7 a.m. and enough past 5 p.m. to make a difference. (!!!)
a beautiful thing
not silly in the least
I’m not much of a Valentine’s girl, as I’ve said here before. To recap: the whole thing is just a little silly, in my view. The chocolate and the booze that it encourages, however, are not silly in the least. Oh, no. Champagne on a Monday night? Don’t mind if I do! A palm-sized turtle offered up last Friday night, just before I was about to head to the gym and then dinner (the confection threatening to negate the first and spoil the second)? Of course, I’d love one!
So, for this February 14, I’ve baked a cake that combines the two, all in a lovely bundt ring—a seductive cake shape if ever there was one. For the booze, this cake wisely selects bourbon. And, chocolate-wise, the cake goes for super dark and brooding. The result is astonishingly good.
especially the oatmeal
Mornings, around here, in the winter are quieter and slower. Well, I should clarify. Weekend winter mornings, around here, are quieter and slower. Weekday mornings—a blur of alarm clocks and yogurt, eaten quickly, and lost gloves, and running to catch the train—are another matter altogether. On the weekend, though, it’s still and peaceful. There’s no summery urge to throw open the windows, no fall-like need to seize the day, no spring-ish excitement about the warm air that may come. Instead, the urges go something like this: wrap up in something warm; clutch a mug of coffee; settle onto the couch, feet tucked beneath you; when hunger arrives, oatmeal.
This week, we had a bonus morning like this—one that fell smack dab in the middle of the week, courtesy of the Groundhog Day Blizzard ’11. So, with a snow day issued, Wednesday morning unfolded much like the above, including the oatmeal. Especially the oatmeal.