Listening

If you asked any hundred cooks which they thought was the most important of their five senses that they used in the kitchen, I doubt that even one would say their sense of hearing.

Unless you asked me.

Yes, taste and smell are critical (I’m no neuroscientist, but I know they are linked). Touch is important, too--the most delicate touch is required to pick the a perfect avocado or peach. As is sight--if the pork chops are green, don’t receive them.

But I can’t imagine cooking without my sense of hearing.

When I was very young I learned to cook with my ears. I’m not sure who taught me that, but I think it was my grandma. You can tell when a cake is done by pulling it out of the oven, getting your ear really close and giving a listen. Does it still sound wet? Then it’s not done. If you want to ruin the smooth top of your cake you can stick a toothpick in it confirm it.

Have you ever been in a night kitchen when the bread is coming out of the oven? The loaves are placed on racks to cool, and as they do the crusts crackle. Multiply the sound by a few hundred loaves, and the night kitchen is filled with the sound of the bread “singing.” It’s one of my favorite sounds ever.

When a steak is placed in a ripping hot pan to sear the meat, it sounds exactly like a hard rain on asphalt in the summer.

A fresh bean or carrot or spear of asparagus should have a satisfying "snap" when you break it. If it doesn't, then it's not fresh.

I know many a cook who depends on the sound of a timer for success.

And who doesn't smile at the sound of the whistle on the kettle?

But perhaps the best sound of all is the spontaneous exclaimation of "mmmmm" or "yum" from a happy mouth to the ears of the cook.

The Sound of Honey

I like honey. On biscuits and English muffins and pancakes and in tea. On yogurt and granola and whipped into butter. It is a "secret" ingredient in lavender lemonade, baked apples, and bread pudding.

My Uncle used to keep bees in Tonganoxie, Kansas when I was a little girl, and I loved receiving a jar of it for Christmas or my birthday. I remember seeing the white boxes where the bees constructed their honeycomb off at the edge of his pasture, and how I was never allowed to watch when he went to go retrieve the honey. I think some astute grown up knew that if I saw how it was done, I would inevitably try to do it myself when no one else was watching.


It's the first week of Spring and I find myself in Atlanta. I've heard the Indigo Girls sing of the "Southland in the Springtime," but I never imagined it looked and felt and smelled this lovely. The trees are fluffed with blossoms of white and pale pink and magenta. The evening air brings whiffs of dreamy floral fragrances that seem strangely familiar. The warm air lingers, flirtatiously, even in the shade and when the sun goes down.

People here in the South take lots of walks in the evenings. They stop and chat with neighbors, ask after family members, pet the neighborhood dogs. People don't walk so much as they stroll. More than once, it has taken over an hour to walk to the end of the block and back with my niece and sister.

One night last week while out at twilight, I paused under a beautiful fruit tree (which I've been told is some variety of apple tree), the boughs heavily weighted with delicate white blossoms. As I stood under the umbrella of blooms I closed my eyes and inhaled their heavenly perfume, as delicate as the blossoms and powerfully intoxicating. I think I may have I swooned.

Lost in my moment of Zen with my eyes closed and my palms opened, I paused at the top of my breath...and was overwhelmed with a humming that caused my whole head to vibrate. Was I lightheaded? Having an out of body experience? I opened my eyes and looked up.

In the hushed glow of sunset through petals, hundreds of bees buzzed in and out of the apple blossoms, dipping into the sweet nectar, bumbling back home.

So this is the sound of honey. I paused for a moment and drank it in.

As Local as it Gets

I was delighted to read in the New York Times that the "Obamas Prepare to Plant White House Vegetable Garden." I'm not sure what influence the letter from Alice Waters played in getting here, but I'm still a strong proponent of writing letters, especially to one's elected officials.

To find a friendly farmer near you, check or search the listings at Local Harvest. Consider a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) subscription.

And if you are growing your own little back yard or patio garden this year, here are a few tips to consider:

1. Plant ONLY ONE zucchini plant. (If you've already planted more than one, good luck. They do grate and freeze well for making baked goods and zucchini pancakes later.)

2. If you water from a hose, run the water into a bucket first to assure that it's not too hot for the plant roots. Water that sits in the hose can heat up during the day and scald roots, killing the plants and leaving you with a perplexing black thumb.

3. Got snails? Sprinkle dried and crushed egg shells around the base of your plants. If snails or slugs trail over them, the shells stick to their bodies and they, um, won't bother your plants any further.

4. Got aphids? Try ladybugs. You can buy them at many garden supply stores. Or, try a homemade spray of one quart water, 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil and 2-4 drops of dishwashing soap. Shake well and use a standard spray bottle to squirt leaves (don't forget the undersides) and stems of plants. Spray daily for visible aphids, every other day for prevention.

5. Don't water the plants right before bed. The additional moisture at night can encourage fungus, mold and root rot.

Context clues, knowing what you want, and the importance of communication

My fifteen month old niece is brilliant. Not that I'm biased.

My brother in law had his infamous birthday and St. Patrick's Day party last night. I had just the right amount of fun, and this morning it was time for hang over food.

I love a good day-after-drinking breakfast. Today the plan was french scrambled eggs and sharp cheddar on a toasted english muffin with Tapatio. Mmmmm. After fumbling through making coffee, I went on autopilot:

A pan goes on the stove over low heat. English muffin split and placed in the toaster (but don't start the toaster yet). Cream and eggs and cheese out of the fridge. Tapatio on the table. A small bowl to scramble the eggs, a fork to do the scrambling, a plate to eat off of, a cup for coffee out of the cupboard. A knob of butter goes in the pan. Cream and eggs and salt in the bowl. Drop the english muffins. Scramble scramble scramble. Drop the eggs.

At this point my niece noticed I was in the kitchen. Analyzing the context clues she determined something tasty was afoot. She toddled in with a piece of buttered toast she had been clutching for about half and hour and went straight to her chair at the table. After a minute of trying to get into it herself, she signed to me for help.

Buckle her in. Shake the eggs in the pan. Butter the muffin. Shake the eggs. Cheese on the muffin and under the broiler. Shake the pan. Pour the coffee. Finish the eggs. Everything goes on the plate. Grab the coffee and to the table I go.

Little Miss Smarmy Pants had been sitting at the table munching on her toast and, as it turns out, waiting patiently. As I tucked into my breakfast she tore off a piece of her toast and handed it to me. Then she lunged towards the scrambled eggs. I'd never known her to eat eggs before, but I'm all for kids getting to try any food they might find appealing. And I was amused at her impressive attempt at bartering.

"Would you like to try some eggs? "

She smiled and nodded. I gave her a forkful.

She threw down her toast and lunged at my plate again. The girl knew what she wanted.

"Do you want more?" I asked, mimicking the baby sign. She signed back definitively: more.

I proffered another bite, mindful to avoid the Tapatio.

Immediately, she signed more again.


Wow. That was the first time I'd ever seen her sign unprompted. I suppose that, even at fifteen months, if you know what you want, you figure out how to communicate it.

Pie

I love coming to visit the South if for no other reason than to shamelessly indulge in the making of pie.

My youngest sister fortuitously married a gregarious Southern boy. He happens to be her first beau from college in Upstate New York. There's is a lovely story of losing touch for a decade, finding each other again, a fairy tale wedding, and their version of happily ever after with their beautiful daughter and baby-number-two on the way.

That's where I come in. Time to visit Atlanta.

And since I'm in the kitchen, bring me the butter.

I've always enjoyed making pie. I have memories of making pie crust with my grandma--just one of those things she taught me, like how to tie my shoes, and thread a needle. You start with fresh flour, and fresh cold buttter (or lard, if you have it; but lard isn't the same today as when she was making pies). Work with strong fingers but a gentle hand to get a tender, flaky crust. Remember to rest and chill the dough.

Fillings are particular, too. Use fruit as close to picking as possible. Strawberries and cherries taste best when cooked on the stovetop and poured into a blind baked crust. Apples weep, so there are different approaches to preparation, depending on the apple. Rhubarb is good any day of the week. And don't forget savory pies. Chicken pot pie is one of the best comfort foods around.

Hank loves pie. Specifically Lemon Meringue Pie. Once, while visiting with his parents in North Carolina about five years ago, I copied down his Mother's recipe so my sister could have it in her collection. She laughed at me (she's not one much for baking), but I sent the recipe home with them anyway. Imagine my surprise when I walked into her kitchen for the first time and found the recipe card--in my own handwriting--stuck to her refrigerator with a magnet. "Hank actually made if for himself, once." I pulled out the butter right then and started baking.

The pie didn't last 24 hours.

The next day, I decided to let my pregnant sister choose a pie. "Chocolate Cream, Vanilla Cream, or Butterscotch Pie?" I offered. "Not chocolate," she replied. I grabbed the brown sugar and got to work.

Butterscotch Pie, for my Pregnant Sister in Atlanta

Make a pie crust like Grandma. Start with a stick of cold butter. Add a few fists full of flour, a bit of salt and sugar. Cut in the butter to the texture of coarse sand. Add a spoonful or two of cold water, just enough to bring the dough together. Pat it into a circle about an inch thick. Wrap in plastic and chill about half an hour. Roll out and press into a pie pan. Rest and refrigerate another half hour, then trim and blind bake. Cool completely.

Butterscotch Pie Filling

In a mixing bowl, combine:

2 large eggs

1 cup whole milk

1/8 tsp kosher salt

Whisk well to combine and set aside.

In a medium pot, combine:

1 cup dark brown sugar, packed

4 Tbsp all purpose unbleached flour

1/8 tsp kosher salt

1 cup whole milk

Whisk to combine, then heat to a boil over mediu high heat, stirring constantly.

Remove pot from heat and slowly add egg/milk mixture, whisking vigorously to combine. Return pot to medium low heat and continue to cook, stirring constantly, until mixture reduces and thickens.

Remove pan from heat. Stir in:

3 Tbsp butter

about 1 tsp good quality vanilla extract

Immediately pour filling into prepared pie crust. Bring to room temperature, then contact cover and chill at least four hours, or overnight.