Judy Sunde Hanawalt

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Tag: food

My Holiday Recipe

January 7, 2016 / / 0 Comments

The tree is down, the decorations are tucked away in their boxes in the garage, and the house has a clean, spare look.

During the holidays, the tree and the decorations fill up the empty spaces and push everything into cozy closeness. With lights twinkling and candles glowing, it’s festive and magical. There’s anticipation for our favorite traditions, and busy preparations for the big day. It feels like the whole year builds up to this glittering culmination of joy.

Like most families, we have the critical traditions that must happen for Christmas to be a success. The tree, the stockings, watching White Christmas, a candle-lit Christmas-eve service ending with the singing of Silent Night, opening gifts one at a time on Christmas morning, and certain once-a-year foods.

This year, Grandma’s Bow Knots were rolled out and fried, and the Peanut Blossoms and the Snow Balls were baked and lined up in pretty rows. We made the special Butter Horn dinner rolls, the scalloped potatoes, and–a new addition to Christmas dinner–macaroni and cheese. The Ginger Crinkles, all the pies, and the Chocolate Peanut Butter Balls were missing.

Fruit Bread, a recipe handed down from my Norwegian Great-Grandmother, which must be toasted and eaten during the gift-opening on Christmas morning, was the traditional recipe that turned out perfectly this year. Last year it was dry. This year, it was the way we all remember it.

You’d think I’d have it down by now, the recipe for holiday success.

After all the turkeys I’ve cooked, I still overcooked the Christmas bird this year (after undercooking the Thanksgiving bird). The tree, after 32 years of trees, was so far from straight that we had to prop one side of the stand up with two boards and hope it wouldn’t fall over. The lights on the tree were bright white instead of warm white, which, unfortunately, is very noticeable.

It wasn’t perfect. In the snug, dim evenings, and especially after a few sips of the traditional Stinger, it all looked beautiful anyway.  I relish the holiday moments when we are together, not for the the straightness of the tree or the variety on the cookie tray, but because we are sharing and laughing and enjoying each other.

After the new year, cozy evenings give way to bright winter days, and all I can see is spider webs crisscrossing the tree, brown, spiky needles on the floor, and dust collecting on the ornaments and the row of grimacing nutcracker dolls. The tree’s piney-green smell that was so fresh and woodsy now has a sharp edge to it, a mulch-like odor that I can’t ignore. The wise men, the shepherds and the holy family are all jostled out of position in the nativity scene, and the stockings sag empty from the mantle.

It’s all put away now, though. January is a clean slate.

Maybe this year, I’ll start my hand-made gift projects early enough to actually finish them. I can find some warm-white lights on clearance, and finally figure out a way to not spend the whole Christmas day in the kitchen. Maybe this year I’ll get my shopping done early, wrap the gifts as I buy them, and stick to my budget.

Maybe this year I’ll be able to follow that perfect recipe for holiday success. I probably won’t though; it just wouldn’t feel like our traditional Christmas.

Patchwork Holiday

November 25, 2015 / / 1 Comment

It’s the day before Thanksgiving.

The air is chilly for a Bay Area day–the high temperature only in the 50’s. The trees are in full fall color after stretching the season out as long as they could, finally starting to fill the streets and sidewalks with their lovely, crunchy litter. The leaves on my persimmon tree are bright orange and yellow, with the shiny, deep-orange persimmons peeking through. Soon, the leaves will drop, leaving the fruit hanging like ornaments on the black tree limbs.

Two of the kids are on their way home now, flying into the Oakland airport. I can’t sit still waiting, hurrying the minutes along until I see them, hug them, gather them home. Another will be home this evening, lugging a case of wine she picked out for the holidays. I got their rooms all ready, pillows plumped and extra blankets on the bed, and I gave the dog a good scrubbing yesterday.

I’ve got plans for them–food to make, shopping to do, restaurants to visit, movies to watch. They may have plans too, and friends to see, but for this afternoon and tomorrow at least, they are my babies again.

The 21-pound turkey is in the fridge, and ten pounds of potatoes, 6 pounds of brussels sprouts and 5 pounds of apples are waiting to be peeled and chopped. Day-old loaves of sourdough bread are ready to be cubed, toasted and combined with sage and thyme and rosemary for stuffing. The four pounds of butter I bought will disappear, I know from experience, into pie crusts, stuffing, rolls and other deliciousness before tomorrow is over.

Three of the kids won’t be around the Thanksgiving table this year; two have to work, another will be at her boyfriend’s family celebration. Two of them will be home for parts of the weekend to see everyone and enjoy leftovers. Plans are forming to get the Christmas tree on Friday; they can all be together for that tradition, if not for the feast.

One of my sisters will join us tomorrow with her family, but my other sister will have a lonelier holiday, with only her two girls there. A snow storm threatening the Rocky Mountain region–perhaps the same storm that brought us rain and these chilly days, moving east now–is keeping our parents from joining her, and stranding them alone for the holiday too.

Together and apart, on the holiday and after, it’s the dance of family, and it leaves me both filled and empty, sometimes at the same time. I will have some here, close, literally in my arms, I will be looking for some, waiting for them to arrive, and I will be missing others, aching for them, worried that they are lonely.

This is how it will be as children grow up and we all grow older, this patchwork of togetherness–seeing some here, others there, now and later, bringing greetings, sending hugs. I’m thankful for all these moments–here or on the way or somewhere else, and dream of a day when we will all be together at the same time.

For now, though, I’m off to the airport.

Thanksgiving

November 14, 2014 / / 3 Comments

Thanksgiving does not sparkle with magic and mystery, or glow with the promise of gifts and wishes come true like it’s holiday partner, Christmas. It is instead a day to be content, to appreciate what is already seen and known. Somewhere between the giddiness of childhood and the practicality of adulthood, I began to enjoy Thanksgiving instead of rushing past it as just another hurdle to clear before Christmas. It was a calm before the frenzy of holiday activity; a day to enjoy for it’s own sake, not for what would be given or gotten.

I was still living at home, and Thanksgiving meant traditional foods, grandparents and cousins, sitting and talking and playing games. I watched my grandmother, mother and aunt cook, sneaking tastes, disappearing when work was needed. When my grandfather began to carve the turkey, I would be at his elbow, ready for any small bits he would offer as he worked. The anticipation and satisfaction revolved  around the meal and the foods eaten only on that day. The gifts of Thanksgiving were received around the table.

My childhood Thanksgivings were spent as a happy recipient of the feast, almost as a guest. Whether by my choice or by design, the work was behind the scenes. I had little appreciation for how it happened that the lavish meal appeared on the carefully decorated table.

My perspective changed again when I had children and began hosting the day at my house. No more gazing into the kitchen in anticipation of delicacies to fill the holiday table.  I became the cook, with splattered apron, pumpkin in my hair, and the scent of stuffing as my perfume. I was up early to finish the pies, make the stuffing and get the bird in the oven. The day flew by as I was making messes and cleaning them up, rotating side dishes in and out of the oven, calling for helping hands and later chasing out sticky-fingered tasters, and then, with a sigh of relief, sitting down, everything done, to give thanks.

As my children have gotten older, they have ventured into the cook’s domain and wanted to help, even taking over a favorite dish. Their joy of eating was enhanced by the preparation, the camaraderie in the kitchen, and the pride of serving something that tasted good. One daughter would work on the pies, another on the green bean casserole, and others on the rolls, jello salad and stuffing.  Some would collaborate on the decorating and setting of the table, pulling the good china and silverware out of the cupboard, arranging the flowers and candles, and creating a centerpiece from fall leaves and persimmons from our tree.

The commotion in the kitchen tends to draw others in, and the jostling, the stepping over the dog and the ducking around sparring siblings–the happy confusion of so many in a small space–tempts me to shoo everyone out. When I stop, take a breath and look around, though, I love the busyness and the laughter.

Another change is upon me now. With only one child still living at home, my house feels quiet and a little empty, and when they all come home for Thanksgiving, I welcome the busy, loud explosion of activity. They come like waves, tumbling in with their bags and the food they are going to prepare and their excitement at seeing each other, dancing around with the dog, flooding the house with life. They come in with the cold, fresh scent of their journey  on their coats and wraps, but they take them off, leave them by the door and settle into being home.

They come hungry for all their favorite traditional foods, but also with new ideas. The sugary yam casserole topped with marshmallows was the first to get a make-over, becoming more about the vegetable and less about the topping. A couple of years ago, my practice of using a roasting bag for the turkey ended when a more ambitious cook found a better way, involving lots of butter and fresh herbs.  Another Thanksgiving, my dry, bagged stuffing went unused in favor of a delicious, from-scratch recipe. Last year, new side dishes free of processed foods were introduced, so the jello and the green bean casserole were replaced by seasonal fruits and greens. I think it is only the butterhorn rolls that remain unchanged.

With so much competence in the kitchen, I find time to sneak off to the living room to sit down and rest, leaving the meal to my opinionated, energetic children, and basking in the happy chatter and laughter. I’m still involved in the process,  but I can see a new era just around the corner. I will find myself again the recipient of the feast, and I will be content to savor these gifts of a life full of love and family.

More Science than Art

October 24, 2014 / / 2 Comments

Preserving food–canning–is more science than art. The acidity, temperature and sterilization are all crucial to ensure that the end product, a jar of tomatoes or peaches or pickles, is safe to eat.

Fruits and vegetables must be at the peak of ripeness, with no bruising or mold. Sugar or acid, such as salt, lemon juice or vinegar, must be present in sufficient amounts. Food and liquid needs to come to a certain height in the jar, with headroom to allow expansion, but not to compromise the seal. The lids must be new, the jars must be free of nicks or cracks, clean and hot, and the water they are processed in must be be deep enough to cover the jars by an inch, boiling constantly for the prescribed amount of time to kill any bacteria in the food. The lids must seal, with their distinctive pop when the flexible middle of the lid pulls in as the contents cool, creating a suction that protects the food from outside air and contaminants.

There isn’t much room for creative interpretation of the instructions. The story of the unfortunate canner who erred in some crucial step, and paid dearly by dropping dead from one taste of a green bean from a contaminated jar keeps would-be experimenters in line.

Canning is not required for survival the way it once was. Before canned goods were readily available at the grocery store, preserving the harvest in warm months was essential to eating in the cold months when the garden was asleep beneath frozen earth. It still may be the best way to cope with a prolific garden, when there are more tomatoes or beets than can be reasonably consumed, but it is not a hungry winter that compels the modern-day canner.

For me, it is the desire to keep bounty from going to waste, and to preserve it for enjoyment later. There is romance to capturing the abundance of the season, whether from my garden, the farmers market, the neighbor’s fruit tree, or even the grocery store when produce is sweet and cheap. It is a way to reconnect with the values taken for granted by our great-grandparents–local, organic, in-season food prepared simply, so the natural flavors and nutrition are preserved and savored.

There is a wholeness to home-canned foods that is missing from grocery store cans. It isn’t big business, it’s personal. The peaches that grace the table in February were lugged home in August, peeled and pitted and snugged into jars, fitted with lids, carefully submerged in a boiling-water bath, then cleaned and dried an tucked away for the day when the only fruit the market has to offer is bananas from Ecuador and apples from Australia. The peaches in cans at the store can’t have been as lovingly prepared, and whether the taste is markedly different or not, the  experience of serving and eating them is unique.

A home-canned jar, taken from the limited stores in the pantry, is like a gift. The gentle whoosh as the lid lifts, breaking the seal that kept summer ripeness safely locked inside, the glugging of the contents into a bowl or pan,  and the aroma of the preserves recreate the ambiance of the hot kitchen at the peak of harvest.

The delight is not just in the serving, it’s also in the the storing. Rows of white pears, golden peaches, orange salsa, red tomatoes, ruby pickled beets, purple plums, brown cinnamon-spiced applesauce and green pickles line the pantry shelves, a rainbow of well-being.

As I survey my work, there’s a sense of fullness and readiness for the dormant season. As the cold months count down to spring, the jars are emptied and returned, and the color drains from the the shelves just as the the first blooms of forsythia, then lilac, begin to color the landscape and fill the air with a sweet scent; no fruit yet, but the promise is in the air.

Somewhere along the way, art mixes with science and the two are intertwined. The science of preserving food is necessary for the process, but the the labor and the sharing blend into the food to create something that feels more like art.

Food Jazz

October 16, 2014 / / 0 Comments

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I joined Full Belly Farm sometime mid-winter. A box of whatever fruits and vegetables are being harvested at the farm in the Capay Valley, north-east of here, would be waiting for me at the community pick-up site near my house.  I knew not to expect tomatoes and cucumbers, but I was a little puzzled by some of the contents of my first box.

The carrots were familiar, but the rutabaga, parsnips, celery root and bunches of leafy greens were vegetables I had only seen in passing at the grocery store. I turned to clean, unused pages of my cookbooks, and in some cases, to what felt like remote corners of the internet, to find how to prepare these strange vegetables.

Gingerly, I served the new dishes, appealing to the family’s sense  of adventure. They  went along with it, spearing the unfamiliar root chunks and spooning out globs of wilty greens. They liked some things, tolerated others, disliked a few, but overall, joined me in the plunge into this new way of eating.

It was not only new vegetables, it was a large quantity of these new vegetables. With another box coming in just a week, I had to serve two vegetables a meal to get through the contents without throwing any of our precious, lovingly-grown produce away. The contents of the boxes changed as the weeks went by.

The leeks, celery root and greens made way for lettuces, new potatoes and asparagus. Green beans, melons, cucumbers, tomatoes, zucchini and eggplant followed, and then on to cabbage, beets and winter squash, and eventually back to root vegetables and greens. The produce seemed to change just about the time we were ready for some new tastes and textures, and we began to look forward to favorites we knew were coming back around soon.

The first strawberries and peaches in spring and summer were occasions for celebrations, as were the winter squash and even the greens when their time came again. My weekly menus began to take their shape from the rotating contents of the boxes. Seasons, the broad categories of winter, spring, summer and fall, gained new dimension as they began to be flavored by the crops we had come to expect with each one.

The process of learning to eat local, fresh foods has not just been a change of diet; it’s getting in step with the rhythms of the natural world around us. The changes in the weather, the light, and our schedules are complemented by the changes in our food. It’s the comfort of predictability, the hope of newness just around the corner. It’s like eating delicious pizza with toe-tapping jazz–it just feels like there’s more life in it.

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