A couple of weeks ago I put on an apron and pieced through my pantry.
There was a big jar of brown rice flour and a bag of millet flour. Later I picked up a bag of gluten-free oat flour, hoping the three together would be the right combination.
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I was sure the Lady Alice apples in the bin were heirlooms. I’d never heard of the red and banana-yellow apple with the well-heeled name before. The card above it said they’re good for eating out of hand and prime for cooking, too. Just as well. I love having a store of versatile cellar fruits around. When I got home I settled them in a mesh bag in the vegetable drawer to keep them separated from the Fujis, and the Fuji eaters.
Yesterday I pulled them from beneath a bag filled with parsley and mint and did a quick search online.
Lady Alice, as it turns out, is something of a toddler in the apple world. To thousands of years of apple cultivation, she has about twenty-five; she is to the world of apples akin to what humans are to the history of Earth (if you’ll excuse an unsound analogy).
The Lady Alices are held back for several months after harvest because their flavor improves in storage. That’s why I saw them only last week, and why they’ll disappear again in awhile, like any seasonal produce.
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This week my friend Pat sent me a birthday gift (I love it when my birthday goes on and on like that). The box was stout and heavy and wrapped in black and red paper. Inside I found a real mortar and pestle, a set like Pat’s that I’ve been eyeing for several years. With his, he grinds salt into powder in a way I can’t manage with my trusty miniature one.
I haven’t used it yet because it’s new and there’s something about receiving a beautiful thing that makes me delay gratification. I look at the creamy bowl every day (mine doesn’t yet have a home on a high shelf like Jane Kramer’s does) and think about how much I’d like to make pesto in it by hand. It’s part planning and part anticipation, sure, but I’m also intentionally waiting so I can enjoy its presence as a new presence for a little longer. Once I crush the first clove of garlic or pulverize some peppercorns in it, my relationship with this object will change.
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I finished Téa Obreht’s novel The Tiger’s Wife this week.
I’m reluctant to put down a good book so I always read the pages at the end: the dedication, all the names in the acknowledgements and the reader’s guide, if there is one. It happens that this book includes an interview with the writer tacked on before the guide, which is especially juicy if you’re into hearing about the writing process.
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