Roasted Beet Salad with Lavender-Scented Fried Summer Squash, Chevre, Figs, Cucumber Relish and a Balsamic Reduction

I finally jumped on the CSA wagon and I must admit, it was kind of like Christmas when my first box arrived, full of the lingering summer's bounty.

Fresh lavender perfumed the air as I unpacked each item with glee: heirloom tomatoes, okra, honeydew, beets, figs, flying saucer squash, and lemon cucumbers, among other loot.

Specimen A: Lemon Cucumber

Side note: this was the first time I encountered lemon cucumbers. They are pale yellow, the size of a small lemon, and quite adorable. They're sweet, and delicate-flavored, and don't have as many seeds as your average green cucumbers.

I rinsed off and bit into a plump, ripe, fig as the culinary inspiration started working its way through my thoughts. I was stoked to see a handful of the flying saucer squash that I have been admiring at the farmer's market the past few weeks. And, the beets called out to me. I love roasted beets with their crimson bleed and mellow, sweet flavor. But, I've never actually prepared them myself before.

OK, this is why I signed up for this, right? To try new things? To push my comfort zone? To eat good, healthy, veggies? Turns out, roasting beets is not difficult at all. And as for inspiration, before I knew it, sauce pans were out, kitchen cabinets hung ajar, and a CSA salad was born.

Roasted Beet Salad with Lavender-Scented Fried Summer Squash, Chevre, Figs, Cucumber Relish and a Balsamic Reduction

Serves: 4-6

Ingredients:
2 beets
3 flying saucer squash
4 figs, halved
1 lemon cucumber
1 cup panko bread crumbs
1 egg, beaten
Chevre, or cheese of your choice
2 teaspoons rice wine vinegar
¼ cup balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
½ teaspoon lavender
Olive oil for frying
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:
Roasted Beets
1. Preheat oven to 450 F.
2. Rinse beets, remove leaves, and wrap in foil. Place on a baking sheet and roast for an hour until the beets are tender through.
3. Let cool until you can handle them. Tip: wear gloves or place a plastic baggie over your hand to protect your fingers from getting stained. Using a paring knife, peel the skin off the beets. It should come off easily.
4. Slice into ¼ inch rounds. Set aside.

Figs & Balsamic Reduction
1. Heat a small saucepan to medium-high heat.
2. Sear the fig halves, flat side down for a few minutes, just until the surface caramelizes a bit. Remove and set aside.
3. In the same pan, lower the heat and add the balsamic vinegar and sugar. Let simmer until the sauce becomes thick and syrupy. Set aside.

Cucumber Relish
1. Cut the cucumber into a fine dice. You can leave the skin on if you're using lemon cucumbers since their skin is softer than regular green cucumbers.
2. Mix with rice vinegar, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and set aside.

Fried Summer Squash
1. In a deep frying pan, heat 2 inches of oil to right below smoking point. I like the taste of olive oil (don't use the expensive stuff), but you can use vegetable oil if you prefer.
2. Prepare your assembly line: squash sliced into ¼ inch rounds, egg wash, dish filled with bread crumbs seasoned with lavender and a pinch of salt and pepper. I prefer panko because of its extra crunch, but you can use regular dried breadcrumbs as well.
3. Dip each slice of squash into egg wash, then coat with breadcrumbs.
4. To test the oil, drop a little piece of eggy breadcrumb into the pan. If it just sinks, the oil is not hot enough. If it burns quickly, the oil is too hot. If it starts to bubble right away and floats, it is just the right temperature and you're now ready to start frying up your squash.
5. Let the fried squash drain on a plate lined with paper towels. Sprinkle with a little salt while they're still hot. Set aside.

Cheese
You can use any cheese you'd like, however, fresh goat cheese and beets are a traditional pairing. If you're like me though, and have an aversion to goat cheese (I know, one of my great downfalls as a foodie, I disappoint myself in this respect time after time), try a gooey burrata, or Cowgirl Creamery's buttery Mt. Tam, or a ricotta salata for something sharper and firmer.

Now you're ready to assemble and plate. Layer beets, cheese, squash, repeat, and top with the cucumber relish. Garnish with the figs and balsamic reduction.

Enjoy!

Otsu

Lately, I've been obsessed with this buckwheat soba noodle recipe I spotted on one of my favorite healthy food blogs, 101 Cookbooks. The recipe is originally from Pomelo, a fresh little restaurant serving "global cuisine" in Outer Noe Valley and the Inner Sunset, and let me tell you, it is a keeper. I just cannot seem to tire of it. It's healthy and light, yet substantial enough to make up a full meal. Plus, it's a breeze to whip up...and the flavors! There's a wonderful balance to this dish.

Heat, tang, salt, and sweet

The honey, soy sauce, and rice vinegar in the dressing gives it a great sweet, salty, tang. The lemon juice adds a touch of bright acidity, and the sesame oil, a mellow nuttiness. Then there's the cayenne and ginger, imparting the perfect amount of warmth that caresses the back of your throat as you savor it all. (I do bring down the cayenne from ¾ teaspoon to ½ teaspoon for a more subtle heat.)

Cool greens: scallion, cilantro, cucumber

After the heat comes the cool crisp greens. I cut my cucumber slices as thin as I can, and mix them with chopped cilantro and scallions.

I love this recipe because it requires barely any cooking. Use of the stove is limited to boiling water for the noodles (be sure to keep them al dente for a nice springy chew), and pan frying the tofu. While pan frying tofu is essentially a simple concept, it can prove to be tricky due to tofu's delicate consistency.

A few tips on the tofu:
1. Use oil. While the recipe calls for cooking the tofu in a "dry" nonstick skillet, mine stuck to my nonstick pan and came out a mess when I didn't use any oil. I suggest playing it safe and coating the bottom of your pan with vegetable or olive oil.
2. Pat it dry. Using paper towels, pat dry your tofu as much as possible. This will minimize splatter and the tofu will brown more evenly.
3. Cornstarch. For extra crisp, dust a little cornstarch on all sides.
4. Be patient. Once the tofu hits the pan, don't move it around. You will see that as it cooks, it will firm up. Only then should you try lifting it up to test the level of goldenness on the bottom. If you rush it, your tofu will fall apart.

Once the tofu is cooked, I prefer cutting it up into 1-inch squares, or lengthwise like matchsticks (much better than leaving it in giant hunks like I did in my first go-around pictured above).

Soba noodles dressed

Once everything is done, a quick toss and you have yourself the perfect summer meal. I paired it with this Steamed Sea Bass with Ginger and Scallion and the combo was fantastic.

Butternut Squash Thai Curry

When we were little, our parents taught us not to talk to strangers. I sometimes wonder if my boyfriend's parents ever warned him of the dangers, because he talks to strangers all the time.

He's a master chatter. He makes best friends with cashiers, older ladies love him, and he somehow induces perfect strangers to tell him their life story.

And so it went when we paid Barry from Craigslist a visit to see about some copper pots. One thing led to another, and before long we were two hours deep in conversation about his past life as the executive chef of a cruise ship making its maiden voyage in 1969. We left Barry that afternoon with a smile on his face, confident that his prize pots had found a good home. And we walked away 3 copper pots, a handful of cookbooks, and a few stories richer.

Sticky rice cooked in a prize pot

I've grown particularly fond of one of the books we picked up, The Best of Vietnamese & Thai Cooking, written by Mai Pham, chef/owner of Lemon Grass Restaurant in Sacramento, and Barry's former instructor at the Culinary Institute of America.

When I spotted Pham's recipe for Thai Seafood Curry with Pumpkin and Fresh Basil, I was reminded of one of my favorite dishes from Osha, Pumpkin Curry. While Pham's recipe calls for mussels, salmon, and shrimp, I decided to go with simplified, vegetarian version using roasted butternut squash and a touch of tomato paste. I also happened to have some leftover pan-fried, extra firm tofu on hand, so I threw that in for some more substance.

You will fall in love with this fragrant and full-flavored curry. The two magic ingredients I discovered in this recipe are lemon grass and Kaffir lime leaves, both acquired at Whole Foods (along with my red Thai curry powder). They infuse the curry with the most seductive aroma. Fresh and citrusy, with a touch of spicy floral essence. Do not skimp on these ingredients. They will transform your dish.

Minced lemon grass

Lemon grass can look intimidating, but don't be scared. To prep and make the most use out of it, first peel off the tough, outer layers of the stalk. Thinly slice from the fatter bulb end first. Stop when you get to the green parts of the stalk on top. Cut these top green parts into 2-inch pieces and set aside. You can use these for your curry, simply bruise them with the back of your knife, splitting the stalk open and releasing the essential oils. The thin slices from the bulb can then be minced (use a food processor to make your life easier) and stored in Ziploc bags for up to 4 months or so in the freezer.

Kaffir lime leaves

I store my lime leaves in the freezer as well to extend their shelf life.

Gutted butternut squash, nuked and ready to peel

A trick I learned when working with butternut squash -- it can be tough to cut through and peel when the squash is raw. If you microwave the entire thing for a few minutes, it will soften up, allowing you to slice through it easily.

Roasted butternut squash

Pham cooks her squash right in the curry, but I found that roasting it first really develops its flavor and is totally worth the extra time! Serve it over some coconut rice and you will be in Thai heaven.

Chaokoh: best brand of coconut milk

Coconut Rice with Mango

Coconut rice is used in a popular Thai dessert, served with slices of sweet, juicy mangoes. It also happens to make a wonderfully aromatic base for your coconut milk-based curry.

After craving it for all these years, turns out coconut rice is just cooked rice mixed with a simple coconut sauce. If you have a rice cooker, all you really have to do is whip up the sauce (just don't try dumping the sauce in with the uncooked rice all at once…that um…doesn't work out too well). And if you don’t have a rice cooker, steaming rice in a pot is easy too.

So there you have it. A complete delicious Thai meal, made in a pair of beautiful copper pots. Thanks, stranger.

Butternut Squash Thai Curry with Coconut Rice
Adapted recipe from “The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking” by Mai Pham

Serves: 4

Ingredients:
2 lb. whole butternut squash (or 1 package pre-cut)
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 (13.5 oz) cans unsweetened coconut milk (Chaokoh); reserve 2/3 c. for coconut rice
3 (2-inch) pieces lemon grass stalk bruised slightly with the back of a knife; or 1 tablespoon minced lemon grass stalk
2 Kaffir lime leaves, cut in thirds
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon red thai curry
½ teaspoon turmeric
½ teaspoon salt
2 ripe red vine tomatoes, thinly sliced
Cilantro or fresh basil to garnish
Coconut Rice (recipe below)

Preparation:

1. Preheat oven to 450 F.
2. If not using pre-cut butternut squash, microwave whole squash for about 5 minutes to soften so it’s easier to cut.
3. Remove skin, scoop out seeds, and cut into 1 inch cubes. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon olive oil, pinch of salt and pepper, and roast for 30-40 minutes until browned.
4. Remove squash from oven and allow it to cool.
5. Meanwhile, heat a large saucepan over moderate heat. Skim off the top thick, creamy part of the coconut milk, about ½ cup, and add it to the pan. Add the curry paste and stir to dissolve. Let mixture sizzle and bubble for 2 to 3 minutes.
6. Reserve 2/3 cup coconut milk in a small saucepan for the coconut rice. Add the remaining coconut milk, lemon grass, lime leaves, sugar, fish sauce, tomato paste, turmeric, and salt. Increase the heat to high and bring to a simmer.
7. Add the tomatoes and let cook for about 10 minutes until they dissolve. While this simmers you can prepare the coconut rice (recipe follows). Add roasted butternut squash and allow to simmer for another 5 minutes.
8. Serve over coconut rice and garnish with freshly chopped cilantro or julienned basil.

Sticky Coconut Rice and Fresh Mangoes
Excerpted from “The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking” by Mai Pham

Serves: 4

Ingredients:
Rice
1 ¼ cups water
1 cup Thai long-grain sticky rice, soaked in warm water for 1 hour and drained (Adaptation note: I used California Calrose rice, a medium-grain sticky rice, and washed but didn't bother soaking)
2 tablespoons sugar

Coconut Sauce
2/3 cups unsweetened coconut milk (Chaokoh)
¼ cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/3 cup water

Garnish
2 medium to large ripe mangoes, peeled and cut into slices
2 tablespoons sesame seeds, lightly toasted

Preparation:
1. If you have a rice cooker, mix together the 1 ¼ cups water and 2 tablespoons sugar, and combine with the rice. While the rice cooks, prepare the coconut sauce.
2. If you do not have a rice cooker, bring the water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Quickly stir in the rice and add the 2 tablespoons sugar. Let boil for 2 minutes, then reduce the heat to very low. Cover and simmer only until the water has evaporated and the rice is tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove pan from heat and let sit for 20 minutes. Uncover and fluff rice with a fork or chopsticks. Set aside.
3. Prepare the coconut sauce: in the small saucepan with the coconut milk reserved from before, add the ¼ cup sugar, vanilla, and salt. Bring to a boil.
4. In a small bowl, mix the cornstarch and 1/3 cup water and stir until dissolved. While the coconut sauce is simmering, slowly drizzle in the cornstarch mixture and stir until sauce is thick enough to coat a spoon. Remove from heat and set aside.
5. Drizzle the coconut sauce over the rice a few tablespoons at a time to taste.
6. If you're serving this as a dessert, place a small mound of sticky rice (about ½ cup) in the center of a serving plate and surround with mango slices. Drizzle some more coconut sauce over each mound and sprinkle with sesame seeds.

I am so tired of hearing people say they hate eggplant. Children, particularly, seem hard pressed to even try it. Maybe it's the name. I don't think the inclusion of "egg" does it any favors, especially where kids are concerned. I think many cooks are also intimidated by the spongy texture of this vegetable when uncooked; after all, once you peel it, an uncooked eggplant sort of looks like a big white loafy mass. It can also turn into a soggy mess if it's not cooked correctly. So when people say they don't like the taste, I figure they've just had a bad experience with it.

Even so, when my nieces were visiting recently and they said they didn't like eggplant, I was surprised. I thought that my mother, who is the queen of eggplant, would have made them converts to its flavors by now. But after a little questioning, I found out that what they really didn't like was the texture of unbreaded eggplant. Although my mother is famous for her Eggplant Parmesan, her method of cooking this dish is to fry the eggplant in olive oil without breading, so the texture is smooth and the flavor a bit acidic. But hating a vegetable because you don’t like one dish seemed silly to me, so I set out to defend the honor of this beloved vegetable by finding a recipe they would love.

Luckily my mother was also visiting so I had two brains working on this problem instead of just one. When one of my nieces saw my zucchini post on BAB, she said the fried flowers looked good. My mother then remembered that her dad (my grandfather) had loved eggplant dipped in only seasoned flower and egg and then lightly fried in olive oil. I figured this was a great way to make this vegetable more palatable to kids: the simple batter recipe would keep the spices to a minimum while frying would give the slices a nice crunch to negate any potential texture issues.

To make the process more fun, we got the kids involved in the cooking process. They loved blotting the eggplant, cracking eggs, and dipping vegetable pieces into the batter. The adults fried the eggplant, but the kids did almost everything else. Once the eggplant slices were ready to eat, they were quite proud of themselves and excited to try their handiwork.

Both my nieces and daughters loved this dish. We actually had to slice up a second eggplant to make more for the demanding fans. Best of all, everyone also had a great time. The TV was off, the stereo was on, and everyone was actively cooking and eating together. So if your little ones insist they hate eggplant (or if you have an adult in the same boat), I highly recommend getting them involved in the cooking process to try this simple recipe. It's fun to make and a surefire way to create eggplant lovers in your house.

Simply Breaded and Fried Eggplant

Makes: 4 servings

Ingredients:

1 medium-large eggplant
1/2 cup olive oil
1 cup flour
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp kosher or sea salt plus more for sprinkling on the raw eggplant slices when prepping

Preparation:

1. Peel eggplant and then cut it into 1/4-inch thick slices.
2. Lay sheets of paper towel onto a cookie sheet or large colander (I prefer the latter) and lay enough eggplant slices down to cover the surface. Generously sprinkle salt onto the eggplant and then cover with another layer of paper towels. Repeat until you're out of eggplant
3. Let eggplant slices sit for 30-40 minutes.
4. Heat a frying pan (I like to use a large cast-iron pan, but anything that is not non-stick will work) on medium high. Add enough olive oil to cover the bottom with a 1/4-inch of oil.
5. Beat eggs with milk in a large flatish bowl and add 1/2 tsp salt to season it. Then mix the oregano and the other 1/2 tsp salt into the flour on a separate plate.
6. When oil is heated, press paper towels into the eggplant to soak up any extra liquid and then start dipping the eggplant slices into the flour mixture. Shake off an excess oil and then dip into the egg mixture to coat thoroughly.
7. Lay battered eggplant into the pan in batches, being sure not to crowd the pan.
8. Fry each side until golden brown. If the pan starts to get too hot, just lower the heat.
9. Repeat until all eggplant is cooked, adding more olive oil as needed.
10. Serve immediately.

Rhubarb. I have loved it for years. And why not? It's a tart, refreshing, and completely extraordinary thing when handled properly.

Of course, it is also highly seasonal. It's one of the first bits of produce to show up in markets when the ground warms up in the spring, it hangs around in the summertime, when the living is supposedly easy, but it has a predictable habit of disappearing when the weather gets rough. It's a fair weather thing. And, though most commonly lumped together with fruits, it is, in fact a vegetable-- a truth I've found very difficult to grasp over the past few years.

When you slow down long enough to really notice the word, when you break it down into its two syllables and sound it out, it just seems like a really bad idea. "Rue," as a noun connotes sorrow. As a verb, it means to regret. And barb? It can mean any sharp protrusion that points backward, like a hook or an arrow. It is something that prevents easy extraction. When you put the two pieces of the word together, however, it evokes freshly baked pies and springtime. Or, of course, it can conjure up some sad, sorrowful thing that pulls you in and won't let you go. Take your pick. I have been historically attracted to both, but that is one for my therapist. I can just see the silhouettes of the Electric Company's Oscar-winning duo, Morgan Freeman and Rita Moreno, sounding it all out for me. Rhu. Barb. Rhubarb. They make it sound like so much fun.

The Latin name for the plant, Rheum rhabarbarum, should give one pause. At its base is barbarum, which indicates that the plant was, for the Greeks and Romans at least, from some place other. In the case of the rhubarb plant, this place was the Volga river-- an area at the time populated by what the "civilized" Mediterraneans considered barbarian: bearded and coarse, with a language totally incomprehensible to their own.

And Rheum? From the Latin rheuma, it means "a watery discharge from the mucous membranes, especially the eyes and nose." Charming.

The Greek word bárbaros, by the way, refers to the sound of random, incomprehensible noises one hears when listening to a language one cannot understand. The sound they made to mimic this was "bar bar." The terms "babble" and "blah blah," may be derived from this. One usage of the word "rhubarb" certainly is-- it is one of the words chosen by stage actors to chatter repeatedly in order to provide indecipherable background noise in crowd or party scenes.

Only the stalk of the rhubarb plant is edible. The green leaves of the plant-- the part of the organism from which it derives its strength and energy-- are toxic, containing the nephrotoxin oxalic acid. When eaten in quantity or over a long period of time, one may suffer kidney damage. The roots that give the plant its stability are rich in anthraquinones like emodin and rhein, which are natural laxatives and cathartics.

Well, I've had about enough catharsis, thank you very much. I no longer see rhubarb through the rosy-hued glasses that bare a remarkable resemblance to the color of the stalk itself. With the exception of the following recipe, I'm not giving rhubarb much thought anymore. Instead, I shall focus my energy and attention elsewhere. Like going to Paris for a week-- a place where the only rue-ing I'll be doing is wandering the streets of that city and the only barbs I will encounter are the bons mots flung by a couple of charming and very clever friends.

Now that's the kind of rhubarb I can really get behind.

Rapaperikiisseli (Finnish Rhubarb Soup)

And why not Rapaperikiisseli? It is a word I do not understand and could never hope to pronounce. It's all bar bar to me. I've simplified the dish somewhat, omitting the need for cornstarch. It is, in a real sense, rhubarb boiled down to its essence, with just a little help from its good friends Mr. Sugar, Señor Water, and a couple of spicy numbers from down the street. It requires little in the way of time and effort, and even less in terms of thought, which is pretty much what I should have been giving rhubarb all along.

Enjoy.

Serves: 2 to 4, depending.

Ingredients:
2 cups cold water
2 cups rhubarb, chopped and peeled (reserve the peel for use, please)
1/2 cup sugar
1 cinnamon stick, whole
a pinch of ground clove
mint, if you like, for garnish (I am not one of those people who garnishes everything with mint. It just happens to work nicely in this particular case.

Preparation:
1. In a medium-sized saucepan equipped with a lid (for future use), place water and rhubarb peel. Bring to a simmer and cook the peel until the color has been leached out. Remove and discard peel.

2. Add to the now-pink water the sugar, chopped rhubarb, and cinnamon stick. Stir, bring to a simmer, and cover. Simmer until the rhubarb falls completely apart. In my experience, it will do this with some regularity over the span of a few years. In the case of this recipe, however, give it 15 minutes. Remove the cinnamon stick and let cool enough so that, when put in a blender, the top will not burst off and scald you with hot liquid.

3. When the rhubarb is blender-ready... ummm... blend. Continue to do so until it is of a smooth, even consistency. Set to chill in the refrigerator.

4. Serve chilled in appropriate serving bowls with bits of torn mint thrown over the top. Or add little fluffy clouds of whipped cream or a dollop of crème fraîche. Your choice. The rhubarb is yours to do with as you please.

When my friend Natalie asked me if I had any plans for Easter weekend, I was mildly embarrassed to admit that I hadn't. I just hadn't given it much thought this year.

"Well, you do now," she said. "Want to help plant a farm?"

Plant a farm. I couldn't think of a good reason not to. I welcomed the excuse to get outside and do something interesting, something for free. Something more than a little dirty.

It had been a while since I've weeded, hoed, or lugged 4 cubic yards of soil, but I was game for it. I just wasn't sure what I was going to wear. I haven't owned a pair of overalls since the 1980's.

It seems Natalie has gotten herself involved with an organization called MyFarm-- a business that specializes in decentralized urban farming. It's a Community Supported Agriculture organization with heavy emphasis on community. In fact, every herb and vegetable grown comes directly from community members' backyards. Want to know where your mustard greens are really coming from? Well then, go ask your neighbor. With 71 MyFarms planted at the time of this posting, you are likely to know someone who's got one.

When we arrived at the site, we were introduced around to the various MyFarm staff members and volunteers, one of whom came all the way from Santa Cruz to help.

Fortunately, there were a good many people volunteering for the day's planting. With lots of farmhands, well, on hand, the work was swift and enjoyable. I was especially grateful for our numbers when it came time to move the small mountain of soil from a gigantic pile dumped in the driveway to the garden awaiting it in the back-- through the garage, one bucket at a time. At times I pretended I as though I were an ant-- a cog in a great earth-moving machine, but without the ability to lift 25 times my own body weight or smell things through antennae. Of course, in the unseasonable warm April weather, it sometimes felt as though a large bully were holding a magnifying glass over me, trying to set me on fire.

The next time you see me, please feel free to compliment me on my newly-found shoulder muscles and red, red neck.

I was rather stunned by how smoothly everything went. From start to finish, the garden was weeded, top-soiled, dug, irrigated, and planted in less than five hours.

We were a well organized, well-oiled, and well-hydrated team-- the couple hosting the garden kept a blender of filtered water filled for us at all times. I was certain the water was placed in a blender because it was made of non-breakable materials, but I couldn't look at it without thinking that whenever I took a sip, I was drinking a water smoothie.

It was a great day spent outside. I highly recommend it to anyone with a strong back and a good attitude.

And I don't care that someone can't spell Kohlrabi, I'm just glad someone is actually planting it. In an effort to add my own special skills to the endeavor, my pleas for matching font styles on the planting tags went unheeded.

Until the next time, that is.

How MyFarm Works:

MyFarm's Vision (from the website):

At MyFarm it is our mission to make growing food and growing community one in the same. We believe in the power of the individual. But we believe true power comes from working together towards a better future for all.

We want to offer everyone in our community a chance to participate in achieving greater personal sustainability by installing local organic gardens, selling organic vegetables to neighbors and continually seeking ways for others to lend their ideas, their time and their hands to our growing organization.

Interested in hosting a farm?

Their complete list of services include:

* Initial garden set up and weekly follow up to keep your space growing.
* Organic techniques to grow nutrient rich vegetables.
* CSA style pickup a weekly box of very local edibles from a nearby neighbor.
* Permaculture techniques implemented to beautify in a sustainable way.
* Garden design consultations and networking with high quality suppliers.
* Local food feasts with chefs featuring foods from your backyard

Sign up today to host your own garden or volunteer your time-- the kohlrabi and your neighbors will thank you.

Wash, chop, sift and stir. Think only of washing, chopping, sifting and stirring. Breathe and be mindful of each slice of the knife, of each swirl of the spoon, of the magical process of cooking.

There are certain books that are such a part of one's life, that it's hard to believe that not everyone knows about them. In fact, when I sat down to write this blog post, I found it unbelievable that I have never mentioned this book to you before. 3 Bowls: Vegetarian Recipes from an American Zen Buddhist Monastery was published in 2000 and written by Seppo Ed Farrey. I bought it soon after, and have been cooking with it ever since.

Farrey is an ordained Rinzai Zen Buddhist monk and was the head chef for Dai Bosatsu Zendo in the Catskills of New York when he wrote the book. With co-author Myochi Nancy O'Hara, Farrey mixed recipes along with messages of mindful cooking, and information about Zen monasteries and their practices around food.

At first glance, 3 Bowls comes across as a slightly hippie, stuck-in-the-seventies, type of vegetarian cookbook. There are recipes such as a Quinoa-Mushroom Nut Loaf which is to be served with Nondairy Mashed Potatoes. But delve a bit deeper into the book and you find the basis for Japanese rustic cooking that has taken me a long way in the kitchen.

One of my favorite recipes from the book is a dressing that is so easy, it's almost embarrassing when people make a fuss over it. My friend Tara once mentioned on her blog that the dressing is "the kind that makes you want to lick the bowl." I had to laugh as I left the recipe in the comments: it involves one part water, one part soy sauce, one part sesame oil, and one part rice vinegar. Then I put it in a jar and shake it up. She's right -- it's an addictive flavor that I use on a constant basis.

I also love the Tofu Sashimi Platter recipe, and the Soba with Shiitake Dashi. Both are regular recipes that I find to be satisfying in taste and very healthy as well. I should mention that I am definitely not a vegetarian, but I find that many of the recipes in this book satisfy vegetarians and omnivores alike. If you'd like to try some recipes before buying, Google books has an extensive preview of 3 Bowls and you can peruse through approximately 100 pages of the book.

I'd never thought much of the carrot in terms of dessert food. Before you ask the obvious "But what about carrot cake?" question, yes, I know it exists. I just choose not to acknowledge it any longer, thanks to my volunteering to bake that particular dessert for a friend's wedding several years ago. 150 people to feed and a Barbie-sized oven left me exhausted, but proud of the mission accomplished. I have since moved on. I don't think I'd even uttered the word "carrot" in years.

And then I went to a potluck dinner at a home I once partly owned, hosted by a man I used to live with, and a dog who used to know me.

The theme of the dinner was Cal/Asian, which gave people a lot of wiggle room with savory dishes, but not so much with dessert. Whole roasted petrale soles, rices dishes, green onion pancakes and a host of other items crowded the dining room table. Just off center, however, was a bowl of bright orange that caught my attention, as though I had just spotted Lucille Ball standing in the middle of some crowded Beijing shopping center smoking a Phillip Morris-- a beautiful standout, if a little out of place amid the beige-y, earthen tones.

"I suppose I should have put that to the dessert buffet, but I didn't want to move the booze." was offered by a woman named Razili, who had brought the dish. In my brief assessment of her offering, I hadn't thought that it was a dessert.

She explained that it was a carrot pudding, or Gajar ka Halwa-- a specialty from Punjab, her family's place of origin.

"We changed it a little," she said. The milk, the cardamom, almonds for cashews.

It got me thinking about how, as Americans, we all inherit the dishes and traditions of our ancestors from their various distant origins. In my family for example, it's the cannoli. Every holiday, silver trays of the confections were placed on the table for dessert-- one studded with candied citron, the other with chocolate. While the older generations consumed the citron, the kids went for the chocolate. As the years passed and the older folks-- some of them actual Italians-- died off, so did the use of citron. The cannoli we make today are only with chocolate, to suit our Americanized tastes. They are still cannoli, just not ones my Sicilian great-grandmother would be likely to touch. They are still recognizable, but they bear the branding of adaptation, of assimilation.

I know my family isn't alone in this morphing trend. It's how we as a country traditionally have made anything "foreign" or "other" its own. Think pizza or nachos or just about anything Chinese. We take an idea from one place, adapt it to our own needs or desires (the blander version of something exotic perhaps, made with ingredients easily obtainable in our own markets), and the results are familiar, yet different.

That's how I saw Gajar ka Halwa when it was described to me-- strangely familiar (carrots and almonds), yet exotically different (dessert?). Of course, when it was being described, Razili never called it by its Punjabi name. "It's carrot pudding."

It was my favorite dish of the night. And, believe me, there were some great things on that table.

Carrot Pudding

Serves: 4

That's what I'm calling it. The ingredients are hardly exotic, unless you think cardamom is fanciful. In that case, you most likely don't have Central European, Indian, or Persian ancestors, to name a few.

It's a remarkably easy dish to prepare (if you don't mind a lot of stirring), inexpensive, and really, really delicious. I've changed Razili's recipe slightly to suit my own tastes, but of course, that's to be expected, given the sub-theme of today's post.

Ingredients:

3 cups shredded carrot
2 cups whole milk
3 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1/3 cup of sugar
10 to 15 cardamom pods or a heavy pinch of ground cardamom powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Toasted sliced almonds for garnish. I candied mine.

Preparation:

1. Melt butter in the bottom of a wide pan over medium heat. More surface area= faster cooking time, I promise. Add carrots and stir occasionally until soft and thoroughly cooked. About 5 minutes.

2. At the same time, heat milk in a saucepan or microwave, if you're that kind of person. I am, but mine broke and it's low on my priority list to replace it. Add cardamom pods to milk. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat and let the cardamom steep. Stir occasionally to prevent the milk from forming a skin.

3. Remove cardamom pods from the milk. Add milk to the cooked carrots. Stir constantly to prevent burning. Continue this form of exercise until the all the milk has absorbed/evaporated. The carrot mixture should be a little wet. About 10 -15 minutes. Add sugar and stir for another 3 minutes or so, just until the sugar has melted and absorbed. Turn off heat and stir in almond extract.

4. Place in serving bowl, top with almonds slices and serve warm. Of course, it's still really good eaten cold out of the fridge at midnight as well.

Do what you will, it's your tradition now.

What does your food look like before it gets to you? I'm not talking about shady factory-farming practices or the difference between the sunny farm on that bag of spinach versus the vast monocropped acreage of the Central Valley. No, I'm talking about something more basic: how well do you do know how familiar foods grow? Close your eyes, and imagine a field growing okra, kiwi, peanuts, or rhubarb: what do you see?

Last year, visiting the Post Familie winery in northwest Arkansas, I spied what I thought were tall, pretty flowers growing among the beans and tomatoes in the family garden. Up close, those six-foot-tall flowering stalks turned out to okra plants, with the sharply pointed pods curving back behind the wide petals. I didn't know until I became an apprentice at UCSC's Farm & Garden program that kiwis were harvested in the winter from thick, heavy vines, trellised like grapes. Or that asparagus spears push straight out of the bare ground, later unfurling into lacy, fernlike fronds that look like fairy-sized Christmas trees dappled with red berries.

You never know when a little bit of education will take you by surprise. I was taking a Sunday-afternoon stroll along Cortland Street, looking forward to the April 9 opening of Blue Elephant Thai in the old Tinderbox space, admiring Heartfelt's cute aprons and vintage glassware ("have a lemonade party!" suggested a cheery sign) and contemplating a daytime cocktail down in the secret garden of Wild Side West, only to be overtaken by a yen for Fiat Majani chocolates. When I lived in Bologna, I used to go around the corner to buy these suave hazelnutty squares, a specialty of the city; now, on the other side of another continent, they're still available around the corner, at Avedano's Holly Park Market.

Butchery is Avedano's reason for living (whole carcasses broken down weekly, the latest issue of Meatpaper on display, "I Love You More than Bacon" buttons by the register) but they're pretty savvy at filling out the menu with Italian chocolates, fresh baguettes, eggs from Soul Food Farm's happy hens, even a few baskets of well-polished potatoes and lemons.

But what were these fuzzy oval things in a basket above the baby artichokes? They looked like green almonds (but too skinny) or mutant edamame (only too chubby). Green garbanzos, the sign read, $6/lb, and it struck me that never before had I seen garbanzo beans (a.k.a. chickpeas) in their fresh, unprocessed state, before they'd been rattled into cans or dried to wrinkled golden bullets.

Had I lived in Mexico, though, I'd know these as guasana, a popular and very common snack, with a flavor somewhere between fava beans and green peas, with perhaps just a hint of down-South boiled peanut. Like edamame, they're typically steamed in the pod, then sucked out one bean at a time. According to Chowhound posters in Jalisco and Guanajuato, home cooks buy huge bunches of the whole plant, then strip the pods from the stems before steaming them in salted water until bright green and tender. Street vendors steam the pods over braziers and sell them by the bag, the outsides sprinkled with lime, chili, and salt. Andy Griffin of Mariquita Farm wrote a rueful journal entry a few years ago about his farm foreman's attempt to grow (and sell) fresh garbanzos to relocated Jaliscans expecting to pay Mexican prices for a California crop.

Mark Benedetto, a private vegan chef in San Francisco, identified my green handful without even needed to pop a pod. Seems he's been getting his green garbanzos, at $2/lb, from the Asian market at 22nd Avenue and Irving Street in the Sunset. He treats them like favas, nipping them from their pods, then steaming in lightly salted water. Once they'd lost their slightly chalky rawness, he tosses them in a pan with olive oil and a little minced garlic, rolling them around over medium heat until the garlic is just beginning to golden. Then, a quick buzz in the processor to a chunky puree, a little salt, pepper, and lemon juice--"like hummus without the tahini," as he describes it--and he's got a gorgeous spring-green mash ready to be spread on warmed pita bread.

Another idea, if you have a lot? Grind them to make falafel instead of the usual soaked-but-raw dried beans. Since only the outside of the balls fry (the insides steam), they'll keep a lot of their fresh, green-pea flavor.

I like a challenge as much as the next person. Cooking without any meat, dairy or eggs is a pretty big challenge for me, but every once in a while I do go vegan. My problem with most vegan cookbooks is they tend to veer off into the realm of meat substitutes. Frankly, if I want to eat meat, I will, so I prefer more creative approaches.

To get inspired and learn new cooking techniques there are two cookbooks I rely on, Veganomicon and The Accidental Vegan. Veganomicon was written by Isa Chandra Moskowitz and Terry Hope Romero, two hipsters and founders of the Post Punk Kitchen. Some great recipes from the book include Pasta e Fagioli and Chickpeas Romesco.

The Accidental Vegan by Devra Gartenstein features recipes that are very straightforward and easy to cook. They are definitely the type of recipes that will make you forget you are not eating meat. The Greek Lentil Soup, Szechuan Noodle Salad, Fennel Tapenade and Baba Ganoush recipes are all keepers. Sadly many of the dessert recipes often use non-hydogenated margarine which does not appeal to me.

I spoke to author, teacher and dietician, Jill Nussinow the "Veggie Queen" to to get her thoughts on the subject:

"I think that the big key to going vegan is to make food taste great no matter what. Many ethnic dishes are or can be vegan easily -- think Thai (minus fish sauce and substitute tamari or Bragg's liquid amino acids), Mexican minus the cheese, Indian, Japanese, Chinese. Classic combos such as rice, beans and tortillas are vegan. The salsa and guacamole are too."

"Use the freshest food that that you can buy and don't expect anything to taste like meat because it doesn't. One of the worst things to do is buy vegan cheese or some kind of meat substitute and think that it's going to be the same as eating whatever it resembles, at least by name."

Here are my tips for incorporating more vegan meals into your diet:

Cook Asian & Middle Eastern Food
These cuisines are loaded with easy vegan dishes such as Hummus, Thai Style Vegetable Curry, Tofu Stir Fried with Shiitake Mushrooms and Chinese Peas.

Concoct Creamy Soups
Making soup is a great way to use a variety of vegetables. Pureeing cooked corn, black beans or potatoes will yield a creamy soup without any dairy.

Build Hearty Salads
Salads made from ingredients like avocados, bulgur, edamame and shredded vegetables are anything but rabbit food.

Don't Forget to Snack!
Dips and spreads made from beans, nuts, and even roasted vegetables can be tasty and nutritious.

Invest in Olive Oil
Olive oil adds flavor and nutrition and can often be used in place of butter. Try it in mashed potatoes, popcorn and on garlic bread.

If you have tips of your own, feel free to leave them in the comments section.