Soaring Through Blue

the seemingly endless poverty of greenness




I opened the fridge the other day, and there, waiting for me, were nothing but root vegetables.

Knobby, pale, faded, hairy, starting to wither, endless root vegetables. Mocking me, I felt.

"Here we are," they intoned. They reminded me of the old men at the corner bar, nearly sliding off their stools, grizzled chins unshaven for days on end and stained with tobacco juice, gums spottily peppered with occasional molars. "We're all you've got. Love it or leave it, sister."

Sigh.

Of course, I made the choice, again, to love them. It's just that it's not with the same throbbing intensity as I had in December, when they were fresh and nubile and bursting with promise, not yet worn of welcome. Then, all things seemed possible. Then, my tongue yearned for their earthy flavors. Then, my teeth slavered for their bitey crunch.

Now?

Now, PapaChef and I attempt, courageously, to soldier on until the first verdant freshness appears in the farmers market. At this moment, I'm not sure that moment will ever come. Did we once dream that there was fresh asparagus for less than $8.99 a pound? Was it a figment of our imagination that there was ever a wee forest of sweet, verdant broccoli trees awaiting our eager lips, at the farmers market?

I just don't know.

Meanwhile, we are eating root vegetables and trying not to keep hope alive, joyfully. We've had them steamed, broiled, baked, roasted, souped, pureed, pureed in soup, stuffed, wrapped in bacon, wrapped in duck bacon, raw, cooked, salted, sugared, carmelized, basted with duck fat and wrapped in caul fat, stuffed into pork roasts, stuffed with pork roasts, and slivered. We're running out of ideas.

You see, we wouldn't dream of buying berries or corn at this time of year. Most people would just go out and buy the things they desire, but we? We hold off until those things are available locally. We eat what farmers dig out of the rich earth, in sleet and snow, through piles of slush and in torrents of cold, drizzly rain, for us. We snatch what we can from their bounty of wintry bounty.

You see, we like it this way.

In the meantime, we supplement with pomegranates, kiwis, Meyer lemons, regular lemons, lemon grass, blood oranges, green beans for Thanksgiving dinner, bok choi from the Japanese market, and avocados and carrots from California. How would we cook without those foods? Eating locally is fine in concept but in reality, we crave variety, exoticness, a change of pace.

But, March? Oh, March, you are so beastly cruel, taunting us with the briefest of spring titillations, only to quash our hopes with yet another shower of icily grim snowflakes, another pelting of acrid, biting sleet. You vanquish all hope of silken warmth, of crisp lettuces, of flirty tomatoes and hot, sensuous sunshine.

"My love, I cannot do it," PapaChef intoned to me. "I would rather starve than eat another parsnip. I'd rather waste away to nothing than eat another root vegetable. I'd rather eat dirt. I can't do it. I can't."

But we did, and we smiled gamely while we crunched away.

We had to.

You see, it is time to tell this story again. Every March, this is my blog. Tradition? Necessity? Both? Whatever, it is a story that must be told, and retold, and retold again, and again. I've learned to relax into it.

Breathe.

Yes. Breathe.

Last week, however, after lazing around the house until after noon, finally getting ourselves to the farmers market, we found one lone, miniscule bag of miner's lettuce, for $6. The green glinted bright in the dim light that was obscured by a scrim of snow clouds low in the sky.

We threw ourselves upon it, lunging, pushing several people out of our way and batting at two small children and a stray dog as we clawed our way to our treasure. We wondered briefly, if that, what else we had missed by not getting there a lot sooner but our bodies had told us that we needed to lay in bed half the day reading the paper and drinking coffee. And if I've learned anything, it is that my body must be listened to, and obeyed. So, here we were.

We stretched that tiny bag of lettuce all week, making teeny salads trailing leaves and filling in the rest of the meal by eating more pork. My body said that was okay.

And so we drag ourselves forward, one step, one bite, one swallow at a time, beleagueredly partaking of knobby, hairy root vegetables, and dreaming.

Dreaming of spring.

Spring that may never come.



Breathe, again.





Root Vegetable Medley

Open refrigerator. Check bins for root vegetables. If there are none, go to the farmers market and ask Potato Guy what he has dug out of the sleet and snow for you this week, then buy it, begrudgingly. Stop at the grocery store on the way home for the other things you will need.

Get a pan screaming hot, as PapaChef adores saying. Add one cup of bacon fat from Wooly Hog Farms, if you can get it; otherwise, use the absolute best bacon fat you can get your hands on in your area. Cut the root vegetables up into manageable pieces. Not too small, or they will get lost on the plate; not too big, or people will gag on them. Tumble them into the pan, making sure each has enough room to breathe and be comfortable.

While they are growing browned, wash and cut up broccoli, green beans, bok choi, fresh spinach, and lemon grass. Nestle these chunks into the pan.

Add additional bloops of bacon fat, as needed, and a small tossing of sea salt, to taste. Cook until the root vegetables are al dente. The green vegetables will cook down into the bacon fat and will form a delicious gravy for the root vegetables, which are the late winter stars of this dish.

Feeds 1. (Me.)