• cauliflower potato soup

    Our internet went out this weekend. There was a lot of rain and a little lightening, and boom, the towers that connect me to you went down.

    It wasn’t too bad, actually. We still had electricity, and that’s what really counts. Besides, the message on our internet company’s answering machine said I would be able to resume my addictive habits by Monday afternoon at the latest. That took the sting out of the loss. With an appointed end time to my forced internet abstinence, I was no longer in purgatory.

    Still, I took my laptop to church on Sunday, and after the service I sat out in the parking lot to see if there was any accessible wireless waves floating around in the air. There weren’t. On our way out of town, I kept the laptop on my knees so I could see my options. When a new server popped up with the name “getyourowndamnwifi,” I laughed till my eyes watered.

    We ended up pulling into a bagel shop parking lot just long enough for me to check mail. I felt subversive, huddled in the front seat of our van full of hungry kids, the windshield wipers flapping back and forth in the pouring rain. Ten minutes of internet were all I needed, and it was all I got.

    It was rainy again yesterday (there was even some snow!), so I made soup for supper. One of Ree’s latest recipes was floating around in my subconscious, and I had a bag of red potatoes on the counter and a freezer full of frozen cauliflower (and no great ideas about how to get my kids to love it), so a giant pot of potato cauliflower soup felt positively providential. Plus, the internet was back up so I was able to actually find the recipe so I could cook it.

    Ree’s recipe looked ridiculously rich (no surprise there). I figured I’d tweak it as I went along. But you know what? Even though I changed the proportions, added potatoes, and fiddled with the method, I didn’t cut back on the half-and-half, butter, or sour cream at all. The soup needed that richness—who wants a watery cauliflower soup?—and the sour cream gave the soup a marvelous punchy kick.

    Cauliflower Potato Soup
    Adapted from Ree’s blog Pioneer Woman Cooks

    The soup was a bit brothy. Next time, I’ll cut back on the liquid and/or increase the vegetables. I wrote out the recipe to take into account those changes.

    2 onions, diced
    4 stalks of celery, diced
    1 pound carrots, chopped or in slices
    2 pounds frozen cauliflower chunks (or two fresh heads, chopped)
    4-8 cups potato, small cubes
    1 stick butter, divided
    6-8 tablespoons flour
    2 cups milk
    1 cup half-and-half
    6-8 cups chicken broth
    1 tablespoon parsley
    3-4 teaspoons salt
    ½ teaspoon black pepper
    1 cup sour cream

    Melt 4 tablespoons of butter in a large stockpot and add the celery and onions. Saute until tender—about 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium low, add the carrots, cauliflower, and potatoes, and cook, covered, for about 15 minutes.

    While the vegetables are cooking, make the white sauce. Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons of butter in another pan and whisk in the flour. Whisk in the milk and bring to a gentle boil, stirring steadily. Off heat, whisk in the half-and-half. Set aside.

    Increase the heat under the vegetables to medium high and add the broth. Simmer until the vegetables are tender. Add the white sauce and seasonings.

    Measure the sour cream into a mixing bowl. Add a scoop of hot soup and whisk to combine. Add several more scoops and stir until smooth. Pour the sour cream-rich soup back into the pot. Taste to correct seasonings.

    This same time, years previous: me and you, and the radishes (but it’s actually on blogging, and I still agree 100 percent with what I said back then—in other words, I still struggle)

  • the quotidian (4.23.12)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace 
    trampoline highs
    granola: she takes mise en place to a whole new level
    for all you non sourdough starter bakers: a new kind of bread I’m working on

    an after-dinner snooze: he woke up when I went to get my camera.
    “Go back to sleep,” I said. “I need to take a picture.”
    So he did.

    after watching Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale: pretending to be Hermione, the Queen of Sicilia

    longing for her own pair of black boots: I promised her I’ll be on the look-out
    cousin love
    all. over. the. place.
    eating our hearts out
    (which sounds pretty gory, now that I come to think of it)
    in the grape arbor with Charles Schultz
    now the day is over: one of my favorite songs (mute the stupid ad)

    This same time, years previous: my lot, rhubarb crunch, bacon-wrapped jalapenos, honey-baked chicken

  • therapy

    My well of creativity has run dry. All week long I’ve had nothing to say, and I still don’t. I don’t even really feel like blog-chatting.

    I mean, I want to chat, but I have no idea about what.

    I get this way about life in general, in which case it’s called “boredom.” When General Apathy takes over (usually every day around 3 pm), I kick start myself by calling up a friend and asking what she’s making for supper, what gossip she knows (yes, I’m naughty), and whether or not she’s had any profound thoughts as of late.

    If I’m lucky, she’s in a rambly mood and soon I’m puttsing around the house emptying the dish drainer, cleaning off the table clutter, maybe even setting a pot of rice to cook, all the while the phone smashed between my shoulder and ear. By the time I hit the “end” button, I’m smiling, my brain is jumping with ideas, and I have a renewed energy to do what needs to be done.

    When I get in a funk, bloggy-wise, I don’t call anyone. I stew and mope and feel bad about myself in general.

    About a week ago, Joy did a post on Ten (Super Rad) Blog Post Ideas. She had a lot of good suggestions, like to do a how-to post, or a day-in-the-life post, or a best-of post, but I can’t (don’t, won’t) just pull that stuff out of my hat. Which brings me to the next point.

    I am incapable of coming up with those extremely popular top ten lists. I struggle to generate basic metaphors or lists of three, you know, where you say the dude at the checkout counter was pimply, greasy-haired, and, and, and—oh crap, I don’t know what.

    So anyway, I deal with this running-on-empty state of being by doing one of two things: a) nothing, which is deeply unsatisfying and makes me feel like I’m turning into a soggy lump of moldy bread, and b) disciplining myself to type words dagnabbit, itdoesnotmatterwhatwordstheyare. But that feels egocentric and myopic and narcissistic—all those words that are kind of bad but I’m not exactly sure what they mean but I’m probably being them, you know?—because who the heck wants to read a self-discipline session? Exactly.

    The bigger issue, the thing that drains me and pulls me down, is that I wish I could spin long, heartfelt, humorous, profound posts like some amazingly gifted people. It’s not going to happen, though, because I don’t have all those weighty thoughts and because it takes all my mental powers and then some to come up with the 600 concise and meaningful words about eggs (or something equally ordinary) that’s due every other week for the paper. I can only do so much.

    Yesterday on my way to an appointment to keep me from turning into a wooly mammoth (otherwise known as a haircut), I tuned into NPR just in time to year the end of a talk show in which they were discussing writerly matters. It was kind of hard to hear what they were saying because our van is missing its antenna, but I did make out the guest’s main point which was: don’t worry about being, or not being, like other people—get to know your own voice and develop your own style. Which is kind of scary because what if my voice is irrelevant, or really hoarse, or worse yet, annoyingly shrill?

    In spite of my scary panic thoughts, I found his advice to be both soothing and freeing. I am what I am and that’s that. (Brilliant, I know.) I’ll just go on wiping up the sticky spots on the floor and calling my girlfriends and making myself type words when I don’t feel like it.

    Happy Friday, dearies!

    This same time, years previous: ground pork and white bean chili, chocolate ice cream, baked spaghetti, chocolate mayonnaise cake, a dirt pile