The wind whistles and shrieks, whipping the snow into such a froth that for several moments at a time it feels we are living in a cloud. The porch swing thumps eerily against the side of the house and a dangling phone wire lashes the north side of the house like it means to inflict serious harm.

We are prepared for the power to go out: glass jars are filled with water, the floors are swept, the children are bathed, a load of laundry is drying by the fire. The kids walk around with flashlights, nervous they’ll be left in the dark. I check email obsessively, wanting to be totally up-to-date (though on what, I’m not sure) when our internet tower blows over and leaves me in the dark yet again.

I was marveling to Mr. Handsome tonight that it’s such a big deal when we are actually hindered by something bigger than us—in this case a snowstorm. People the world over deal with this type of disruption on a daily basis and it’s often much worse, I said, and I was thinking about the Bosnian war, the Indonesian tsunami, the Haitian earthquake.

But, he pointed out, it’s usually not because of snow—it’s transportation or not enough money or what have you.

Yes, I said, but we aren’t used to having to give up anything. We come and go whenever we want.

But not now, we don’t, no sirreebob. We are frozen stock-still in our tracks.

It’s a different place to be.

We moved to a small town in West Virginia when I was twelve, into a nondescript ranch house up on a hill. There were several other families with children on our street. Directly across from us were two boys my brothers’ ages, and up at the top of the street on the corner were two more families, both with girls my age. Brian’s grandparents lived partway up the street, and summer nights when he was visiting them, we would often get some rip-roaring games going, like Kick the Can and Street Football. (It sounds positively provincial, I realize, like I lived back in the Good Old Days. The days weren’t all good, and back then the days didn’t feel old at all, but we did have fun sometimes, I’ll warrant that much.)

Ritu’s family lived in one of the corner houses. They were Hindus, and I think her parents moved to the states when her father was in medical school back before Ritu was born. He did all his office work in his bedroom and I recall peeking my head in the door and seeing him sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, piles of papers spread out on the sheets around him.

The father’s mother—we all called her Mhatigee (I’m sure I’m butchering the spelling)—lived with the family. She dressed in traditional Indian garb, watched lots of static-y Hindi movies filled with red and gold gods, warble-y, strange-tempo-ed singing, and fake flying red arrows. She spoke only Hindi and I learned to greet her by saying namaste. She always smiled at me in return, quietly and gently, and I wonder now, wasn’t she dreadfully sad and homesick? Almost every day Ritu’s mother would drive Mhatigee the mile to the middle school so she could walk around the track, and Ritu told me her grandmother ate raw ginger every day because it was good for her.

Ritu’s mother, Vim, was always in her kitchen (I suppose my kids’ friends would say the same thing about me), and she even had transformed one of the kitchen cabinets into a makeshift alter: on more than one occasion I sat at the bar and watched as she draped a clean tea towel over her head, opened the brown, particle board cupboard door, lit incense and mumbled some prayers under her breath. (I have no hidden alters in my kitchen cupboards, but I do occasionally tie a clean towel over my freshly-washed hair to ward off the pervasive stink of frying onions, and when I stand in front of the spice cabinet, I sometimes talk to myself.)

Vim was forever cooking, it seemed. I got to sample all sorts of Indian delicacies—chapatis, milk candy, dhal, fried okra, samosas—but of course back then I had no idea how outrageously fortunate I was. And when I started obsessively dieting, I took to turning down her food which was not only stupid, but also horribly rude. I am still ashamed of myself.

I learned to make chai tea by watching Vim. She simmered a pan of milk for a long time (twenty minutes? forty?), added a couple tea bags and some spices and steeped it awhile longer before finally straining it and adding some sugar. (At least, that’s how I remember it.) It was delicious, rich and pungent. Since then I have made chai tea many times, but I usually skip the simmering milk step out of laziness even though I know that the simmered milk would make the resulting tea much richer and sweeter. Either way though, I’ve always found made-from-scratch chai to be worlds above the boxed concentrate. There’s just something about whole spices and freshly steeped tea that can not be imitated.

During the big storm last week our internet tower went down and left me wireless and web-less so since surfing the web for recipe ideas wasn’t an option, I turned to my stacks of cookbooks and food magazines for inspiration. I found what I was looking for (though I didn’t know I was looking for it when I first started looking) on page 47 of the most recent issue of Bon Appetit: Chai-Spiced Hot Chocolate. I had missed the recipe on my first read-through of the magazine because there was no picture—it was down on the bottom of the page like a last minute addition.

I read the recipe through once, twice, and then leaped into action. I was waylaid for a few minutes while I dug through my spice cabinet(s) in search of whole allspice and cardamom (I probably talked to myself, too, but I wasn’t wearing a dishtowel on my head), but I finally found everything, gave a triumphant whoop, and got to work.

This is not anything like Vim’s chai tea, probably because Vim’s chai had black tea in place of chocolate—a rather key switcheroo when you take all things into consideration—but even so, it tastes very much like chai. In fact, it reminds me of an Eastern version of Mexican hot chocolate. The spice is pronounced, but the rich creamy chocolate keeps me coming back for more. The drink is invigorating and comforting, all in the same swallow.

Chai-Spiced Hot Chocolate
Adapted from the February 2010 issue of Bon Appetit

Do not use rich milk or cream to make this drink. As Lebovitz points out, when you increase the fat content of the milk when making hot cocoa, you detract from the richness of the chocolate, and the chocolate is the point of this drink.

I cut back on the raw ginger in the recipe, but if your are like Mhatigee and like a daily dose of raw ginger, increase the quantity to your liking. Also, the original recipe called for grating the ginger that is used to flavor the whipped cream, but I minced mine instead.

I toyed with the idea of giving you the ground spice substitutions, but decided against it because the flavor would be totally different. I suggest that you make this with whole allspice and cardamom and fresh ginger, or not at all. Sorry to be so contrary, but I think Vim would agree with me—in this case whole spices are a necessity for whole flavor. (I used a morter and pestle to crack my spices, but you could slip them into a bag, lay the bag on top of a cutting board, and then whack the spices with a rolling pin. Either way gets the job done just fine.)

The black pepper was a bit bite-y, which I liked, but if you’re pepper shy, then cut it back to 1/4 teaspoon.

4 cups low-fat milk (1 or 2 percent)
3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
10 cardamom pods, cracked
½ teaspoon whole allspice, cracked
2 cinnamon sticks, broken in half
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
4 quarter-sized coins of fresh ginger, peeled, plus ½ teaspoon grated ginger
5 tablespoons brown sugar, divided
1 teaspoon vanilla, divided
½ cup heavy whipping cream
ground cinnamon, for garnish

In a medium-sized saucepan, combine the milk, chocolate, cardamom, allspice, cinnamon, black pepper, ginger coins, and 1/4 cup brown sugar. Heat the milk almost to the boiling point (but do not boil), stirring frequently to prevent the chocolate from sticking to the bottom. Remove the kettle from the heat, clap on a lid, and let it steep for 10 minutes.

While the chocolate is steeping, make the whipped cream. Whip together the cream, the 1 remaining tablespoon of brown sugar, the ½ teaspoon of minced ginger, and ½ teaspoon vanilla till soft peaks form.

To serve, pour the chocolate through a strainer and discard the spices. Add the remaining ½ teaspoon of vanilla to the chocolate and stir to combine. Ladle the chocolate into mugs, top with plenty of gingered whipped cream, and dust lightly with ground cinnamon.

Serves 4 to 8, depending on the size of the mugs.

About one year ago: My Me-Me List

I have no ads on my blog, no giveaways, no nothing that could possibly give me any mullah. I want people to hang out here for the same reason I do—because it’s interesting and fun and maybe a even a tiny bit challenging (it’s challenging to me for sure; for others, probably not so much). That I’m not trying to make any money is intentional—this is strictly (for now) a creative outlet. I don’t want anyone’s money, though I suppose I wouldn’t say no if someone were to hand me a check for a hundred dollars.

I had that happen to me once. Seriously! I was walking across a college campus—I wasn’t even a student—and some guy stopped me, waved a slip of paper and a wadded up shirt in my face and said If I give you a hundred dollars, would you wear this shirt? I stopped in my tracks, turned to stare at him, and then burst out laughing. It was the only sensible thing to do. Next I put him through a rigorous Q & A session and learned he was a scout for a downtown jewelry store—the t-shirt had the jeweler’s logo on it. Me, a non-jewelry person, becoming a walking billboard for a jeweler? HA! I took the money (said thank you), marched downtown, and confronted the jeweler himself. Everything was on the up and up, he said, so I took the money (said thank you, again) and sent it to the community women’s group that I had helped to form while living in Nicaragua. I figured they could use a bit of random luck more than I could.

Yet despite intentionally trying not to earn money from this blog, it has been a profitable venture in a roundabout, non-monetary-focused sort of way. It’s pretty simple, really. People read my ramblings and then somehow become inspired to give me things. Nifty, no? Either they feel sorry for me, or they’re worried about me, or they want to improve me, or they just have the Splendid Giving Bug. In any case, I’m surprised and delighted every single time. (And no, I am not posting this in hopes of tugging on your purse strings.)

Here are a few examples of what this blog has earned me so far: a candle, a zero-turn mower, a tablecloth, a subscription to Bon Appetit, pretty little plates (here’s one), not to mention all the recipe ideas and suggestions, and the encouragements and questions, etc. I’ve also inadvertently gotten some extra jobs—said one reader, I see you have quite the collection of Asian ingredients—how would you like to cook something Asian for our fundraiser dinner? (I said yes, but we ending up deciding on something about as un-Asian as you can get) and said yet another reader, I see you like to write—would you do a lectionary devotional for the church? (I said yes, and I’m still in the torturous process of paying the consequences.)

However, my most recent profit came about in the form of a large pot of lentils. After reading about the Lentil Wars, my friend MAC decided to help me win my family members over to the legume-loving side by bringing me some of the lentils she makes for her sophisticated lentil-loving family. I was going to meet her husband in town to pick them up (they live on the opposite side of the Burg as us), but then it snowed and she decided to drive them out to my house, on her daughter’s birthday, no less (this is called Going Above and Beyond). And then when she walked in to the house lugging a ginormous kettle of tiny lentils and brown rice and a separate container filled with feta cheese and I went to the cupboard to get a container to take out enough for our supper, she positively snapped at me.

“What are you doing?”

I told her, and she shook her head rather severely. “No. I have three kettles like this one at home—I don’t need it back any time soon.”

I peered at her, slightly incredulous. I hadn’t been concerned about the kettle so much as the tremendous quantity of food that was in it—it was like gallons of lentils and cups of feta. But she would have none of it and I wasn’t about to argue—it smelled delicious (and it was, though my family has not been swayed).

Now you would think that I would post the lentil recipe right about now, but I’m not going to. I am, however, going to post another recipe of MAC’s—a soup that she made for us after Sweetsie was born. I remember sitting around our kitchen table, back at our old house, with my three little ones (all under four years of age—yikes! how did I DO it!) scarfing down the soup like I was starving, or at least breastfeeding. It was creamy and corny, with nubby bits of wild rice throughout and smoked sausage for exclamation points.

When I asked her for the recipe, she said, “Sure, as long as you promise not to take it to anybody at church.” (Huh?) “It’s the meal I always make when I take people dinner and I don’t want someone else to steal my recipe.” (Okay, honey. I will not cook this for anyone at church. Cross my heart.)

I’m posting the recipe here (I have her permission), but I’m warning you: if you go to my church, you may not EVER, under ANY circumstances, make this soup as part of a carry-in dinner for fellow church-goers. You can, however, make it for yourself all you want.

The recipe, like MAC, is generous—it makes a kettle full. Enjoy!

Corn and Wild Rice Soup with Smoked Sausage
Adapted from MAC’s recipe, and I think she got it from Epicurious

This last time around I made a few changes, most notably that I used barley instead of wild rice; while I prefer the wild rice for it’s texture and color, the barley was fine. I also added chipotle powder, cilantro, and smoked sea salt, none of which are necessary, but all of which are delicious.

3 quarts chicken broth
1 pound smoked kielbasa sausage
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 medium onions, diced
3 carrots, diced
6 cups corn
7 ounces wild rice (or 1 ½ cups uncooked barley)
1 ½ cups half-and-half (I used raw cream)
½ teaspoon smoked sea salt
1 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon chipotle pepper
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
½ cup fresh cilantro or parsley, chopped

Cook the wild rice (or barley) with one quart of the chicken broth: bring it to a boil and then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for about 30-45 minutes until the rice is tender and the liquid is mostly absorbed.

While the rice is cooking, chop the sausage into smallish bits and saute in the oil on medium high heat. After about five minutes, add the onions and carrots and saute for another five minutes. Add one quart of chicken broth and simmer for about 15 minutes, or until the carrots are tender.

Put three cups of corn into a blender with the last quart of chicken broth. Whiz thoroughly.

Add the creamed corn, cooked rice (plus its cooking liquid), chipotle powder, salts, and black pepper to the sausage mixture and heat through. Turn the burner off and add the half-and-half. Stir in the fresh cilantro and taste to correct seasonings.

Yield: five or six quarts, I believe.

About one year ago: style, and my struggle with chocolate biscotti