Don't have to

We recently had dinner with Andi and Adam, who told us about Carter's latest behavior. When they ask her to do something she's not particularly keen on, Carter responds, "Don't have to," then continues going on about her business. This strikes me as a wonderfully succinct summary of the new phase of life Carter is moving into, where she'll exhibit some defiant behavior as she starts forming her own opinions about things.

 

Of course, having an opinion doesn't stop when you're two, so we've taken Carter's example and made "Don't have to" the new rallying cry around here. Ask Brad a question at family dinner designed to start a conversation he's not interested in having? "Don't have to." Ask me to plan some activity I don't want to do? "Don't have to." You get the idea. For some reason, though, this has proven to be a less effective strategy for a fully formed adult than I imagine it to be for Carter.

*********

Gareth Bale

Reading articles about the Welsh soccer star Gareth Bale's refusal to take a cut in his massive £500,000-a-week wages so that he could move on from Real Madrid, where he was exiled to the bench, I thought back to the two Champions League games in 2010 when the then-21-year-old Bale crushed the defending champions Inter Milan and wondered if I'd make the same choice to get paid to sit out while my prodigious speed and skills eroded.

 

Gareth Bale

 

sits smirking and yawning in the stands with
his teammates, the same ones he disenchanted
in a particularly apathetic appearance, the last straw
for his coach, Zinedine Zidane, who never gave, and
can’t accept, less than maximum effort. Mind you,

this is the same coach for whom Bale almost
single-handedly won the Champions League final
two years earlier, impelling Los Blancos into the lead with a
recumbent bicycle kick just three minutes after coming on,
then adding the insurance goal nineteen minutes later,

the same coach who exited his last game in a red mist
before it ended, after flattening Marco Materazzi with
a precise thrust of his bald pate into the brutish defender’s
solar plexus, because Materazzi said he’d rather have
Zidane’s sister than his shirt after the match. Oh Zizou,

how cliché, but you fell for it anyway, then watched
that clown Materazzi bury his spot kick before smooching
the World Cup trophy you trudged past on your way off the pitch,
after Trezeguet missed the penalty you might have taken,
having scored one early in the match, only to be undone

by Materazzi’s (always him!) towering header. Is this
who we are? The headbutt, rather than the Golden Ball,
collecting half a mil weekly to ride the pine, just
two years removed from being the hero of Kiev?
Bashō understood that enlightenment is a path, not a

destination (which sounds like something Mom would say).

Relish the joys along the passage—spinning through

a Zidane roulette to avoid befuddled defenders,

bursting past Maicon down the left wing with unrivaled
speed and power—wherever it takes you.

*********

Father's Day

 On the first anniversary of Grandpa Guy's death:

Father’s Day

  Death Certificate I

Item 7A—
City and state of birth (if not USA, Country and Region/Province):
Tianjin, China.
Thirteen years there before the Civil War
liberated you from your birthplace,
diasporating your clan to the four corners:
New York, San Francisco, Italy, Australia.
I guess they couldn’t have liked each other
that much, but you wouldn’t know from
all the stories that lasted another seventy-two years,
longer, for sure, than your Chinese,
except for the cuss words.


  Monday Evenings

we chatted.
Real football first: Serie A, Roma, and Lecce
before the guileless Premier League you preferred.
Then all manner of New York teams:
Giants, Jets, Mets, Yankees, Islanders.
Forget the putrid Knicks and pro hoops 
but college for sure, including every second of every
UCONN women’s game (even the 50-point blowouts),
as well as UVA’s magical run during
one last March Madness.
Spring was lax season too,
despite the Blue Jays’ long drought.
Every week the tally from last Friday’s poker game,
mostly winning, while needling the MAGA crowd
as only you could, till political talk was banned
to keep friendships intact. Some black humor
about how you were spending my inheritance.
Many times recycling the old tales,
especially China and the Army,
but occasionally one I hadn’t heard.
And always, always, memories of Mom, like
hardly a day had passed in seven years.
Ending with the play-by-play of whatever
game or old movie you had on at the time.
Monday evenings,
K tracked me down to wheedle a back rub
while we chatted. Now I can hardly give one,
since I can’t do the other anymore.


  Death Certificate II

Part I of item 30—
Immediate cause of death:
Cardiopulmonary arrest.
Approximate interval between onset and death:
Six minutes.
That’s the certifying physician’s guess,
anyway.
Lying on the floor of the den,
bile and blood dribbling down
your chin, dripping
onto the cross
I washed off
and keep in a lockbox
with your watch and wallet,
were the six minutes, give or take,
enough for last thoughts?
That the baseboard needed dusting,
or I’ll just rest here a minute,
or did you know and imagine joining Mom?
Or was it just the shackles squeezing
your heart too tight, only
pain and blackness taking hold?
There’s no box on the form for the doctor
to speculate about that,
anyway.


  Father’s Day

Heading out on a run, who knows what I’ll see,
now that the critters aren’t getting run over so much?
A few weeks ago, sauntering
right down the middle of Stoney Creek Drive,
it was a yearling bear, blasé at my arrival.
Two days later, a red fox gave me the hairy eyeball
in front of the deserted UVA Chapel.
Today it was just a gaggle of geese. But I wish
everything was so funny as the guard goose,
standing on one foot, one wing cocked,
hissing at me through a minacious serrated tongue,
then looking confused when I returned fire.
I wonder if you would have found humor in this, too,
but then I think maybe it’s better you never had to try.

Rosebush

I've lately been looking to poetry for perspective and have a couple of good sources in Ted Kooser's American Life in Poetry columns and the Poetry Unbound podcast that Uncle Clint recommended. I don't have the patience for most podcasts, but the Poetry Unbound episodes are only about 8 to 10 minutes each (and some shorter than that). In his fine Irish brogue, the poet and theologian Pádraig Ó Tuama reads, and comments on, a single poem in each episode. The first 16 episodes have all been worthwhile, but I particularly enjoyed the fifth episode on Tracy K. Smith's exquisite poem "Song."

Dylan also unwittingly introduced me to the Spoken Word Poetry (isn't all poetry "spoken word poetry"?) of Rudy Francisco through his 2017 volume Helium. I can't say the book as a whole did much for me, but I did relate to the poem “Ouch,” in which the poet injures himself just walking and muses that “At this age, / my body is a stranger that I / keep meeting over and over again. / The words ‘I am’ are slowly transforming / into ‘I used to be.’” Here is Francisco reciting the whole poem (it only lasts a minute):



But take a look at this dude! I looked it up and he was only thirty-five when “Ouch” was published. Good grief, Rudy, wait till you see what life has to offer when you're fifty-five.

*********

Rosebush


My running peaked at fifty,
through the alchemy of age-grading,
till I tore my right hamstring in 2014.
The left one followed three years later.
From a young fifty to a cascade of complaints:
arthritic spine;
a chestful of grief;
a shoulder stabbing in the night (though I haven’t
thrown the horsehide in anger since I was ten);
the accumulating allergies, democratically covering
all seasons and places, inside and out—
Dust mites (the terrible D. pteronyssinus,
like some microscopic dinosaur up my nose),
spring white oak, fall common ragweed,
wasp, yellow jacket, yellow hornet, and
the white- or bald-faced hornet (D. maculata),
to match the bald spot Cassie pointed out in my
otherwise still thick, albeit more gray than not, hair,
mocking me in snapshots taken from the back.

The other day I sat on our bedroom floor,
pressing tissues to a toe on each foot, to stanch
the blood pooling around my just-clipped nails.
K stopped and looked, curious.
“I gotta lot of thorns in my side,” I sighed.
“That just makes you a rosebush,” she replied.
I’m certainly prickly, and maybe
abscinding more abruptly than I’d like.
Do my fallen petals smell like sautéed onions, or
the toasted oatmeal in a warm chocolate chip cookie?

*********

Deluded Homo Sapiens

I finally finished Yuval Noah Harari's thought-provoking book, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind (2015), more than a year after Moriah first recommended it. Among Harari's many fascinating observations is that, as human beings who evolved in small groups of hunter-gatherers began congregating in ever-larger numbers, we needed shared beliefs to allow us to cooperate on a grand scale. Those isms, or "imagined orders," give even millions of people something they can believe in together, without knowing each other personally. The shared myths are so ingrained that "[e]ven what people take to be their most personal desires"—such as taking a holiday abroad—"are usually programmed by the imagined order," romanticism and consumerism in the foreign travel example. At this point in our development, we cannot escape the imagined orders that allow us to live in large local, national, and global societies: "There is no way out of the imagined order. When we break down our prison walls and run towards freedom, we are in fact running into the more spacious exercise yard of a bigger prison."


Imagined Orders


Descended from apes—
same instincts,
better words.
Craving connections,
we form groups.
We all know each other in
families and small bands,
but after that we need
an Imagined Order.
Myths and totems work for
tribes and villages, but
mass cooperation demands
a bigger imagination:

Religion
Nationalism
Democracy
Human rights
Communism
Capitalism
Consumerism
etc.

Prisons of our own devising,
one and all.
Too clever ape-man.

*********

Four-square

I've been struggling with a decision for months now. Mom finally couldn't take my whining about it anymore, so she sat me down at the kitchen table for the dreaded Four-square™ session. I don't know where Mom came up with this method, but I've searched the internet and can't find a progenitor. There is something that looks similar called the "Eisenhower Box," but that was pioneered by President Eisenhower to help him be more productive by prioritizing tasks, rather than deciding whether to do something in the first place. You're all familiar with the particulars.

Four-square

You get the blank paper out,

draw the lines—

first up and down, then across—

label the quadrants, and

start entering data.

As usual,
I ask how it’s better than a standard binary list,

pointing out that pros in one box

are just the opposite of cons in the diagonal,

exaggerating their effect and throwing off

the decisional weight of your four-square.

As usual, you’re having none of it.

"Subtle differences," you say, with

the honeyed voice I imagine you use when

spelling something out to one of your third graders

you know will never grasp it anyway.

Intent on the matter at hand,

you don’t notice me beaming at you.

I water this seed of love,

another building block in our union,

like the Legos our boys used to assemble

Yoda and the Millennium Falcon.

And the damn thing works this time, extorting
the vital bits needed to make my choice.

It only puffs you up more, but
you’re radiant in your smugness,

so I don’t mind. Unlike Darwin,

I never needed a scientific method to know
what a good thing I was getting myself into.

*********

Reflections from the dud parent

When I hear a Miley Cyrus song, or see her coaching on The Voice, or read about her marrying Liam Hemsworth in an article in Vanity Fair (thanks, Dylan), I think about watching Hannah Montana on the Disney Channel with young Cass and Brad and what, if anything, it says about me as a parent:


Hannah Montana


Driving home from the cult of Trader Joe’s,
“Party in the U.S.A.” came on the radio.
I’m not ashamed that I listened all the way through
(I may have even hummed along a little bit),
because we watched her show together
when you were little. The songs weren’t bad,
sorta like the Digimon movie that Grandma Pina
was sorry she went to with us (“So loud!”).
The show itself was pretty goofy, but
you liked it, and how was I
supposed to know about the twerking
and all that other stuff beyond the horizon?

Even so,
I admire that she identifies as queer
but still married Thor’s little brother,
because “you love who you love,”
as Mom says.
(There’s always a lesson in there somewhere,
waiting to be unearthed.)

Anyway, you turned out pretty well,
despite Hannah Montana,
so that, at least,
doesn’t make me a dud parent.

*********

National Haiku Poetry Day, C'ville style

April 17 was National Haiku Poetry Day (and National Cheeseball Day, too).* Some geniuses in the Charlottesville City Government thought they should have some fun with this, so they invited "any poets out there" to "create a haiku about Charlottesville and tag us! #NationalHaikuPoetryDay" on Twitter. What they no doubt expected were a few cute little haiku about the quirky side of C'ville. Here is the one, and only one, haiku they got in that vein:

    What other city
    Waits for months and years for a
    Bodo's to open?

After that, it was open season on the City Government, starting with a more polite polemicist:

    Mass transportation?
    No such decent system in
    this "world class city"

One local activist was not nearly so deferential:

    You treat black people
    Like trash. You built on stolen
    Monacan land, too.

    Tear the monuments
    Down for fuck’s sake just do it
    You total cowards

    I’m glad you banned sticks
    And posters from our parks but
    Not assault rifles

    We tried to tell you
    Nazis are all terrorists
    But you ignored us

At lease those efforts were directed at City Government generally. Another troll aimed his rage haiku squarely at C'ville's two black City Councillors, Mayor Nikuyah Walker and Wes Bellamy:

    Why would you run for
    Mayor of a town you hate?
    A masked illusion.

    South Bend has Pete B,

    Charlottesville has Nikuyah...

    We deserve better.

    Is anyone hungry?
    Just give Bellamy a call,
    City credit card.

    Create a problem,
    Write shitty book about it,
    Bellamy’s cash grab.

I bet the City Government was so glad they decided to have a little fun with National Haiku Poetry Day after enduring that barrage. Maybe they should stick to celebrating days that invite less feedback, like National Lumpy Rug Day (May 3), or better yet, something everyone can get behind like National Chocolate Chip Day (May 15 if you want to get in the spirit and make yourselves the holy grail of chocolate chip cookies):

    Katherine Redford:
    We are forever grateful,
    The chocolate chip queen.

---------
*Someone is having a field day with these "National" days. Some days there are as many a dozen of these things. April 30, for example, included: National Bubble Tea Day; National Sarcoidosis Day; National Military Brats Day; National PrepareAthon! Day; National Honesty Day (did anyone tell the Tweeter-in-Chief, who recently made the 10,000th "false or misleading claim" of his presidency, about this?); National Adopt a Shelter Pet Day; National Bugs Bunny Day; National Hairstylist Appreciation Day; National Oatmeal Cookie Day; and Cassie's favorite, National Raisin Day.

*********

Parental trauma

Parenting is 24/7/365. Even when you are all out of the house, we are never far from the worries and always just a phone call away from being on high alert. On my way home from physical therapy last week, Mom called to tell me I needed to get my butt to Harrisonburg toot sweet (not her exact words) because Brad had just broken his wrist playing soccer (again) and was in the emergency room at Rockingham Memorial Hospital:


Steel


We love our soccer,
but at what cost?

Heat exhaustion;
broken ribs that never heal;
one, two and three (at the same time),
now four fractured wrists.

I’m on my way home when K calls,
sounding grave. I speed off
to Harrisonburg to collect Brad from the ER,
then the next morning to the hand clinic,
where the doctor “reduces” his fractures,
fending off surgery,
but multiplying Brad’s agony. Aghast,
I wince as the doc mashes
on his already contorted appendage
while Brad squeezes my hand, moaning,
sweat beading on his brow and upper lip.
"It isn’t great, but it’s better.
Let’s give it a five-minute rest,
then try again."

Five minutes later, the doc takes pity,
maybe, looking at skinny little Brad—
"It’s good enough, we don’t have to do any more."
But Brad surprises with his steely resolve—
"No! Do it again if it’ll make it better."

During the second round,
tears well in my eyes, too,
flashing back on K clutching my hand
as Brad came into the world,
now all grown up, but still our baby.

*********

Mom was away while I was navigating the emotional beatdown of being there for Brad while he was in so much pain. When I'm on my own, I sometimes try out a new recipe, especially one that's gluten-full like Farro with Mushrooms and Thyme, but mostly I just take a break and scrounge some simple meals using whatever I can find in the fridge and pantry. Last week (before Brad got hurt), I used a piece of naan left over from making naan veggie pizza, some fig butter, and a few slices of beautiful prosciutto di Parma to make a different kind of naan pizza, which was probably my favorite one yet.

Naan Fig Prosciutto Pizza

Time from start to finish: 18 minutes

2 pieces of fresh naan (such as Trader Joe’s Tandoori Naan flatbread)
extra-virgin olive oil
Trader Joe's Fig Butter or other fig jam
2 or 3 thin slices of prosciutto, torn into bite-sized pieces
Chèvre or Gorgonzola, crumbled into small pieces
freshly ground black pepper, to taste

    1. Place a rack in the center of the oven and heat to 425 degrees. Line an 18-by-13-inch baking sheet with aluminum foil, dull side facing up.
    2. Lightly brush or rub the smooth sides of the naan with olive oil. Place on the foil bumpy side up.
    3. Spread a thin layer of fig butter on the tops of the naan. Distribute the prosciutto pieces, then the cheese crumbles, evenly between the two flatbreads. Drizzle lightly with olive oil. Grind a twist or two of black pepper over the top.
    4. Bake until the cheese is soft and the crust is browned and crisped some, about 9 minutes. Cool for a minute, then cut each pizza into four pieces and serve promptly. Serves 2 with a salad.

A peek inside my head

It isn't always this way in there, but this is sorta what it's like when I'm tired, or my leg hurts, or I'm otherwise on edge.



The Echo Chamber

Gum chew-Chew-CHEW chewing,
bubble blowing, pop-Pop-POP popping,
throat ahem-Ahem-AHEM clearing,
food m-m-m-masticating, chew-Chew-CHEW chewing,
pen click-click-click-Click-CLICK clicking,
knuckles crack-Crack-CRACK cracking,
keyboard tap-Tap-TAP tapping.
Sounds reverb-Verb-VERB reverberating,
bouncing around the bony shell of my skull.
Irritation rising,
sounds pluck-Pluck-PLUCK plucking at my nerves.

Coping strategies:
cover my ears;
run from the room;
listen to Mahler, Mendelssohn, Mozart,
anything to make it stop-Stop-STOP!

I just want to:
eat by breakfast, lunch, dinner;
read my paper;
drive downtown;
go to sleep,
in peace,
quietly.

*********

Lucy Grealy wrote that "[p]art of the job of being human is to consistently underestimate our effect on other people." (Autobiography of a Face [1994].) I look at the list of sounds that may set me off and see one or more things that each of you do (chewing your food, for god's sake). I asked Mom and she laughed and said you all know that it's my issue, not yours. But just in case ... the misophonia (and OCD* and whatever else) is my issue, not yours. I'm sorry if any of it had an effect on you and I didn't realize it. I may be old (like you always tell me), but it's never too late to make amends. Thanks for your patience.

---------
*You have no idea how long it takes me to write and re-write each of these dumb-ass episodes before I'll actually hit "Publish."

*********

Dylan asked if I had a good stuffing recipe ("or what?"), so I sent him the family's traditional recipe. I haven't made this myself in years, but the baking instructions seemed way off, so I've changed them as seemed appropriate.

Artichoke Stuffing

Adapted from a recipe in Pop-pop and Grandma Judy's files, with no indication as to the original provenance and I can't find it on the internet

14 slices good white or wheat bread (such as Arnold Country White or Trader Joe's Harvest Whole Wheat)
18 ounces jarred artichoke hearts, with liquid marinade (preferably), or frozen
½ cup (118 grams) water
1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter
2 medium onions (4 to 6 ounces each), chopped
salt
¼ cup minced fresh parsley
1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme, or ¼ teaspoon dried
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
freshly ground black pepper

    1. The night before you're going to make the stuffing, tear or cut the bread into ½-inch pieces. Spread the pieces evenly across two 18-by-13-inch baking sheets.
    2. When you're ready to cook, place two racks in the center of the oven, and heat to 375 degrees. Spray a 13-by-9-inch casserole dish with nonstick cooking spray.
    3. Place the baking sheets in the oven, and toast the bread pieces until golden brown, about 8 minutes, rotating the pans after 4 minutes. Watch carefully. Set aside to cool. Lower the oven temperature to 325 degrees.
    4. Place the artichoke hearts (reserving the marinade) and water in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil, then simmer for 5 minutes (or until tender if using frozen artichoke hearts). Drain the artichokes (reserving the water if using frozen artichoke hearts), then chop them coarsely and place in a large bowl.
    5. In a 12-inch skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. Stir in the onions. Season with a good pinch of salt, and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent but not browned, about 5 to 7 minutes.
    6. Add the cooked onions to the large bowl, together with the toasted bread pieces, parsley, thyme, lemon zest, and salt and pepper to taste. Mix well, then moisten the mixture with the reserved artichoke marinade (or some of the artichoke cooking water if using frozen artichoke hearts).
    7. Scrape the mixture into the prepared baking pan, and cover with aluminum foil. Bake, stirring occasionally and adding more water as necessary, for 45 minutes or until soft. Uncover and bake until the top is browned, about 20 more minutes.

Simple sides, part III: Reading poetry

Having recently seen, and loved, Mary Chapin Carpenter in concert at the Paramount, I decided to heed her advice and "read a poem a day" (at least). But what poems to read? On the first evening of the book sale, I picked up Blue Horses (2014), one of Mary Oliver's most recent books, and liked about half the poems in it, which is a very high batting average for poetry in my experience. (The book includes a poem each on yoga ["I lay on the floor exhausted"], meditation ["Some days I fall asleep"], and getting confused by TV remotes and other technology ["I won't even mention cell phones"], all of which I gleefully read to Mom, of course.) But even though Oliver is, "far and away, this country’s best-selling poet," she divides critics. Maybe it was the units spent dissecting poetry in middle and high school English classes that make me feel like I should be working harder to understand a poem.

But fortunately I also found a copy of Good Poems, an anthology of poems selected by Garrison Keillor, at the book sale.[1] In his introduction, Keillor says that he read a "truckload" of poems to find the few thousand he's read on air for The Writer's Almanac, his daily five-minute radio broadcast. Keillor's research was an education, finding that most of the poems he read made "no impression at all" and were sorta "like condoms on the beach, evidence that somebody was here once and had an experience but not of great interest to the passersby." Keillor's conclusion is reflected in one of the poems included in the book, "The Iceberg Theory," in which Gerald Locklin bemoaned that "literary critics / purport to find interesting / so much contemporary poetry / that just bores the shit out of me."

For Keillor, good poems "offer a truer account than what we're used to getting. They surprise us with clear pictures of the familiar. The soft arc of an afternoon in a few lines." But good poems also have a narrative line, incorporating a story or at least "some cadence or shadow of a story." There is no reason the poem's overall effect has to be a puzzle; Keillor quotes Charles Bukowski, a writer Keillor formerly "cocked a snoot at" but later came to appreciate, as saying "There is nothing wrong with poetry that is entertaining and easy to understand. Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way." [2] That is why Keillor extols Kenneth Rexroth—whom one critic derided as a "bearshit-on-the-trail nature poet"—over T.S. Eliot—"the great stuffed owl whose glossy eyes mesmerized the English profs of" Keillor's day—and Anne Sexton and Maxine Kumin—"writers you can take anywhere ... and your attention would not drift"—to Marianne Moore—"a nice lady, but definitely a plodder."

Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate from 2004 to 2006, shared some similar thoughts in his Poetry Home Repair Manual, writing that "[p]oetry is communication," the purpose of which is "to reach other people and to touch their hearts. If a poem doesn’t make sense to anybody but its author, nobody but its author will care one whit about it." For that reason, he favors poems that keep the obstacles between poet and reader to a minimum. [3] In short, as Locklin concluded in "The Iceberg Theory," I don't have to feel guilty that "the poems I enjoy are those I don't have / to pretend that I'm enjoying."

All of which makes me feel better about reading and appreciating Mary Oliver, because I can follow her narrative line and understand the message I think she is trying to convey, without breaking out my thesaurus or doing any internet research. And the same goes for Grandma Judy. One of my favorite poems is "What Is Not Right in Your Life," which I can read to revel in the simple story of weeding a garden, while still getting the message that some pruning in the rest of one's life is a good idea too ("Deadhead the didn’t-get-to dos."). Besides, how can I not appreciate poetry written about you and your cousins?

If you want to go a little deeper, How to Read a Poem (1999) by Edward Hirsch is a great place to start. (I picked that up at the book sale, too.) The first chapter includes a lucid introduction to Hirsch's idea that poetry involves a relationship between the poet, who "enlists the reader's intellectual and emotional involvement," and the reader, who "actively participates in making meaning in poetry." The first chapter has been reprinted online by the Poetry Foundation, with links to examples of poems to illustrate the points. I especially like the section on "Metaphor: A Poet is a Nightingale."

---------

[1] For wildly divergent takes on the value of Keillor's anthology, compare "No Antonin Artaud with the Flapjacks, Please" by August Klenzahler, and "Title Tells All" by Dana Gioia, two reviews of Good Poems that appeared on successive days in Poetry magazine.

[2] According to Adam Kirsch, Bukowski also "rejected on principle the notion of poetry as a craft, a matter of labor and revision." Instead, "it has to come out like hot turds the morning after a good beer drunk."

[3] On the other hand, Kooser doesn't think there are "good" and "bad" poems, just poems that people like and don't like, for personal reasons.

*********

More mushrooms, why? Because this is the simplest mushroom recipe yet—just slice, roast, and feast on the mushrooms in their simple, earthy goodness. Also, you can make a lot of mushrooms (up to 2½ pounds) this way, whether you're feeding a crowd or just really like mushrooms and want to have leftovers.

A plate full of roasted veggies

Roasted Mushrooms

Adapted from Vegetables Every Day (2001) by Jack Bishop

Time from start to finish: 30 minutes

You can double the recipe and still make it in the same baking sheet, so this is an easy way to make a lot of mushrooms at once.

1¼ pounds/20 ounces cremini or white button mushrooms
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

    1. Place a rack in the center of the oven, and heat to 400 degrees. Line an 18-by-13-inch baking sheet with aluminum foil, dull side up. Spray the foil lightly with nonstick cooking spray.
    2. Wash the mushrooms. Trim a small slice off the end of each stem. Slice the mushrooms in half, if small, or in quarters, if large. Transfer the mushrooms to the baking sheet. Drizzle with the oil and toss to coat with your hands. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
    3. Roast until the mushrooms are golden brown and delicious, about 20 to 25 minutes, stirring once after 10 minutes. Taste for seasoning. Serve promptly. Serves 4.

Snow day

Everyone had a snow day today, including me. I ran before the snow started, figuring I wouldn't get to run for a few days at least. There was a beautiful sunrise over Carter's Mountain, so I decided to head over there and do a lap around some of my favorite trails. The gate was locked so I hopped over the fence and had the place practically to myself (there were a few other people who had the same idea). Here's the lame haiku I used to describe my run on Strava:

Sunrise over Carter's:

The calm before the storm,

Red snowpocalypse dawn

On my way to and from Carter's Mountain, I ran by Food Lion, which was really crowded even at 8:00 am with people stocking up for the big one. And I knew there'd be no bread there anyway, so I went through all the bread machine recipes at the Bob's Red Mill website, just because that's where I found the Russian Black Bread recipe I really like.

I picked out a simple recipe that's one-third whole wheat. It's a low-rising, dense loaf so it's good for grilled cheese, which is what I made for Cassie and me (Brad wanted a plain cheese sandwich).

I have never liked mayonnaise, but I recently discovered it's the perfect way to make grilled cheese—even coverage, no waiting for the butter to soften, and it browns and crisps perfectly without burning as easily as butter. But you have to use good mayo or the sandwich will just taste like bad mayo. Homemade mayonnaise is best and quick to make, but it doesn't last long, so I keep Duke's Mayonnaise in the fridge just for making grilled cheese sandwiches.

Sandwich Bread

Adapted from Bob's Red Mill

You can find general instructions for making this bread by hand here.

295 grams (1¼ cups) warm water
3 tablespoons (40 grams) neutral-tasting oil
1 tablespoon (12 grams) sugar
1 tablespoon potato flakes
1½ teaspoons sea salt
272 grams (2 cups) unbleached all-purpose flour
152 grams (1 cup) stone ground whole wheat flour 
1¼ teaspoons instant yeast

    1. Add the ingredients to your bread machine pan in the order listed.  Set the machine for a 1.5-pound loaf, "Basic" cycle, and "Medium" color, and press "Start."
    2. The first kneading cycle lasts 10 minutes (on my machine). Near the end of that time, check the dough. If it feels a little sticky and there's a slight smear of dough under the knead blade(s), the dough is fine. If the dough is very sticky and clinging to the sides of the bread pan (which is what I found with this loaf), add 1 tablespoon of flour. Allow the flour to be mixed in completely before making any more adjustments. If the dough is dry and very firm and the machine appears to be laboring, add 1 teaspoon of lukewarm water. Allow the water to be mixed in completely before making any more adjustments. The dough is just right when it is smooth and soft, and the bottom of the pan is clean. Because I found this to be a very sticky dough, I checked again during the second kneading cycle (about 45 minutes in, when the alert sounds), and found that I needed to add another tablespoon of flour.
    3. Set a kitchen timer for about 8 minutes shy of the machine's full baking cycle. When the timer sounds, turn the machine off and unplug the power cord. Remove the bread pan, turn it upside down, and shake gently until the loaf comes out. Transfer the loaf to a rack to cool completely. Store the bread cut side down on a piece of foil. Makes one 1½-pound loaf.

Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

Adapted from Gabrielle Hamilton via Food52

Homemade bread is great, but you won't usually have that around. The original recipe recommends "rustic bread." I've made this with pain de campagne from Albemarle Baking Company. It tastes good and gets really crispy, but the bread is too airy for grilled cheese, which is true of most bakery breads. So the easiest alternative is the best bread you can get at the grocery store, which is probably Arnold, unless you have a Trader Joe's, in which case I like Trader Joe's Sprouted Multi-Grain Bread or Harvest Whole Wheat Bread.

You can use whatever cheese you want, including all Cheddar, as long as most of it melts well. Gouda is another good option for a melting cheese—a red wax Gouda is typical, but Trader Joe's has an especially good goat's milk Gouda. I like to use some Asiago because the sharp flavor adds some oomph to the sandwiches. There are plenty of other ways you can sexy up your grilled cheese, including spreading duxelles or cranberry sauce on the inside of the bread before sprinkling the cheese on. 

40 grams grated Asiago cheese (see note)
40 grams grated Gouda or Cheddar cheese (not extra-sharp)
Good mayonnaise
4 ½-inch-thick slices of good sandwich bread (see note)

    1. Mix the cheeses together in a small bowl.
    2. Spread a thin layer of mayonnaise evenly over 2 slices of the bread, then place them mayo side down in a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium heat to start. Sprinkle each slice of the bread evenly with the cheese. Spread the remaining 2 slices of bread with a thin layer of mayo, then place them mayo side up on top of the cheese.
    3. Cook until the bottom slices are golden brown and crispy. If you start with a cold pan (which you should since you're using an ungreased nonstick skillet), this can take about 10 to 12 minutes, so be patient. Adjust the heat down, if needed, so the bread gets to golden brown as the cheese is starting to melt. Flip the sandwiches over carefully. Cook until the other side is golden brown and crispy and the cheese is completely melted, about 5 minutes more.
    4. Remove from the heat to a cutting board. Let the sandwiches cool for a minute or two, then cut each in half and serve. Makes 2 sandwiches.